Among My Souvenirs: The Real Story Vol. 1

By Connie Francis

The Connie Francis Story is an American story. Born into a blue-collar Italian family at the end of the Great Depression, she went on to unimaginable heights of success. Along this extraordinary journey of her life she experienced the highest of peaks and the deepest of valleys: the stuff of both dreams and nightmares. Through her eyes, readers have a front row seat to many of the greatest public and private moments in American history and popular culture. Conquering wildly-enthusiastic audiences throughout the world, Connie's international celebrity is one unrivaled by any recording artist to this very day. She shares with unusual candor and rare insight the juxtaposition that existed in her personal life. While the love affair with her audience was exhilarating, truly gratifying and omnipresent, fulfilling romantic relationships in her personal life always eluded her...with the exception of her one true love, Bobby Darina love destroyed by her domineering father, with whom she had a complicated and often troubling relationship. Her willingness to expose the most private aspects of her life with extraordinary honesty and often painful reflection is both startling and courageous. She also experienced an endless series of life-altering tragedies. A horrifying rape, the murder of her beloved brother, Georgie, at the hands of the Mafia, four failed and despairing marriages... All are chronicled with unstinting candor, a deep sense of resentment, and even under the most terrifying and unimaginable set of circumstances, her very rare sense of humor shines through. Few stars have experienced the rollercoaster ride that marked the life of Connie Francis. Fewer still possess the willingness, wit, insight, intellect and disarming self-deprecation to write a book of such unflinching nature. It is truly a joyful, comedic and emotionally disturbing book to read. Far more horrifying than any best-selling writer of fiction would dare to contemplate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Concetta
• Release date: Dec 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9780999238929

Book preview

Hell)

She’d Rather Sing Lullabies

EMBASSY OF THE

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Rome, Italy

58 Holton Lane

Essex Fells, New Jersey

October 5, 1974

Dear Connie:

Although I’ve had no definite word for you yet, I wanted to let you know that we are working on your request. However, at this point, it frankly appears it is going to be very difficult, due, among other things, to the increasingly nationalistic attitude of the Italians which prevents Italian children from being taken overseas for adoption by foreign parents.

We have been put in touch with an Order of Sisters, and my special assistant will be discussing with them in detail the best way to proceed on this matter. I will keep in touch with you as this information develops.

With best personal regards,

Sincerely,

John Volpe

* * * * *

What are you reading—that letter from your friend, John Volpe again? my husband, Joe, asked me, quite concerned.

Uh, huh, I answered sullenly, with profound frustration and a sense of hopelessness I can’t even begin to describe.

"Look, Connie, even before we went to Rome to visit John at the Embassy, we both knew it was gonna be a long shot, right? You know somethin’, honey, I’m really feeling charged up about your goin’ back to work at Westbury this week. Don’t forget—it’s been almost three years now. I want my smilin’, shinin’, supergirl back again. And you’re always at your very best when you’re up there on that stage singin’ all those pretty songs. Especially for those thousands of fans out there who’ll be sitting at the edge of their seats waiting to scream out your name and worship at your feet. You’re still the queen, baby, don’t ever forget it."

Joe wrapped his arms around me tenderly. "So we’ve lost the baby, honey. Sure, it was tough—very, very tough on both of us. And only I knew just how devastating a loss it was for you, but look, you’re still young. We’ll have another baby. You can make book on that one, honey."

OK, but gee, Joe, how I wish you didn’t have to go to the Bahamas, especially this week when I haven’t worked in almost three years, and I’ll feel like a rank amateur again.

Sorry, baby, but I gotta go, ‘cause I’ve already postponed this meeting with the Bahamian Tourist Board twice before. But it’ll only be for that one night though. It’ll be over before you know it. In fact, it will be so exciting for you, you won’t miss me one bit.

"You know somethin’, Joe, I don’t know why on earth it is, but lately I’ve been so wrapped up in reading so many of those old fan magazine articles, the ones written about me when I was just a kid. Almost all of them say the same thing: ‘Someday I really want to have a dozen babies.’

"Don’t forget, Joe, even though you’re my third husband, the other two marriages were so violent, so terribly frightening and so brief, only now do I realize that I had only a year or two to become pregnant. The very idea of bearing a baby out of wedlock and raising my child without a father was a concept so alien to me that it never once entered my mind. So it really breaks my heart, Joe. I mean, whoever thought it would be as hard as this? I really need a baby so much, Joe, to love and cherish. Without that, even with everything else I’ve accomplished in my life, I’ll never really feel like a woman, or complete."

Now don’t go beating yourself up so much over this, honey, it’s enough already. We’ll have another baby. Have I ever failed even once to come through for you?

* * * * *

Westbury Music Fair

Westbury, Long Island

November 7, 1974

The bustling backstage corridor was jam packed with my ever-present coterie of close family members, friends and fans trailing behind me. This huge Damonesque entourage of folks, made up mostly of Italians and Jews, had, by now become one of my most well-known trademarks.

This group of twenty or more were making their way with great difficulty towards the door that pretentiously read Star’s Dressing Room. But just as I approached the door, I had a quick change of heart, and holding both hands up, I suddenly announced, Don’t take this personal-like, gang, but I’m dyin’ for just a little alone time. I think maybe I should start hangin’ out with a better class of people.

Everyone laughed, as Libby, my perky Scottish hairdresser said consolingly, "Not to worry, love—we understand; the life you lead is criminal—that’s what it is. Every single moment of it feels like some mad carnival scene from a Federico Fellini movie."

Mom, who had her own opinion, disagreed. "Hey, Libby, who the hell do ya think always causes all of this commotion—this ceremonia? Why, you don’t know ’er by now? If she ain’t doin’ twelve different things at the same time and drivin’ everybody around ’er crazy, she gets bored. From the day she was christened, she’s been nothing but a pill—ask anybody! Then mournfully she added, Che peccata, poor Joe, he’s got some cross to bear with her. Joe’s some helluva of a guy. How many gattaza times did I tell that poor guy not to marry my daughter? Did I, or didn’t I?"

* * * * *

I looked about my spacious dressing room actually seeing it for the first time since opening night, seventy-two exhilarating super-charged hours ago. Happily until now, there simply had been no time. And not having a second to spare was such a delicious feeling again, but much too rare for me in these last three years when I’d stopped singing to become Joe’s wife, and even more hopefully, to become a mother.

