by Ingrid Croce
“May I speak to Jim Croce please?” I asked cautiously.
“Who’s calling?” Jim’s mother’s voice was quick and suspicious.
“Ingrid Jacobson,” I managed to say, twice as nervous as when I had started to dial.
“Jimmy’s not here,” Flora said icily.
“Will you please tell him I called?”
“Yes.” His mother hung up before I could give her my phone number.
I sensed a formidable obstacle, but I persevered. I called his house twice more in the following days. Each time, Flora answered.
Finally Jim called back.
“I’ve been up in Greenwich Village,” Jim said. “My mom’s upset that you’ve been so forward. But I convinced her that you were just calling to talk about music.”
My ego was deflated. It hadn’t occurred to me that I was doing anything wrong by calling Jim. A few months earlier, my own mother, who had battled a drug and alcohol addiction, had passed away from breast cancer at the age of thirty-six. She wasn’t around to teach me the intricacies of social etiquette.
But I also felt disappointed that Jim had to make up a reason for my calling him.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly, uncomfortable and wanting to hang up. Still, unwilling to lose the chance, I forced myself to invite Jim over to my house in Springfield, a suburb of Philadelphia, to rehearse the following Sunday.
“That sounds great,” he reassured me.
When Sunday arrived, Jim made the ten-minute drive from his home in Drexel Hill in his VW. He slowly approached the front door of my house with a guitar case in each hand.
When I opened the door, he half-bowed in a bashful sort of way. He looked uncomfortable in his three-piece suit, tie, and heavily starched shirt that cut into his neck.
His face fell when he saw me in a loose-fitting, navy blue University of Pennsylvania sweatshirt and tight, old, faded jeans.
“I apologize for the suit,” he said nervously. “I came from my cousin’s wedding.”
But I smiled and said, “You look great,” and motioned for him to follow me. I peered around, putting a finger to my lips, and pointed toward the kitchen where my family sat. I took Jim by the hand and tried to slip downstairs to my room. My stepmom, Florence, intercepted us, followed immediately by my father, Sid; twin sister, Phyllis; and younger sister and brother, Janice and Kenny. I sighed and made all of the introductions.
Finally, I led Jim downstairs to the bedroom I shared with Phyllis. We were alone for the first time. Carefully he laid his guitar cases on my sister’s bed, unsnapped one, and took out his twelve-string and some songbooks. Then he unhooked the second case, pulled out a six-string, and sat down beside me on my bed.
I had heard Jim perform at the hootenanny with the Coventry Lads. But now, as he sat on my bed, I heard his true voice solo, so sincere and beautiful. I was mesmerized. As he played the old folk song “Cotton-Eyed Joe,” I felt more intimacy with him than I had ever experienced with anyone.
Tell me where do you come from?
And where do you go?
Tell me where do you come from,
Ol’ cotton-eyed Joe?
Well I come for to see you,
And I come for to sing,
And I come for to bring you,
A $30 glitterin’ diamond ring.
Jim finished his song and asked if I would like to try one together with him. He picked up his twelve-string and started to play. He taught me the harmony to Woody Guthrie’s “Pastures of Plenty,” explaining it was just like the melody “but different.” Although I’d been singing all my life, that was my very first singing lesson, and I was excited by how comfortable Jim made me feel.
He had been shy and awkward when he arrived, but with his guitar in hand, he was at ease. He talked enthusiastically about folk music and the history behind each of the songs we sang.
He was pleased at how quickly I learned the words and how good we sounded together. Our voices blended seamlessly, and he smiled at me as we sang.
I was overwhelmed. I liked everything about him: his broad open smile, his strong hands, his slim body, his medium height, his voice. He was seductive but secure. Because I had suffered through my parents’ divorce and moved from school to school, I longed for stability. I recognized that playing music gave Jim confidence and liked the feeling of singing with him. He was a good teacher, and I was a good student. I hoped in time to become something more.
