“Faster, Rita!” the forelady barked. “Pick up the pace, Chi Chi!”
Chi Chi nodded without looking up, moving her fingers deftly as the forelady moved ahead to the next row, barking an order to the collar setter.
“Strega,” Rita said under her breath.
Chi Chi laughed as she attached a loop. A shadow fell across her machine, and she looked up. Her sister Barbara was standing over her. “What’s the matter?”
“Don’t panic.”
“What is it?”
“Ma just left the mill.”
Chi Chi stood and looked down the line at her mother’s station. Another operator had already filled in, taking her mother’s seat, keeping the work flow uninterrupted.
“Did she get sick?”
“No, it’s Pop. Mrs. Acocella came to get her. He’s at the hospital.”
“I’ll go.” Chi Chi reached under the machine to get her purse.
“Ma will handle it,” Barbara insisted.
“What happened?”
“He got some chest pains. She’s with him now.”
“But I want to go.”
“So do I. But we can’t. You have to stay. We all have to stay. Understand?”
Chi Chi sat back down at her chair. Two blouses had already landed on her feeder tray in the short time she and Barbara had been speaking. Barbara would find the same at her station, if not more. Barbara didn’t have to say it; Chi Chi already knew. The family could only spare one Donatelli woman to look after their father. They did not have the luxury of sitting at his bedside and tending to him for their peace of mind, or his. The family needed the income. The best use of his daughters was not at St. Joseph’s Hospital, but on the machines at Jersey Miss.
* * *
Saverio finished his set in the ballroom of the Jefferson Hotel in Richmond, Virginia, with a musical tip of the hat to the ladies of the South with a rendition of Ain’t She Sweet, which the Roccaraso orchestra had knocked off from the song-styling of the great Jimmie Lunceford. Luckily the folks in the crowd had not heard the spectacular Negro band live, but Saverio had. He figured his vocals on the tune were, at best, an homage, because he knew they fell short in comparison to the original.
The dance floor was filled with fancy couples. Women moved in the blue light in ruffled gowns of stiff pastel faille, while their partners dazzled in white tie. The ballroom around the dance floor and the gardens beyond had the look of a magical forest in some ritzy romantic land, where the scents of freesia and lilies waft through French doors, and lights do not illuminate but shimmer and blink like jewels in the dark. Candles floating in crystal bowls staccatoed the small marble tabletops, while the orange tips of cigarettes punctured the air, and the occasional flash of the flame from a silver lighter flared and quickly was extinguished, swallowed by the blue.
Saverio loosened his tie as he pushed through the black velvet curtains behind the orchestra box, on his way to the greenroom the hotel provided for the band for their breaks.
The hallway between the kitchen, greenroom, and ballroom was narrow and crowded. Waiters angled past, juggling silver trays of delicate hors d’oeuvres. Nobody knew how to make a slice of cucumber and a ruffle of pimiento cheese look more artful than the chefs in the South. His fellow musicians filed out on their way to take a smoke. Saverio reached into his pocket for his handkerchief to dab the perspiration from his forehead when Gladys emerged from the elevator in a pale green chiffon evening gown. She nodded as she squeezed past him.
“Honey,” Saverio called softly after her.
She turned. “Hello.”
“Are you ever going to talk to me again?”
“No. If I didn’t have a contract to sing with you, I wouldn’t sing with you either.”
“C’mon, you’re making a melodrama out of this. We were happy.”
“You made your choice.”
“I miss you.”
“I don’t care.” Gladys walked down the hallway and into her dressing room. The door snapped shut behind her.
“You wailed on that last song.” Sammy Prezza caught up with Saverio.
“I didn’t come close to the real deal. But thank you.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. I remember that kid who had them weeping in that church in Detroit a few years back. You took that Holy Night apart as I remember it.”
“I had a broken heart then, too. Maybe it’s you, Sam. Maybe you bring me bad luck.”
Sammy chuckled. “Could be. Or you’re just getting yours. Men go down one of three ways. It’s either women, booze, or dope. When you choose women as your vice, you end up broke, but you look good until the end.”
“And that right there is the good news, boys,” Saverio said.
