The Angry Woman Suite

by Lee Fullbright

  “These kids can call their own shots,” Pete pitched. “First time outta the chute and the public can’t get enough of ’em. I’ve got ’em booked from here to Timbuktu and they’re not coming up for air till Thanksgiving at least.”

  “And if they don’t have a recording contract, they’ll be swallowing shit,” Hunnicutt returned. “But the majors aren’t signing new talent these days, you know that.”

  “Yeah, but these kids are different,” Pete shot back, twisting in his seat. “Lots of people are showing interest in them. Ever see a reception like the one these kids got at Glenn River? Course not, nobody has. Anybody with half a brain’s gotta be seeing dollar signs here with these kids.” Pete leaned over the table, fidgeting with his drink, smacking his lips. I switched my focus back to Hunnicutt. He seemed entranced by the tip of his cigar.

  “Good to know you’ve got yourself half a brain, Pete. But I agree with you: the boy’s arrangements are smart. They’re raw, even tricky. ‘Dazed’ in particular.” He glanced over at Elena. “And the girl’s a beaut, plus she already has a decent name for herself. Drummer’s a beaut, too—got major heartthrob written all over him. Like our Francis baby here. Hell, half this group’s got heartthrob stamped on ’em. They all beauty contest winners?” He stubbed his cigar out.

  “Okay, Pete, here’s how I see it. We play up the sex appeal angle. Francis baby here, Elena, a coupla others. We’re gonna need posters, glossies, interviews.” He looked at me. “And, Francis baby, we’re leading off with ‘Dazed.’”

  August was momentous. “Little Boy” was dropped in Hiroshima, and “Fat Man” in Nagasaki, and the A side of the Grayson Orchestra’s first single was “Dazed.”

  The B side was “Moonlight Serenade,” our tribute to Glenn Miller, the music giant whose plane had gone down en route to Paris.

  “It’s our song now,” Elena said. “Remember that, Francis.”

  I flew to Atlanta, where Earl Hunnicutt showed me around his new offices. He pointed to a map on the wall covered with black dots, where our record was selling like crazy.

  “Tour time,” he said, chomping on his cigar. “A concert package and some coast-to-coast programming.”

  I nodded gravely, as if we were talking an armistice. “Pete’s got that—”

  “Pete, schmeet,” Hunnicutt snapped. “You sure you’re doing the right thing, Francis baby, letting that Petey fella have such a big slice of you?”

  Pete Burdick had left MCA. In effect, he was now the booking agent and manager for the Francis Grayson Orchestra. After much urging on Elena’s part, Buster, being of legal age, had signed the contract Pete had shoved in our faces, part of which specified we were responsible for payment to other acts when we topped the bill at variety theaters. Not unheard of, Elena assured me. Especially for bands drawing big audiences, like us.

  “Pete schedules our club dates,” I said. “You’ve got to talk with him. Pete got Elena her break with Lee Andrews, so we stick with Pete. I owe Elena that—she got me the Glenn River gig.”

  Hunnicutt’s words, though, were to ring in my ears for years to come.

  “It’ll kill you, boy, thinking you gotta keep everybody happy. That kind of thinking smells to high heaven, and then it kills you, take my word for it.”

  Columbus, Chicago, St. Louis, Wichita, Denver, then into California, to San Diego, Los Angeles and San Francisco. If it had a club or auditorium, we played it. By February, 1945, when the still-fighting Russians were positioning for a new advance on Austria, we’d arrived in Sacramento stupid with fatigue. But “Dazed” was at the top of Billboard; co-eds across the country were swooning over me and my musicians, and every red-blooded American male was in love with Elena. On top of that, the critics were singing our praises.

  “Rarely, if ever, have I witnessed such synergy, emotion, style and talent …” one Chicago critic wrote. “Fueled by Francis Grayson, master of the horn, inheritor of Bunny Berrigan’s mantle … other members tremendously gifted … dazzling good looks … the comely Miss Fitzgerald is destined to become the next Helen Ward … repertoire includes toe-tapping, hand-clapping swing, and tough, tender ballads …”

  Mission accomplished. We were bona fide stars, and with our gig at Sacramento’s Memorial Auditorium still two nights off, we’d earned ourselves some down time. I hollered when Pete came by my hotel room to urge adding a smaller play date to the itinerary, in Stockton.

