HIGH HOPES

Patrick?  Time to wake up, love.

She switched on the light and discovered Patrick sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed in his blue suit pants, white short-sleeved shirt, and his father's black dress shoes.  She was startled for a moment; she expected him to still be sleeping.  She stepped into the room and took his jacket from where it was folded on the bed next to him.  She gave it a brush with her hand, holding it up to the light, and then began to pick off pieces of lint.  

How long have you been up honey?

I couldn't sleep.  I keep playing the lyrics over in my head.

You'll be fine.  You know the song better than anyone.

Well...

Sing it for me again.

She cupped his cheek.  He stood and walked to his desk, picking up a handwritten page of lyrics.  She put the jacket on a hanger and hung it on the doorknob.  

I can't, I'm too nervous.  Did Dad leave yet?

He had to go early to get the subway so he could leave us the car.

Patrick stared out the window at the Imperial parked in the driveway.  She put her arms around his shoulders and hugged him.  In his nervousness, he conceded to the warmth of his mother's arms.  She thought, as she did lately, that he must have grown in the night.  At thirteen he's almost looking her in the eye now; her last boy growing up under cover of night.

Can we go now?

It's only seven, Patty-love.

Ma, it's Frank Sinatra.

She still couldn't believe it.  Frank Sinatra wanted to record a song with kids backing him up.  It had come as a surprise to the school, but apparently the producers had been asking around and attending rehearsals all over the city before settling on the choir at Cardinal Hayes.  And just like that they were all due at 9 o'clock sharp at the RKO studio for a day's work.  They were warned about Mr. Sinatra's punctuality and work-ethic and had been drilled repeatedly by the priests to conduct themselves civilly and maturely as this was "a wonderful opportunity" and a "once-in-a-lifetime experience."

She didn't know if mothers were going to be allowed into the studio or whether she would get to meet Sinatra but she had her hair done anyway and Joe, her husband, had noticed, amazingly, and teased her on the way out the door.

Tell Frankie I said Ava may be a big Hollywood actress but can she cook a pot roast like my Mary?

They broke up but I'll tell him.

Well tell 'em I said to keep his greasy dago mitts off you then.  Tell him I said so.

Big-shit smile.  Peck.  Door slam.  Whistling down the front path.  Joe Jr. and Dan were men like their father.  Boys really.  Nothing more sophisticated than beers on Friday, and the games, and the yelling at the table.  Late night Saturdays and scrubbed red Sundays, standing sheepish under the bloodshot eyes of the priest.  And the girls...well, she was sure tired of fighting with them.  Of course she couldn't soon stop for they may yet stray and there was always some disaster lurking, wasn't there?   It surprised her so that she had fallen into the same trap, except this time she was the mother and her daughters were the disconnected ones.  Many nights still she dreamed of her own Ma, sitting in front of the fire, smoking her cigarettes, endlessly chewing on where her daughter had gotten off to.

I'm here Ma.

What did you say?

Nothing love.  Let me just pop into my dress and we'll be off then.  There's tea on the table, and have a bite of toast.

On the bridge to Manhattan he sang again, breaking the silence, only this time just one part of the song, she knew, from towards the end.  Her boy was sweet, it was there in his voice.  And serious.  That surprised her too.  She knew "Irish mothers and their sons" but she always thought it a bit of an overstatement, especially considering her older ones.  But this one made her think again.    

That was nice now.  It is a lovely song, isn't it?

The sun shined down on the city and on the cars ahead of them and she felt the two of them bathed in its warm glow.

That part of the song's a solo Father Burke said.

What's that love?

Father Burke told me they wanted someone to record just a piece of the song alone.  That Mr. Sinatra thought it would be nice.

A solo?

He said I could do it if I wanted.

Patty that's wonderful isn't it?

He put his hand on her leg.  She knew what it meant but she knew he wouldn't be able to say it.  They stayed quiet the rest of the way in.

After parking, they all accumulated in the lobby and the boys were taken upstairs in three separate elevators, due to the sheer number of them.  It pleased her that much more seeing him among so large a group knowing he was singled out as special.  She kept her pride in check though because she knew it would offend him if she didn't.

There was a rumor that Sinatra had already arrived and had gone upstairs through some back entrance.  She joined the other mothers in chatting about Frank and complimenting each other's hair and gossiping about his break-up with Ava and whether or not "for my money" Bing was a better singer and the ironing of shirts and the rumors about the priest, "you know the one".

After an hour or so they were brought upstairs themselves and shown into a cool room with dimmed lighting.  They hushed their voices as one intimidated by the unfamiliar surroundings.  There was a rack and they stowed their coats and hats and all sat down in the rows of chairs facing a blank wall.  There were two large speakers at the top of the wall.  They suddenly crackled with noise.

Playback!

And suddenly a jaunty arrangement of the song they all knew in their bones began, a quick intro.  And then they all giggled in delight as the boys singing filled the room.  Some mothers spoke "that's my Jimmy!" but were quickly shushed as they all practically lifted off their seats craning their necks to get an ear closer to the speakers, closer to the sound of pure bliss; a previously undiscovered fountain of beauty and happiness, heaven on earth, plain and simple, "God forgive me."

And then there was Frank.  But he wasn't singing.  He was speaking.

That's the cue right there then Tony?

And the music stopped and they cursed him.  Some singer he was.  They dissolved into conversation again as the voices continued over the speakers, discussing how wonderful it all was and what beautiful singers their sons all were and what a joy it was to have such talent in the family and how disappointed Mrs. Sinatra, the mother (not either of the already two Mrs. Sinatra wives there were, heaven help us) must be that her son had turned out to be such a louse and how when their sons were famous they would know a 'cue' when they saw one and wouldn't have to be told when to start singing like some amateur and wasn't it amazing how much work the boys had already gotten done and it wasn't even noon yet.

Playback!

And they knew then to hush and the music started again and then their boys were singing again and the bliss was back and some mothers were dabbing at their eyes with joy and then Frank Sinatra made his cue and some of them gasped because "what a voice" and then they smiled and laughed despite themselves because then their sons were actually singing along with Mr. Frank Sinatra!  What new-found bliss and joy and meaning in life!

But he's got HIGH HOPES....he's got HIGH HOPES.

And now this was too much.  They all knew the song but who knew how it would sound when they all sang together with Frank Sinatra and such words to be singing, about life and optimism and not being dragged down by adversity or the million different things that could go wrong and wasn't that the very reason they all sent their sons to Catholic high school in the first place?  To be a bastion of virtue in a cruel world and now here they were, singing of life and goodness and maintaining your spirits, and recording a song that would go out in the world and inspire millions?  This was all too much.  They hadn't expected to be so vindicated by life so quickly.  They knew it would one day come but never so soon!

And she listened along with them, caught up just as they were.  The song was recorded in pieces into the early afternoon but the delight never got old.  She had forgotten the conversation in the car.  They got to the end of the song, and then there was only one voice singing but it wasn't Sinatra.

All problems just a toy balloon, they'll be bursted soon, they're just bound to go pop!

The mothers all talked then over the rest of the chorus.  Who was that?  It sounded like my Tim!  No one told me there were solos.  I need to speak to the priest.  It was surely my Bill.

The voice was pure and simple.  Elegant really.  A boy's voice trying for a maturity that would match the honor of singing with Mr. Sinatra.  A serious voice.  A sweet voice.  Their eyes all shone with jealousy.  

Only she knew for sure.