Crescendo

by Allen Cheney

  Fred moved in for a kiss, wrapping his arms around Winnie as she kicked off her heels. Together, they danced across the living room. “I’ll need to buy a dress,” she said over the music.

  “Buy one.” Fred smiled. “Anything you want.”

  “And we’ll need a driver. A big, beautiful car.”

  Fred gave her a spin. “Consider it done.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Winnie said. “Big things are happening, aren’t they, honey?”

  Fred gave her another kiss before dipping her back for a romantic ending. “Big as we can dream, my love. Big as we can dream.”

  Soon it was time for the Grammys, and Winnie made the most of the experience. She wore a stunning floor-length black-and-white evening gown with long silk gloves that reached above her elbows. The sleek dress had been custom-made to fit every perfect curve, and when Fred first laid eyes on her, his knees went weak.

  “Knockout.” He smiled, still proud to call her his.

  He pulled a small box from the pocket of his tuxedo jacket. As Winnie untied the delicate ribbon, she couldn’t stop smiling. She opened the velvet-hinged box to discover a dazzling new pair of chandelier-drop earrings.

  “Oh my goodness. Fred!” She pulled one from the case.

  “You deserve the very best, Winnie. And now I can finally give it to you.”

  Fred, handsome as ever, served as Winnie’s esteemed escort. The studio hired a driver to pick them up from the luxurious Waldorf Astoria, where they had booked a room for the late night. From the back seat, Fred poured two glasses of bubbling champagne as the limousine made its way toward Times Square. Then he toasted, “To the life we’ve dreamed.”

  Winnie clinked her glass against his. In silence they sipped and smiled nervously. The driver pulled the car around to the ballroom at the Hotel Astor, where the stars were making their entrance for the rows of photographers and cheering fans. Time seemed to slow when the glamorous duo stepped from the limousine. Fred took a look at his breathtaking partner, and with his dark hair and gleaming smile, he extended his arm her way. Winnie placed her hand in the warm crook of his elbow, enjoying the way her palm fell into the crisp fold of his black tuxedo. She remembered the time they had pretended such an act, back at the old Metropolitan Opera House when they were young and naive. Now they glided together down the famous red carpet, smiling and waving in the line of glamorous superstars. The flashbulbs snapped from every angle, and one of the reporters compared Winnie to Audrey Hepburn, complimenting her gorgeous gown.

  Once inside they both exhaled, laughing. “Oh my goodness,” Winnie said, pulling her hand to her heart as she was still abuzz with adrenaline. “That was so much fun!”

  The entire evening was enchanting. Between the live acts, tableside chats, and after-parties, Winnie and Fred spent the hours deep in conversation with the world’s most successful musical artists as well as with the people who worked behind the scenes to get them there, including Mac McClure and his wife, Fran.

  At one point Fred and Mac had made their way to the balcony for some fresh air. Mac took in the view of the city lights, admiring the beauty. Then he turned his attention to a famous singer struggling to hold his liquor. Stumbling through the words, the star shouted at Mac, “What? You ain’t never seen a winner before. Take a good look.” He raised his fists in the air and shouted, “Winner!” Then he lost his balance, falling against a circle of admirers who laughed and cheered him on to another drink.

  Mac watched the drunk entertainer collapse at the bar. “This industry is brutal,” he said. “They all start out bright-eyed and full of dreams. And then we take and take until they have nothing left to give.”

  Fred shook his head. “They can’t all end up like that.”

  “Most,” Mac insisted. “I try to warn them. I tell them how important it is to have one person, an anchor, someone to hold the truth so they don’t get lost in it all. But then I watch them slowly break. It’s as if they can no longer tell the difference between what’s real and what isn’t. Who’s on their side and who’s out to get them.” Mac nodded toward the bar. “You see?”

  Fred studied the popular entertainer. Two scantily dressed women were now propping him up for photos, and no one seemed interested in stemming the flow of vodka heading his way.