  “We need the dough,” he said in that condescending tone that made my skin crawl.

  “We’re raking it in!”

  “Sure—but payroll’s eating us up. Plus we had to hand a fortune over to those other acts in Chicago and Denver. Then there’s the bus, the gas and insurance and—” I practically pushed him out the door, and when I turned around a white-faced Buster was staring at me, the phone in his hand.

  “What?” I yelled at him next. “Can’t get room service?” I kicked a hassock, mumbling, “I’m bushed,” already ashamed of myself. I poured a drink.

  “I just called home,” Buster said, his tone as stupid as his expression.

  “So? Somebody die?”

  “Not yet … but my draft notice came.”

  Exactly what I didn’t need to hear. “Piss!” I aimed for the wall beside Buster, flinching as the glass shattered against it. “Anybody hear the war’s over?”

  “I’m leaving tonight.” Buster withered under my look.

  “When, exactly, do you have to report?”

  “Three weeks. But I want to go home first, Francis. I haven’t seen my family in almost two years.”

  “No—wait. Give me three days, bud. Three days and then we all hit the road. We’ll be back in PA in eight days, no play dates in-between. Nothing till Jersey.”

  Buster winced. “I can’t do Jersey … besides, Pete will hemorrhage all over himself having to cancel dates till Jersey. And what about the other acts we’ve booked? We gotta pay them regardless—”

  “After Sacto and up till Jersey, there’re no other acts to worry about. And of course you’re not doing Jersey! Don’t be an idiot, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying we’re taking time off. Ten days off. All of us. And screw Pete.”

  Buster shook his head. “You can’t just walk away from the dough. This … all of it could disappear tomorrow.”

  “Three days,” I begged. “Then I drive you back to PA myself.”

  “No.”

  I sank into the nearest chair. I could make music without Buster, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was I deserved a little consideration in return. I deserved a little meeting halfway.

  “Go on then,” I said. “I understand.”

  “You do?”

  I told him how unfair I was being, and that it wasn’t the constant traveling or playing and arranging getting to me. It was having to deal with Pete, too. I was sure he was skimming. Couldn’t prove it, but I was sure. I just didn’t know how to dump Pete without alienating Elena. She’d given Pete Burdick to me.

  “I’ll miss you, Buster. There’s the personal in this for me, you know. Plus you’re my partner. Could’ve used the help with Pete. Hate to lose you. You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you?”

  “You bet.”

  “I talk too much. My nerves are shot. My fault, though. It’s my responsibility, all of it. But I can handle Pete. Forget it, will you?”

  Buster decided to stay the extra three days, his decision. Long enough to play at the Memorial, and to help me give Pete the boot—which, the way I’d set it up, Elena would understand why it had to be done.

  ELYSE

  Sacramento 1955

  I know that Papa worried about Aunt Rose’s drinking because I overheard him talking to Grandma about it—but Grandma didn’t seem as concerned, because I heard her ask Papa what the hell one was supposed to do with whiskey besides drink it?

  “Moderation,” Papa said patiently to Grandma. “Rose is looking puffy; it’s not good for her, all that drink. Maybe she has a broken heart?�
�

  Papa believed that optimum health depended on good food, enough sleep, and good, strong hearts.

  “They need to be exercised, hearts do,” he said to me one early morning while whittling on a wood decoy. “To keep them strong.” I leaned my head against his arm. We were on the porch watching the little mourning birds puff their tiny chests out, getting ready to sing. “Listen—they will sing their hearts out,” Papa said.

  “Can they really sing their hearts out, Papa?”

  “Ja, I believe so,” Papa said seriously. “If they sing hard enough. Singing a heart out is probably very good exercise for it.”

  I considered this. “But, Papa, can the mourning birds sing so hard that they break their hearts?”

  Papa’s arm tightened. I looked up in time to see comprehension dawning in his blue eyes.

  “Ah,” he said. “I see. Well, then … I believe the idea is to not sing your guts out, Elyse. You have to stop short of that, because if you sing the guts out, the heart can break, you understand?

