Tony's Wife

by Adriana Trigiani

  “I saw men that reveled in the line. But it choked me, Ma. To this day, and it’s been six years since I left, I still swing a wrench and bolt the door handle on the line in my dreams.”

  “Your father calls out to the men in his sleep.”

  “Sure he does. It becomes a permanent part of you. Entertaining an audience is the opposite, it’s a thrill that comes and goes and lasts as long as the set. They come to you with high hopes, they want you to help them forget their troubles, forget their bills and the boss that won’t cut them a break. Music is their reprieve. Dancing is their way of getting the girl, and sometimes, by God, they do!”

  “I saw it happen right here,” Rosaria said.

  “It’s the same in every town. Maybe we do help them get their minds off the things they don’t have, and never will. They don’t need to see a nervous Nellie up there.”

  “You seem at ease when you sing.”

  “I want to be. But most shows, when I don’t think I’m good enough, or Mr. R. tells me I sound like a cheese grater, or the venue doesn’t want to pay the band, it’s not fun. There’s no Henry Ford backing the operation.”

  “That’s why your father worried.”

  “No, he worried because he’s good at misery. He’s not good at being happy—for you, for me, for anybody. He has the best wife in the world, and he doesn’t appreciate you.”

  “He grew up so poor.”

  “So did you. And you know how to love.”

  “I’ve tried to teach him.”

  “Some people can’t learn. You know, he’s got one son. I even suited up and went to the plant, hoping that would prove once and for all that I was all right. But even that wasn’t enough. If you want to know the truth, had he been proud of me, I’d still be on the line.”

  Rosaria snapped open her purse and removed a handkerchief. “Could you write him a note once in a while?” She dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief.

  “For what?”

  “To let him know you’re okay.”

  “You tell him.”

  “It’s not the same. Would you do that for me?”

  Saverio sighed. “For you, I will. Is there anything you need?”

  “Nothing.”

  “They don’t make ’em like you anymore. Girls want a lot of things these days.”

  “Where do you find these girls?”

  “Around.”

  “Around is not a good place to look,” Rosaria said. “Stay away from around. A nice Italian girl who is there is what you need.”

  “You think so?”

  “I don’t want you to lose everything I taught you.”

  “Mama, I couldn’t shake it if I tried.”

  * * *

  At Magennis Records in Newark, four turntables with finished records spun at once. Saturdays were busy in the shop, as back-up singers, moonlighters, amateurs, and semiprofessionals came in to pick up their self-made records, to peddle them to pavilions, dance halls, and radio stations up and down the shore in hopes of being discovered.

  “How many did you order, Dad?” asked Chi Chi.

  “Six. We’ll hit the big guys today.”

  “WRPR?”

  “They’re on my list. Mahwah.”

  “Yeah. They played the Mandarolla Sisters’ record out of Freehold. The Testa Sisters, out of North Providence, Rhode Island. Both those records charted. The Testas are still getting traction.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Music Hit Parade. I check at the library. I wrote to every manager listed in the magazine.”

  “Any bites?”

  “Just sent them.”

  “Bridges are important. Don’t burn them. Build them. Cross them. Repair them.”

  “I want to give a record to Saverio.”

  “So give him one.”

  “The bus is leaving at four,” Chi Chi said anxiously. “Can we make it?”

  Mariano checked his watch. “Why not?”

  The shopgirl placed Mama’s Rolling Pin on a turntable. “Give it a listen while I run the register.”

  Chi Chi and Mariano leaned in and listened closely as their record played.

  “It’s good, Dad. Best we’ve done.”

  The shopgirl handed Mariano his change. “For whatever it’s worth, the girls in the back all liked this one a lot.”

  * * *

  Mariano left the windows rolled down on his 1926 Hudson truck, which at maximum speed did forty miles an hour. Chi Chi held the records on her lap. As they trundled down Route 81, most every vehicle sped past them, including an old jalopy with a crankcase and a rumble seat.

