The Angry Woman Suite

by Lee Fullbright

  “Forget secretarial school,” I’d told her.

  Her pay was fifty dollars a week, as opposed to the two hundred I was pulling down, but although it was the dawning for vocalists, the very start of their box office status, they could never—so I thought—attain the dizzying prestige enjoyed by the big bands.

  “Make hay while the sun shines,” I told Elena, thinking of her new agent.

  “Why’d you let her go?” Buster asked, back in New York. It was three o’clock in the morning and we’d just finished a gig at The Starlight Roof. No one cared that we weren’t old enough to drink legally, least of all the bartender at The Waldorf. We were musicians, sidemen, the newest cream in old Benny’s tea for two. Playing for Benny Goodman had made me somebody and by extension Buster as well—and Buster would never lose sight of the fact that he was where he was because of me. Buster was an incredible musician, but an otherwise lackluster personality except where I was concerned, where almost nothing kept me more pumped than the deferential banter he rolled out for my benefit.

  “Goodman was the one who let Elena slip through his fingers,” I answered. “Goodman was stupid. Besides, it’s not as if I could ever hold Elena back! And it’s not as if Lee Andrews isn’t one of the country’s best bandleaders! Underrated, yes, but Andrews is an up-and-comer. Elena can make herself a name with Andrews.”

  Buster’s dumb eyes appraised me. “But now you’re never going to see her, bud.”

  No arguing with that. Andrews’ orchestra, like all big bands, was always on the road. The junket up and down the eastern sideboard, with stops at auditoriums and clubs and theaters throughout New York, Pennsylvania, Jersey, Maryland, Connecticut, to name a few, that was the easy one. It was the “criss-crosser,” the one from coast to coast and back again, playing one-nighters, sometimes with five hundred miles between engagements, sleeping in buses or back seats, sans any semblance of privacy: that was the ball buster.

  But there was The Plan and the sacrifices that had to be made for it. Whenever I’d felt down, felt The Plan foolhardy, Elena had kept the blackness at bay, convincing me I’d hung the moon. Buster, though, had yet to be told of The Plan, or even that he and I were leaving Benny Goodman soon, to join Horace Heidt’s band. My friend Buster had to be eased into things.

  “Listen to this,” Buster said one January night in ‘44, stretched out on the twin bed next to mine, a newspaper dangerously close to the cigarette hanging from his lips. We were in a Dayton flea-bag, but at least it had a shower.

  “It’s time,” I announced.

  “Says here that the German surface navy is totally gonesville—”

  “It’s time,” I repeated.

  Buster looked up. “For what?”

  “For us to leave Heidt. It’s time to go with another band.”

  Buster threw the paper at me, and for the umpteenth time I explained that razzle-dazzle, not complacency, was our goal.

  “But couldn’t we,” he groused, “stay with a band longer than two months?”

  We weren’t just sidemen any longer, I told him. We were stars—something neither Goodman nor Heidt had been quick enough to take advantage of. Although Heidt didn’t mind relinquishing a spotlight, Goodman had handed out spotlights like they were baby Hope Diamonds. Goodman had a well-deserved reputation for paranoia and he’d been paranoid about us in particular because we’d threatened him; that’s how good we were.

  “So,” Buster said wryly, “why’re we leaving Heidt then? As long as we’re with Heidt, we at least get a spotlight now and then.”

  “Bud, you and I can have all the technical perfection in the world, but it means zip if we don’t have arrangements geared to our signature.”

  “That’s an answer? We don’t have a signature, Francis!”

  “Look, anyone can pick piano man Frankie Carle out of the crowd, right? Why, you ask? His arrangements. Carle’s style is his signature. I’m thinking I should be arranging stuff that sounds like nobody else, instead of the generic shit Heidt’s throwing at us. I’m thinking we need a certain style. And, speaking of, there’s not so much swing out there now, notice? I think it’s because of where we’re at in the war. I think people are looking for a kind of music that speaks to … yearning. Yeah, that’s it, bud: yearning. I think we’ve got an opportunity to take a lead here.”