Back at home again in a dressing room

This Westbury date marked the beginning of a nationwide tour for me throughout the country of these new theaters-in-the-round, and I was having a truly marvelous time. It was such a terrific feeling being Connie Francis again for the first time in far too long a time.

I was truly savoring this alone time, feeling alive and productive and even more so, feeling valued again. On that stage, I was back in touch with myself—feeling like me once more, doing the one thing I always knew God made me born to do, singing for the people again, touching their hearts once more. I was back home again in the only world I’d ever known and loved. And I never realized how very much I’d missed all of it. And even though I loved being married to Joe, still I kept wondering how I could ever have walked away from any life that didn’t include singing songs for the people.

Now that morbid depression had vanished like magic, that miserable gloom that had haunted me (and therefore everyone around me) after I’d lost the baby I’d wanted so very much. What a lucky world, this awesome world called show business is, where the rewards are extravagant, financially, of course, but in so many other far more important ways, merely by doing what you love doing best—what’s always been a cake walk for you.

I thought of the audiences and the way they personalize with you, as if you were a member of their own family (and that’s always such an honor); the way you’re able to make them feel completely elated, or longingly nostalgic, or sublimely romantic, and even terribly sorrowful (if sadness is how they really want to feel), just by sharing a God-given gift you really had nothing at all to do with—a very special gift, a person as lucky as me should never take one ounce of credit for. God just dealt me a good hand that’s all. I could have easily been born with Down syndrome or a club foot.

Libby, my hairdresser and me

Time to get the show on the road, I thought. Then as always, never wanting to waste a single second, and before a herd of people began filing in, I impulsively began to read some of the huge stack of fan mail that had piled up. I picked up the letter on top.

This one’s so thick, Libs, I said to my adorable Scottish hairdresser, Libby Munro. "Oh, look, it’s that article Earl Wilson wrote after we spoke last month. He calls it: ‘She’d Rather Sing Lullabies’.

"Earl says that I’m resuming my career at the Westbury Music Fair, but I told him that if I could become pregnant next week, I’d forget all about it. It’s a cute story, mainly about Joe, how he’s a tourism tycoon with 26 branches; how depressed we were over my recent miscarriage, and how he kept urging me to go back to singing as I’m always happier when I do. It also says that because of the Pill and abortions, how adopting a baby today is so difficult.

"I also brag about Joe being no phony; that his greatest pleasure is to go back to his old neighbourood in the Bronx to a bust-out joint for a sausage sandwich with his old friends.

"Haven’t I always told you, Libs, that just like Sinatra, my husband’s a frustrated hood?

"The article also says that I claimed I had two husbands who weren’t too beautiful and that my father introduced us.

Cute story, right? That’s what I love about Earl Wilson, Libby. As a person and as a columnist. I don’t think he’s ever printed a mean-spirited thing about anyone. Like any ethical columnist, he always calls me up to confirm a story about me before he prints it. There aren’t too many people in the press like Earl… Hey, take a look at these pictures, Libby! Is this the most adorable child you have ever seen! Oh, look, there’s a letter, too.

Then I read that unfathomable letter that sent chills up and down my spine, leaving me totally unhinged. "CAN I BE READING RIGHT? OH, MY GOD! IT’S A MIRACLE, LIBS! IT SAYS THAT THIS PRECIOUS LITTLE BOY IS AVAILABLE FOR ADOPTION RIGHT NOW! He’s now in a foster home with six Puerto Rican babies in the very worst section of the Bronx…Well, you won’t be after tonight, little boy! I hope this news isn’t freakin’ you out, ’cause tomorrow you’re gonna be my little baby! THERE IS A GOD AFTER ALL, LIBS! I’VE GOTTA TELL EVERYBODY ABOUT THIS MIRACLE RIGHT THIS MINUTE!"

I opened the dressing room door shouting aloud, HEY, MOM, DADDY, AUNT MARIE, UNCLE RAY, CHAR, LOUIE, GEORGIE, ARLENE, FRANNIE, MICHAEL, LOIS, BILL, BARBARA! THIS HAS GOTTA BE THE MOST PHENOMENAL DAY OF MY LIFE! I’M GONNA BE A MOTHER! SOMEBODY BETTER WRITE THIS DATE DOWN! JUST TAKE A LOOK AT THESE PICTURES, GANG! And look at the letter that came with it, too! It says that this beautiful baby is available for adoption immediately!

Daddy, as usual, registered no emotion whatsoever, and casually puffing away on his foul stogie, he plopped himself down in a reclining chair and began reading one of his two record industry bibles, Billboard.

AM I HEARING THINGS, OR WHAT? mom shouted, clearly stunned. "If she wasn’t in this nutty business, she would’ve been a nice normal kid just like everybody else’s. What a sin. Then she pointed an accusatory finger at daddy. It’s all this dumbass’ fault. Your sister, Tessie, was right! She would’ve been better off workin’ in some goddamned factory."

Fat chance, Ida, I remarked, dismissing her totally outrageous notion.

GEORGE! mom shouted, even louder. IF YOU DON’T PUT THAT GODDAMNED NEWSPAPER DOWN AND TALK TO HER, I’LL DROWN YA, YA BASTARD! If she was talkin’ about the music business, you’d be all ears! I’m gonna pull those six little hairs you got left right outta your goddamned head! And then as always, she smacked him hard on his nearly bald head.

I ran from person to person, gasping as I displayed the pictures of the gorgeous child and shouting, one word tumbling after the other, "Mom, Daddy, isn’t this the most precious baby you have seen in your entire life! I’M CALLING THIS LADY RIGHT THIS MINUTE! Frannie, we’ve gotta hold up the show! First, ask Rodney Dangerfield to please stretch five minutes, or as much as he can. Then, since Enzo Stuarti is so ticked off at me because I won’t allow him to do an hour-and-a-half, tell him he can sing until Yom Kippur if he wants to—at least for this show, anyway. And then ask them to stretch the intermission, too. In fact, ask the house if they could start the show 10 minutes late. That should do it. ’CAUSE I’VE GOTTA TALK TO THIS LADY RIGHT THIS MINUTE, AND I NEED A LOT OF TIME TO GET ALL THE DETAILS JUST RIGHT!"

But you just gave this poor kid here fifteen different things to do, yelled mommy. "Who the hell can work for you?"

"FORGET IT, MA! El teléfono, por favor. We’re talkin’ about my baby here, you know! THE PHONE, MA!"