  “I’m telling you, Fred. It’s as if a fog rolls in and they lose all sense. The only chance they have of making it is if they have one honest person to point them home again when the world goes gray. But when all is said and done, most of these guys don’t have anybody.”

  By then Winnie and Fran had tracked down their handsome husbands and were giddy with gossip about the big-screen actress they had met in the powder room. In the excitement of it all, Fred quickly forgot all about Mac’s warnings, and the remaining hours floated by seamlessly, with night soon turning to day.

  Back at their hotel, Fred and Winnie watched the sunrise from the lush rooftop gardens of the Waldorf Astoria, still too excited to sleep. With the morning mist burning off the towering high-rises, Winnie looked out over Madison Avenue and said simply, “We’ve made it.”

  Twenty-three

  As Fred continued producing music for RCA, where his daughter was becoming a star and Winnie had begun writing children’s stories for audio recordings, he was also leading his beloved choir at Bernardsville Methodist. Plus, he was wrapping up his doctoral coursework in psychology at Columbia while also trying to maintain his mentorship with Emile, hoping to land a lead role someday. By that time Emile had put him on a training regimen that included almost daily vocal lessons and work with a strength and fitness coach to get Fred’s body in peak form—a definite plus for men on stage. He was also taking classes at the famed Actors Studio, where he was studying directly under Lee Strasberg. Emile had been pressuring him, insisting that he was certain to become a Broadway star, maybe even more, if only he would prioritize his time and focus on his own talents instead of building, as Emile put it, the careers of “far less-gifted entertainers.”

  Emile didn’t seem to understand the many pressures Fred was under or that there were only so many hours in a day. One complication was that in order to manage his RCA position, the couple had become well-known regulars at the 21 Club, Playboy Club, Diners Club, and the like. Many opportunities came their way, and Fred and Winnie had begun to fully embrace the jazzy lifestyle. Not only were they growing accustomed to the finest quality food and entertainment, but they were also surrounding themselves with the most influential movers and shakers of the entertainment industry. It was an addictive routine, one that had both pros and cons.

  With so many late nights in the city, the couple had grown weary of the back-and-forth travel between Bernardsville and Manhattan. They decided to rent a spacious apartment on the Upper East Side, allowing Fred to avoid the long commute when work kept him late in the studio or the clubs. But even with the new apartment, Fred still struggled with terrible insomnia, and when he was able to sleep, he suffered those same awful nightmares about the steeple—the haunting dream that would leave him shaking, soaking the sheets in a cold sweat. Despite all that was going right in his life, he’d been feeling more anxious than ever.

  After years of running on fumes, he was suddenly having trouble keeping it all together. Mac noticed the shift in Fred’s demeanor and warned him again about the burnout so common in their industry, but Fred had always been one to push his own limits. He’d never required much rest and had long thrived on the challenge of spreading himself thin. He brushed off Mac’s concerns and assured him, “I can handle it.”

  One evening, dressed to the nines after dropping Allison off for a sleepover with close friends in Bernardsville, Fred and Winnie waited to meet more friends at the Playboy Club, a controversial gathering space where beautiful women, wearing nothing more than bushy-tailed corsets and perky bunny ears, served trendy cocktails from silver trays. The duo headed up to the VIP room for dinner before moving to the upper-floor nightclub to scout a singer. T
here, the owner, Hugh Hefner, chatted with Fred about one of his models, trying to convince his new acquaintance that the young woman was prime for a record deal. As the conversation ended, they were escorted to a private booth. Along the way, the popular couple shared friendly hellos around the room before ordering their favorite drinks: an Old Fashioned with Maker’s for Fred and a Manhattan for Winnie.

