Vic Damone: “Why I Love My Wife”

To me she is not Pier Angeli, but Anna Maria Damone, my wife. When I talk about her, I like to say “my wife.” It comes naturally to me. I love the words and the sound of them in my ears and what they mean. It’s hard to describe in words what she is like. Sweet and good and wonderful, yes, but these are general terms and don’t explain what makes my wife herself. I think the best way is to show her at certain moments that hang like pictures in my memory. Some could never have happened more than once. Some happen over and over again when she does a familiar thing and a familiar look crosses her face, which makes my heart laugh or melt or both together. Let me describe a few of these changing moods and what lies behind them. They will tell you better than all the adjectives in the dictionary why I love my wife.

THE WAY SHE LOOKED AT OUR WEDDING. Not as we were being married, but just afterwards. The priest had blessed us and pronounced us man and wife. Fifty choir-boys had sung the Ave Maria. It was time to walk up the aisle, but she whispered, “Wait.” For a second I didn’t understand. Till she moved quietly and alone to the side of the altar. There she knelt down, laid her bouquet at the feet of the Virgin Mary, bowed her head and prayed. Not a short hurried prayer. She must have been kneeling there for three or four minutes, like she’d forgotten the world, like she was all by herself in the church having a little talk with our Holy Mother. A kind of hush fell over everything. I choked up. It was such a simple gesture, so reverent, so touched by grace. Here was my wife who had just become my wife, praying for us—for our marriage, our happiness. Chills tingled along my spine. I’m not ashamed to say my eyes misted. Through the mist I still saw her little figure like a doll in the big white veil and dress, I saw the bent head, the folded hands, the pure profile. Then she rose and came toward me, her eyes shining with prayer. My wife is a very human girl. But in that moment I felt I’d married an angel.

THE WAY SHE LOOKS WHEN SHE SERVES ME TUNA-SAUCE. I’m fussy about my food. When it comes to cooking, I don’t believe that a woman must be treated like a little girl. If she cooks, let her do it right. My wife learned how to fix a real good Italian sauce. Then she began to experiment and one day she floored me. “I’m making a new spaghetti sauce for dinner. Tuna fish and anchovies.” I’m conservative. “Thank you very much,” I said. “You make it for you.” At dinnertime I ate two heaping dishfuls. “Is this chicken sauce?” I asked. She mumbled something, so as not to lie. Till I was all through. Then she spoke in a small voice, “I didn’t want to spoil your dinner, but you just had anchovies and tuna fish.” She jumped from the table. I ran after her—and caught her. But what could I do? The stuff still tasted great. She cooks tuna-sauce pretty often now. She can’t resist it. Whenever she serves it, she gets this look on her face. Very pleased with herself that she put something over on her husband. Like a little duck strutting. Or like Peter Pan ready to flap his wings, ready to crow, “How clever I am!”

THE WAY SHE LOOKS WHEN SHE MISSES A GOLF BALL. And why does she look that way? Because she thinks she’s failed me. I happen to like golf. I would like my wife to play with me but she doesn’t know how. So I take her to the driving-range and teach her. On that range where I asked her to marry me and she gave me her answer, I now teach her golf. She swings—and misses. Well, anybody can miss once—even her husband. She swings the second time—for a second miss. Her face clouds up, her eyes slide toward, me to see how I’m taking it. I’m taking it like a soldier. Like a soldier she lifts her club, attacks again—and misses! Three times is too much. Her hand flies to her mouth, she turns on me this helpless look. Reproaching herself. Like a baby who didn’t mean to smash the bottle. Like a child who tried so hard to please her papa and feels so guilty because she didn’t make it. I can’t help laughing inside. But she doesn’t want laughter. She needs encouragement. So I encourage her. “Come, let’s try again—” and she does better.

THE WAY SHE LOOKED AFTER THE ACCIDENT. You may wonder why I include such a troubled memory here. Because it’s too meaningful to leave out. I was in North Dakota, ready to go on, when suddenly I’m in the midst of a nightmare. On one side the doctor from Palm Springs: “A plane accident. Pier’s going to be all right. We’re not sure about the baby. Come as quickly as possible. She keeps calling for you.” On the other side: “Vic, you’re on.” So now I hang up, now I’ve got to do a show. Somehow I manage and then I leave. By train, by plane, by car, it takes me 24 hours to reach the hospital. What I see first are the eyes. One is bandaged, the other is black and blue. She’s under sedation, her hand is cramped from shock. But the minute I walk in, she murmurs something and the poor hand reaches for me. She looks so tiny, so fragile, so pitiful, it seems my heart will break. Harm has come to her, yet in her pain and sorrow—even in her semi-consciousness—she wanted only me. Through my fear, that shone like a light. With her hand in mine, I knelt by her bed and prayed.