Sammy lowered his voice. “There’s a fellow who wants to talk to you tonight. You heard of Paul Godfrey?”
“Out of St. Louis?”
Sammy nodded. “They just lost their singer. He sent a scout. Wants to make you an offer.”
Saverio looked at the door Gladys had slammed shut. He didn’t want to make any career moves based on a girl, but there were worse reasons to shake things up. The tight hallway was crowded, the ceiling was low, and the doors were closed on both sides. He could hardly breathe. If Saverio were looking for signs, he had plenty. The world felt like it was closing in. Maybe it was time to leave the only band he had ever known.
“Said to meet him at the bar afterward.”
“What’s his name?”
“He’ll find you.”
Sammy Prezza made his way back to the band box while Saverio pushed through to the greenroom. A few guys sat around having a smoke, in the windowless room, but it was the South, so there was a touch of civility: a silver tea service with small crystal bowls containing slices of lemon, shards of fresh ginger, and a compote of honey were set out for the band.
Saverio was preparing a cup when he held the honey compote up to the light. A tiny silver spoon hung from a loop on the cap. Inside the glass, thick golden honey swirled around the small tower of gold.
“You’re supposed to eat that comb,” the trombonist said from his seat on the couch. “I’ve got kin in North Carolina. That honey’s got properties.”
“What sort of properties?”
“Medicinal.”
“How so?” Saverio asked.
“Well, there are a variety of things honey can do. For singers, you want to take that ginger and lemon and some of that honeycomb right there and you want to mash them together on a spoon. Make a paste with it. And you want to rest that paste on the back of your throat awhile without swallowing it. That will heal up any vocal cord you got a problem with. If you got a cut, no matter how small, or deep, you put some of that honey on it—and you wrap it—it will heal that wound. My grandmother, her mother before her, and my own momma washed their faces with honey and made a mask of the comb to ward off wrinkles. None of them had a line on their faces, so do what you will with that information. And of course, for anybody who blows a horn, honey on the lips gives your career longevity. I happen to know that because I use the cure myself.”
“Good to know.”
“I thought you’d think so.” The trombonist smiled. He had a wide smile and full cheeks. “Go ahead, mash it up. No time like now to heal.”
The horn player went back to his conversation. Saverio made the potion as instructed and then placed the mash at the back of his throat. He closed his eyes. The lemon made his sinuses burn, but the ginger cleared them, and the honey, as promised, soothed his throat.
The conductor called them back to the stage. Saverio kept the mixture on the back of his throat as long as he could, until the conductor counted the band down to begin. Gladys took her place downstage right in front of her microphone stand. Maybe it was the horn player’s suggestion, or voodoo, or something else entirely, but there was something to the honeycomb. Saverio looked at Gladys, and she was no longer his girl, or the girl he wanted back; she was just another pretty girl in a green
dress. It was time to move on. It was time to heal.
* * *
Isotta sat by her husband’s bed in St. Joseph’s Hospital in the general ward. She held his hand as Barbara, Lucille, and Chi Chi burst into the room and scanned the rows of occupied beds for their father.
Lucille spotted their mother in the sea of patients, and led the others to her. Isotta nodded at her daughters to indicate that their father was asleep, and to be quiet. Barbara was relieved to see her father rest. Lucille clapped her hands together joyfully. Chi Chi burst into tears.
“Why are you crying?” Lucille whispered. “He made it.”
Chi Chi went around her sisters and knelt next to her father’s bed. She took his other hand into her own.
“What did the doctor say?” Barbara asked her mother.
“He had a scare.”
“What kind?” Chi Chi said.
“His heart,” Isotta explained. “He had a bad pain and he couldn’t breathe. So he walked to the neighbor’s and asked her for a ride to the hospital.”
“He couldn’t drive?” Lucille asked.
Isotta nodded that he couldn’t. Lucille looked at Barbara, concerned.
“Is he going to be all right?” Chi Chi asked her mother.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Why doesn’t he have a room?”
“They are all filled,” Isotta said.
Barbara shot Chi Chi a look.
“How long has he been asleep?”
“A few hours.”
“Is he going to wake up soon?”
