by Ingrid Croce
All at once, every man in Mexico, including the police, seemed threatening. I didn’t know whom I could trust. Confusion overwhelmed me. I decided not to tell Jim right away, not until I had had time to sort things out in my own mind. The next morning Deborah and I caught the first bus to San Miguel.
Although the routine of school helped me not to think about the attack every waking moment, I lived in anguish. I wanted to explain everything to Jim, but not over the phone or in a letter. Before he was scheduled to arrive, I wanted to be certain I wasn’t pregnant. Right before Jim came, I had a test performed at a local doctor’s office. The results arrived: I wasn’t pregnant and had not contracted a venereal disease. Relieved, I resolved to tell Jim exactly what had happened when he arrived that week.
Jim flew to Mexico City with Deborah’s boyfriend, Bill. We met them at the airport Saturday morning, and the four of us spent the weekend touring Mexico City.
“Being away from you has been awful,” Jim said, hugging me as we walked to the car on Sunday to head to San Miguel. “I’m so glad we’re finally together. I never want to be without you again.”
“Me too,” I said in a whisper.
“What’s wrong, sweet thing?” Jim asked. “You don’t seem yourself.”
“I’m okay, Jim.”
“No, something’s different. Aren’t you feeling well?”
“I’m fine, really,” I insisted. My stomach churned at the thought of telling Jim the truth. “I’ll be fine,” I said, trying to drop the subject. Once we reached San Miguel, I knew I had to tell him everything.
He had always been extremely jealous and possessive, but as much as I dreaded his response, I had to be honest with him. I prayed he would be understanding but feared how it might hurt him and our relationship.
That night, I refused sex.
“What’s the matter, Ing? We’ve been separated more than a month, and you don’t even want to make love to me. Don’t you love me anymore?”
“I’m just tired, sweetie. You know how much I love you. We can be together in the morning.” I turned my back to him, and he cuddled up to me and held me through the night.
The next morning, I haltingly told him the story. He initially reacted with detached curiosity. Like a reporter, he pressed for all the details. Quietly, he listened very closely to each response and then prodded me on. Slowly his demeanor changed.
“Why were you with those Mexican guys in the first place?” he demanded. “How stupid could you be to go with them? You were just asking for it! You put yourself in such a damn stupid position! You’ve ruined everything! You’re a whore!” he shouted. “An adulteress!”
I tried to tell him that I didn’t do anything wrong, that I was raped. It wasn’t my fault. But he stepped toward me and slapped me across the face. I recoiled, sobbing. His face filled with pain and hatred, and he stormed out of the room.
WHAT DO PEOPLE DO?
THE SUMMER IN MEXICO took its toll on Jim and me. When we returned for my senior year at Moore in the fall of 1968, I was still in pain and knew Jim was hurting too. He manipulated our conversations, constantly shifting the attention away from our problems. His judgments and almost quarrelsome lovemaking left me feeling ashamed, alone, and ugly. I wanted to get counseling, but Jim refused.
One morning, after taking a shower to get ready for class, I walked naked from the bathroom into the bedroom as I always did.
“What the fuck is the matter with you?” Jim demanded. “Don’t you see those guys trimming trees right outside the window? What are you trying to do, get them up here too?”
I was stunned and struggled to ignore his accusation. His behavior seemed cruel, and it was growing more unbearable with each new incident. He was considerate and supportive one moment and then turned scathing the next. What had once been erotic to him was now tainted. It was obvious he blamed me for the rape and considered me branded with a capital A.
That night, while we were eating dinner, the phone rang. Jim grabbed it.
A familiar voice made its way through the long-distance haze. “It’s Tommy. I’ve been trying to reach you. Where you been?”
“Oh,” Jim replied with a sigh, “Ing and I just got back from a couple of months in Mexico, and I’ll tell ya, my stomach wasn’t right the whole time. I got Montezuma’s Revenge, with the runs so bad I couldn’t make it from the hotel to the taxi cab. It was embarrassing as hell.”
“That’s very funny, Jimmy.”
“Yeah, about as funny as a monkey fucking a football. So what’s going on with you? How’s Pat doin’?”
