As the late summer sun radiated off the water and onto her sunglasses, Frankie sat lounging by her family’s pool, mindlessly skimming through the pages of her psychology textbook while the Dark Knights’ song, Mistaken Identity—a song with heavy drum beat, Alex’s raunchy guitar playing and Robbie’s bellowing voice, blared from the record player inside the house:
Man in a dark cloak shuffles by
His brim pulled low for all to despise
No one see his face, but knows his case
Convictions rise with immediate haste
It’s just a case of mistaken identity.
Afraid a stranger's anonymity.
She daydreamed of her scheme to see Alex in the next few days and had even decided not to see Sam Esposito perform on Wednesday night. After only a couple of days with Alex, Frankie knew she didn’t want to be with any other guy. Frankie knew Sam was disappointed about Wednesday, but she knew he understood. He had sent her “get well soon” card and a bouquet of flowers for the flu she didn’t really have.
Frankie’s mother, Geraldine, entered the kitchen and set down a pair of bags filled with groceries on the kitchen counter. Before she could start emptying them, her first order of business was to turn down the racket that Frankie was blaring. Geraldine was not only not a fan of the Dark Knights, she hated loud music in general.
No one know anybody
It's their character we embody
Never caring who they truly are
Judging others from afar
It's just a case of mistaken identity
Afraid of a stranger's anonymity.
Geraldine walked over to the record player and removed the pin from the turntable and turned the damned thing off. Outside by the pool, Frankie heard the volume of the music suddenly silence. She leapt from her lounge chair and rushed inside.
“Hi, mom,” she said, leaning on a dining room table in her bikini.
“What are you up to, Francesca Marie?” asked Geraldine, putting away a jar of peanut butter.
“Nothing. Studying.”
“With that racket?” questioned Geraldine. “How can anyone study to that noise?”
Frankie twirled around the dining room table toward the kitchen, and then said, “I’m able to block it out.”
“If you can block it out, then why play it all?” replied Geraldine.
Frankie rolled her eyes and sighed. “You’re such a square.”
Geraldine eyed Frankie. “I’m your mother. It’s a mother’s job to be square.”
“Whatever,” Frankie grunted. “Mom, my friend Cassie is performing on Friday night.”
“I already said you could go to the concert,” Geraldine replied without letting Frankie finish. She was too busy putting away the groceries. “Can you help me instead of just standing there?”
Frankie walked over to the counter and pulled out a few cans of soup from one of the paper bags. “Yeah, but Cassie’s never been to New York. She asked if I could stay the night with her and then show her around the city on Saturday.”
Geraldine looked at her daughter carefully. “Why can’t you come home after the concert and meet her the next day?”
“Mom, I’m nineteen. Can I have just a little freedom to spend the night with a friend?”
“From what I hear, you had too much freedom in L.A.,” replied Geraldine.
“Gossip,” Frankie said. “You can’t believe everything you read in the gossip rags. What you don’t read is the real story.” She put the cans away in the cupboard and then came up with the clincher. “It’s not like I’m asking to spend the night with any of the guys in the band. I’m asking to spend the night with Cassie—a girl.”
Geraldine sighed, exhausted; she hated these battles of wit with Frankie. She was getting too old, and Frankie was getting too clever.
“All right,” she said.
Frankie jumped up and down excitedly and then kissed Geraldine on the cheek. “Thanks!”
Geraldine grew immediately suspicious from her daughter’s reaction—hanging out with a girlfriend shouldn’t have aroused such a response.
“Don’t thank me yet,” her mother said, “you don’t know how things will turn out.”
Frankie grinned. “Yeah, we’ll see,” she said as she spun around and went back outside to the pool. She collapsed into her lounge chair, placed her sunglasses over her eyes, and lifted her chin to the sunshine. The plan was in motion, and in just a few days she would see Alex again. It was so close; she could almost feel him near her now.
Later that evening, Frankie sat on the couch, sharing laughter and a bowl of popcorn with her father, Marcus. Together they watched Bewitched on television. Marcus was already beginning to miss these moments with his daughter; they were becoming rarer with each passing year. He loved spending time with her. Frankie’s laughter and energy kept his spirit young as the passion in his marriage to Geraldine had begun to fade years ago.
He knew Frankie, at age nineteen, was already drawing the attention of many men; and he was relieved that Frankie, for the most part, was very discerning about whom she dated. Throughout her teen years she had dated only one nice neighbor boy and was not the type of girl who felt the need to date the school jock or the class hotshot. Marcus was pleased that Frankie always seemed happy with the nice, simple guy who made her laugh.
Love and laughter had been the inspiration for Marcus’s life since he was a young boy, growing up in the town of Montclair, New Jersey. He loved to play and act, but what he loved most of all was to clown around. In 1915 Marcus’s parents took him to see his first Vaudeville show. It was love at first sight. After that, his youth became one big act for the laughter and amusement of others.