  “I don’t have a forwarding address for him.” Chi Chi peered ahead at the traffic on the road.

  “You like this Saverio kid, don’t you?”

  “He’s all right.”

  “Cheech, I can tell you like him.”

  “I’m not over the moon.”

  “Did I say love? I said like.”

  “He knows a lot of things I don’t. He’s a good pal.”

  “He likes you is what I’m trying to say.”

  “I feel sorry for him.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s a sad sack. Anyhow, I have other things on my mind. Like getting air play with this record.”

  “You’re gonna make it.”

  “I don’t know, Dad. Sometimes I wonder.”

  “Stay true to your ear. You write a good song, and you can sing as good as any of the girls out there. Believe in yourself. You know what you are. You gotta have faith.”

  “What is faith?” Chi Chi waved a fly out of the truck window.

  “Eight years with the Salesian nuns, and you don’t know?”

  “I guess I could give you their definition. What’s yours?”

  “Faith is courage. It’s the unspoken pact you have with God and your own soul that you will not stop until you are spending the time you’ve been given doing the thing you were born to do.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Made it up. Coraggio.”

  “Guts.” Chi Chi chuckled to herself. The last time she heard that word, Saverio Armandonada had told her she had it.

  “That’s right. Guts. You know what works.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes, you do. You only get one shot at this life. Take it.”

  “Dad, I’m the best buttonholer-looper in the specialty department at Jersey Miss.”

  “Nothing wrong with that. But you have other skills. God-given.”

  “Do you think I sing like a headliner?”

  “Absolutely. But you’re the one who has to believe it.”

  “I want it.”

  “That’s important, too. You do well at whatever you tackle. Look at you over at the mill. But it’s not enough to earn a paycheck and buy bonds, Cheech. That’s not our idea of success. That’s an American idea.”

  “But we’re Americans, Dad.”

  “Yes, we are. But we’re also Italian, which means the money isn’t what matters to us. It is not the goal. That doesn’t prove anything. A squirrel is good at storing nuts. He’s still a squirrel and they’re still nuts, no matter how many he hides, or how few. Va bene? Italians crave art like your boss craves his profits. Could you live a happy life working in the mill? Sure. You could do it. But then you’d be spending your life making someone else’s dream come true, not your own.”

  “Making Mr. Alper rich.”

  “Be grateful for your job, but don’t be a slave to it.” Mariano pulled up to the bus stop at the pier in Sea Isle. “Risk is what makes you rich. Trying things. Reaching. Taking a chance. Those are the people who hear their own heartbeat.”

  A clump of girls in bathing suits and shorts dispersed from the platform. Chi Chi jumped out of the truck with the record.

  “Hey, where’s the Rod Roccaraso bus?”

  “It left already,” one of the girls answered over her shoulder, fanning herself with an autographed photo of the orchestra.


  “What do you mean? It was supposed to leave at four.”

  “I dunno. Left at three.” Another girl licking a custard cone shrugged and walked past her.

  Chi Chi climbed back in the truck. “We missed it.”

  “You tried.”

  “If this buggy weren’t so old, we could catch up with the bus on the turnpike and I could hand this off to him.” Chi Chi spun Saverio’s copy of the 78 on her finger and ruminated.

  “We’re not chasing the bus.”

  “This could be our last chance.”

  “Use your head, kid. We know his cousin. We’ll get the record to Joozy. We got connections.”

  * * *

  Every window on the Rod Roccaraso Musical Express bus was propped open. Hot air blew around inside, circulating nothing but heat. The musicians loosened their ties and relaxed in their seats, settling in for the long drive to Richmond, Virginia.

  “I hope you are done once and for all with the local beach bunnies,” Gladys sniffed as she opened a magazine and flipped through it.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I have eyes, Saverio.”

  “Maybe you need glasses.”

  “Maybe you need to acquire some self-control.”

  “I want you to know I was true to you in Sea Isle City.”