"Why doncha call that lady when you’re up on stage singin’ Al Di La, daddy grumbled facetiously with his usual deadpan face. The audience won’t mind. Somebody wanna tell me what kinda kook offers a baby through the mail?" Then, like any well-trained Italian wife, mom offered her daughter her own piece of advice: "Queenie, you have a husband now! Before you do a goddamned thing, you better call your husband first, lady!"

I realized that for a change, she was right. So I reversed my thinking and shouted, Frannie, Libs, while I’m fixing my makeup, phone our lawyer, Dick Frank, and get me Joe on the phone, too, in the Bahamas. C’MON, HURRY UP! Then I heard those old, but welcoming and familiar words:

Five minutes to show time, Miss F.

Ah, shoot! I hear those words in my sleep. Now it’s too late to reach the Bahamas till after the show. Ah, shoot!

* * * * *

How was I to know that this night would mark the very last night I would bask in the glow of smoky, pink spotlight; revel in the sound of a majestic orchestra; bring pure joy to thousands of people all at one time, and most of all, enjoy the thrill owning a great big stage like this one? No, not for more than the next three thousand nights to come, I wouldn’t.

But as I began to sing those very subjective lyrics, uncharacteristically my mind kept leaping to other more beautiful prospects to come, to wonderful flashes of Technicolor and happy thoughts, all of which, despite myself, kept weaving themselves in and out of the meaningful and uncannily prophetic lyrics.

Spoken: Seems the love I’ve known has always been

The most destructive kind

I guess that’s why now I feel so old

Before my time

Sung: YESTERDAY WHEN I WAS YOUNG

The taste of life was sweet as rain upon my tongue

My baby’s waiting for me! I’m gonna be a mother! Thank you, God!

How can I thank you for finally making my one true dream come true!

I teased at life as if it were a foolish game

The way the evening breeze may tease a candle flame

Oooh, I know! That wallpaper Charlotte and I saw at the D & D building!

The one they can print the baby’s name on!

The thousand dreams I dreamed, the splendid things I planned

I’d always built to last on weak and shifting sand

I lived by night and shunned the naked light of day

And only now I see how all the years have run away

We’ll call him Joey—what else! Perfect family! Perfect father! Perfect baby! Perfect name! What could go wrong?

Come on Concetta, you can’t think of these wonderful things right now. JUST STRAIGHTEN OUT YOUR ACT AND GET INSIDE THESE AMAZING WORDS. Get into them so much, that you’ll forget there’s an audience out there. Just believe every word you sing, that’s all you’ve ever gotta do.

YESTERDAY WHEN I WAS YOUNG

So many happy songs were waiting to be sung,

So many wild pleasures lay in store for me

And so much pain my dazzled eyes refused to see (one never does)

I ran so fast that time and youth at last ran out,

I never stopped to think what life was all about

And every conversation I can now recall

Concerned itself with me and nothing else at all (that’s always the way it is alright)

Yesterday the moon was blue

And every crazy day brought something new to do. (man, does it ever)

I used my magic age as if it were a wand

And never saw the waste and emptiness beyond

The game of love I played with arrogance and pride (guilty as charged)

And every flame I lit too quickly, quickly died

The friends I made all seemed somehow to drift away

And only I am left on stage to end the play. (God forbid)

There are so many songs in me that won’t be sung, (I’d rather die)

I feel the bitter taste of tears upon my tongue.

The time has come for me to pay for

YESTERDAY WHEN I WAS YOUNG…

Words by Herbert Kretzmer/Music by Charles Aznavour

Lyrics reproduced by kind permission of Herbert Kretzmer

While the audience rose to its feet applauding wildly, and that great Westbury orchestra played the last few dynamic bars of that very self-descriptive song, I raised both hands high above my head, waved a happy goodbye and shouted a joyous, THANK YOU, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! I love you so much! Thank you for making my life so happy! Good night and God bless you!

* * * * *

My staff and friends were buzzing around me with their usual post-show comments: Connie, love, you promised to see your Brooklyn fan club president. She’s here with her parents.

Your twenty invited Vietnam vets are here to take a few pictures with you, Concetta.

"Connie, did I fade the spot soon enough on Exodus? asked Ed Yoe, my production manager. Are you sure you wanna take your bows in the dark? I don’t like it."

Enough reverb on the ballads, Concetta?

Who cares? I thought to myself. Don’t these people realize that there’s something a lot more important on my mind and in my heart than the sound or the lightning tonight? No one seems to understand that my baby boy was waiting for me to take him home and give him more love from more people than any little baby could possibly handle?

Where’s a darn washcloth? I asked, exasperated. "Don’t they ever believe in washcloths in these stupid places? Not once do they ever -"

It’s right here, love, Libby interrupted softly.

"Where?" I asked impatiently.

Right under your wee nose!

"Sure, now it’s a wee nose. When it wasn’t such a wee nose, Libs, I never used to perspire at all on stage. Y’know, when I could sing in air-conditioning venues, before that lousy nose job caused me all that agita and grief, not to mention a gazillion dollars."

I know, love; you’ve always said that.

"I wasn’t happy enough with my cute, pudgy Italian nose, right? I had to be Natalie Wood! My father’s right sometimes; I don’t have any brains! Libs, please—try Joe and Dick again!"

Francine just did, love. We must’ve placed twenty calls to them, but nothing! The dirty stay-outs!

OK, GANG! NEW GAME PLAN! I bubbled to our married friends, Francine and Mike Ferrante, the couple whom Joe had assigned to stay with me for only that one night. We’ll go back to the Howard Johnson’s, and I’ll call Joe and Dick from there. I’ll call them till the cows come home, ’cause this is too important. In fact, it’s VITAL.

* * * * *

Later, in my room at the Howard Johnson’s, while Mike went out for some real deli sandwiches, I very carefully removed that life-altering letter from the pocket of my new mink coat and placed it ever so delicately on the bed next to Frannie.

Guard that letter with your life, kiddo! I demanded cheerfully. While I removed my make-up and brushed my hair, Frannie and I sat Indian-style in our robes on the bed. Fran had just suffered a miscarriage, too, and we both spoke fervently about how much we both wanted and needed a child, and every few minutes, I kept telephoning Joe and Dick relentlessly.

"OK, you guys, it’s almost 3:00 a.m. already. So go to your room right now, and make wild love, you hot Italian couple, you!"

Yeah, sure, Concetta, Mike sighed hopelessly. "Hangin’ around you, normal people like us, we don’t need no sex, we need a friggin’ sanitarium! Besides, we’re not goin’ nowhere; we can’t leave you alone! Joe gave me strict orders; we’re stayin’ in the connecting room, and that’s it, period. End of story!"

