by Ingrid Croce
He don’t know what fear’s about.
He do a hundred thirty mile an hour
Smilin’ at the camera
With a toothpick in his mouth.
He got a girl back home name of Dixie Dawn,
But he got honeys all along the way.
And you oughta hear ’em screamin’
For that dirt track demon
In a ‘57 Chevrolet.
_____
Despite Jim’s sporadic work at Sweeney’s construction site and the loose change he earned from local gigs, he continued to open our home to an excessive number of friends and acquaintances. After speaking to a stranger for five minutes, it wasn’t unusual for Jim to invite them home. These impromptu gatherings of twenty to thirty people would congregate at the farmhouse on weekends.
I would feed them all, and Jim would play music late into the night, often until folks left or ended up sleeping on the floor of our tiny apartment, creating wall-to-wall bodies and an enormous mess for me to clean in the morning.
Jim seemed oblivious to how much time and energy I was putting into taking care of his guests. I was working at breakneck speed to get everything done so I could find time to make art, but it was difficult with all the company he invited into our home. I continued to cook, bake, and clean up after everyone, trying to make things the best I could, but I was losing my patience and my self-esteem.
For some reason my compulsive behavior was humorous to Jim. He complimented me on what I could accomplish on such a meager budget.
“Our table is like the parable of Christ with the loaves and the fishes,” he told me one day. “I don’t know how you do it.” I was pleased that Jim was proud of my ability to be a good wife, but I had my own dreams of becoming a professional artist, and he seemed to have forgotten them.
One day I told him that I really wanted time to do my art and that I was happy to have his guests over, but I needed just a couple of nights alone.
He apologized immediately: “I’m so sorry for not realizing how hard it’s been on you, Ing. I want you to do your art. And if you want, I’ll help you.”
During one of our now solitary mornings together, Jim sat on the front steps, figuring out a song and watching me working at my potter’s wheel. He liked to be near me while I worked in the sun, so we could write and sing together. When I paused in my work, he stopped playing, and we sang a cappella.
George, our neighbor, looked up from where he was grading papers on his porch.
“When I hear you two sing,” he called out, “a shiver runs down my spine.”
“Glad we could provide the entertainment,” Jim called back.
“Yeah,” George replied, “It sounds X-rated to me. There’s so much electricity between you two, I feel like a voyeur peering in while you’re making love.”
George’s actual voyeurism was more innocent. The Spillanes’ kitchen window looked directly across a small courtyard into our kitchen. Jim often stayed up all night singing into the tape recorder and writing new songs. Before shutting out the lights and going to bed, George could see Jim, guitar in hand, singing into a cassette tape recorder. In the morning, Jim was often still sitting there playing.
One morning, a few minutes after seeing George’s lights come on, Jim tapped on the kitchen window.
“You wanna hear the new song I wrote last night?” he asked, holding up an empty coffee mug. George motioned for him to come in, and filled the cup with fresh brew as Jim started picking. From the dark hall, Carole, who worked as a drama coach, appeared in the kitchen doorway. As he finished, she said, “That’s really good, Jim. You know, I was thinking. How would you like to do a concert series at the college?”
“Sounds great.”
“It only pays $100.”
“It’s the rent. Would I be teaching or just performing?”
“I’d like to see you do both,” Carole told him.” Give the kids some history about the music, about the business, and tell them how you write your songs.”
Jim was excited about the opportunity to teach others about the musicians who had influenced him. And he wanted to impart his experience of the music business to the students, so they didn’t run into the same fate he did.
Even with his limited experience, he started to write a book called The Pitfalls of the Music Business. He was so serious about it that he had my stepmom type it up for him; he’d use it to teach the class and also hoped to sell it.
