by Ingrid Croce
“You sure are in a bad mood,” I said, getting a tissue to wipe Adrian’s nose. “What happened in LA?” I suspected he’d met with either his manager or some woman, and things had not gone well, or he was overcome with guilt. I didn’t want to confront him, so I focused on Adrian James. I sat on the bed, took him in my arms, and stroked his soft, sweet hair. Without confrontation, Jim fell back into an armchair and tried to explain.
“Shit, I’m under a lot of pressure.” He breathed deeply and added with his brow furrowed, “I’ve got two days to write a song for the new album and another for a movie soundtrack.” He got up and flopped down on the bed, next to us. I took a deep breath. I wanted to hug him and just let all my feelings out, but it was time for Adrian’s nap. So I got up and put Adrian in bed and sang him to sleep, as I often did, with “Rock-a-bye, Adrian James” to the tune of James Taylor’s “Sweet Baby James.”
Jim sat at the desk playing his guitar, recording the song he was writing. I started unpacking his suitcase and in the side pocket I found a small gift-wrapped box.
“What’s this?” I picked it up to show him. He pushed pause on the cassette recorder and turned around to look at me holding the tiny box.
“Um, well . . .” he stammered, sitting up. “It’s an S, a surprise I got for you.” I opened it and took out a gold-link necklace, looked at it, and tucked it back in the box. My heart was heavy. I knew it wasn’t really for me. Jim had always been great at selecting gifts, and this one was definitely not my style.
“Thanks,” I said suspiciously. Then I spotted a similarly wrapped gift in the opposite side of the suitcase. “And what’s this?”
“Another S. That’s for you too.” This necklace was made of earthy ceramic disks that had Egyptian designs.
“This one looks more like me,” I said offhandedly and put it on, looking at Jim suspiciously.
“Goddamn it, Ingrid,” he said heatedly, “I don’t need your sarcasm. A simple thank you will do.” I walked into the bathroom and started to cry. I ran a bath and got in. I was six months pregnant, and felt fat and ugly.
Through the door, I heard Jim working on his new song, “Lover’s Cross.”
Well I guess that it was bound to happen,
Was just a matter of time;
But now I’ve come to my decision,
And it’s one of the painful kind.
’Cause now it seems that you wanted a martyr,
Just a regular guy wouldn’t do,
And baby I can’t hang upon no lover’s cross for you.
Yeah, I really got to hand it to you,
’Cause girl, you really tried.
But for every time that we spent laughin’,
There were two times that I cried.
’Cause you were trying to make me a martyr,
And that’s the one thing I just couldn’t do.
And baby, I can’t hang upon no lover’s cross for you.
‘Cause tables are meant for turnin’,
And people are bound to change.
And bridges are meant for burnin’,
When the people and memories they join aren’t the same.
Still, I hope that you can find another,
Who can take what I could not.
He’ll have to be a super guy,
Or maybe a super god.
’Cause I never was much of a martyr before,
And I ain’t ’bout to start nothin’ new,
And baby, I can’t hang upon no lover’s cross for you.
_____
At the beginning of July, after a short visit to Coatesville, where I was packing for the move to California, Jim flew back to San Diego. He closed escrow and signed the final papers to move into the house on August 1. Then, while he was at the Los Angeles airport, before he and Maury left on their second European tour, he called to tell me he wanted to say good-bye to his little man. I could tell he was feeling bad and needed to just touch base, but it was so strained between us. Words were hard for both of us now.
Before I put Adrian on the phone, I told Jim that our friends George and Carole Spillane had agreed to drive our new Travelall and a moving van to California for us while Jim was in Europe, and that I planned to fly to San Diego with Adrian and meet them there.
A few days before the scheduled move, while Jim was still in Europe, George called to say Carole had been in a bad car accident. “It was pretty serious, Ing. She’s in the hospital,” George told me. “I’m sorry, but we won’t be able to move you.”