“Pat’s fine,” Tommy said flatly; then his voice lifted. “Hey, I’m working on a Coke campaign now and a few other things. It’s not bad money. It’ll bring in about $50,000 this year with residuals.”
“That’s incredible, Tommy. I didn’t know you could make that much bread singin’ oohs and ahhs.”
“I wish I could get you in on this too, Jimmy, but it’s cliquish. Mostly the same twenty to thirty studio singers get to do all the big commercials. And I’m just starting, but I’m working on some pretty big accounts.”
“Sounds like it,” Jim said. Tommy always downplayed issues of significance. By comparison, Jim felt he must have been doing something wrong if Tommy could make that much just singing backup.
“Listen, I’ve set aside some money from my job at ABC. I met some guys there, and we’ve put together a little company to produce an album or two. We need some talent. I thought maybe you could come to New York, and I could help you out.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Jim said. “Ingrid’s just back at school, and I’m . . . well . . .”
But he couldn’t resist the glimmer of opportunity. “Ya know, maybe we could come up and check things out.”
“Good—how about this Friday? You guys can stay at our apartment.”
“Ah, okay . . . ah sure, we’ll see you then. We’ll call before we come.”
Jim hung up and headed toward the refrigerator. “That was Tommy,” he said, reaching for a beer. “He wants us to come to New York and stay with him and Pat. It’ll be fun to spend some time away. What do you think?”
“I have so much work to do for school this weekend, and I was really hoping we could spend some time alone, just talking.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Jim, I’m not saying we can’t go, but we really do need to talk about all this. It’s been over two months since the attack, and we have to get our feelings out in the open. We can’t keep being miserable like this.”
“Come on. Don’t be so serious—it’s not that bad. Anyway, Tommy wants us to come up to New York. He’s formed a new company, and they want to make an album with us! This could be our chance.”
“Tommy doesn’t give a damn about my singing, Jim, you know that.”
“Well, I do! And besides I like singing better than talking anyway.”
“Well, that’s a fact. But please, Jim, just listen to me. I promise you: I didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t my fault. But when you look at me, I feel like you think it was.”
“Ing, please, let’s not get into this again. Listen, I’ve got this new song I want you to hear.” He went and got his guitar and brought it back to the table.
I sighed heavily, wishing I could just scream at him for changing the subject, for playing music every time I wanted to talk things through, for shutting me out.
Damn it! I thought. What can I do to make him open up and talk to me? My heart sank. There was a distance in our relationship now that I didn’t know how to bridge. I hated myself for what had happened to me and hated Jim for what he was allowing to happen to us.
While he picked out the melody to the new tune, I was deep in thought: Was it my fault? Did I subconsciously lead my attacker on, the way I saw my mother taunt men?
Then my thoughts turned to the opportunity Tommy had just offered us. Like Jim, Tommy related to people through music, but he seemed to have even less capacity than Jim to express his fee
lings in conversation. Though I wasn’t looking forward to spending time with Tommy in New York, I wanted Jim to be happy. Maybe things would be better if Jim could finally devote time to his music. I was willing to do whatever it took to get back to where we were before Mexico.
“Okay, Jim, let’s go to New York Friday. I want you to have the chance to make this record. And besides, I really like Pat. I wonder how she’s doing and if she’s still singing.”
Jim put down his guitar, got up, and came over to hug me. “Thanks, Ing. This means a lot to me.”
_____
I bought a new top for the trip to New York and wore one of my two pairs of tight-fitting jeans. While I was checking myself out in the mirror, Jim complimented me on how pretty I looked, how sexy, but I wasn’t comfortable with the “sexy” comment. Was he being honest, or was he mocking me?
The New Jersey Turnpike was a monotonous road with uninspiring industrial towns most of the way.
“Jim,” I said, looking up at his eyes, which were transfixed on the road. “I feel so alone. What can I do to make you forgive me, to make you talk to me like you used to?”
“There’s nothing wrong.”
“Nothing wrong . . . I can feel how angry you are when you look at me sometimes, even when you make love to me.”