In addition to Jim’s interest in playing at the local college and writing a book, and in spite of Kurnit’s warning, Jim and I had continued to perform at local clubs. The Main Point, our favorite, featured acoustic musicians. The roster had included such luminaries as Simon and Garfunkel, Gordon Lightfoot, James Taylor, John Hartford, Dave Von Ronk, John Hammond, Linda Ronstadt, Bruce Springsteen, Don McLean, Taj Mahal, the Manhattan Transfer, and Arlo Guthrie. Jim and I were the opening act for many performers, who often crashed overnight at our home. Because we lived nearby, when the featured talent cancelled or a performer showed up late, Jeanette, one of the Main Point’s owners, called us to substitute.
One night, out of the blue, during the drive home from the Main Point, Jim blew up: “It fucking pisses me off that we have to wait out Cashman & West! This stalemate is keeping us from getting another record deal, and there’s not a goddamn thing we can do about it!”
I held my tongue. I knew he was right. Without an attorney or money to buy our way out, we were prisoners, and all I could say was, “I’m so sorry.”
_____
One evening in late August, Sal showed up at the farmhouse with a skinny young musician named Maury Muehleisen.
“Glad to see you again,” Jim said, remembering that he and I had met Maury briefly in Tommy’s office, and that Maury had come to see us at our apartment in the Bronx once with Sal. I really liked Maury’s music, especially, “A Song I Heard,” one of Maury’s early tunes he’d pitched when he came to New York City.
“Remember I told you I’d only leave my teaching position at Glassboro State to do something great?” said Sal. “Well, this is it: I’m Maury’s full-time manager.”
Jim and I shared a surprised glance.
“Really?” I asked.
“We just left New York,” Sal went on with a grin, “where my young protégé cut his first album with Cashman & West on Capitol.”
“Uh-huh,” said Jim. He didn’t want to spoil Sal and Maury’s excitement. He said, “I sure hope it works for you.” He looked cautiously at me; I was already staring at him.
“We’re just waiting for Tommy to start the promotion.”
“Sounds familiar,” Jim said, half under his breath.
“I’ll go get something together for us to eat,” I suggested, hoping to ease the tension.
After dinner, Jim moved to the living room, picked up his guitar, and started to play. Maury took his own instrument out of the case, and he and Sal joined in.
When I’d finished doing the dishes, I joined them, and for the next few hours the four of us played and traded songs and harmonies.
“You’ve got quite a repertoire,” Maury said to Jim just after midnight.
“And you play that guitar like a piano,” Jim told him sincerely, as he passed around a joint. Sal grinned in pride. He had long believed Jim and Maury would complement each other musically, and his intuition had been proven right.
“How did a nice Catholic boy like you get mixed up with marijuana?” Jim laughed, as he took another toke and passed the joint along. Maury took a drag and held in the smoke.
“When I was packing meat in the Hamilton Township,” he answered, “I learned a lot of bad habits.” He smiled impishly.
“What kind of meat did you pack down there, Maury?” Jim joked. Maury didn’t pick up on the suggestive remark.
“Scrapple,” he answered seriously. “Scrapple is made of what’s left over after sausage is manufactured.”
“Yeah, well, they should make more shit out of that
stuff. It would be good for the ecology,” Jim laughed. “When did you start playing music?” he asked warmly and with increasing interest in this talented young musician.
“Well, I studied piano for ten years with the organist from St. Mary’s Cathedral. And I went through some real changes when I taught myself guitar.”
“Maury’s the second eldest of eight kids and was born with a veil over his face,” Sal chimed in.
“What?” Jim asked.
“Oh,” Maury said, embarrassed that Sal would repeat a story Maury’s mother had told him.
“It’s a rare phenomenon, when a membrane cloaks a baby’s face,” Sal explained. “According to folklore the veil signifies the arrival of a gifted child. When the Muehleisens recognized Maury’s talent for music, they got him piano lessons.”
“How long have you been playing the guitar, Maury?” Jim asked.
“About two years,” Maury said shyly.
“Can you imagine playing a guitar like that after only two years?” Sal boasted. “That’s why I decided to give up teaching to be his manager. That’s how much I believe in him.”