“Oh, George, I’m sorry for Carol. Don’t worry about us. We’ll figure something out when Jim gets back.” Feeling anxious about the news, I took Adrian for a ride to Judy’s. Shortly after we arrived, I started to feel dizzy and nauseous. I asked Judy to watch Adrian while I lay down on her bed. Suddenly, I felt strong contractions and stabbing pain. There was a rush of fluid.
“Jude!” I cried. “My water broke. Oh, my God, it’s too soon to have the baby!”
Judy rushed me to the hospital in Bryn Mawr, a half hour from her home. George Spillane met us there and took Adrian home with him.
From the hospital bed, I called Jim in Amsterdam.
“I’m afraid we might lose the baby,” I said as tears rolled down my cheeks. “Will you please come home? I really need you here, Jim.”
“I can’t leave the tour, Ing,” was all he said. I hung up, feeling it was really over between us.
Eight hours later, alone in bed, I began giving birth. I pressed the nurse’s call button again and again, and yelled out in pain, but the baby was coming, and there wasn’t a nurse around. I struggled to deliver our baby alone. When I saw him move, I reached down to touch my son, who would be named Max. He looked just like Adrian James, but a little smaller. Several minutes later, a nurse appeared.
“What is it, Mrs. Croce?” she asked, studying her clipboard. When she looked up, she saw me crying. Maxwell James Croce had died in my arms within minutes of being born.
_____
The next day, I checked myself out of the hospital and went home to finish packing. Judy came to help me, while George took care of Adrian James in Lyndell. He was sleeping on the couch with our little boy lying on his chest when the phone rang.
“George!” Judy said in a panicked voice. “Ingrid is very, very sick. I’m sure it’s problems from the delivery. I’m taking her back to the hospital right away. I’ll take her to Coatesville—it’s closer—and call you from there.”
I was delirious with pain when we reached the emergency room.
“Help me! Help me,” I begged. The intern on duty quickly examined me. I was wearing ragged jeans and no makeup, and all the color had drained from my face.
“Are you on drugs?” he asked.
“No, I just lost my baby yesterday,” I cried indignantly. “I’m not on drugs. I’m just in terrible pain! Please help me.” A young Vietnamese doctor came to my rescue. She examined me and immediately ordered the intern to take me to intensive care. There she discovered I had septicemia, poisoning of the bloodstream from the placenta, which had not been totally removed. Since I was allergic to a number of antibiotics, controlling the infection was dangerous.
“She’s not responding well to the medications we’ve used,” the gynecologist told Judy the following day. “There’s a good chance she may not make it.” George placed an emergency call to Amsterdam, and Jim took the next flight back.
When he arrived at the airport, George was there with Adrian James to meet him with good news.
“The doctor reported that the new antibiotics they’re giving Ingrid have started to work. She’s not completely out of danger, but she’s doing much better,” George told Jim.
“Thank God. Come here, my little man,” Jim said, picking up his son and hugging him tenderly. “I have an S for you from London. It’s an English taxi.”
“Boy, this has been a tough few weeks,” George said. “I’m sure glad you’re home.” George put his husky arm around Jim’s back and hu
gged him. “Carole ended up in the hospital ya know, from a car accident. And taking care of the women and children around here hasn’t been easy!”
“George, stop at the grocery store on the way home. I’m going to buy you the biggest steak in town,” Jim announced, smiling appreciatively as they drove away from the airport.
George pulled into the supermarket parking lot. Jim rushed in but couldn’t find any steak. A clerk informed Jim of the nationwide meat shortage, so he settled for imported Italian salami, some Provolone cheese, Italian rolls, a case of stout, and a bottle of Tanqueray Gin. Joining Jim at the checkout counter with Adrian, George noticed that Jim hardly had enough money in his wallet to cover the bill.
“Sorry they didn’t have steak, but I hope this will do!” Jim said, back at the house, pulling the salami and cheese out of the brown bag and opening a couple stouts. “Let’s have some lunch before we go to the hospital.”
He picked up Adrian James, put him in his seat, and placed small chunks of bread and salami on his tray.
“You didn’t need to spend all your money, Jimmy.”
