Tony removed his tuxedo jacket. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”
“You must’ve had a stroke when you saw me sitting ringside.”
“It was more like death by drowning. I was flooded with memories.”
“You always had a way with words.” Cheryl Dombroski stood back and looked at Tony, trying to reconcile the entertainer with the boy she recalled from the choir loft at Holy Family Church. “It’s no shocker you made it.”
“Come here.” Tony took her hands.
“You still think about me?”
“Sure I do, Cheryl. For years. You broke my heart. When we were kids, the night you got engaged, I was ruined.” Tony still had vivid memories of Cheryl Dombroski. It was kismet that she had shown up in Vegas. Tony often saw people from his days on the road, but it was rare that anyone from Detroit came to one of his shows. He’d often wondered what had happened to his first love.
“I’m so sorry.” Her perfume had the scent of lilies, but as she slipped out of her shoes, Tony got a strong whiff of Bengay. “About that night all those years ago. And sorry about the Bengay. We went to the zoo, and I must’ve walked ten miles. My feet are killing me, and my calves are like cinder blocks. I must’ve laid it on thick.” She rubbed her feet.
“It’s a trek.” Tony made Cheryl a drink. “Did you see the exotic animals?”
“Once my feet hurt, I stopped looking at the animals.”
Tony handed her a rum and coke.
“So funny how life plays out,” she said. “Do you ever get back to Detroit?”
“Not much,” Tony said. “A job here and there. But it’s not the same. How was South Bend?”
Cheryl had to think. “Oh, Ricky lasted at Packard about five years, and then we went west. He worked for Boeing in California for eighteen years, and that’s when he got sick.”
“I’m sorry.”
“They’re a cancer family. All the boys got it. The girls in that crew last forever, but the boys all get clipped by the Big C. My Ricky got lung. Died slowly. It was awful. I took care of him until the end. And after about five years, the kids said, ‘Ma, look at you. You still got your shape, and you love people, you should go out.’ That’s when I met Phil.”
“What does Phil do?”
“Golfs. He’s retired. He was a parts man for TWA for years. I met him at Catholic singles.”
“Do you still sing?”
“When I’ve had a few.” She rattled the ice in her glass. “I’ve been following you all these years. I saw you on Mike Douglas, and I didn’t know you were going to be on, and I was doing my chores, and I had a huge pile of ironing to do, and I saw you on the TV and I ironed my hand. I was so excited. Thrilled, really.”
“I know how you felt.” Tony sat on the edge of the bed and patted the spot next to him. Cheryl sat down.
“You do?”
“The thrilled part. It’s how I felt about you when I was sixteen. It was Christmas. I had bought you a gold chain.”
“You never gave it to me.” She winked at him slyly.
“It was the Christmas Eve you told me you were engaged.”
“That was a wild night.”
“Not for me.”
“No, I mean, in terms of how it changed my life.”
“If you mean that, it was a wild night for me too. My father threw me out, and it began . . . this.” He indicated the room. “This career. I don’t know if you can call it one, it’s something else. Something you do because you have to, not because you want to.”
“You look like you’re having fun up there under the lights.”
“I do have fun when I’m working. It’s the rest of the time. It’s lonely.”
“Oh, baby,” Cheryl said as she rubbed the part of Tony’s leg that went to sleep the most often, the side of his thigh.
He took his cue. Tony kissed Cheryl. He had wanted to kiss her for almost fifty years. He couldn’t believe it had been that long. Sometimes it seemed like Detroit was ten minutes ago, and other times, it seemed like everything that happened before his fiftieth birthday had happened to another guy. Her kiss was nice enough, but she withheld. He wondered if she was thinking of Phil.
“What happened to it?” Cheryl nuzzled his cheek.
“To what?”
“To my chain. The chain you never gave me. Did you pawn it?”
“I carried it around a long time.”
“You must’ve really loved me.” Cheryl slipped off her jacket.
“As much as boys can love girls at sixteen.” Tony noticed Cheryl’s bust was high and firm, like a showgirl’s.
“Right, right.” Cheryl massaged his shoulders.
“Years later, I gave the chain to a hotel maid in Bemidji, Minnesota.”
“Was she pretty?”
“Old enough to be my mother.”
“I imagine you service fans of all ages.” She laughed, but realized quickly that she had offended Tony. “I didn’t mean that.”
“It wasn’t like that, Cheryl. We were talking, and she had lost her daughter. And I listened, and I felt like I had nothing to offer her, nothing to give. And then I remembered the chain. So I gave it to her, and I said, ‘The man who sold me this chain told me that this gold came from the mountains of Lebanon and that he crossed oceans and continents to bring it to me, and that meant it was special in some way. And I had a hard time letting go of it because I thought of that old peddler every time I tried.’ Well, this woman understood what I was trying to do, and she accepted it with great humility in honor of her daughter.”
Cheryl and Tony sat on the edge of the bed, sipping their drinks. Tony put his drink down. Cheryl had already placed hers on the television table. Cheryl pounced on Tony.