Maury became a fixture at our cozy country retreat. He found our home a welcome escape from Trenton.
A month later he had scheduled some coffeehouse gigs and asked Jim to play backup guitar. Jim agreed, sensing that he’d enjoy the change of pace—and we needed the money. He and Maury rehearsed Maury’s music and a number of songs they played just for fun.
“Man,” Jim said after the first show, “I’m not sure I can continue.” He paused and Maury gave him a quizzical look. “Unless you can burn that green velvet Lord Fauntleroy outfit Sal dressed you in,” Maury laughed.
“We can torch it tonight,” he said, pulling at his blazer. “Besides, I couldn’t let Lindsay see me this way.”
“Lindsay who?”
“Ah, this eighteen-year-old long-legged beauty I met by the Brandywine.” He smiled dreamily. “I don’t have to pray for inspiration to write music anymore. All I have to do is look at her.”
Lindsay spent a couple evenings with Maury at the farmhouse, but after a month or so it became apparent that she was equally, if not more, attracted to Jim. Soon, it didn’t matter to Lindsay if Maury was at our place or not. She showed up whenever she pleased.
One morning, after singing with Jim at a friend’s party the night before, I was making breakfast and slamming pots and pans in the kitchen.
“Ing, can’t you be quiet in there?” Jim looked over at Sal, who had passed out in our living room after the party and was still snoring lightly.
“Shit, Jim, do you have to be so obvious?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Those pubescent groupies at the party last night threw themselves at you. And you act like nothing is happening!”
“Give me a break, Ing.”
“You know what I’m talking about, Jim. Lindsay was all over you.”
“I don’t need this guilt crap from you! Who the hell do you think you—”
“Good morning! Take two,” Sal shouted from the sofa bed in the living room.
Jim stopped mid-sentence. Like an actor in a bad movie, he suddenly transformed.
“I’m sorry, sweet thing,” he said to me. “Here, give me a kiss.”
I turned away.
After breakfast, when Jim was showering, I went over to Sal and thanked him.
“Hey, we all have our problems, but no one deserves to be treated badly, Ingrid. I sure don’t want to see it,” Sal explained. “You’re the only one Jim doesn’t perform for. With everyone else he’s on his best behavior.”
“Thanks, Sal. Sometimes I feel like I must deserve it for what happened in Mexico.”
Sal said, “That’s between you and Jim. I’m just an innocent bystander.”
“Not innocent, Sal. Definitely not innocent!”
Only Sal knew the difficult details underlying our problems. He loved us both very much and felt certain that time would heal the wounds. He just hoped we could hang in there and not hurt each other too much in the process.
“I don’t know why Jim can’t just say what he feels and get it all out and over with,” I lamented.
“Because he hurts a lot, Ing. He’s not like you. And Italian men are different. He’s afraid to express his real feelings. His emotions are all bottled up, and he hurts you because he’s hurting. It’s almost like, to him, the two of you are one.”
_____
Several weeks later, when Jim purchased a pair of running shoes and announced that he was taking up jogging, I knew something was up. He had never done anything athletic in his life, yet he insisted he had discovered running and loved it.
Maury’s girlfriend lived only a mile down the Brandywine, in the direction Jim was jogging every day. One afternoon I arrived home from a friend’s house unexpectedly to find him lying face down on the floor of the living room. Lindsay sat on his back, massaging him.
At the sight of me, she cried, “Oh shit!” and stood up quickly. “My sister is a nurse, and she taught me how to give back rubs!”
“Did she teach you to give hard-ons, too?” I asked icily.
Jim roared with laughter. Ignoring both of us, he got up and went into the kitchen to get something to eat.
I marched into the kitchen, leaving the young woman behind.
“Get her out of here now,” I yelled at Jim. I picked up his running shoes and threw them in the back of the closet.
After Lindsay left, I spoke my mind: “Is this your way of getting even with me for being raped? Well, maybe you’ll never believe me, but it wasn’t my fault!”
A few days after Thanksgiving, I couldn’t hide my pain any longer.