After a few songs, I switched on my father’s Wollensak reel-to-reel tape recorder to capture the session forever. Jim taught me some traditional folk songs, like Woody Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land,” and then Bob Dylan’s “The Times They Are A-Changin’.”
We played for almost three hours before he had to leave.
On Jim’s way out, my father stopped us in the living room and struck up a conversation. The three of us sat down, and I was pleased that we could all talk together so easily. Jim and my dad found mutual interests in psychology and music. Jim was majoring in psychology at Villanova, and my dad, who loved music and played harmonica, was a family physician who was attending the University of Pennsylvania to complete his psychiatric residency.
I adored my father. My parents divorced when I was only five, and when we were eight, our mother charmed the judge and gained custody of her daughters. My twin sister was content to live with our mother and grandmother. But all I ever wanted growing up was to live with my dad. The fact that my father and Jim took an instant liking to each other was extremely important to me.
“I’ll call you this week to schedule a rehearsal,” Jim winked as he got up to leave.
“Great,” I replied. “And I promise not to call you.”
We laughed and then suddenly fell silent, looking at each other with longing. Jim’s hands were full of guitars, and my father was still in the room. Jim bowed slightly and backed out the door. He walked to his car, stopping to look back at me. I felt like jumping up and down but controlled my excitement and waved enthusiastically.
Jim called again a few days later, confirming another Sunday practice. He arrived precisely on time, wearing sharply creased jeans and a starched work shirt.
“No wedding today?” I teased.
He laughed. “No. Patsy’s the only cousin I have who is old enough to get married, and she weighs about three hundred pounds. But she’s got a great personality.”
I wasn’t quite sure how to take Jim’s humor. On the one hand, he was tender and considerate of people’s feelings, but when “onstage,” he felt free to joke and be boldly coarse.
As a duo, we practiced every Sunday for a month, and our magnetic attraction to each other grew as strong as the improved harmonizing of our voices. We spoke little about our feelings, but our music ignited electricity between us. At first, we gazed into each other’s eyes when we sang, but later our feelings intensified, and the intertwining of our voices had become so sensual and arousing that we had to look away.
One day, Jim called and invited me to a party at Sal’s house.
“Ing,” Jim said, hesitating, “I know this is short notice, but some friends want me to play at a party near school tomorrow night . . . and I was wondering . . . if you could come along and sing with me.”
I eagerly agreed, excited to meet his friends. I had longed for a chance to become a part of his world. Then I remembered my 11 PM curfew. I was embarrassed to mention it, but deep inside I liked the fact that my father and stepmother cared enough about me to make rules. While living with my mother after the divorce, I had no restrictions. She often left my sister and me on our own while she was working on South Street at my grandmother’s dress store, Mary Greenberg’s. My mother also had her own local television show, The Magic Lady, in which she played Gershwin and popular songs from the hit parade on piano. Serious and studious, I stayed out of trouble. I worked hard to get good grades and used my boundless energy in gymnastics, field hockey, softball, swimming, art, and music.
“I’ll get
you back by midnight,” Jim promised when I told him about the curfew. “Go see what your dad says.”
I came back breathless. “He said yes, but only if you promise to have me home by 12 sharp.”
Jim arrived precisely at 7:30 the next evening.
Fueled by nervous energy, I had already been ready for an hour when I heard the familiar whine of his little VW racing up the street.
We drove to Lansdale, talking and laughing, enjoying each other’s company. When Jim introduced me to his friends at Sal’s apartment, I was really happy to be included but, at the same time, a bit uncomfortable. I was at least three or four years younger than anyone else there, and the obvious interest some of the other girls showed in Jim increased my anxiety.
Jim was quiet with his crowd and didn’t seem to notice my nervousness. He left me on my own for a moment and put his guitar case in Sal’s bedroom.
The older girls looked my way but made no attempt to make conversation. Then Sal swept across the room to me.