THE WAY SHE LOOKED WHEN I WATCHED HER DANCE in Port Afrique. I knew she was going to do this sexy little number. Not wanting to make her self-conscious, I sneaked on the set. Her dress was so tight she could hardly move in it. But how she moved!—all the alluring gyrations like a harem queen, like she’d been playing sirens for years. Then it’s over, and she holds the pose, one hand up, one down, the body twisted, such invitation in the eyes. That’s when she saw me, and it’s hard to describe the mixture of expressions—shyness, confusion, embarrassment, a touch of apology, a hint of pleasure even. Like: “Here I am caught in the act and I wonder what he’s thinking.” I went over to her. “I didn’t know you were capable of such things.” Now she was really confused, not sure how I meant it. I was confused myself. It bothered me a little to have my wife carrying on like this. For me alone, I would like it. For the public—well, I’m still thinking it over.

THE LOOK I ALWAYS LOOK FOR ON OPENING NIGHT. We love each other very much and we pray a lot. I am a singer. Unless you’re a singer, you can’t realize the toughness of opening night. Because she’s part of me, my wife realizes it. On opening night I look to where my wife sits. Her fingers are crossed, her face is quiet and concentrated. There’s pride in it. But beyond pride, there’s something more important. It’s a devout look, a look of guidance and strength. She’s praying that all the songs I’ve rehearsed so hard should come out right. Not for applause or money. One doesn’t pray for such things. But because what a man does, he must do well. As I work, my eyes keep going back to that ardent look. And I work harder. For I feel that God and my wife are in my corner.

THE WAY SHE LOOKS WHEN MY RECORDS come on the air. To my wife, every tune I record is our song, and every time she hears it, it is like the first time. We sit having breakfast and here comes On the Street Where You Live. On the Street Where You Live can hardly be a surprise any more, but you’d never know it from her. The mouth makes a big O, the eyes dance like stars, she holds up her hand for a signal that the whole world should stop and listen, including the birds who are busy outside with their own songs. She gets more and more excited. She wants to hug the radio, the disc jockey, even the network. So. she hugs me instead. Then she calls the cook and the nurse. By now it’s almost over. Besides, they’ve heard it already a hundred times. But they’re nice, they come. She stands there radiant till the last note. “Isn’t it wonderful?!” she squeals. “Now you can all go back-to what you were doing.” To have such an audience as my wife in the house where he lives—this should happen to every singer!

THE WAY SHE LOOKS IN THE MORNING. Every morning my wife is up before me. I open my eyes and she’s leaning over me with the baby in her arms. Because I love her in white, she often wears a white satin robe that Helen Rose gave her as a shower-gift. Her dark hair falls over her face, which holds a deep smiling tenderness as of a young madonna. This little ceremony started by chance. If things are premeditated, they are less appealing. But little by little, as she saw how happy it made me, she began to bring the baby every morning. Now I wait for this moment, which is very precious to me. Sometimes I pretend to be asleep so as not to miss it. The baby is pink and gurgling and cute as a button. I know I sound like every father in the world, but I think he saves an extra special morning smile for me.

My wife and my baby, they are my life. I almost lost them both. We don’t dwell on past heartaches, but when I look up into her soft eyes, we don’t need any words. We are thinking the same thoughts. We are sharing the joy and gratitude as we shared the pain. She puts the baby next to me and sits down beside us. She knows why my eyes need to open on them in the morning. She knows it’s the only way to start off my day right.

THE WAY SHE LOOKS WHEN A WOMAN FLIRTS with me. Then she’s the cutest. First of all, I’m so completely happy with my wife and she knows it. But a woman is still a woman and my business is singing to the female sex. If someone likes my singing, I’m nice and appreciative. If she happens to be beautiful, maybe I’m a little bit more appreciative. After all, I’m a man and when something beautiful smiles at me, I smile back. Then I look at my wife. She’s drawing herself up in a kind of swagger, like she’s about eight feet tall. Under the wide forehead, her eyes dart me a challenge. “I dare you—I just dare you to smile at her again.” But beneath the challenge lies a glint of amusement. She’s not mad this time, she’s not even really jealous. She knows she’s the only girl in the world for me. She’s just re-stating her claim. We enjoy this secret little byplay together. And whoever the lady may be, I don’t smile at her again. Until the next time.

P.S. There’s one look I’d like to show you but can’t. My wife’s favorite seat is in my lap. The minute I sit down, she jumps into it and throws her arms around me. I wish I knew myself how her face looks then, But I’ve never seen it. It’s always buried in my neck.

THE END

—BY VIC DAMONE

 

It is a quote. MODERN SCREEN MAGAZINE OCTOBER 1956