“Oh, you know you like making love as much as I do, Ing.”
“I do, Jim, but you’re obsessed with it, and you’re forceful, like you’re trying to punish me!” I was spilling out my feelings, but I couldn’t help it.
“That’s bullshit!” He glared at me. “I said there’s nothing to discuss.”
I recoiled and swallowed hard to hold back tears.
Several minutes passed.
“Jim, can we please get counseling?” I asked cautiously. He didn’t answer.
“If my father was here, you’d talk to him. Wouldn’t you? Come on, Jim—you studied psychology. You know this won’t just work its way out. Please talk to me.”
He changed the radio station.
Miles and minutes passed before he broke the silence.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re going to have a great time this weekend. We’ll go to the Village to Ferrara’s for some cannoli and espresso and to the Bitter End. Maybe we can sit in with Bob Dylan,” he joked. “I wonder who’s playing there this weekend?”
“I don’t care who’s playing there, Jim. All I care about is us. You know that once we get with Tommy, all you’ll do is music.”
“That isn’t true, Ing. We’ll eat too.”
“Please stop avoiding me. Please talk to me.”
“I can’t, Ingrid! Don’t you get it? I can’t.” He turned up the radio loud, shutting down the conversation. A little over an hour later, he maneuvered the old VW through Manhattan’s West Side.
Tommy’s office building was at 40 West 55th Street, right in the center of the city. Jim was impressed. Tommy really was doing well if he could afford to have an office and an apartment in Manhattan. We went up to the fifth floor and were met by the receptionist, who looked up from her typewriter when we stepped off the elevator.
“Hi. How ya doin’ today?” The blond receptionist, chewing her gum loudly, greeted us with a heavy New Jersey accent.
“We’re good, and how about you?” Jim smiled. “We’re here to see Tommy Picardo—oh, I mean, Tommy West.” He smiled again.
“Oh, you must be Jim and Ingrid. I’m Joni, the secretary. Tommy told me you were comin’.”
She buzzed Tommy’s office and then told us, “I’ll take you back.”
We followed Joni through a maze of offices. Jim had expected Tommy to have a broom-closet–sized office somewhere and was surprised at how spacious it was. Tommy got up from behind a huge desk. He wore bright new jeans and an Oxford button-down shirt, starched to perfection. He extended a hand.
“Hey, Jimmy. Thanks for coming up.”
Tommy was only a year older than Jim, but his demeanor and Manhattan surroundings made him seem almost ten years his senior. His thick, short, curly hair was meticulously cut and fingernails freshly manicured. As Jim stood there in his faded clothes and home-cut hair, I couldn’t help noticing how “establishment” Tommy seemed in contrast to Jim.
“Sure, man,” he said, and shook Tommy’s hand. “Looks like you’re doing pretty well for yourself.”
“Yeah, things are good. I just got back from a trip to the West Coast with my business associates. We met some artists who want us to produce them. We also went down to Nashville to talk to Bobby Goldsboro. Remember Goldsboro? He had that hit ‘See the Funny Little Clown’ and ‘Honey,’ that came out pretty recently.”
“Yeah, I know who Bobby Goldsboro is. And you’re going to produce him?”
“Yeah,” Tommy said. “Well, at least we’re thinking about it.”
“Who’s ‘we’? How many partners do you have?”
“Three—well, kinda four. Come on,” he said, finally acknowledging me with a glance. “You can meet them too.” He led us out to one of his partners’ offices. “Hey, Phil, I want you to meet my old Villanova buddy, Jim Croce.”
Phil Kurnit’s office was lined with vintage mahogany bookcases packed with law books. Boxes of papers were stacked everywhere.
“Phil’s our attorney. He used to do the contracts for ABC Paramount. That’s where we all met.”
Phil looked up through dark-rimmed thick eyeglasses that were gigantic for his face. “Heard a lot about you and your music, kid,” Phil said with a strong New Jersey accent. He forced a thin-lipped grin as he stood up from behind his desk.
He was about five-foot-five and a good twenty pounds overweight. Again, although Phil was only three or four years older, Jim thought he looked like somebody’s middle-aged parent.