  “Get you.” Gladys closed the magazine. “For once, I actually believe you.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  Gladys kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I suppose you’re allowed to run with your tribe once in a while.”

  “Huh?”

  “The guidos.”

  Saverio thought to call her on the jab. When he worked at River Rouge, guido was a slur, and surely Gladys knew it was one, meant it as one. But it was a long way to Virginia, and he didn’t want to argue for five hundred miles. “Yep. Those are my people.”

  “At least they buy tickets to see us.”

  “Yes, they do. With their hard-earned lira.” Saverio stretched his leg down the aisle of the bus and leaned back in the seat. He closed his eyes and shifted the brim of his fedora over them.

  “Really? You’re gonna sleep? You just woke up,” Gladys whined.

  “I’m tired, honey.”

  “You’re always tired.”

  Saverio shifted in the seat, crossed his arms, and said nothing. He would have liked to tell Gladys that he was tired of her incessant nagging, but that would have just led to more of it. Besides, she could be nice to him, and she was a good roommate on the road. She looked after him, pressed his shirts and tuxedo like his mother might have done. Made sure he ate properly, too. And there were other comforts.

  “I know you need your rest. That’s why I sent you off to the beach. I know you like the sun. Swarthy people crave it.”

  “Grazie.”

  “I was happy to stay behind and do the laundry. I pressed all your shirts. Starched the collars and cuffs of your shirts just like you like them.”

  “You’re a doll.”

  “I’m your doll, baby.” Gladys stroked his cheek with her hand. “I’m here to make your life easy.”

  “And you do.” Saverio leaned over and kissed her on the lips before settling back in the seat once more. He closed his eyes as Gladys leaned over and tickled his ear with the tip of her nose.

  “My ma wants to know when we’re getting married,” Gladys said tenderly. “I’d like to give her some notion of when.”

  Saverio sat up in the seat and pushed his hat back on his head. “I’m not ready for marriage.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “I’m not horsing around. I’m being honest. I am not ready.”

  “It was my understanding . . .” Tears welled in her blue eyes. She stopped the flow by blinking hard. “It is my understanding that we were to marry at some point on this tour. You promised me.”

  “When did I do that?”

  She whispered, “You know.”

  “Gladys, you’re very special, but a man says things sometimes.”

  She looked hurt. “You don’t love me.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You either do or you don’t.”

  “I have a deep affection for you.”

  “What does that mean?” Gladys raised her voice.

  Saverio looked around the bus. Most of the musicians were asleep, and the rest were lethargic, draped on the seats like coats thrown over chairs at a party. The drummer and the trombone player were in the back of the bus with the sports section of the newspaper, folded small, as they ran numbers on bets they would place when the bus landed in Richmond.

  “It means a kind of feeling,” he whispered.

  “I don’t take care of you because I have affection for you, I take care of you because I love you. My mother is expecting me to come home with a husband because I told her I was coming home with one. Now, what are you going to do about it?”

  Saverio wanted to be with Gladys, but not permanently, and not enough to offer her marriage. He thought about measuring his words, but he was simply too tired to negotiate. “Nothing,” he answered.

  “You have no intention of giving me a ring?”

  “Not at this present juncture.”

  “A juncture is where train tracks cross a cow pasture. Who talks like that?”

  “A man who isn’t going to propose.”

  “You only think of yourself.”

  “That can be true.”

  “Can be? It is true. Ask me. I know.”

  “Gladys, can we discuss this later?”

  “This is as good a time as any.”

  “We’re on a bus with the band. It’s a terrible time to talk about this.”

  “I have no secrets. I think you’re tired of me. That’s what it is. You’re bored.” She snapped her neck and looked out the window.

  The New Jersey turnpike was nothing but a ribbon of gray asphalt, unspooling before them with no end in sight. The green rolling hills spilled away from the road on either side like ruffles on a skirt.