“Lucille, will you stop asking questions?” Barbara said tersely.
“I want to know what is going on.”
“You have eyes, don’t you?” Barbara shot back.
“I’m not a doctor!” Lucille snapped.
“Stop it!” Chi Chi said. “This is not the time.” The moment Chi Chi said the word time, the second it hung in the air, she regretted it. Her mother’s face fell. “Sorry, Ma.”
“Sorry,” Barbara and Lucille echoed.
“Girls, I don’t know a lot more than I’ve told you. There’s one doctor on this floor, and he makes the rounds in the morning.”
Chi Chi looked around the crowded ward helplessly. She thought of her father and what he would do if it was her mother in the bed. She believed Mariano wouldn’t be complacent, he would do something. He would fight for a good doctor, better care, and a nurse. Chi Chi’s mind raced. “Did you ask to see Sister Margaret?” she asked her mother.
“I didn’t.”
“Ma, she runs this place. She was our principal at Saint Joe’s. We have connections.” Chi Chi stood up and dried her tears. “I’ll be right back.” She left the ward and went out into the hallway. Nuns dressed in their black and white habits moved in and out of the nurses station looking like dominoes.
“Hello, Sisters,” Chi Chi said cheerfully, “I’m a proud graduate of Saint Joseph’s School, class of 1928. I’d love to say hello to Sister Margaret.”
The busy nuns ignored her, except for the receptionist, who was overwhelmed with paperwork. She looked up at Chi Chi through her thick glasses. “She’s at supper.”
“Thank you, Sister . . .” Chi Chi squinted at her nametag. “Bernadette. Where do you good servants of our Lord take your meals?”
“Third floor.”
Chi Chi thanked her and raced to the stairwell, bolted up three flights of stairs two steps at a time. When she began to make a mental list of all the times her parents had supported the church and convent, her work shoe caught on a step and she stumbled. Her tickets from the mill, which indicated extra work she had done, fell out of her apron and scattered over the second-floor landing. For a moment, she thought to leave them there, but she knew it meant a dollar added to her paycheck in piecework. Chi Chi got down on her hands and knees and gathered them up, stuffing them back into her apron pocket. She vowed not to tempt fate with a tit-for-tat list for the Holy Roman Church. It would remain a one-sided argument.
She sprinted up the final flight of stairs, pushed through the door, and found the nurses station and more nuns. Thinking of her father, she found the oldest nun at the desk, the nun who would most likely be friends with the old nun downstairs. “Sister Bernadette sent me up to you.”
“Yes?” The nun looked at Chi Chi.
“She sent me up to see Sister Margaret, who is taking her meal. It’s important that I speak with her. Sister Margaret is a dear friend of our family. The family of Mariano Donatelli.”
The nun’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
Chi Chi thought fast. “My father Mariano built the stone wall at your convent in Sea Isle. It was his pleasure. Hauled the stones and donated the supplies and his labor. I won’t take much of her time.”
The nun frowned and left the station. Chi Chi felt a sense of doom. What if Sister Margaret did not remember her father or the family? They might throw her father out of the hospital altogether. Chi Chi believed if she did not get her father out of the public ward, he did not stand a chance.
“Chiara Donatelli?”
“Sister Margaret?” Chi Chi turned around to see the nun, whom she had not seen since she was a girl. She threw her arms around her. “I need your help.”
“What’s the matter?” the nun asked.
“My father is downstairs in the public ward. He had a heart attack. It doesn’t look good. He needs a doctor. I didn’t want to bother you but we’re out of ideas.”
“You, Chiara? Out of ideas? I’ll never forget when you wrote the Sisters a song on our jubilee. You were how old? Ten?”
“Eleven. It wasn’t a great song, Sister. Now I wish it would’ve been better.”
“It was a great song. It made Mother Superior cry.” She patted Chi Chi’s arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of your father.”
“Thank you, Sister. I know it’s a lot to ask, and he’s not more important than anyone else . . .” Chi Chi could not finish her thought. Instead she burst into tears.
“None of that,” Sister Margaret said, all business. “There’s no need to explain. If he were my father, I’d ask, too.”