“It’s Elmer Fudd,” he whispered to me as we walked over to shake Phil’s hand.
Phil looked at me with a big crooked smile and said with a patronizing tone, “I understand that you can sing too?” and then he winked.
Keeping my eyes on him, I nodded cautiously. Attorneys made me feel uneasy. I learned early on that they rarely meant what they said. Having spent a decade of my childhood in the middle of my parents’ custody battle, with promises that I could live with my father that never proved true, I didn’t trust lawyers. I instinctively felt suspicious of Phil Kurnit.
Tommy escorted us all down the hall to Terry Cashman’s office. As we entered the office, Terry was talking with the third partner, Gene Pistilli. Tommy made the introductions, and Phil added, “Terry used to play pro baseball, but now he just plays hardball here.” Phil laughed in a high, uncomfortable giggle, as if he was sharing a private joke.
Terry was Phil’s childhood friend, and they complimented each other’s style and philosophy of work. Standing together they made a comical pair. Terry was tall, lanky, and awkward for an athlete. As he was making a comment to Phil about other business matters, Jim whispered to me, “Hey, it’s da wabbit!”
Gene Pistilli was concentrating on tuning his guitar. He was sitting on top of Terry Cashman’s desk with one foot bracing the floor. “We just got one of Gene’s songs recorded by Spanky and Our Gang,” Tommy said flatly.
I finally spoke up. “Which song is it?” I asked.
“‘Sunday Will Never Be the Same,’” Gene answered, with a warm easy smile. “Have you heard it yet?”
“I sure have—it’s all over the radio! You wrote that song?” I looked at Gene with admiration. “That’s great!”
“We wrote that song,” Terry interjected. “And it’s on the charts with a bullet. It’s gonna make us a bundle.”
I liked Gene immediately but wasn’t comfortable with the rest of the partners. Gene seemed as if he actually enjoyed making music, as if he was having fun writing and playing songs.
He was wiry, dynamic, and handsome, with jet-black wavy hair, a thick moustache, and dark expressive eyes. He was dressed in faded jeans and appeared less impressed with the business than the other partners.
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“Wanna play?” Gene asked, getting up and handing his guitar to Jim.
“Sure!” Jim took the instrument and started playing “Wear Out the Turnpike,” a song that we had recently written.
“Why don’t you join him?” Gene said to me, dangling a cigarette from the corner of his mouth. I stood by watching, unnerved that Tommy continued to ignore me.
“Go on,” Gene insisted. “I want to hear you too.” He gave me a vote of confidence, and I began harmonizing with Jim on the chorus. As I walked over to stand next to Jim, Gene added, “Nice ass—and she can sing too.” Then a fifth person walked into the room.
Tommy interrupted our singing and said, “Jimmy, this is the producer I’ve been wanting you to meet.”
“What’s going on, boys?” Nik Venet asked in his booming voice.
“Here’s the new talent I promised you,” Tommy said. Jim stopped playing and stood up to shake Nik’s hand. Over Tommy’s praise, Nik reached out and shook my hand too. “Nice to meet you, too, Ingrid.”
“Nik’s producing some of the biggest acts around. He’s worked with the Beach Boys, Bobby Darin, Linda Ronstadt and the Stone Ponies, and scads of others. He’s the best.”
“You flatter me, Picardo,” Nik said.
“Play something for Nik, would ya, Jimmy?” Tommy coaxed him, still ignoring me.
“Sure,” he replied, looking awkwardly at me. We had been performing as a duo for more than four years, but just as I had forewarned Jim, Tommy wouldn’t acknowledge me.
After singing a few numbers alone, Jim turned to me.
“Come on, Ing. Sing with me.”
I joined him on a few folk songs, including a couple we’d written together. We traded harmonies and leads. It was effortless and natural. Singing had become the most enjoyable and intimate aspect of our relationship.
“You’re good, kids,” Nik said warmly, when the impromptu audition was over.
“You remind me of Ian and Sylvia, and your writing style is a lot like Gordon Lightfoot. I think we can do something fun together.”
Jim smiled sincerely and said, “That would be great.”