  “So, nein, I believe the ideal is to sing with disciplined strength—I would call that singing the heart out in a good way.” Papa nodded, obviously satisfied with his disciplined save, not yet realizing I wasn’t one hundred percent sure what “discipline” actually meant.

  “Oh.” I fell quiet once again, watching and listening to the mourning birds. And then, “Did Aunt Rose break her heart by singing her guts out?”

  Papa hesitated for just a second before answering gravely. “Ja, your aunt Rose holds nothing back … she is unbesonnen.”

  “English, please.”

  “She flies by the seat of her pants and thinks later.”

  “That is discipline, then, Papa? To keep your pants on?”

  “Mein Gott, mein erstaunlich girl!” Papa’s smile was brilliant. “My, my, Elyse, but you make an old man supremely happy.”

  FRANCIS

  1945

  I swiveled on my barstool, amused. They couldn’t have been more different. The pretty blonde elbowing her way through the crowd at The Senator, the popular Sacramento nightclub, had a round face topped by a high pompadour, a la Betty Grable. The brunette was tall and lanky, with long hair, thick and wavy, pinned back on one side, no pompadour, just a hint of bangs. She was Lauren Bacall-classy. Not the bar type.

  I told the boys to cut the noise. They were a rowdy bunch, pumped-up after our wing-ding performance at the Memorial. The blonde made a beeline for me.

  “Mr. Grayson! Would you sign my program?” I poised to scribble. “Name’s Rose,” she gushed. “This here’s my sister Diana. Would you sign hers, too?”

  I put my hand out for the classy brunette’s program. She ignored it. Instead she seemed mesmerized by my shoes—and slowly, as if we’d nothing but time, her gaze traveled upward to my belt, to my tie clasp and lapels, then finally to my chin. Her eyes, when they met mine, were tinged with laughter, amazingly blue, although she didn’t smile.

  “You can always tell a gentleman by the shine of his shoes and the crease in his trousers,” she said, handing her program over. Her voice was husky. I hesitated, intrigued. “Diana,” she prompted.

  I wrote slowly, handing the program back without making eye contact, eyes on navy pumps instead, lingering on ankles and well-turned calves, the belt cinching the navy wool at her waist, the pin at her collar, the pearls at her throat. I knew she wouldn’t be the least put off, although she’d pretend to be.

  “Touché,” she said, still unsmiling, when I reached those amazing eyes of hers.

  She seemed wary, but Rose jumped at the invitation for the two of them to join me at a table. Rose inquired after “Miss Fitzgerald,” and when I answered that Elena always turned in right after a show, Rose nearly melted into her Brandy Alexander. Diana had yet to touch hers.

  “You engaged?” Rose asked. “To Miss Fitzgerald, I mean?” I managed to tear my eyes away from Diana.

  “Elena and I practically grew up together.”

  “Miss Fitzgerald’s so beautiful,” Rose chattered away. “And everybody talks, you know, about what a swell-looking couple you are. I’m a big fan. I have all the records Miss Fitzgerald did when she was with Lee Andrews. Me and Diana here, we dance to them at home. Have ourselves a regular party.”

  “That so? Just the two of you? No other sisters at home?”

  Rose giggled. “No, we’re the only girls. But we’ve got a brother …” The giggle faded, and I suddenly had Diana’s full attention.

  “Stephen Eric,” Diana said briskly. “That’s his name: Stephen Eric. And he’s not my brother. He’s on a ship in the Pacific, and when he gets home I’m going to marry him. He doesn’t know it yet, but that’s the idea.” She took the first sip of her drink. “Rose is my stepsister. Stephen Eric is Rose’s brother. Their mother, who was divorced, married my father, a widower, when we were barely into our teens. And now that you know everything about us, Mr. Grayson—”

  “Francis.” I couldn’t help grinning. It didn’t matter one iota that Diana was semi-engaged—and forget the ladylike looks. Diana was clearly on the prowl, or she wouldn’t be at The Senator, and I was on the make, and we each knew the other’s game. Hers was playing hard to get. Mine was scoring.

  “Francis doesn’t suit you,” Diana said coolly. “Do you have another?”

  “Another name? Francis Lear Grayson. Only one I got.”