“I owe you. And I’ll be getting another stipend soon.” Handing George a beer, he said, “Let’s toast. Saluti Perdudi!”
George shook his head.
“A big international star like you should have more than 40 bucks on him. Something’s terribly wrong here, Jim.”
After lunch, Jim picked up his guitar and played “Lover’s Cross” for George.
When he finished the song, he said, “You know, George, the thought of Ingrid dying really scares me. I’ve been a bastard.”
“I know it hasn’t been easy for you two, but you and Ingrid are both my friends. And you’re right, Jim. You can’t treat her like this. It’s just not like you. You’re always so kind to everyone else,” George reminded him.
Jim looked tenderly at his son and kissed his tiny hand.
“I’ve gotta make some changes around here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out an airline cocktail napkin on which he’d scribbled some lyrics. He started picking a melody on the guitar and began to sing, his voice full of melancholy:
You can run far
You can run farther
You can run farther than that
But one of these days
One of these days
You’re gonna run right into you.
_____
Though I was still very weak, I washed my face in the hospital room sink, put on some blush, and brushed my hair.
I don’t know why I care so much or why I’m even bothering, I thought to myself. Jim’s refusal to come home when I was losing Max made me realize I was ready to give up on our marriage. But before Jim arrived at the hospital, I didn’t want him to worry, so I did my best to look well. I couldn’t deny that I still loved him.
Jim walked in holding a bouquet of wildflowers.
“You don’t look bad for a dying woman,” he said nervously. He handed me the flowers.
“Thanks.” I took them and asked, “Is Adrian here? I really miss him.”
“Yeah, he’s downstairs, outside in the courtyard with George. They wouldn’t let him come up.”
“Please take care of him, Jim,” I said wearily. I was still very ill and terribly depressed. I started to cry, overwhelmed by my feelings of loss for Max and for the Jim I used to know. “I think I better get some rest now,” I managed. Jim looked remorsefully at me.
“I’m so sorry about the baby, Ing. I’m so sorry about . . . Just get better real soon, please. Adrian and I need you.”
_____
For the next few days I was in the hospital, Jim called and came to visit often, but I had little to say to him. He made plans for our belongings to be shipped to California. A married couple that owned a moving service offered to help us out for a reasonable fee. His wife would drive the Travelall, while the husband motored the moving van.
A month after losing Max, Adrian and I flew out to the new home with strict orders from the doctor not to overdo it. Our real estate agent, Louise Phillips, and her husband, Bill, picked us up at the airport and drove us to Point Loma. The Phillipses had stocked the refrigerator with groceries and put tropical plants all around the house.
“We just wanted to make you feel at home,” Louise said. I had never had such a welcome.
“I can’t believe your kindness,” I said, overwhelmed. Right away, it felt like home. The next day Jim got a lift down to San Diego from LA with his road manager, Morgan Tell. He had bought me a potter’s wheel and set it up in the garage.
“I want you to do your art again, Ing,” he said gently, as he prepared dinner for us in the kitchen. “I’ll be home for a while, working on the songs for the new album. I’ve told Elliott to keep my schedule light. The most I’ll be gone is a few days a week. Losing the baby seems to be an acceptable excuse for some time off.” Adrian sat coloring at a small table. “Just think, he’ll be two years old in a couple weeks,” Jim said. “Little man, go get your guitar.” The toddler came back with his black-and-white plastic ukulele. He began strumming in earnest, and Jim picked up his guitar and started playing with him. “Wow, I can’t believe he’s so smart, Ing. He’s harmonizing with me. I can’t believe you made such a beautiful little boy.”
“He looks like you did, Jim, with his knobby little knees.”
“Oh no, he’s much handsomer than me. I don’t deserve you two.”
A couple days later, when Jim returned from a gig in San Francisco, he brought me a kimono.
“Here, sweet thing, I thought you’d look pretty in this. Japanese women are petite like you. Come on, Ing, try it on.” He held up the robe as I slipped into it. “I want you to have time for yourself today,” Jim continued, as he tied the sash around my waist. “You look beautiful. Sit down and relax. It’s my turn to do some work around here.”