  Saverio leaned toward her. “I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  “Thank you.” Saverio slid down in the seat once more and closed his eyes.

  “Honestly?”

  Saverio opened his eyes. “What now?”

  “We have not settled the matter of our pending nuptials.”

  “No nuptials are pending, Gladys.”

  “Can’t you see how unhappy you’re making me?” she whispered tersely. “You’re humiliating me by withholding your proposal of marriage.”

  “Come on, baby,” Saverio teased her. “I’m not ready for all this jazz.”

  Gladys didn’t appreciate the humor. “You sound like a session drummer. That flippant kind of talk is beneath you. Remember who you’re with, please.” She smoothed her skirt. “You have got some crust.”

  Saverio ran his hands down the thighs of his pant legs and turned to face his girlfriend. “You don’t even like Italians.”

  “I don’t have to marry the entire country of Italy. I can marry one of you and cope.”

  “You called me a garlic eater in Albany,” Saverio reminded her.

  “I was pushed to the brink! You test my patience.”

  “Have I ever called you a name, or insulted you, or treated you poorly?”

  “I gave myself to you,” she whispered.

  “I gave myself to you, too. The difference is, I don’t want anything in exchange for it.”

  “There’s no expectation of an exchange of any kind. It’s a promise made, an intention rendered by one person in love with another, to honor that love with a vow of marriage,” she explained.

  “I don’t recall doing any rendering.”

  “You’re impossible.” Gladys stuck out her chin. “I’ll tell you what. I don’t need this. I certainly don’t need you.”

  Gladys was, from every angle, like one of those winsome girls who appeared in the lingerie advertisements in the fold-out of the social sec
tion in every Sunday newspaper from Chicago to Palm Beach. She was sultry and yet somehow virginal. No matter her mood, her beauty was undeniable. Her figure was in proportion, like any fine structure, built with deliberate curves that accentuated her clean lines. A white-hot blonde, her hair had just enough natural wave and the scent of rain.

  Gladys bore the ice-blue eyes of the girls of the coldwater countries of northern Europe, with the bone structure and resolve to go with them. She possessed an inner core of self-confidence that Saverio found intriguing, given that she was a girl singer who traveled with a pack of, let’s face it, men who were often of sketchy character. Gladys never let her surroundings or the company she kept determine her self-worth or lessen her value. She could beguile, dazzle, and dismiss as she pulled on a white kid glove. Gladys Overby made men stop and stare at her in wonderment, like one would a blue jay in snow.

  Saverio closed his eyes and breathed. The scent of her gardenia perfume was intoxicating. He didn’t want to give her up. “Forgive me, please.”

  “Never, never, and I mean never, another apology will I accept from the likes of you,” she said. “You say you’re sorry like regular people say ‘I’ll have the pie.’ I don’t believe a word you say. Going forward, you won’t make a sucker out of me. From now on, you’re on your own, Mr. A.”

  She stood up, grabbing the back of the seat in front of her, and, her purse dangling from her wrist, climbed over him and out into the aisle of the moving bus. The driver looked up at the rearview mirror before steadying his eyes back on the highway.

  Gladys straightened her skirt and her spine and walked to the back of the bus, taking an empty seat in front of the gamblers.

  Saverio twisted around in his seat. He shook his head, but he knew not to go after her. The couple had made enough ugly scenes in front of the band, on the bus, backstage, and in more than a few hotel lobbies and hallways. He would have to figure out how to get back in favor with her. It was swell having a partner on the road. Whenever he went out with the boys after the show, he never had a problem finding his hotel room in the middle of the night; he just followed the scent of Gladys’s perfume to her door. Saverio would be giving up a lot on the road by breaking it off with her. Marriage might actually be a fine and practical idea.

  * * *

  Gladys settled into the window seat, placed her purse on the empty seat next to her, and fixed her gaze out the window. She was through with Saverio once and for all. She knew it for certain because she was not hysterical. She had shed enough tears over the emotionally distant Italian.