Chi Chi nodded, trying to control herself as she watched Sister Margaret order two of the orderlies to have Mariano moved to a room, and directed one of the nuns to ask the cardiologist to attend to him immediately. Chi Chi flew down the stairs to tell her mother and sisters the news.
* * *
Saverio stood at the bar at the Jefferson Hotel and ordered a Manhattan, even though he only drank on occasion. It was a fine cocktail to impress, and one of the few that did not make him sick when he sipped it.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Saverio? Lew Lewis.”
Lew scooted up onto the bar stool. Short-legged and built like a beer keg, he was around fifty years old and pickled in Aqua Velva cologne. “Some show tonight. I wish I could make a play for that tomato you sing with—what’s her name, Gertie?”
“Gladys. Miss Gladys Overby. She’s a fine young woman, sir.”
“Sure, sure, as fine as they come. ”
“She is. Truly. Can I buy you a drink?”
“Martini. Straight up. Olives,” Lew said to the bartender. “So, let’s get to it. ”
“Appreciate it. I’ve had a long night.” Saverio folded the paper napkin into a triangle.
“Understood. I’m here to make you an offer to join the Paul Godfrey Orchestra.”
“What are you thinking?”
“You’ll start at eighty-five dollars a week—that’s ten dollars more a week than you’re getting now. We’re giving you three weeks off a year. And we’re going to do some recording. Paul gives you one cent on every three sales of a seventy-eight, worldwide net.”
“I’m listening.”
“December first through January eighth of every year we’re in residence in Chicago at the Drake. They do a little ice show on the floor—it’s kitschy but it pays and they pack them in. We can give you a tour schedule as we get it. Here’s the contr
act.”
Saverio scanned the one-page agreement Lew Lewis handed him.
“Take your time. Read it. Take it to your lawyer. Whatever.” Lew looked around the bar at no one and nothing in particular.
“Fine, fine,” Saverio mumbled as he read it.
“And there’s one other matter to discuss.”
“Yes?”
“Your name. It’s a honker.”
“Too long?”
“Too everything. Nobody can say it. Nobody can spell it. And the problem with that is eventually no one will want to. So it’s got to go. You got any ideas for a name?”
“Could I just be Saverio?”
“Sounds like a decorator. You need a name that says who you are, but with fewer vowels.”
“But I’m Italian, and I don’t want to be anything but Italian.”
“You couldn’t be if you tried. So go for an Italian name. How about Joey? Can’t do Paul, of course. Michael? Augie? Too close to Artie. All right, none of them fit. How about Tony?”
“Tony’s all right. I like Anthony better,” Saverio admitted.
“Anthony is too long. Okay, so Tony. Last name?”
“I like Armandonada.”
“Too long, kid. Arman. Tony Arman.”
“Doesn’t sound right.”
“Tony Arma. Take off the n. The n makes it sound off. Tony Arma. Now that’s Italian. I like it. Short. To the point. Like a blade. Sharp.”
“Tony Arma.” Saverio said the name aloud.
“I’ll make a note in the contract.”
“Just like that, I’m Tony Arma?”
“Just like that. I love it.” Lew Lewis cackled. “I can see it on a marquee. Very, very pithy, and if I do say so myself, it’s sexy. Tony Arma. I can see the girls from Nesquehoning to Naperville chanting your name. ‘I want to be in the arms of Tony Arma.’ Get it? In the arms of Arma! I’m a genius. I know women. They’ll be swoonin’, all right. And indeed!”
Saverio signed the contract to join the Paul Godfrey Orchestra and initialed the amendments that changed his name, which Lew Lewis scribbled into the blank space on the boilerplate document marked “Addendum.” Even if Saverio would have shown it to a lawyer, he would have overruled any legal advice and agreed to the terms. He was ready to leave Rod Roccaraso, the sooner the better, and that night suited him just fine. He was done with the Roccaraso tour, the bus, the boys, and especially Gladys Overby, who was over him. It was time to leave the past behind like the hat he had forgotten at the Birdsall Club in Kansas City. It was time to replace what didn’t work any longer. Saverio, now Tony, wanted a new audience, a new suit, and new friends to go with his new name.
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