Marcus attended Rutgers College and pursued a degree in the performing arts. Growing up just outside New York City, Marcus easily found work performing voice-over work on the radio for commercials and popular programs. Being a handsome fellow, Marcus was soon cast in television commercials. But that wasn’t enough for Marcus; he needed a real audience. He needed to see the smiles on people’s faces and hear their laughter.
While making a good portion of his money from radio and television, Marcus kept up his comedic acting craft by doing Vaudeville in off-Broadway theaters throughout Manhattan, Queens, and Brooklyn. It was off the beaten Broadway path that Marcus met aspiring actress Geraldine Fischer, a striking beauty with strawberry blonde hair and long legs.
Geraldine had a sense of humor all her own—dry, sarcastic, and sometimes even biting. She enticed many men with her beauty and wit. The competition for Geraldine’s heart was intense, but Marcus had something many of the other young men did not—a sweetness of soul and lighthearted laughter. No matter how dark Geraldine’s sense humor became, Marcus was always there to brighten her up.
When Marcus learned that Geraldine was pregnant, he offered to marry her and to provide her with a beautiful house in the suburbs. With the birth of their son, Edward, the Robinsons were well on their way to obtaining the American Dream—money, good job, friends, and a beautiful white house with a large yard, surrounded by a white picket fence In 1944, seven years later, the arrival of their daughter, Francesca Marie Robinson became the veritable cherry on top for Marcus. As soon as she was born, Frankie became the jewel of Marcus’s eye.
Despite all of Geraldine’s scolding, Marcus doted on his daughter. He wanted to give Frankie everything in the world—not just money and gifts, but all the love and joy he had in his heart. Seeing Frankie sad and hearing her cries broke Marcus’s heart. He vowed to give her the best life any father could give his daughter and protect her from any harm.
Everything was going extremely well for the Robinsons. Until one day in 1954 whe
n Marcus’s agent, Stanley Travo, gave him the worst news any entertainer could have heard in those days: “You’ve been blacklisted.”
Stanley had asked Marcus to come to his office in person to receive the news. Stanley was a short man with a dark, greasy comb-over atop his bald head. He sat behind an enormous oak desk, leaned back in his chair, and lit a cigar as Marcus digested the information.
Marcus felt his heart fall into his stomach. “How is this even possible? I have absolutely no political affiliations.”
Stanley blew smoke and shrugged. “I don’t think Senator McCarthy cares about your political affiliations; he cares about your associates.”
Marcus gasped. “My associates?”
“Yes. Your fellow actors and entertainers—Uta Hagen, Pete Seeger, Sam Jaffe—have all been painted red. Heck, they even targeted Bernstein. Can you believe it—Bernstein!? And you saw what they did to Chaplin; they chased him right out of the country.”
“Chaplin’s not a Communist,” said Marcus.
“Maybe not, but he is a sympathizer,” replied Stanley.
“Who cares what people in show business believe? Who cares if they have sympathies?” questioned Marcus. “Isn’t this a free country?”
Stanley chuckled. “It depends on your definition of freedom. Freedom is only relevant to whoever is currently in power. McCarthy is on a witch hunt to promote his name and his power, and your name made the list. My suggestion is to lay low. Break contact with some of your colleagues on the list.”
Marcus squirmed in his chair. “Am I going to have to testify? Am I going to have to prove I am a loyal American? Is there any danger of being arrested?”
“You’re on the list, but you’re not high on the list. You’re only guilty by association. If your associates can prove their loyalty, you’ll be free from guilt.”
Marcus sighed heavily and shook his head. “This is ridiculous. What about work?”
“Not until this blows over,” replied Stanley.
“How and I going to provide for my family if I have no income?” asked Marcus.
“How are you going to provide for your family if you’re arrested?” Stanley leaned forward to flick cigar ash into an ashtray on his desk. “Your image and good reputation are at stake here. Just take some time off and allow this to pass.”
Marcus slumped in his seat, feeling overwhelmed. He couldn’t fathom how this could possibly be happening to him. He was one of the good guys—a faithful husband, a loving father, and a man who did his job with pride. He did everything he could to be a good American, and now someone was trying to ruin him who didn’t even know him. His lifelong squeaky-clean image was in danger of being tarnished with lies. Where is the justice in judging a man without any proof? he thought.
As Marcus drove home from the city, he thought long and hard about the current Communist red scare in America. He knew it was real, but he never thought that he would be targeted. Sure, there were plenty of entertainers who spoke of radical ideas, and he knew a few of them; but he never judged anyone based solely on his thoughts or opinions. Now all these freethinkers, including himself, were being rounded up as threats to America’s national security.
He wondered how on earth this could be happening, when suddenly a car horn blared at Marcus. While deep in thought, he had accidentally driven straight through a red light, narrowly avoiding an accident. Overcome with emotion, Marcus pulled over to the side of the road, took a deep breath, and wiped his brow. There was never a prior moment in Marcus’s life when he had been brought to tears; but today, sitting on the side of the road in his suburban neighborhood of Sunnyside in Queens, he cried. He had no idea how to respond to these allegations.