“Don’t mind them,” he said. “They’re just jealous. You must be Ingrid. Jim says you’re the entertainment for the evening.” I laughed spontaneously. I immediately liked Sal, who seemed as warm and wild as Jim had described. He wore tight black leather pants, a chartreuse shirt, and black Italian boots with exaggerated Cuban heels. Sal had an open, engaging smile, and his black hair was piled high in a pompadour, which accentuated his “blaze” hair—a natural silver stripe that ran through the middle of his head like a streak of lightning.
“You look pretty entertaining yourself,” I said. Sal chuckled, but giddy laughter from the middle of the large living room distracted us.
I watched as Jim changed over the course of the party. His shyness evaporated, and a new personality emerged, full of confidence and impishness. Three girls surrounded him and egged him on as he began playing one of his bawdy ballads.
They were members of the Haveners, a female singing group composed of six student nurses from the Villanova University College of Nursing. The music department at Villanova had asked Jim to work with the young women, and they adopted him as their personal music director. He enjoyed the challenge, and within a few months he had developed them into a competent performing group.
The girls idolized him, and although he once climbed through their second-story dorm window during a panty raid, he had no romantic interest in any of them. Still, the attention pleased him, and no matter how unattractive a woman might be, he always found some way to compliment her. He once described one of the nursing students at Villanova to Sal as being built like “a refrigerator with a head.” Yet he later confessed to me that when he was alone with her, he had told her what a sweet disposition and beautiful skin she had.
The Haveners kept coddling Jim and giving me hostile glances. Jim continued strumming his guitar. While he played, I sat with Sal on the sofa, taking in the room and the atmosphere. Jim’s singing and Sal’s easy company made me feel comfortable.
After singing several songs by himself, he motioned for me to join him.
I wanted to sing, but I was growing impatient for the music portion of the evening to be over so I could be alone with him. I had noticed a couple vanish into one of the bedrooms, and the thought of disappearing into the darkness with Jim excited me. But I realized Jim wanted to show off me and our songs to his friends, so I did my best to focus on the music and figured everything else would have to wait.
Jim began the introduction to “Song for Canada,” which the folk duo Ian and Sylvia had recently recorded. I sat beside him and in perfect harmony we sang:
Lonely northern rivers come together till you see
One single river rolling in eternity.
Two nations in the land that lies along its shore,
But just one river, you and me.
We looked at each other as our voices entwined, and we were both clearly turned on. I knew the feelings we had kept in check were being played out in our singing. Even the audience seemed to become aware of it. The room hushed. Sal grinned.
“That was hot,” he said loudly after we’d finished the song.
I smiled. Jim didn’t know what to say, and looked down.
Just then, Jim’s younger brother, Rich, stormed into the room, breaking the silence.
“My date wants to go home right now, and I need to borrow your car,” he said to Jim. He had come to the party with an attractive Puerto Rican girl from Cabrini University. When one of the guests had made a bigoted joke about Puerto Ricans, she took offense and insisted on leaving immediately.
“Shit,” Jim said under his breath. “Look, you’ll have to hurry. It’s snowing, and I’ve got to get Ingrid home by midnight.”
Rich nodded glumly and left with the car keys.
“He’ll be back in time,” Jim reassured me.
With the romantic mood we had built now on the verge of collapsing, Jim played just one more song and abruptly ended the concert.
Then he turned on the hi-fi and chose the most romantic record he could find, Johnny Mathis’s Twelfth of Never. Other couples started dancing, and Jim took me by the hand. He gently led me into the dimly lit hallway, and for the first time we held each other close as we moved to the music. I trembled as I felt his body next to mine and leaned my cheek against his chest. And when “Misty” started to play, he gradually led me through the open door to Sal’s bedroom in the turret of the old Victorian home. From the windows of the round room we could see the snow falling softly outside. For a magical moment, it seemed as if we were caught inside a snow globe. I looked up, and he kissed me softly on the cheek; he kissed my lips and deftly shut the door with his foot. I surrendered willingly to his caresses, my breath quickening as his hands moved over my arms, neck, and breasts, where they lingered.