“I love you, Jim, and I’m so sorry I’ve hurt you so deeply. It’s the last thing I ever wanted to do. But more than anything, I want our marriage to work. Haven’t I been punished long enough? Isn’t it time to put the past behind us?” Tears poured down my cheeks.
“Please stop crying, Ing. Please just stop.” He was silent for a while.
“Jim, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t walk around feeling guilty while you take your anger out on me. If you want to be with other women, then please leave.”
“Ing, please don’t. I love you, and I promise you: I’ll try harder. Please believe me,” he pleaded. “Don’t make me leave.”
“Jim, just tell me honestly: Do you really want to be with me? Can you accept that it wasn’t my fault?”
“I swear, Ing. I want you more than anything. Please don’t leave me. I need you. . . . I really do.”
Jim embraced me tenderly. We went upstairs to our bedroom, and he made passionate love to me. I wanted to believe the tide had turned and things would get better between us.
_____
Maury’s friendship with Jim cooled a bit over Lindsay. But once Maury’s album, Gingerbread, was released, they left on tour together. Jim and I wondered if Maury’s album would fare better than ours. We certainly wished him and Sal the best, and Jim worked hard to help Maury in every way he could.
As Christmas neared, Jim wanted to try and repair his relationship with his parents. We began to visit his family every other week, and slowly their attitude softened.
“It’s a good thing you left New York, and gave up that idea about playing music for a living,” his father said one evening. “It’s time for you to get a good job for you and Ingi.” Jim had concealed from his father that he still dreamed of making music his life. He was just satisfied he and his parents were getting along. Yet it was a nervous truce. If he didn’t make some kind of white-collar career move soon, his father would come down on him again.
“I still don’t understand why you have to drive a truck,” his father said, shaking his head. “You wasted four years in college just to become a truck driver! That’s a sin!”
We spent Christmas Eve at Jim’s parents’ house, making love under the crucifix in his tiny childhood bed. Jim seemed full of love and passion agai
n.
“Let’s make a baby, Ing,” he told me. “Can you imagine the combination of the two of us in one little boy? A Roman Catholic Jew—what a dynamic mixture he’ll be.” When we were first together, we had often talked about what our child would be like, how he would look and sing.
_____
Jim’s part-time hours at the quarry had been cut back for the winter, and he began to work even harder to make ends meet. He tried to find more gigs, and filled the extra time writing another book for musicians, called How to Buy a Guitar. Again, he asked my stepmother to type it, but once the manuscript was ready, he never sent it out for publication. Instead, he turned his attention to a mail-order business for a telephone antibugging device.
“There’s a lot of paranoid people out there growing weed, and they’re all worried about having their phones tapped,” Jim explained to me. “Maybe I could make this antibugging device look real nice. Then I could add $10 to the price and make some money.” He ordered a few of the devices and painted them “basket brown.” Then he took ads out in music magazines and tried to peddle them at his gigs. Only one sold before he gave up on the scheme.
In January 1971, Maury returned to Lyndell with no place to stay. Jim and I put him up at our house, and the friendship between us all deepened. The two Capricorns celebrated their birthdays together: Jim turned twenty-eight on January 10, and Maury, twenty-two on the fourteenth. While Jim worked construction, Maury slept through the days, plagued by the chronic allergies and asthma that left him exhausted. When he’d finally wake up in the afternoon, he’d nibble on Nestlé Crunch bars and down flat, stale Coke, which he’d opened the night before, and then he’d reach for his pack of Marlboros. He’d play his guitar until Jim got home around 2 or 3 in the afternoon, and the three of us would play until dinner.
My new best friend, Judy Coffin, a recently divorced, thirty-one-year-old woman with three young sons, often came to visit in the afternoons. She was earthy, attractive, intelligent, and beaming with vitality. Judy enjoyed listening to Maury’s music and was attracted to his kind and gentle qualities. She invited him to her house, and soon he moved in with Judy and the boys.