  They frequently socialized in Bernardsville with choir friends who had already become close companions, but their city life brought them an entirely different experience from the suburban dinner parties and family-friendly weekends. The club was a place to escape all stress, a fantasy forum with live jazz and high-heeled hostesses giving their customers personalized attention, a venue where Fred should have felt on top of the world. Only a few weeks earlier he and his team had received their second and third Grammy nominations for two more Camden albums, and The Wonderful World of Children’s Songs, featuring Allison as one of its leads, was becoming one of the top-selling children’s records. He also had been discussing a collaboration with good friend and world-renowned composer Henry Mancini, and just the day before he had turned down a personal request from country-music star and guitar master Chet Atkins, asking Fred to move to Nashville and produce his next album. He was quickly becoming one of the young darlings of RCA. But despite having every reason to celebrate, Fred was distant, lost in a daydream and barely listening to Winnie’s updates about Allison’s latest school project.

  Winnie paused midsentence. “What is it, Fred? Why do you seem so troubled?”

  With a sigh, he struggled to explain, fumbling a bit until he finally said, “I love my job. Most of it is great. But . . .” His voice faded, leaving her wanting more.

  “But what?” Winnie’s brow ruffled. Wasn’t this the life he had always wanted? Across the room she spotted the actor Peter Falk. Two tables down sat entertainers Sammy Davis Jr. and Dean Martin, two friends the couple had socialized with the previous weekend. They were living the life of their dreams. And still, he wasn’t happy?

  “Sometimes I wonder if I’m heading down the wrong path.” Fred sipped his drink. “And hell, Winnie, you should be performing too, using your voice. You had dreams like me. Don’t you remember?”

  Winnie tried not to overreact. “I am happy, Fred. This is enough for me, being a mother. And a wife.”

  Fred shook his head and his voice stayed tense with frustration. “Look around us. Don’t you see? It’s a game, Winnie. I don’t want to be the producer, the salesman, the manager. I want to be the performer, the one at the piano. I have so much music in me, and yet I’m still being locked away from the instruments. The damn union bosses won’t even let me touch the keys. It’s . . . it’s maddening.”

  “You’re an incredible producer too,” Winnie said, trying to calm him.

  “And I love it. I really do love helping others shine. I guess I just . . .”

  “You want to shine too,” Winnie finished his sentence.

  Fred took another sip and looked away. “I want to make my own music. I want to play the instruments, compose the songs, sing the notes. I want the music to come through me to the audience.”

  Frustrated and exhausted, Fred took Winnie’s hand and said, “I’m a point man for the artists. I wrangle with the engineers, I schedule studio rentals, I arrange for the orchestra to show up on time. I give my advice and input, and they take it, but ultimately . . . I’m forbidden to touch a string, hit a key, compose, conduct. Everything I’ve studied, everything I am . . . it’s being silenced. I’m not happy, Winnie. I know I should be, but I’m not.”

  Winnie ran her fingers across the new diamond clasp that hung from her grandmother’s pearls. Fred had given it to her as a surprise. Truth was, Winnie had grown accustomed to five-star dinners, expensive evening gowns, and company-sponsored nights on the town. What would it mean for Fred to leave his job at RCA? Even then, would he be happy?

  Fred’s eyes were pleading with her to give him some sign of release from his role at the studio. Still, Winnie hesitated. Fred sighed and turned away again, scanning the room for the friends who were running much later than usual. Winnie sipped her drink and weighed her opinion as the band played “Why Was I Born?”

  With the lyrics drawing a sting, Fred drained his Old Fashioned and signaled for another. Winnie reached again for her necklace. This time, she moved beyond the expensive clasp and rubbed the heirloom strand of pearls instead. They’d been passed down through three generations and had long served as a calming touchstone when life became too out of sorts.

  “I don’t know what lies ahead, but I want you to be happy, honey,” she said. “Whatever it takes.”

  Fred shook his head. He saw no easy way out. How could he justify leaving the influential position? The extraordinary salary, the endless perks—most people would never throw that away.

  As his brain puzzled for options, their guests arrived, apologizing for being late and asking the waitress to bring a fresh round of drinks to make up for their delay. Fred gave Winnie a sad look as he stood to greet them. Then he flashed his winning smile and went back to playing the game.