Tony’s cummerbund snapped off; so went his shirt, shoes, socks, belt, and pants. Cheryl’s clothes fell away like a wild wind had kicked up and blown them off a clothesline. She had quite a figure for a woman in her midsixties. She could’ve passed for forty—and without his glasses, Tony could even pretend they were back in Detroit in high school. He could have imagined anything. Her hair, now strawberry blond, was styled in a lacquered upsweep, which Tony found difficult to navigate, but the desire in her blue eyes made up for the hardness of her hair.
Tony remembered that Cheryl had been on the upper school drill team and had been adept at high kicks and physical stunts, like splits and a midair jump called the Herkie. In that regard, she remained agile. She did a lot of nibbling and gnawing, which reminded him that room service closed at 1:00 a.m., and he hoped he could order a meal à deux before the kitchen closed.
Cheryl was eager to envelop and please in saddle style, which conjured Tony’s favorite Westerns starring Tom Mix. He remembered going to one with Cheryl and the CYO from Holy Family. He wondered if she remembered, but he couldn’t ask her, as his mouth was otherwise engaged.
After a while—and there was no telling on Tony’s part how long that was—Cheryl had expended a lot of energy working hard to please him. She moved on top of him north to south like a well-oiled bicycle pump as she repeated, “There it is. There it is, there it is, there it is,” a kind of mantra that went from coaxing, to coaching, to flat-out navigation. But he never quite got where he needed to be; the destination remained in his head. Cheryl slid off of him, lying next to him on the enormous bed. She panted as though she had just run up the stairs to his suite on the thirteenth floor two at a time.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, gulping for air.
“It’s not you.”
“I’m not young anymore,” Cheryl admitted.
“Wouldn’t help if you were.” Tony reached for the cigarettes on the nightstand.
“I see. Because I’m in shape. I do water aerobics at the Y. I could crack walnuts between my knees. I’ve still got power in my thighs.”
“Without a doubt.” He offered her a cigarette.
Cheryl declined. “It’s psychological, Saverio.”
“You think?”
She rolled over on her side, the curves of her body reminiscent of the Roman goddess in repose positioned in the infinity pool behind the hotel, who, in a feat of engineering excellence, had water spitting from a clamshell crown on her marble head. “Payback. I hurt you back then, and you harbored all this pain and rejection, and now you can’t . . . because I wouldn’t then.”
Tony didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.
Cheryl rolled over on her back. “It’s fine. We’re in our sixties. Every encounter isn’t the Fourth of July. This is life. Do you want me to try again?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I didn’t think so. It’s too much in one night.”
Tony watched as Cheryl collected her clothing from every corner of the room. “You look good, Cheryl. Really good.”
“I know.” She shrugged. “Genetics. And Weight Watchers.”
* * *
Room service arrived with an order of waffles, crispy bacon, black coffee, orange juice, and hash browns promptly at 11:00 p.m. Tony had ordered breakfast as soon as Cheryl departed; to make the time fly, he pretended that it was the next morning so he might put the painful events of the evening behind him. He was also starving because he had exerted a great deal of energy with no finale. It was like arriving in Paris pulling a rickshaw and finding out there’s no Eiffel Tower.
As he poured the syrup on his waffles, he picked up the phone.
“Hey, Cheech.”
Chi Chi put down the book she was reading in her New York apartment and checked the clock. “You all right, Saverio?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean? Are you sick? It’s late, you know.”
“I know. Did I wake you?”
“No, I’m reading. Judith Krantz has a new one out. I can’t put it down.”
“You never could.”
“Is there a problem with your credit card?”
“No, everything is fine. In that regard.”
“So what is it?”
“It finally happened, babe.”
“What are you talking about?”
He took a bite of his waffle. The butter and syrup dripped onto the napkin he had stuffed into the neck of his undershirt. He chewed. “I couldn’t perform.”
“You lost your voice?”
“No, I can sing.”
It took Chi Chi a moment to understand. She closed her book.
After a few moments, Tony asked, “Are you still there?”
“I’m here. I’m grappling.”
“So am I.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“I don’t either.”
“Except maybe you had it coming.”
“On a night when I couldn’t possibly feel worse, you make me feel worse.”
“Except, of course, I’m your only real friend.” Chi Chi sighed and propped her feet on a pillow. “Who was she? A showgirl?”
“No, as a matter of fact, she was older than you.”
“Has it come to this, Savvy?”
Tony laughed. “Evidently.”
“I can’t see you perusing the audience in the Orchid Room for women that look like Mrs. Santa Claus. You must know the lady.”
“How did you know?”
“At this stage of life, strangers don’t hold the same allure. The past is what interests us. Holding on to what we knew,” Chi Chi said softly.
“I knew her back in Michigan. She sang with me at Holy Family Church.”
Chi Chi sighed. “That’s a long time ago.”
“She was beautiful. Polish girl. And I was sixteen, and she was seventeen, and she married another fella.”
Chi Chi yawned. “What do you want me to say?”
“You know everything about me, and this is part of the picture,” Tony said quietly.
“Saverio. You don’t have to make love to every woman who wants to make love to you. You can have dinner and a nice conversation and a good-night kiss or not. You can take a walk down memory lane and not wind up in bed. You don’t have anything to prove anymore.”