  “There’re leaders plenty. Goodman, Andrews, Dorsey, Miller, James …”

  I shrugged. “Leaders fall behind sooner or later. Others take their places. Others with more vision.”

  “So you want to play mushy stuff,” Buster concluded. “You want your own band.”

  “Of course that’s what I’m saying here. You and me, bud. Our big band.”

  “Shit. But what about men? Who’d want to go with us? Not to mention we’d need money to pay the men. Money we don’t have, by the way.”

  “It’s those men who’re gonna be a key component of our signature. We need a minimum fifteen men, right? Five saxes that can double on clarinet, three more trombones, four trumpets, a string bass, a piano man, and a drummer. Fifteen good men, each a standout, each hungry for the spotlight. We promise every man that spotlight.”

  Buster was incredulous. “You mean each gets showcased?”

  “I’m talking a real big band here, Buster. No sidemen, per se. And no slackers in the looks department, either. And we do my arrangements. Unless someone else comes along with a pizzazz that can add more to our signature.”

  “Francis, might I remind you that you’ve never arranged, not to mention yet one more time, we’ve no start-up money! Besides, we’re … we’re kids!”

  I kept calm. “We’re arranging every time we improvise, bud. And Benny Goodman was only twenty-five when he started.”

  “There you go! You’re not even seventeen!”

  “I look twenty-five. And you’re of age—you can sign the house contracts. How many times do I have to tell you? You play the part, get the part, you are the part. You know what? You’re too negative for your own good, Buster—and another thing: the powers that be do know us. They’ve seen us around. We’ve played their venues.”

  “They’ve seen a million guys!”

  I pitched the close. “But we’re the ones who’re gonna end up with the winning hand. Because we’ve got the ace in the hole, bud. We’ve got Elena. And Elena has an agent. And she’s making a name with Lee Andrews’ band even as we speak, and in no time at all she’ll have all the big bands eating out of her hand, wanting to sign her. Elena will be able to pick and choose which band to go with. But here’s the deal: Elena is in my pocket, bud.”

  Even Buster saw that light.

  “A great vocalist and an agent, two must-haves for crashing the big-time and I’ve got them both, Buster. How ’bout that?

  “Now look, I’ve got a plan that calls for you and me to leave Heidt in a couple months and go with someone else. That way we’ll continue meeting and talking up as many sidemen as possible. We make these fellas want to join us—and their incentive? That promise of a spotlight. We pick only the best, though. The second part of the plan is that Elena gets herself featured on a record with Lee Andrews. A hit record.”

  Buster’s light went out. “But nobody’s doing records!”

  That was partially true. The shellac required to make records had become scarcer than women’s stockings, due to the war. Then there was the strike that had been called by the American Federation of Musicians, which was ticked because the half-million jukeboxes around the country, as well as the radio stations that played records all day, were taking money out of live musicians’ pockets. The AMF had demanded that the majors—Decca, RCA Victor, and Columbia—start a fund for live musicians, a demand the majors had turned their noses up at, and the result was that virtually all recording had stopped.

  “But note,” I said, quoting Elena almost verbatim, “that the really big bands are still recording, like Goodman and the Dorseys—and Lee Andrews, who is now, this very minute, featuring my Elena o
n vocal. And, mark my words, buddy, there are little companies positioning themselves to undercut those majors. They see their chance.

  “So what I’m saying is that between Elena and her agent, and those little companies out there salivating all over themselves, we’re gonna get ourselves a recording contract. You and me and Elena, Buster. Meaning we’re looking short haul in the eye this very minute. And that, bud, putting it together and working the angles, is called vision.”

  I became obsessed with the war. Because I believed my music, my arrangements, my band, were destined to be lifted by the mood of Mr. and Mrs. America, by the students volunteering to be of service to their country, by the memory of the men who’d given their lives at Pearl Harbor, at Wake, at Midway.

  While we were still on the road with Heidt, Buster kept in touch with his folks back home. He knew who’d been lost and who was on his way over.

  “Bill Ray’s family just got a telegram,” he reported one day. “Bill Ray died. Family’s tore up something bad. Remember Bill Ray?”

  Bill Ray had made me pee my pants my very first day of school. “No,” I said.