  Twenty-four

  Despite Fred’s increasing angst, he didn’t resign from RCA. Instead, he continued to devote his best efforts to producing quality records while trying to give Emile even more time in the off hours. Nights and weekends were often consumed with work events or private parties with the A-list crowd he was now calling his own.

  While Winnie enjoyed the lavish lifestyle as much as Fred, her priority was being a mother. Concerned they had been leaving their daughter with friends too frequently, she began staying home with Allison instead of joining Fred for every social invitation. She had hoped he would follow her lead and slow down. Instead, he was spending more time at their Upper East Side apartment while Winnie and Allison were miles away in Bernardsville.

  To make matters worse, Fred had begun hosting regular parties at the apartment, inviting not only fellow RCA executives and recording friends but also Broadway stars and opera elite. The glamorous lifestyle was becoming a lure Fred couldn’t resist, especially now that some of his wealthier celebrity friends were elevating the excess. It was as if they’d taken a Great Gatsby-esque hold on Fred’s life, and it didn’t take long for the balance to swing.

  Winnie began to tread cautiously. As eager as she was for Fred to return home each night, she was careful not to say anything that might push him further away. Sure, the treks back and forth to the city had long been wearing on him, but it was more than that. Something had changed between them, and Winnie wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.

  In spite of his newfound playboy lifestyle, Fred always made it home on Sundays and Wednesdays to lead the choir. In between, Winnie would drive into the city to dine with her husband or take voice lessons with Emile while Fred accompanied her. She also brought Allison into the studio for recording sessions and advertising jobs, but no matter how hard she tried to maintain the strong connection she and Fred had always shared, a significant divide was staking claim between them.

  Then everything shifted.

  It happened as Fred was attending a psychology seminar at Columbia, wrapping up his final coursework before writing his doctoral dissertation. The professor was leading an emotional exercise for the small group of students, teaching them a new method of therapeutic intervention. As part of this task, Fred and his peers were instructed to close their eyes as he guided them back to their earliest memories.

  Led through a form of hypnosis, each participant tried to tap into any unresolved childhood wounds. The theory was based on the controversial belief that the fragile human psyche will self-protect by burying the most traumatic moments that happen in life.

  “Research suggests that while we may not consciously remember these wounding experiences, the original memories can still be reached, deep within the subconscious,” the professor explained. “In other words, the files are still there. They’ve simply been blocked fro
m our conscious retrieval system, much in the same way we might archive our old tax forms and tuck them away in a box rather than keeping them accessible in our everyday cabinet. We still have them. Somewhere. It just might take a bit of work to find them again.”

  Suspicious by nature, Fred doubted the exercise would be effective. Nevertheless, he followed the professor’s instructions, respectfully closing his eyes as he focused on the meditative cadence of his soothing voice. Slowly Fred began to travel through time, reaching deep into his childhood memories. Breath by breath he was leaving the dimly lit university classroom and working his way down to Georgia, all the way back to a little white house in the Dunson Mill Village, where he saw eight-year-old Fred and his uncle Dirk, the baseball player.

  Much to Fred’s surprise, the exercise had him in a sweat. His breath grew rapid and short, and his heart began to beat so fiercely he wasn’t sure what was happening. He gasped for air as waves of anxiety washed over him. None of his regular tricks seemed to work. He tried counting backward from ten, then twenty, then ten more. He tried switching his mind to positive thoughts, imagining the sound of Allison’s giggle and the warmth of Winnie’s embrace. He even sang a few lyrics silently to himself, trying to quell the nausea that was enveloping him. Then he looked around the room, naming objects, determined to ground himself back here in this time and space.

  No matter how he tried to bring his mind back to the here and now, he was stuck in that little back bedroom, pretending to be asleep, hoping this would not play out the way it had the last time Uncle Dirk had entered his room. And the time before that. And the time before that.