“Great,” I told him. “I have the perfect project for you. I just bought some red-and-white striped wallpaper to decorate Adrian’s room. You and your little man can hang it up together.” I relaxed and started to read. Occasionally, I went into Adrian’s bedroom to check on how my men were faring. The monumental project took most of the day, as Jim dipped the wallpaper sheets into the tub and carried them to the bedroom, while Adrian giggled, trying to wrap himself in the loose paper. By 6 PM, when I went to see their handiwork, Adrian was fast asleep in his newly papered room, which looked like a giant circus tent.
“Pretty good, huh, Ing?” Jim asked, kissing me on the forehead.
“Not bad at all,” I said, surprised by his effort. For the first time in a long time I was starting to believe he really wanted to make our marriage work.
After the following weekend in LA, Jim walked into the house with his arms full.
“I’ve got S’s for my favorite people,” he said. I opened a large box and found a ceramic vase and a beautiful book on Japanese pottery. “The vase is raku,” he said. “And the book is one that Cheech suggested. He said it was the best!”
“It’s gorgeous, Jim. Thank you so much.” I nuzzled my head at his neck and kissed him.
“Adrian ‘Amos’ James has an S too. Come with me, little man.” Jim took his hand. “It’s this way.” We followed him to the garage, where a puppy tied with a red ribbon was asleep in a wicker basket. “It’s an early birthday present,” he said, bending down to pet the shiny, short brown coat. “He’s three months old, and his name is Spooner. I figured my little ol’ man needed a best friend.” Adrian’s big brown eyes gleamed, and he petted the sleeping puppy as carefully as Jim had.
During the next couple of days, Spooner took every opportunity to run out of the house and into the street.
“He’s going to get run over!” I called out one afternoon as I flew after him. Jim and Adrian broke out in laughter as I ran back and forth into the neighbors’ yards, trying to catch the puppy.
The following morning Jim wanted to go shopping for an antique desk. At a store on Adams Avenue in Normal Heights we fou
nd a rolltop over a century old. Inside the drawer were letters of the original owner, postmarked 1891.
“Can we afford $100 right now?” I asked.
“We deserve it,” he said. “Besides, it’s got a history.” He bought it and arranged to have it delivered.
When we got home, I put Adrian down for his nap.
“You know, Ing, I’d still like to sing with you again,” he said as I washed some dishes from lunch. “Maybe I can produce an album for you.”
“I don’t know, Jim. I think I’d rather make pots than go on the road. But maybe if I don’t have to travel much,” I told him as I considered it out loud. Although I enjoyed writing and singing with him more than anything, I wasn’t interested in getting back into the business. But after two years of loneliness, and losing the baby, I was happy to see Jim’s good nature return. “Sure,” I agreed. “If you really want me to. But only if we do it together.”
_____
Jim flew to New York to record his third album for ABC/Dunhill, I Got a Name. In less than two weeks he recorded “Lover’s Cross,” “I’ll Have to Say I Love You in a Song,” “Five Short Minutes,” “Workin’ at the Car Wash Blues,” “Top Hat Bar and Grille,” “Recently,” and “The Hard Way Every Time.” In addition, he included a song Maury had written entitled “Salon and Saloon,” one of Sal’s called “Thursday,” and a tune he and I had written, “Age,” which we’d originally performed on our Capitol album.
“This is my last album for ABC/Dunhill. And I see no reason why I have to continue with Cashman & West anymore,” he told me over the phone. Jim still didn’t understand his legal obligations. But he did understand that after his hit singles and albums and two hard years on the road, he shouldn’t be begging for money. “I feel great, Ing. Like I’m tying up loose ends. In a week I’m going to be done with touring for a while. And maybe I can start to focus on TV and be home more.”
“I’d like that.” I said.
“Yeah. You know, Maury’s been doing a lot of writing lately. He even wrote a song for me,” Jim said. “You’ll have to hear it. And he wrote a song with Kenny Loggins that Kenny’s putting on his new album.”