"Oh, no, you’re not! All your stuff is in that other room all the way down the hall; it’s so silly. Now I’m not takin’ no for an answer Miguel."

"Concetta, you know your husband. I WILL NOT DEFY HIS ORDERS! OUTTA THE QUESTION!"

"Don’t sweat it Miguel! I’ll take the heat! Look, we’re on the second floor. Who could possibly climb up to the second floor—Superman? Now just check the sliding glass doors first, and then go to your room—please."

"OK, whatever you say, CF! You wear the gown." When they’d left, I bolted the hall door and then finally reached our lawyer and friend, Richard Frank.

* * * * *

"What’s with you, Richard? For godssakes, where’ve you been? Forget about that for now! LISTEN, DICK, THERE’S A BABY! I GOT THIS LETTER IN THE MAIL TONIGHT ABOUT A BABY! I was shouting out loud, unable to contain my unbridled exuberance. DICK I SWEAR, HE’S A GERBER AD! He’s absolutely the most precious baby you’ve ever seen in your entire life! AND HE’S AVAILABLE FOR ADOPTION RIGHT NOW—THIS VERY MOMENT!"

Calm down, sweetheart, Dick Frank counseled, in his most lawyerly monotone. "Do you see what I mean? You’re doing it all over again. Just last week, Joe and I talked to you at length about this very same thing. Don’t always be so damned impetuous; it’s your very worst character flaw. It gets you into trouble every single time! Now slow down, so I can understand better what you’re saying."

"You know I speak in shorthand, Dick."

"Then get a grip, will you, Connela? How many times do Joe and I have to warn you not to always be so rash? Tomorrow’s another day. Do you think that the baby’s going to the Hamptons for the weekend? Calm down, Connela, relax, already."

Look, Richard, just write down this num—

"I said, sleep on it, Connie. It’s three o’clock in the morning, for chrissakes. What can I possibly do at three o’clock in the morning? Tomorrow when Joe gets back, we’ll talk; we’ll give it some further thought."

ARE YOU INSANE, DICK? I shouted in amazement. "All of this was meant to be! Would you believe this amazing coincidence? THIS CHILD WAS BORN ON JUNE SIXTEENTH!"

So?

"SO! YOU FORGOT ALREADY?" I said in disbelief. How can the man possibly forget that Joe and I were married on that very same date—September 16th—exactly nine months to the day before this baby was born?

"Don’t you realize, Dick that the Man upstairs is definitely trying to tell us something? I mean, it’s beshert! Dick, now I’m not kidding around anymore. TAKE THIS NUMBER DOWN RIGHT NOW! And first thing in the morning, you go and see this lady! PROMISE ME THAT!"

"For godssakes, Connie, will you get your act together! You’re supposed to be a bright woman, but sometimes I wonder. What the hell do you know about these people? They could be serial killers for all we know. Who sends a letter in the mail offering a baby yet—and to a total stranger, no less?" My infamous patience was just about running out.

Did you write it….

Yes, I wrote it down! Dick Frank sighed with resignation. "Three times, I wrote it down." But I know Dick like a book! The man isn’t conning me. I can tell from that condescending attitude of his that he hasn’t written down a damn thing. So what else is new? OK, Richard, no problema. As usual, I’ll do it myself! How else does anything ever get accomplished in my life? First thing in the morning, just like always, I’ll handle everything by myself. I’ll just call up the lady myself, that’s all.

Not wanting the precious letter to get mixed up with the mounds of other papers, documents, mail, sheet music, tape cassettes and the like that littered the small room, I very carefully placed the all-important letter back into the pocket of my new fur coat.

I was never to see that letter again, the one and only link between myself and my child. When the police eventually returned all the papers that were in the room that night, all of them blackened from the dust that forensics use to lift fingerprints, it wasn’t among them. Not until seven years later, would Libby remind me, that when I left the Music Fair that night, I’d put the letter in my coat pocket for safekeeping. I took a very mild sedative and left a 6:30am wake-up call.

What a day tomorrow’s gonna be! The start of a totally brand new life for Joe and me! The one thing I’ve never stopped dreaming of. I drifted off, visions of bouncing four-month-old baby boys dancing about in my head. Who the heck needs sugar plums! Not this kid—not on this joyous night!

I made a mental note of the date, November 7-8, 1974. The most joyous and the most terrifying date I’d ever known. How would I ever be able to forget that incredible November night, the night when all the music died?

The Night When All the Music Died

(Daddy: Tell ’er she’s lucky she’s married to a guy like Joe.)

Westbury, Long Island

November 8, 1974

About 4:00 a.m.

Scream, and I’ll kill you!

A searing pain shot through me; I was yanked by my hair and forced onto my back. I looked up; it took me a moment to understand. My God! This is no dream! He was black. There was a white towel over the lower part of his face, and there was a knife in his hand. He released the hand covering my mouth, pointing his knife at my neck. My blood froze inside me. I’m trapped somewhere, suspended in space, or in a surreal kind of purgatory.

He put his hand at the top of my nightgown, and in one swift, single motion, tore it away like so much crepe paper. I don’t know how long it lasted; not in real time, anyway—an eternity it seemed; time is always relative, isn’t it? My face was soaked with the sweat that had dripped from his face and body. I desperately wanted to wipe it away, to move it to some other place; to hurl myself into a scalding, disinfected tub.

Did you enjoy it?

WHAT! I’M GONNA MURDER THIS FRIGGING BASTARD! THIS FILTHY, DISGUSTING, ROTTEN PIG! WAIT A SECOND, CONNIE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Think…, just think for a change. Just think this through, control, total control now. This is the most vital thing you’ve ever had to do. Nothing else matters. So watch that famous temper of yours, Connie. Don’t show him you’re afraid. That’s just what this animal wants…it’s like an attack dog…no sudden moves, Connie…Calm, very calm…very feminine.

Well, it was a little sudden…I’m a woman… I need more time—y’know.

Suddenly, I was consumed by a demonic rage, powerful and indescribable. Rage…fury…I never knew the meaning of the words before… STOP IT! BE SMART FOR A CHANGE—YOU’VE GOT TO! Don’t make the same mistake you always make with bullish men who only think they’re in charge…don’t take him on…don’t get this freak riled.

Ever fuck a black man before?