  “Francis Lear, then. I like that better.” She pushed her glass to the middle of the table. “I have to go. I enjoyed your show very much. Thanks for the drink, Francis Lear.”

  “But I don’t want to leave,” Rose protested.

  Diana finally smiled, showing beautifully squared white teeth, and I gave it my best last shot, working the old star charm, inviting both to join me in a late meal.

  Diana reached for her handbag and gloves. I couldn’t believe it. She was leaving.

  “Rose is a big girl,” she said. “I’m not.”

  And then Diana stepped back into the throng at the club, disappearing.

  It was Diana I’d wanted, who didn’t want me and didn’t care I was a huge star. It was Diana I’d wanted to make love me.

  Rose was a no-good—and she was easy. She passed the time and salved my wounded ego, and then I let her go.

  At dawn I crept into Elena’s room and put my arms around her, moving in as close as I could get, carefully, so as not to wake her, so that all her goodness might seep into me.

  I counted my musicians, every last booze-sodden one of them—all there.

  “Buster thinks you’re the salt of the earth,” Elena said, watching.

  I slammed the bus door shut and steered Elena toward the Ford. Buster would drive the Chevy—a straight shot across country to Pennsylvania. I could hardly wait to get out of California.

  “Because he’s getting the convoy escort?” I put the Ford in gear. “It’s nothing. I started with Buster. He was my first friend after you, Elena, and I see you both to the end, understand?”

  I avoided Pete Burdick until a parking lot in Ohio, outside a coffee shop.

  “We got a gig in Jersey,” Pete said, as if this were news to me.

  I pretended to examine the Ford’s tires. I kicked one. “Petey, what makes you think I’m not going to show in Jersey?”

  “Don’t call me Petey.”

  I glared at him. “I’m gonna show! I’m not only gonna show, but I’m gonna knock them dead. And you know what else, Petey? Your pestering is getting on my nerves. Back off.” I kicked the tire again.

  Pete bristled as expected. “Listen, Francis, I’m not so in love with you either, but you can’t talk to me like I’m shit. I’m your manager, see? The behind the scenes guy doing your grunt work. Put another way, I’m your bread and butter. See?”

  I struggled to keep from making fists. “Fuck you, Petey. And you were my manager.”

  Pete turned a dark shade of red. “Fuck you back! I gotta contract!”

  “You got shit!” I yelled. “You’
re stealing from me right and left, and I can prove it, and that makes you null and void! Null and void, Petey!”

  Sudden silence. My musicians, and Elena, had gathered, were watching.

  And then Pete made a move for me, but that’s when Buster appeared from out of nowhere, just like we’d practiced, practically lifting me off my feet. He took his time about it, giving Pete a good gander at his impressive burliness, before pulling me around to the other side of the Ford.

  Buster’s voice was low. “Watch the temper, bud.”

  “I’ve got it under control,” I said, shrugging him off, pulling myself up to my full height, shooting daggers at a muttering, retreating Pete Burdick.

  “I’m calling the police!” I shouted at Pete’s back. “I’d be packing my bags if I were you, Petey! I got proof you’re stealing!”

  I had shit for proof against Pete Burdick, but everyone knows even false accusations plant seeds of doubt. And if Pete didn’t break the contract soon, the entire orchestra, and Elena, would make his life so miserable he’d rue the day he’d ingratiated himself with me. Anything taken from me meant delayed raises for them.

  I’d come to the conclusion that I was actually looking forward to some real time off. The Lothian altercation had occurred before I’d become famous and rich and respected. It was now safe to go home. And the first thing I was going to do when I got there was spring Stella from the nuthouse. After that I was going to preen. I was going to show those women what a winner I’d turned out to be. I was going to show them how stupid they’d been, treating me as they had. And then after watching them choke on their respective pieces of humble pie, I’d get them to come clean. I’d get them to tell me where that elusive young man who they’d let get away, depriving me, had gone.

  And then I’d go see this Jamie Witherspoon, the first man to escape the women of Grayson House, and I’d preen for him, too.

  ***

  The band continued on to Jersey, but Elena and I followed Buster to the Carlyle place outside East Chester. I pulled into the dirt drive behind Buster. I got out of the car and extended my hand.