  Buster said he’d heard Earl had finally been located, in Italy. I nodded, saying nothing, knowing Buster was sure to want to talk next about Stella being in the nuthouse. And I couldn’t risk having one of those black clouds bearing down on me, not without Elena beside me. I had to stay focused on The Plan.

  Elena and I kept in touch via telegrams and phone dates. While I was in Kansas City and she in Denver with Lee Andrews, we’d agreed we couldn’t afford to hire a bus for our company; we’d have to get our hands on a couple cars instead. As it was, all we’d have to eat on was Elena’s seed money. My seed was going for the cars we needed, a library of music, and the musicians’ wages for rehearsals prior to our getting engagements.

  We were on our way.

  ***

  I bought a Ford. Buster got a Chevy. Both had big back seats. We made our last switch, going with Duke Ellington, playing side for “When They Ask About You,” with Kitty Kallen on vocal. I lined up men, making and extracting promises, vague about a start date.

  In February, while bombers were striking German aircraft factories, Lee Andrews got himself a huge hit. Right on schedule. With Elena on vocal. Then another hit record after that. Elena was the vocalist on it as well. By early spring, when most of the Eighth Army was shifted westward, a precursor to the fall of Rome, I’d completed a dozen arrangements, including a reworking of the standard, “Dazed.”

  “Why that one?” Buster inquired.

  “Too sweet the way Witherspoon did it. I always thought it could be made … savvy.”

  “Witherspoon?” Buster wrinkled his brow. “James Witherspoon? Piano man from way back?”

  “Yep. One of Aidan’s original boys from the old jazz days. Piece was never right for piano, though—even if Witherspoon did write it.”

  On May 7th, 1945, Germany surrendered. Two days later, accompanied by sixteen men, I was reunited with Elena at the Glenn River Casino in Trenton. On the strength of Elena’s name and the assurances of her dubious agent, Pete Burdick, the Francis Grayson Orchestra had gotten itself a booking for a full month. It wasn’t a particularly lucrative venue, but Glenn River carried a dozen weekly radio broadcasts with it: an unheard opportunity for an untried band. And if it was the dawn for popular music vocalists, it was high noon for personality musicians, and I’d sixteen of them with me that day in Trenton. All handsome, incredibly talented, and larger than life.

  The last time I’d been so scared was at my audition with Benny Goodman. I squared my shoulders and walked into that showroom in Trenton, into my own battle, firm in my conviction that the Francis Grayson Orchestra was destined to become every American teenager’s dream come true.

  AIDAN

  Pennsylvania 1917–1919

  It was September 1917 when all the real men left for war, marching toward Brandywine Summit to board the train headed for the port of debarkation. The band was deafening, the station packed with families from as far away as Montgomery County. I worked my way through the crowd, shaking as many of the new, young soldiers’ hands as I could, many of whom had been my pupils, speaking to their parents and putting on my best face, trying to ignore the anguish that tightened my chest. I glimpsed Magdalene and Lothian at the opposite end of the platform, and touched my hat in greeting. I pointedly ignored Frederick Forsythe—a rather obscure cut, seeing as how I was also at the station to see Lear off to the war and Frederick was standing right beside him. Lear steered me up alongside a train car, dodging soldiers, including Frederick, starting to board. He leaned in close, grim as I’d ever seen him. He had to shout over the noise.

  “There’s not much time! You and Matthew will take right care of the family, won’t you?”

  I could hardly wait to be of some use somewhere. I yelled back, “You got it, old boy!” Lear pressed closer.

  “I mean it. Things aren’t right well. Magdalene’s in a way, and Elizabeth’s made herself sick. She’s made Stella sick, too.”

  I suddenly wished Lear would just hurry and go. I wished they’d all hurry and go. I needed a gin. “Things will be fine,” I reassured him. “Don’t worry.”

  Lear reached inside his jacket and extracted two envelopes, one thick, one slim. The thick one was labeled “Grayson Investments.” The smaller one had my name on it.

  “I’ve been teaching Magdalene about the business so she can handle Grayson Investments while Frederick and I are away … but look at these figures for me, will you, Aidan? Something’s not—” The train began inching down the track, and Lear hoisted himself up into a car. “The other envelope’s a gift for you! For the museum!”