Twice a day, you filthy bastard! What happened to your famous guts, Connie? You’re supposed to be a fighter! This piece of scum can’t talk to you like that! I resisted the urge to lunge at his eyes. Stop! THINK! Just keep that Italian temper of yours way, way down. Control, total control now, girl…

No, uh-uh, I haven’t. Choose your words; be nice to him, that’s all. Oh, dear God in Heaven, what if this monster is actually out to kill me? How can you tell? Remember that sick animal, Richard Speck, in Chicago. Remember how he actually slaughtered all those poor little kids, those eight Filipino nurses and talked each of them into believing he wasn’t gonna kill them? Oh, no God, the towel’s off his face…I can identify him now. Now he’ll have no other choice but to kill me…

How old are you, lady?

"How old am I? I’m thirty-four. Why?"

"You don’t look it; you’re just a few years younger than my fuckin’ mother. How old do you think I am?"

Nineteen—twenty?

That’s right. Hey, lady, by the way, you were good, y’know.

I’M GOOD! YOU DEGENERATE SON-OF-A-BITCH! In vivid detail, my mind dismembered him limb by limb with my bare hands.

"YOUR MONEY, LADY! GIVE ME ALL OF YOUR MONEY! I WANT YOUR MONEY RIGHT NOW!"

Let’s see now…where did I put that stupid wallet? Stop shovin’ me around, you filthy lowlife bastard! Look in the top drawer, fella; I think it’s right there. Do you see it? Oh, no! What the hell did I do with my wallet? Oh, my God! Oh, no! I gave everything to Frannie! All the jewelry and the $100, too. OK, OK, just chill…think a minute. Gotta use your head now for a change…OK, this better be your best performance yet, CF.

Let me ask you somethin’, OK? You’re such a young guy; you’ve got a whole lifetime ahead of you—an unlimited future. Why do you wanna do bad stuff like this—like what you did tonight? I mean, are you havin’ trouble finding a job, or what? Dumb. Very dumb, Connie, you idiot.

"Why should I find a job when I can do this?" A night’s work of unskilled labor, huh? You piece of shit! He yanked out all the drawers, frantically throwing them onto the floor. Don’t tell me this creep is goin’ berserk! Tell me this whole thing isn’t real, that it’s all a bad dream…the worst nightmare I’ve ever had in my life. Please, please God! Connie, your voice is shaking—you can’t do that, now keep your voice calm, soft…gentle

"I don’t have any money—not even a dime. I’m really very, very sorry—I mean, not a damn penny. I gave everything to my girlfriend down the hall…she has my jewelry, too… There’s a strand of pearls here somewhere." Don’t underestimate this guy! Don’t lie to him, he’ll know it…Say something real, something honest. I don’t know if they’re the real ones or not. Sweetness and light, Concetta. He’s only a man…be feminine…speak gently…

I have a mink coat over there, see it? It’s brand new; I didn’t even pay for it yet. Go ahead mister, why don’t you just take it? Give it to your girl, or better yet, I bet your mom will look really nice in it.

"Yeah, sure, bitch—my mother. Ha! That’s a fuckin’ joke! You expect me to carry this fuckin’ thing all the way up that goddamned hill, huh? GIVE ME THE FUCKIN’ MONEY NOW, LADY! NOW!" If he punches me one more time, I’ll…you’ll do what? WHAT? Oh, please, please, dearest God! Help me! Help me just this once, and I swear to YOU, I’ll be good the rest of my life…I swear…I’ll be a good person! I’ll do good things for lots and lots of people…

When he slammed my body into the dresser for the third time, I fell hard to the floor. I’m really hurt…I know I’ve gotta be hurt, but there’s no pain. Forget about that for now…Where the hell am I gonna get this money? WHERE? OK…now…you’re OK, CF… You can do it…sure…just hang in there…

"OK, YOU SLUT! YOU ASKED FOR IT!" He doesn’t believe a single word I’m saying; this nutcase is furious with me.

"I’m not lying, man, honest, I’m not. I don’t lie! I wouldn’t do that! But I really have nothing else to give you…"

"OK, that’s it, lady! Now I’m gonna count from one to twenty! If you don’t give me all your fuckin’ money, when I get to twenty, I’m gonna slice your fuckin’ throat from ear to ear! It’ll be a pleasure, understand me? Do you?"

Instinctively, I didn’t think about losing my life at all. Cut my throat? If he does that, I’ll never sing again! Go right ahead then, mister—kill me. Never sing again? Ha! That’s a joke. If I can’t sing, I’m better off dead, anyway.

When he stuck the point of the knife into my neck, I felt my warm blood turn cold as it dropped onto my chest. Why doesn’t it hurt? Please, God make it hurt, I don’t wanna die! Don’t count, mister, please don’t count…

One…two… Oh, mommy, where are you? Help me, mommy—please!

"Three…four…five…six…Hey, does this guy even know who I am?

Seven…eight…nine…What if I tell him who I am? Would it help me? Could it be that he just picked this room at random? Of course! That’s it! Just another room…I bet he’s never even heard of me, he’s just a kid. But what’s there to lose? Nothing. Be very humble, reasonable. It’s just like any one of your thousand other meetings…a normal, everyday negotiation, that’s all it is.

Sixteen—

Look, fella, just let me say one more thing, and then you do whatever you feel you’ve gotta do, OK? You’re holdin’ all the cards, right? Now you probably don’t know who I am; you’re younger than I am, but I’m a singer. My name is Connie Francis, and I’m appearing right down the road at the Westbury Music Fair… Why am I tellin’ him this? Why am I telling him anything at all? Am I saying that I’m some kind of big shot? That he’d better not kill me, ’cause they’ll search even harder for him? What does anybody’s life mean to this kind of sick pervert?

"Look, fella, I earn a lot of money. Now I might be sayin’ the wrong thing to you, of course. I mean, you probably have a lot of good reasons not to be too thrilled with rich white ladies. I get that. But the truth is, that I never carry more than a $100 with me. Even if I could find the money, and I can’t, it would only be $100, that’s all. To me, that’s tip money! Do you actually believe I’d give up my life for only a $100?" I waited in stark terror for his response. Look at his face! I don’t think a word I’ve said is gonna matter one bit to him. He’s furious over the money, over the goddamn money. Everything horrible that ever happens in this world is over goddamn lousy money.

He threw me violently to the floor. Then, as if he had changed his mind, he pulled me up again brutally by my long hair. He took the straight-backed chair in front of my makeshift vanity table and positioned it facing the wall between the two double beds. Then he pushed me down hard on it. If only he’d let go of that knife for a second—I’d take a shot. Why not, for godssakes? I just need a second’s opening, that’s all, just a second.