“I must. But I can’t prove it.”
“You’re under no obligation to meet a woman’s needs, even when she demands it. Buy them a drink. Fine. Spin them around the dance floor. Okay. Then say good night, put her on the bus, and go up to your room and order pancakes.”
“Waffles.”
“Whatever. You can sing in the Orchid Room and enjoy your life. You can even retire if you want. I’ve made a nice nest for you. You have enough money. And with that cover of Gravy, you’ll be making good money for the next few years. We’ve been all through this. Where’s Dora?”
“At the house.”
“Where are you?”
“The hotel.”
Chi Chi checked the clock on her nightstand and quickly calculated the time difference. “Have you changed out of your tux?”
“Not yet.”
“Have you had something to eat?”
“I ordered room service. Waffles. Bacon.”
“Too heavy.”
“I think you’re right. I’m a little sick to my stomach,” Tony admitted.
“You need to eat something lighter. There’s usually crackers in the minibar. Go look. And have a Coke. No ice. I’ll wait.”
Tony went to the minibar, shuffled through the drawer, and poured a bottle of Coca-Cola without the ice. “I’m back,” he said into the phone. “They had crackers. And a Coke.”
“A miracle.”
“You’re a witch,” he said as he chewed a cracker. “How do you know everything? Don’t answer that.” He swigged the Coca-Cola. “You can read me from three thousand miles away.”
“Your stomach will settle in a minute. But your ego, that’ll be bruised for a while.”
“Nothing in the minibar for that?”
Tony began to laugh, and soon Chi Chi was laughing with him. They laughed so hard, it was as though they were rehearsing a sketch for the act.
“This would be hilarious if it wasn’t my life, too,” Chi Chi said.
“I really dragged you down, didn’t I?”
Chi Chi didn’t answer him. “Take a shower, change into fresh clothes, and go home. Put this behind you.”
“What if it happens again?”
“Even Cadillacs break down eventually.”
“You think I’m a Cadillac?”
“I did.”
“Do you still?”
“After all we’ve been through, you want to know if I’ve still got it for you?” Chi Chi asked.
“Why not?” he said quietly. “I’m very vulnerable right now. I could use some shoring up.”
“You’re a married man. You have a wife for that.”
“Right.” He sighed.
“You belong to Dora. A very nice lady, by the way. And she takes excellent care of you.”
“You like Dora more than me.”
Chi Chi laughed. “I’m grateful to her. She’s been good for you.”
“She has.”
“Maybe one of these times, before you invite a lady to your room, maybe you sit down, by yourself, and think: Why am I doing this? Why am I doing this when I have a good woman at home waiting for me?”
“Why would I do that?” Tony asked her.
“Because the answer might surprise you.”
Chi Chi hung up the phone. She hadn’t thought about Saverio Armandonada in a long time. Why had he called her out of the blue and asked her if she still cared about him? Why would her feelings even matter to him now, when they hadn’t along the way, when they should have? Chi Chi had found solace elsewhere. Like many women before her, she made a life alone that worked. When her marriage ended, the loss of her husband brought other gifts forward: a sweeter connection to her children, her work, and now her grandchildren. She had found ways to make her life rich without Tony in it.
Duty-bound love is the Italian girl’s area of expertise. The Italian woman is a master craftsman at the art of sacrifice. But love,
romantic, wild, impetuous, unguarded, and free? Chi Chi had never experienced it. Love had always been about him: making his life better, shoring up his confidence, pushing him out into the world to succeed. Any feelings of abandon, surprise, and fulfillment were reserved for her work, for the creation of the music, for the process of making something from nothing, and for the creative enterprise that had never let her down. The music had been a faithful companion.
13
Calando
(Slowing down)
1987–1988
Chi Chi walked along the serene moss-carpeted streets of Treviso, Italy, feeling at home. The silver canals hemmed by walls of soft pink stucco were as her grandmother had described them. Now that Chi Chi was older than her grandmother had been when she shared those stories with her, she could appreciate the enchantments of the Veneto, and understand their longing for home after they emigrated. The Venetian springtime held the colors of a Tiepolo painting: vivid blues, soft greens, and gold with swirls of magenta.
Chi Chi carried her son’s ashes in a box, carefully set in a leather case. She planned to leave his ashes in the fields outside the city, where Leone had spent a summer studying the violin. He had meant to return to the Veneto someday, but he died before he could make his dream come true. It had been nine years since Leone died, and his mother wanted to honor his wishes before it was impossible for her to do so.
She booked a room in a small inn at the foot of the Dolomites. She hired a driver to take her from the city and through the countryside. The bright green farm fields rolled out in patchwork velvet squares, while the mountains with their salt-colored peaks blended into the sky. There were small ponds along the road like scattered mirrors that reflected the clouds.
“Per favore, accosta qui, l’autista.”
Chi Chi picked up the leather case and got out of the car. She trudged across the field to a serene pond, hemmed by glorious cypress trees. She made the sign of the cross, opened the box, and interred her son at the roots of an old cypress tree.
When she was finished, she wept quietly for his memory and all he had missed, but as soon as she had completed the task and honored his wishes, she dried her tears and returned to the car.
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