Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1959)

began, “Connie, I don't think you should go out in this weather in that old car . . She started to protest again but I edged Tommy toward the door before she could. “All right,” she called after us, “but be careful. And be home by one o’clock.” Usually, it takes thirty minutes to get from my house to Newark, but that night it took us an hour and a half. We stayed at the party less than an hour, so we could get home or. time. But the return trip took even longer, two hours, and even with what happened afterward I still think it was the most beautiful time in my life. We didn’t talk much. Tommy’s eyes were riveted on the road as he tried to spot the dangerous patches of ice. He drove slowly, and I sat quietly at his side, but not close enough so that our shoulders touched. A great white silence seemed to be heaped up on the streets as we drove through them. The moon glowed white in a starless sky and the streetlights were just pale sentinels before buildings that had lost their outlines in the snow that continued to fall in slow silent flakes. The branches of the trees, heavy with snow, seemed to be reaching down to us. There were no other cars, no other people . . . just Tommy and me in a brand-new white world. Then we were driving up a hill and the car stopped for a traffic light. I could almost see the lacy designs on the big snowflakes as they fell slowly before me. And then I said, “Tommy, I think I love you.” I didn’t turn to see his face. A long minute passed and then I heard him say in a funny hoarse voice, “I always have something to say, but not now . . .” He took my hand and held it tightly in his on the seat between us. “. . . except I love you, Connie.” I still couldn’t look at him. I watched the traffic light turn green and I heard a screeching noise as Tommy put the car in gear, but we didn’t move. For five minutes, he worried the motor but it was no use. We got out of the car and walked toward the ghostly lights of a bar. It was full of men, and Tommy had me wait just inside the door while he called a cab. We waited, talking about everything except what we’d just said, till finally the yellow cab came and we got into it. We still sat apart, but Tommy took both my hands in his. “Connie,” he whispered, “you’re so different from anyone I’ve ever known, different from the rough kids on my block, different from the other people in the business. I don’t ever want to hurt you . . I don’t know why I say those awful things sometimes . . . but I try to be very gentle with you . . . honest, I try.” He held my hand all the way home . . . he didn’t kiss me. When the cab turned onto my street he squeezed my hand till it hurt and he said, “Let’s get married in 1961. I’ll have a million dollars then and I’ll never have to say ‘sir’ to anyone.” If Tommy had asked me to marry him on any day during the wonderful months that followed, I’d have done it. Instead, we’d meet at the office and talk for hours. We’d walk one another to appointments, holding hands and dawdling in front of the Fifth Avenue furniture stores. We’d stop someplace for a Coke and doodle “1961” all over the menus. “It’s one day nearer,” I’d whisper and he’d laugh. “Connie,” he asked me one day, “what do you think we’ll be like when we’re married?” “The same,” I teased, “only with a dozen kids ” He grinned and then the grin faded and p that crooked eyebrow of his went up even higher than ever. “I don’t think happiness can last, Connie, I really don't.” He pushed the ice in his glass around with the straw. “People get married and then ou after a cuuple of years, maybe the very things they fell in love with start to annoy them and they’re not in love anymore — just married.” “Oh, no, Tommy, that’s not so. You only think that because that’s what happened to your mother and father. But it doesn’t have to happen to us. Golly, my mother and father have been married for twentyfive years and they’re still in love.” “Are they?” he asked. “Are they really?” “Of course they are.” “Well, then why don’t they understand that we . . .” and he smashed the straw down into his glass. When summer came, Tommy and I both had to go on tour. We promised we’d write every day, and sometimes he’d write twice a day. Once, he phoned me from out of town. “You didn’t write yesterday.” he said, “and I got such an empty feeling when I went down to the hotel desk. Please, please write.” But mostly, he didn’t like to call me at home, for fear my father would answer the phone. The tension at home had begun to throb in me like a sick headache and because I always told Tommy everything and wanted to share everything with him, I poured it all out to him the first day we saw each other again. “This is the first time I ever cared what someone’s parents thought of me,” he said. “Let me go home with you and talk to your father.” But I wouldn’t let him do that. I was too afraid and I was sure my father wouldn’t listen. “Not yet,” I told him. “Let’s wait. Maybe . . . maybe they’ll get used to the idea.” But they didn’t. The tension only grew and grew, like the snowbanks that had made a private world for Tommy and me that wonderful white night. I was unhappy for my family. We'd always had such warmth and understanding and happiness. But now there were evenings when I’d run up the carpeted stairs to my room without even saying goodnight to them. Then one day, my father and I were in Mi. Scheck’s office and Tommy came in. 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San Pedro St.. Los Angeles, Calif. door, then take a deep breath and walk over to us. “Hello, Mr. Franconera,” he said, “how are you?” And he held out his hand. The office was crowded, and since most of the people there knew about me and Tommy, they turned to stare. My father knew they were looking, but he refused to take Tommy’s hand. Finally, Tommy let his hand drop. A flush was spreading over his face, but he tried again. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you, Mr. Franconera. If we could only get to know each other, maybe we’d find . . .” “I, only want what is best for my little girl,” my father said, putting his arm around my shoulder. “I do not feel that you and she are suited for each other.” “But if you’d only give me a chance,” Tommy pleaded. “If you’d only try to get to know me . . .” “I know enough about you.” My father’s voice was loud and distinct. “I know enough about you,” he nodded to a group of young musicians Tommy hung around with, . . and your friends.” “What’s wrong with my friends?” Tommy demanded. “I don’t want that kind of people hanging around my daughter,” he said. “Why do they wear those beards anyway?” “Maybe they like goatees,” Tommy said. “Why are they hiding their faces?” “Maybe you’d look better,” Tommy flung back, “if you’d hide your face.” Then he turned and started stamping toward the door. He had his hand on the doorknob when he turned around and stretched out his arm in a pleading gesture to my father. Then his arm dropped. “Oh, what’s the use?” he muttered, slamming the door behind him. My heart thumped wildly as I turned from the closed door to my father. I stared at him as he said, “I’m going to speak to Mr. Scheck about this. Wait here for me.” But I couldn’t wait. I ran after Tommy, only I couldn’t find him. I came to the office early the next day, and I learned that Mr. Scheck had talked to Tommy about us. I waited for him in the empty rehearsal room, and when he finally appeared, I called to him softly, “Tommy?” He came in and closed the door of the rehearsal room. I leaned my head against the shoulder of his gray jacket. “I love you,” he said, so softly that I wonder now if he even meant me to hear it. Then he pushed me away. “Connie, I don’t want to see you any more.” “I know what you’re going through, I know how . . .” “You’re in my way, Connie. I can move faster without you.” “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re upset. Let’s wait and . . .” “No,” he said. “We’re finished.” And he walked out. I felt numb. The next day when we met again, I saw he wanted to say something to me, but I’d been hurt and that made me walk out of the office. The next time we met he was with his friends and I was rude to him. And then he was rude to me. And we were never alone again. And that was the end of it . . . almost. . . . Because there in that drug store, perched on a stool and staring at the signs advertising the sandwich specials, I knew I had to think about it, that I had to understand why it happened the way it did. Now it’s all over. I know it’s all over. I was hurt, but I wouldn’t have missed it. I hope love happens to me again. I hope it happens again soon. The End M-G-M PLATTER STAR CONNIE CAN BE SEEN ON “THE JIMMIE RODGERS SHOW” ON NBC-TV, tues., 8:30-9 p.m. edt.