He tied my legs to the back of the chair with a cord, a belt—who knows? Then, fiercely, he jerked my arms behind me, crossing them over the back of the chair. He bound my hands very tightly together. No shot at that knife, not now.

With malevolent scrutiny, he stared at my naked, trembling body. I was panic-stricken, like an innocent killer convicted of first-degree multiple murders, waiting for a hostile hanging judge to pass sentence, to decide my fate. When he shoved the chair backward with all his strength, I fell hard onto my arms and hands, my knees and feet in the air; now I was looking up at the ceiling. My fingers, I knew, had to be crushed.

The jolt of piercing pain that shot through me was the first truly intense pain I’d felt. I lay there on my back, trussed to that chair, listening intently while he roamed about the room, cursing and muttering to himself. I could barely make out the words. My God! Why is this terrible thing happening to me? What did I do in my life that was so terrible? Whom did I hurt so much to deserve this? I have so much to live for now. Hey, Joe! Daddy! Uncle Ray! Somebody! This psycho’s really out of order. Somebody straighten out this wiseguy for me, will ya?

He took one of the double mattresses and threw it over my face and body. Then he did the same with the other mattress. I can’t see. Oh, God, I can hardly breathe! If I turn my head a little to the side, maybe I can still get some air—maybe—maybe. On top of the mattresses, he threw three or four of my humongous wardrobe trunks.

Oh, no! Now he’s stuffing pillows under the mattress. Don’t do that, mister, please! There won’t be enough air! Oh, dear God, he’s burying me alive…Oh, thank you, thank you, God. There’s still some air. Why is that low-life goin’ through all of that stuff again? What the hell is the turd lookin’ for—King Solomon’s mines? Thatta girl, CF, keep up your good ol’ sense of humor; you need it more than ever now, kid.

I gotta carry this fuckin’ thing all the way up that goddamned hill—FUCK IT! he continued complaining. An eternity later, I heard the glass door sliding on its track. "I’M GONNA GO NOW, LADY! You wait thirty minutes before you scream! Do ya hear me? THIRTY MINUTES! NOT BEFORE! If you scream too soon, I’ll come back to this m…..fuckin’ room, and I’ll do what I shoulda done in the first place! He paused a long while it seemed before saying, I dunno, lady, there’s somethin’ about you, y’know…I know God’s gonna punish me—somehow I kinda know it."

It’s not time yet, Connie…you can’t fall apart, not yet. Not now. You’re not safe yet—not with this maniac still on the loose!

How in God’s name are we gonna keep this shameful thing quiet? We’ve got to, that’s all. Joe’ll think of something; he always does…Oh, God, daddy! I just thought of daddy, of all people! He’ll go insane! Where are you now, Daddy? You’re always like my shadow; I can never get rid of you. So now that I really need you, where are you, Daddy?…Oh, my God, how will you ever be able to accept this disgrazia!

And mommy. My poor mommy. I love you so much. Mom, you’ve gone through such hell with me already. With two divorces—that breakdown after Izzy—all the craziness that’s marked my life. Oh, mommy, you don’t deserve this at all, not any of it…you’re such a good soul. And Joe, my sweet, Joe. I need you so much right now, honey. Oh, sweetheart, what can I say to you? I’ll be alright, honey—I swear. Really I will…everything will be just fine, you’ll see.

It’s gotta be ten minutes by now. SCREAM, CONNIE! SCREAM! I screamed and I screamed; then I paused to listen to the chilling silence. I heard the faint sound of an animal far away baying pitifully in the cold November night. God, I know how he feels.

Remember that old James Stewart movie, Connie, Winchester ’73? Remember how Stewart was imprisoned in this tiny cage from which no one had ever escaped alive? But he did. Remember what the movie said? You can’t think of two things at the same time—impossible! So he concentrated his whole being on inventing in his mind, that new rifle, the Winchester ’73.

So that’s exactly what I’ll do! Of course! Lyrics! I’ll think of lyrics to happy songs, brave songs. Sing from your heart, Connie, and you’ll always believe what you sing. What song, though? C’mon, Concetta, you’re good at this kind of stuff.

When skies are cloudy and gray

They’re only gray for a day

So WRAP YOUR TROUBLES IN DREAMS

And dream your troubles away

I’ll never know how, but in some miraculous way, I managed to get out from under those two huge mattresses. Now I can feel the pain. This excruciating pain, in my arms, my fingers, my legs, over my entire body. Don’t think about that now, Concetta! Forget about it for now! That’s not what’s important, not now.

Until the sunshine peeps through

There’s only one thing to do

Just WRAP YOUR TROUBLES IN DREAMS

And dream your troubles away

I propelled myself across the room, inch by painful inch, alternately singing a lyric, then moving a bit, singing and moving, singing and moving, but with each move—oh, the pain! Ignore it, I said. Just forget about it! There’s only one thing left for you to do—just one! Get to that goddamned phone! But calmly, very calmly. You’re not gonna get there any faster if you panic, Connie, so just chill, OK?

I’m here! I’m near the phone! But where the heck is it? What the hell happened to that stupid phone? It must’ve fallen under the bed!

Just remember the sunshine

Always follows the rain

So WRAP YOUR TROUBLES IN DREAMS

And dream those troubles away (*)

* "Wrap Your Troubles In Dreams (And Dream Your Troubles Away)

Lyric by Ted Koehler and Billy Moll

Music by Harry Barris

Copyright ©MCMXXXI Shapiro, Bernstein & Co., New York and BMG Gold Songs

Copyright Renewed

All Rights for BMG Gold Songs Administered by BMG Rights Management (US) LLC

International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved

Used by Permission

Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC

Finally, I was parallel to the bed. My hands were still tied tightly behind me in the back of that chair, my face still looking up at the ceiling; all my weight was on my arms and fingers. Somehow, I pulled the telephone cord with my index and third fingers until I reached the dial. I couldn’t see the phone, but I could feel the holes in the dial. I remembered the room-to-room system I’d used a few times before and managed to dial Mike and Frannie’s room.

My mouth was nowhere near the phone, but I heard a man’s voice answer—Mike’s voice, and I screamed, MIKE! MICHAEL! HELP ME! PLEASE! I’VE BEEN RAPED!

It’s daylight now; everything will be back to normal soon, Connie…You’ll be safe again; that man can’t kill you anymore. Mike and Francine are running down the hall. They’re struggling with the key to the room, but how can they get in? It’s impossible. I double-bolted it from the inside!