Still kissing me deeply, he gently lifted me onto the bed and slowly reached his hand inside my skirt. I caught his hand, but he persisted, gently breaking my grasp. I relaxed and kissed him. His hand slid upward along my inner thigh. I gasped as his fingers turned upward, but the unyielding seam of my girdle halted his explorations.
Caught off-guard, Jim tried to outflank it but couldn’t find an opening. I lay still on the bed, not sure what to do.
He barely heard Sal yelling at us through the door.
“Jim!” Sal shouted, repeating himself. “Sorry to interrupt, but Rich is on the phone. Your car is stuck in a snowdrift.”
I popped up like toast.
Jim groaned. Slowly, almost painfully, he got up and started for the living room, then realized he couldn’t walk out immediately. He was fully aroused, and Sal would be relentless in pointing it out. “Just a minute,” he yelled.
Jim pulled out his shirttails and ran to the phone. Rich explained that he was at a gas station waiting for a tow truck, which wasn’t going to arrive until after midnight.
Aggravated at the interruption and his brother’s bad news, Jim returned to the bedroom and asked me to call my father and explain the situation.
My dad said he understood and told us not to rush on the icy roads.
The lovers’ spell had been broken, and both Jim and I cooled off. Shaken by how out of control we had been, we sat together on the couch, as far from the bedroom as we could get.
When we arrived at my house at 2 AM, my father was awake but stayed respectfully upstairs.
When we reached the front door, Jim stared directly into my eyes and kissed me gently. I hugged him, and we remained silent, watching the snowfall under the streetlight, both of us confused and a little embarrassed. He held me gently for a minute and said a quiet good night.
The snow had stopped falling by the next morning, leaving a crisp, clear day. I awakened early with a lover’s hangover. I felt horrible, certain that I had ruined my chances with Jim by coming across as cheap and easy. I buried my head under my pillow. A few moments later, I sat up, flooded with the realization of how much I cared for him. I wanted to call and explain how I felt, but didn’t have the nerve. Flo
ra might’ve answered and confirmed her suspicion that I was chasing her son. After the previous night, even Jim might believe that. I collapsed with a groan and buried my head back under the pillow.
Just after breakfast, the phone rang.
Jim said softly, “I want to apologize about last night. I just got carried away. I feel awful.”
I wanted to shout my feelings out loud, but caught myself. My words tumbled out in an elated jumble. “So do I. Jim, do you think I’m cheap?”
“Oh no, Ing! It was my fault. Will you forgive me?”
“Yes, of course. Do you forgive me?”
“Yes! Yes!” He paused a long moment, then added, “Wow, that was something.”
“Yeah, it was great!”
We were both silent, then began to laugh.
“Jim,” I said, in a soft, mocking voice. “I promise I’ll never wear a girdle again.”
“Oh, yay!” he said.
Two weeks later he invited me to his house for dinner to meet his family.
He picked me up and drove me to the Croces’ split-level home in Drexel Hill. “I’m nervous about meeting your mother,” I said, staring at the road.
He smiled and placed his hand on my leg. “Don’t worry. The Flower will like you, but it might take her some time.”
“Who is The Flower?” I laughed.
“That’s what we call my mother sometimes. Her name is Flora, or “flower” in Italian. My parents are pretty old-fashioned,” Jim explained. “They just don’t understand all the changes that are going on today, especially my mom. She thinks the Beatles are destroying the world. Their long hair and music really scare her. And she’s serious about it too.”
“You’re kidding, aren’t you? She really thinks the Beatles are ruining the world? That’s a riot.”
“I know it seems weird,” he said, “but she believes it. Both my parents are afraid that I’ll be led down the road to hell. That I’ll grow up to be a bum or something worse, that I won’t turn out to be respectable. You’ll see. They’re very strict with me. Sometimes they’re really overbearing, especially lately.”