Later, Marcus quietly arrived home. He walked into the bedroom to find Geraldine stretched out on their king-sized bed. She lay under the satin spread, reading a book. She read more than anyone Marcus knew. He often criticized her for living most of her life in a fantasy book than in the real world. She always responded, “There is no reality. There is no fantasy. Both exist simultaneously for one cannot exist without the other.”
“What are you reading?” he asked.
Geraldine said nothing as she held up the book for Marcus to view Beyond Good and Evil on the cover while her eyes never left the text.
Great. My wife—a suburban Friedrich Nietzsche,” he replied in a morose tone. He stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at Geraldine to gain her attention.
Marcus’s stare worked when she reluctantly removed her gaze from the page and looked up at him. “I’m not in the mood tonight.”
He sighed; she was seldom in the mood. “No, it’s not that. I have bad news.”
“What is it?” she asked, returning her attention to the book.
Marcus took a deep breath. “I’ve been blacklisted as a Communist.”
“You?!” Geraldine laughed. “Then it is true: McCarthy is just doing this for attention and to promote his political agenda.”
“It doesn’t help that my wife reads works by European socialist philosophers,” said Marcus, “and discusses politics at luncheons.”
“I’m not the one blacklisted; besides, McCarthy doesn’t care about the cackling at a ladies’ luncheon.”
“What about Dorothy Parker, Uta Hagen, Lee Grant, and so many others? Don’t think because you’re a woman you can escape the witch hunt.” Marcus stood firm. “This is serious. My reputation, my image, our livelihood is at stake! This could ruin me . . . us. Do you want to lose everything and have to live in a studio apartment in the city? Or will you just leave me for another—a lover, perhaps?”
Geraldine chuckled. “There is no one else, Marcus. I gave up fulfilling any sexual fantasies long ago.” She closed the book, rested it on her lap, and looked into Marcus’s eyes. “Call Martin Escapone,” she said. “He might know some people who can help you.”
Martin Escapone was a swashbuckling Italian crooner from New York City. Marcus was a fan of the man’s music but not necessarily a fan of the man himself. Rumors of Martin’s Mafia connections frightened Marcus, so he always tried to stay on Martin’s good side. He also tried to keep things light with Martin’s associates to prevent them from losing their own sunny dispositions. So far he had succeeded.
“I can handle this without Martin,” said Marcus.
“Can you? Martin Escapone isn’t blacklisted. According to McCarthy, he is an upstanding American citizen,” remarked Geraldine, turning the next page in her book. “Imagine the irony.”
“He’s a thug,” replied Martin. “I don’t associate with thugs.”
“You’re the one blacklisted as a Communist, and you of all people should know that you shouldn’t judge a man by his associations,” said Geraldine smartly. “Talk to Martin. He’s a nice man, and he thinks very highly of you. I’m sure he’ll give you some good advice.”
Marcus shrugged, defeated, and headed downstairs to his study, locking the door behind him. He collapsed on the leather couch and rested his face in his palms. I never did or said anything to cause harm to anyone, he thought. All I ever wanted in life was to make people happy. Now my life, my career, and my reputation are in jeopardy of being destroyed.
There seemed to be absolutely no justice in the world. Marcus, who had played it straight his entire life, was now at risk of losing everything while men like Martin Escapone, who seemed to play the game of life by an entirely different set of rules, always came out on top. Martin would most likely benefit from the opportunities lost by blacklisted entertainers who were out of work and struggling.
Marcus poured himself a stiff shot of whiskey and quickly downed it, followed by another . . . and another. After a while the numbness turned into fatigue, and he was able to get some sleep.
“Dad!” Frankie called from the opposite side. “What’s wrong, Dad? Dad, let me in!”
Marcus lifted his head from the couch and realized he was in no condition to see Frankie. Thankfully, he heard Geraldine call her away. His head was throbbing and his eyes ached. He knew he had no choice; he needed to swallow his pride and do whatever it would take to look out for his family.
That evening Marcus drove back to the city and entered a small, quaint restaurant in Little Italy. Murals of Italian scenery were painted on the walls and were lighted by a chain of dim light bulbs strung along the edge of the ceiling. In a small stage area a beautiful, full-figured Italian-American woman sang, accompanied by a pianist. In a quiet, dark corner lit with a small candle illuminating from a red glass jar, sat Martin Escapone as he enjoyed a large portion of linguini and clams. For the most part, Martin Escapone was a lot like Marcus—a good, loyal, and hard-working family man. It was Martin’s demeanor that rubbed Marcus the wrong way; Martin was tough and wise, but a little too flashy for Marcus.
Martin saw Marcus and enthusiastically beckoned him to the table. As Marcus took a seat, Martin waved for the waiter’s attention. “You really need to try the linguini and clams—best in the city.”
Marcus rubbed his stomach. “I’m not really hungry.”
“You look terrible,” Martin said. “Eat something.” He snapped for the waiter to bring Marcus a plate of linguini. “Geraldine called and said you had a problem. What’s up?”
The waiter poured Marcus a large glass of merlot. He took a large sip of the wine and then said, “I’ve been blacklisted.”
Saying Goodbye (What the World Doesn't Know) Page 8