"SHOOT THE DOOR DOWN, MICHAEL! PLEASE! YOU HAVE A GUN! So just shoot it down, Michael! Help me! Please, MICHAEL, HELP ME!" I heard nothing—only silence. They’re returning with somebody else, probably the night clerk. He’s trying to open the door, too, with a pass key, but it’s no use. Soon after, I heard other voices. Now the police are here! Oh, they’re here! Thank you, thank you, God…Now…it’s time…everything’s OK now. What’s the difference, anyway? It’s all over, isn’t it?

When I heard the sound of the sliding glass door as it shattered and the shouts of the policemen, I knew that any hope of containing this tragedy, of keeping this desecration within our family, was shattered with it. Oh, my God, soon the whole world will know. How very awful! What could be worse? Dear God in Heaven, what a shameful, degrading thing! How will I ever be able to face the world again? I won’t, that’s all. I can’t—not ever!

As a kindly officer covered my naked body with a sheet, I screamed uncontrollably, "I had to do it, I had to! He had a knife at my throat!"

* * * * *

Ed Yoe, Connie’s Road Manager: I was the third person to know. I was asleep in my hotel room in Westbury. The phone rang at six-thirty in the morning. This guy who said he was from the Daily News wanted confirmation.

"Is it true Connie Francis has been raped?

Buzz off, you sicko! I hung up on him. But of course I couldn’t go back to sleep. I called Connie’s room at the Howard Johnson’s. The man who answered said, "Detective so-and-so.’ I knew then that it was true.

I got to the hospital just in time to see Connie being taken to the police station. She was wearing this light-colored nightgown, I guess it was. She looked wild-eyed, like someone who had been driven insane.

When I came back to the theater later that day, everyone—the whole staff—was crying. The girls in the box office were making refunds, and they all had tears in their eyes.

* * * * *

Westbury, Long Island

November 8, 1974

About 6:30 a.m.

Everything’s hazy. Why can’t they untie these ropes? The knots are too tight, that’s why. OK, OK, they’re cutting them with a knife…

The room was a shambles. You mean, all they could find to put on me, is just this crummy robe and a pair of boots? I have nothing at all on underneath. Funny, with all these beautiful, sparkling gowns in this room. I vaguely remember Frannie begging to the ambulance driver, "LET ME GO WITH HER—PLEASE!"

As they placed me on the stretcher inside the ambulance, all I could say was, Oh, Frannie, what about my Joe? Call my Joe! Joe will handle this; he always takes care of everything for me. He’ll take care of me now. Then moments later, I reconsidered. "NO! NO, FRANNIE. DON’T CALL JOE! I’ll wait until he comes home tonight. I don’t want him to hear about this terrible thing this way: it’s too cold.

But how much better it would be if he were here! I really need him so badly now. I need him to hold me close where I’ll feel safe again. I want to hear him say, You’re so pretty, baby.…to tell me that nothing’s changed, that he won’t be ashamed to be married to me anymore. That he’ll be proud of me again…someday…maybe.

In the examining room of the hospital, I lay on a metal table; it felt icy cold through my thin robe. My body quivered. The room was Spartan-bare. It was only a sink with a pedal, a clock, the metal table and me. I waited for an interminable hour and five minutes. I shall never forget that feeling of total isolation, of being completely shut off from the rest of the civilized world.

People are having breakfast now; some of them are going off to work, or to school now—just like nothing’s ever really happened—not to them, it hasn’t.

I’d never felt less like Connie Francis before, but then again, I’d never felt less like a human being either. I felt like some kind of pariah, someone ostracized, cut off from the rest of the world. I guess I’m just another victim now, reduced to a statistic you read about every day in the paper, Connie, but until now, the victims have always been other people—faceless, formless people you’ve never met—not until now, anyway… Things are gonna be a lot different from now on. From this day forward, the world is never gonna be the same, not for me and mine, it won’t. There’s gotta be some reason for all of this, I don’t know what that is right now, but one day I will. There must be a reason for all this.

I realized, for the first time, that I was covered in blood. In a strangely detached way, I observed the cuts and bruises all over me; it was as if my body belonged to another person. I felt dirty, defiled, ashamed, violated and as helpless as an infant; I just wanted someone kind to hold me close; to tell me that everything’s gonna be OK.

Finally, the doctor entered the room and examined me clinically, coldly, without speaking a single word. Then, I’m giving you DES so you won’t get pregnant, OK? And, here—take these antibiotics. Make sure you take them, so you won’t get syphilis. Do you understand what I’m saying, Miss?

I was in shock, because neither of these two possibilities had never even occurred to me! The doctor left without saying another word. This is nothing new to him, not at all…It’s just everyday business for this guy…

I will forever recall the degradation I felt, that feeling of helplessness that consumed me, of being so absolutely impure and unclean. I still had that ugly monster’s sperm inside my body. And even after the doctor had taken the slide, not a soul suggested that I wash. And as for me, I didn’t have the presence of mind even to think about it myself, not until much, much later.

* * * * *

Later on, at the police station, lying in misery, still in my flimsy yellow robe, only one vital thought consumed me: I know how to make things normal again! It’s easy. ALL I’VE GOTTA DO IS TO GET RIGHT BACK ON THAT STAGE TONIGHT, AND DO MY SHOWS! Of course, I will! I clung desperately to my plan; it was the one and only thought that obsessed me; that got me through that never-ending day.

I don’t remember just how I got to the police station, but once there, I was taken to a room, still wearing that same yellow robe and still unwashed, then questioned by two male police officers. When the policemen asked me to tell them what had happened, I just stared at them blankly, blindly. Are they joking, or what? Talk to these men? How disgusting, how repulsive you men are! If I never see another man again until the day I check out, it’ll be too soon for me. Then I cried hysterically, rocking back and forth in my chair like an abandoned baby.

While I alternated between periods of lucidity and fits of hysteria, I was fingerprinted so the police would be able to tell my prints from any others they might find in the hotel room. Only later, did it strike me as odd that I, the victim, was fingerprinted like a common criminal.

How can I possibly talk to these men? It’s too sickening to even think about. How could any man possibly understand the self-loathing I feel right now—the disgust, this self-condemnation I can’t seem to shake, the shamefulness of this awful thing that’s happened? They can’t; it’s impossible.