  I watched until the train was a dot in the distance, until I sensed a presence beside me: Magdalene. Her smile was slight and quick, like her greeting:

  “Father told me we’re to be partners, more or less. It’s been awhile since you’ve had to check my arithmetic, Mr. Madsen.” She gestured toward the parking area where the band was packing away instruments, where Lothian was smiling prettily at Jamie. “I have my car, Mr. Madsen. May I drop you?”

  I handed her the envelope marked “Grayson Investments,” and put the smaller one in my breast pocket. “Thank you, and please call me Aidan. Addressing me as if I’m still your teacher makes me feel ancient.” I offered my arm, which she took, and my mouth went suddenly dry: Magdalene Grayson Forsythe was staggeringly lovely—and about as accessible as the Andes. I cleared my throat and kept my eyes on Jamie and Lothian in the parking area.

  “Second of all, I didn’t know until a minute ago that your father had any such thing in mind. I believe you’re more than capable, Magdalene. However, I am always at your disposal.” Before Magdalene took her arm back I said the next first thing that came to mind: “You seem well, Magdalene. You don’t look at all—”

  Her sudden laughter cascaded over the muck of sadness permeating that train platform, and I couldn’t help a rueful smile, thinking her the only woman on the planet who could pack off not one, but two, relatives to a horrible war, and then laugh—but then that was Magdalene for you. She’d always been inappropriate. Only now I didn’t care. And I didn’t care, because Magdalene Grayson Forsythe was no longer my pupil, and because she was amazingly beautiful, and beauty gave her license. Her inappropriateness was charming.

  “Sad that Frederick’s gone? I’m not sad. I’m actually feeling pretty content—although I know one has to be so careful with happiness, especially in a time of war. But there you have it, Aidan. I’m happy and can’t help it.”

  Ridiculous how wonderful those words made me feel. But then I began imagining what made Magdalene so happy to see Frederick go: I imagined Frederick berating Magdalene, hitting her, hating her for the lie he had to live because of her.

  “We’re to have a child,” she said, pulling me back to the present.

  I didn’t immediately react. But Lear’s words finally hit home: “… Magdalene�
�s in a way.”

  Enmeshed as I’d been in the clumsiness of that last moment with him, I hadn’t understood.

  Magdalene’s first son, Earl Forsythe, was born in April 1918, three months after Lear was imprisoned by the French for writing letters alluding to a rebellion amongst French troops that the army was trying to cover up. And one month before, to the day, Frederick Forsythe was killed in an attack on Cantigny.

  “God is good,” I crowed as I shaved, and then I went straight to Grayson House, to Magdalene, to offer condolences. She opened the door herself.

  “Where’s the help?” I blurted.

  “Never mind about them, and never mind about Frederick,” she said. “Follow me and close the door after you.”

  More than a little intrigued, I followed her down the hall beneath the massive staircase, into Lear’s study, almost running into Elizabeth Grayson in the process. I apologized profusely, but Elizabeth just looked at me with her cold, pebbly eyes. I stepped around her. No woman had ever hit me as wrong as she.

  “In fact, I was about to call on you myself, Aidan,” Magdalene said. “You’ve saved me the trip. Sit.” She slid into the chair behind Lear’s desk. “Mother prefers standing. It makes her feel superior. Indulge her, please. Trust me, it’s easiest.”

  It was clear I’d walked in on something—and it wasn’t a wake for Frederick. I sat where indicated, in a chair across from Magdalene, getting my first good look at her in months. Exhaustion was etched into her skin, in the tightness around her mouth, the shadows under her eyes.

  “Look at this balance sheet,” she said, again without preamble, handing me a pile of papers. I scanned the top document, bewildered.

  “The ledgers looked fine enough at first glance. But as you know, Aidan, appearances can be one thing, reality another. I found that out when I went to pay the taxes. Oh, it was smooth, this easement of funds from escrow accounts to God-knows-where.” Magdalene’s voice turned vehement. “Goddamn Frederick! And goddamn Father for giving him the means to do this to us! And goddamn me for not having looked at this sooner!”