Finally, thank God, they left and two women entered the room, two very gentle policewomen. I wanted to throw my arms about them and embrace them. I told them sketchily as much as I could bear to think of at that point, which was very little at the time.

For months afterward, I’d wake up in cold sweats, shattered by the graphic memories, the horrifying, chilling details of those death-defying two hours I will surely live with for the rest of my life; with those vile thoughts I’ll never be able to expunge from my mind. And I knew even then, that there were certain things I would never tell another living soul, and until this very day, I never have.

Did he say anything to you during the act itself, Connie? Donna Alden, the kindly policewoman on the rape squad asked. I nodded and looked away, so utterly embarrassed.

What did he say to you, dear? For a split second, I looked into her kind eyes, then away again.

He told me to move more, I barely whispered.

Then I was taken to a room with a one-way mirror; I saw six or seven men—black men in a lineup. Tell us something the rapist said to you, Connie, the policeman said gently.

He said…he asked me, ‘How old do you think I am?’ Each of the men in the lineup repeated the sentence in turn: How old do you think I am? Then suddenly, I heard his voice! I really did. Slightly New England! Incongruous. Not a normal black accent. "THAT’S HIM! OH, MY GOD! I’M SURE THAT’S HIM!"

As the door to the corridor flung open, and some of the men filed out, I saw him; there wasn’t a single doubt about it in my mind! I’ll kill that miserable bastard! I flung myself at him, mindlessly screaming words I’d never said before in public or even in private. I pounded his back with both my fists; in each fist, there was a knife! And with each blow, I was stabbing him to death! As he slowly walked away, I kept pummeling the air wildly until someone pulled me gently away, someone kind took both my hands in his.

"Connie, stop it, honey; he’s a policeman, he’s one of our people." I thought it was he—I was so sure it was. As I turned, I found myself in the arms of my Aunt Marie.

Oh, Didi! I cried helplessly. "How are my parents?" My Aunt Marie held me in her arms while I sobbed. I knew it was hard for her to remain dry-eyed, but she was always tough whenever she had to be.

It’s OK, sweetheart, she whispered over and over again. It’s OK now. You’re safe now; we’re here with you. No one will ever hurt you again—I promise you that. How many times before and how many times again, will I hear these same old words that simply aren’t true?

And then I saw my father. So chagrined and reluctant to face him, I remembered the stern warning he’d issued so long ago: "Now that you’re becomin’ a big star, no matter what, don’t ever give me no reason whatsoever to be ashamed of you, understand me! Not ever!"

I felt like a small, weakened child again, so vulnerable, so apprehensive as any little child would feel when having to face her father after she’d done something really bad. I looked at him hesitatingly, anxiously awaiting those first all-important words. But as I lay my head on his shoulder, all he did was to put both his arms around me, pinching my chin gently, the way he always had whenever I was in deep, deep trouble. The years seemed to wash away.

Finally, he said sternly, "Let’s get the hell outta this joint, baby! There’s friggin’ reporters all over the goddamned place. C’mon, let’s go home!"

"HOME! WE’RE NOT GOING HOME! WE’RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE TONIGHT, DADDY! I shouted, suddenly feeling strong, all-powerful—omnipotent, in total control of my world again. Not tonight, not when I have an eight o’clock show to do! In fact, I have two shows to do tonight! It’s Friday, isn’t it?"

"WHAT ARE YOU—CRAZY? You want people to think that this whole goddamned disaster don’t mean a friggin’ thing to you? C’mon, let’s go! Don’t act stupid."

DADDY! I said, half-pleading, half-determined. "I’VE GOTTA DO MY SHOWS TONIGHT! I MUST! Don’t you understand that! Don’t you see that if I don’t get right back on that stage tonight, I’ll never be able to get on another stage again! I know what I’m talkin’ about, Daddy—it’s PSYCH 101!

"Please, Daddy! Sure, I know what you’re all thinkin’: ‘She’s out of it’, right? BUT YOU’RE WRONG! YOU’RE ALL WRONG! JUST WATCH ME! I CAN DO IT! YOU’LL SEE! YOU’LL ALL SEE!" I went on begging everyone within sight, completely unmindful of my soiled robe, my wild, tangled hair, my lacerated, bruised body and face.

No, I didn’t go on stage that night after all. In fact, a stage was something I would never see again, not for the next several thousand nights to come.

* * * * *

On our way home, as I cowered in shame on the floor in the back of the car, daddy said soothingly those indelible words I would never be able to forget. How could I? Tell ’er, Marie. Tell ’er it’s a good thing that she’s married to a guy like Joe.

Of course I am, Daddy. How lucky for me, right? I realize that you could never accept me now, never be proud of me again, but Joe can. Joe’s liberal, sophisticated, worldly enough not to think less of me because of the crime that’s been inflicted on me today. Unlike you, Daddy, Joe won’t consider me "damaged goods."

Now how telling can a few words be? But why should any heartless or outrageous thing you ever say surprise me anymore—especially not after today. Coming from you, Daddy, the insensitive cruelty of your words is so predictable that they’re almost comical. I guess nothing ever changes, does it? We just wanna think it does. Because it’s always been that way, right from the beginning…the very beginning.

Growing Up Franconero

(Even the Gotti kids could learn a thing or six from me!)

I was born Concetta Marie Franconero in Newark, New Jersey on December 12, 1937, but only due to a visit, one of those weekend visits my parents always made to Grandma Ferrari’s house. Why, you ask? Well, it seems that my very pregnant mom got wind of this very big shindig that night at the VFW hall near grandma’s. She was a dancing fool, and she made no apologies for it. No way was she gonna miss this scene. I mean, how could she possibly resist tripping the light fantastic to The Charleston with her brother, my Uncle Ray (another smoothie on the dance floor) at one of those grueling marathons that lasted about a year-and-a-half? (You remember They Shoot Horses, Don’t They, right?)

So smack in the middle of Johnny Mercer’s You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby, mom and my Uncle Ray made a hasty, but predictable exit from the dance floor of the VFW hall, directly to the maternity ward of St. James Hospital a mere block away. But my daddy, well, he stayed away that night. You see, he was hair-on-fire furious with my mother for getting pregnant in the first place; he simply didn’t want any kids to feed! Not in the midst of the Great Depression and all.

* * * * * *

In 1905, when all four of my grandparents sailed to America via Ellis Island, it was the time of the greatest mass migration ever in American history, and they were very lean days indeed. During this worst of times, there existed no welfare, no relief, no federal assistance of any kind. But out of necessity, the city of Newark, New Jersey,