Space Between the Stars (7 page)

Greg Errico, the drummer, would also hang out. The downstairs had a drum set and amplifiers, guitars, bass, and Hammond B3 organ. Mama made the group play softly because of the neighbors. Mama was usually in the kitchen cooking, or sitting at the table in the window, reading her Bible. She was sweet, with a twinkle in her eyes. Her heavy body moved slowly, and Sly danced around her, running back downstairs, where she never went. I would sit with her and answer her questions about my family and church.

Most evenings, Sly and I ended up kissing on his bed, me submerged under his wiry body. I made it clear that I wasn't ready to sleep with him, but his charm was ravishing my heart;
and each time we lay together, I knew my resolve would eventually melt. Lying with him was like being rolled up in a web of heat and feelings, and when he touched me, I wanted more. But I always pulled away as he began moving my blouse up my waist or putting his hands too far down my pants. He would laugh, but sit back, and we would talk. I didn't ask him if he had a girlfriend. Back then I was so innocent, it never occurred to me he would spend so much time with me and be involved with other women. I wonder if Sly knew how unsuspicious and naive I was. I told him I had broken up with Calvin, who was at the University of Washington on a football scholarship, in his own cloud of celebrity. Mom told me Calvin called sometimes, but I was never home.

I spent time with Karmen, who was also working downtown, and talked to Luci and Gloria, who were missing me because I was spending so much time with Sly and who wanted to know what he was like. We met at Luci's as we always had, perched on stools in her kitchen, and I told them about Sly's house, his camper, the music he composed. They listened as if caught in the same spell I was in.

Driving up Market Street one afternoon in late July, Sly said, “The band is going to New York next week. Why don't you come with me?”

“New York?” I had been to New York two weeks in June, when Kitsaun had been there to visit her friend Frank. Would Mom and Dad let me go with Sly? I would die to go. “I don't know,” I said. “I'm still working.”

“Come on, baby.” Sly looked over at me and took a hand off the steering wheel to touch my neck. “We're going to play a
show in Upstate New York on a farm—some big festival.” Sly put on his puppy dog look, the one he'd worn when he first had jumped out of his camper.

“I'll try,” I said, acting casual, as though I were asked to go to New York every day. “When are you leaving?”

I imagined being in New York with Sly twenty-four hours a day and thought of what that meant for our relationship. I would have to get birth control pills. There was no way Sly was only going to keep making out with me, and I
wanted
to sleep with him.

All night I practiced telling Mom and Dad that Sly had asked me to go to New York. I made up ways to ask them if it was all right. In the end, I was too afraid they would forbid me to go, so I didn't bring it up, much less ask their permission. I confided in Kitsaun. She listened to my reasons for wanting to go, a wistful look on her face.

“Oh, God. New York is wonderful. You have to go! Just don't tell them,” she said. “It's only for a few days. I'll think of something to say after you're gone.”

The next afternoon, I left work early and took the bus to Fillmore and Clay to Planned Parenthood. I went home with pamphlets on birth control and a plastic disc with pills.

Sly bought me a prepaid ticket. He told me he would be waiting at the gate. He wouldn't let me say I wasn't coming. Clearly he expected me to work everything out and be there.

I packed a small suitcase with clothes for four days. The morning of the flight I got ready for work as usual. Mom and I had the habit of riding the streetcar downtown together. This morning I dragged out the process of getting dressed and put-
ting on my mascara. Mom called from the kitchen, “Deb, it's time to go. Are you ready?”

My hands were sweating. “Almost, Mom.”

I sat in the bathroom on the end of the tub, willing her to leave without me. Dad was still in bed. I knew he was awake but that he wouldn't get up for another hour. He read the morning paper or “rested his eyes” until we all left.

Finally, Mom said, “I'm going to be late. I'll see you tonight.”

“Okay, Mom. Sorry.”

When the door closed, I went into the kitchen, pulled out the phone book, and dialed Yellow Cab.

“Pick me up on the corner of Harold and Grafton,” I whispered to the dispatcher, afraid to wait inside and have Dad see that I wasn't going to work after all.

On the drive to the airport, I reasoned with myself:
I'm eighteen, almost leaving home for college. I'm old enough to do this without asking.
But deep down inside I knew my actions were outrageous. I had never gone completely against my parents' wishes. Karmen and I had walked around the city barefoot after Dad forbade me to do it, but that was light compared to sneaking off to New York. I knew Mom and Dad would never have given me their blessing to go away with Sly. Dad said he had heard about Sly in the street. He called him a pimp. I loved my parents and knew they would always be there for me, but I had never felt like this about a man before. My desire to be with Sly fueled a passion that recklessly propelled me where it wished. I risked shattering my parents' trust to follow this man.

At the airport I paid the cab driver, grabbed my bag, and
got in line at the American Airlines ticket counter. I walked to the gate, clutching my ticket and my purse, and I stopped at a pay phone to call work and tell them I wasn't feeling well. Nervous, I approached the gate. There he was. Sly was sitting in the middle of the band members: a carousel of tight pants, pink-and-blue geometric shirts, and a sea of sunglasses. Greg wore a leopard-skin vest; Rose, a blond wig, too bright against her brown face. Next to the business travelers in their dark suits, Sly and the Family Stone looked like a circus. Sly was talking to Freddy, who looked just like him, but with a baby face. When Sly saw me, he stood and walked to me. “I knew you'd make it, baby,” he said, pulling me into his arms.

ly introduced me to the band members I hadn't met: Jerry Martini, the saxophone player, his long, reddish hair hanging over his eyes; Larry Graham, the bass player, six feet five inches, dressed in a white suit and a tie, thin as a yardstick. Cynthia Robinson, the trumpet player—fair skin and soft Afro highlighting guarded amber eyes—reached her hand out to me. Rose, a familiar face, hugged me, making me feel like her sister, as she popped her gum. KC stood at the counter with everyone's tickets. I walked to him and said hello.

On board, we sat scattered through first class. Sly swayed down the aisle of the airplane and sat on the arm of Larry's seat, leaning over his conked hair. Larry handed Sly a large book; I could see the title:
The World of Dogs.

I pushed the round silver button to recline my seat and breathed deeply. I had made it. A flight attendant leaned over. “Champagne, mimosa, or orange juice?”

“Orange juice, thank you.” I couldn't believe she was offering me alcohol. She didn't know I was only eighteen, but I was not about to get drunk on a plane.

Close to the thrill I felt in getting away without Mom and Dad knowing sat a gnawing worry about how they would react when I did not come home from work. Would Kitsaun be able to appease Mom and Dad, or would they call the police to bring me back? The flight attendant offered me a magazine, and I buried my concerns in
Glamour.
Sly's voice carried loudly through the first-class cabin. When I looked up, his eyes were on me. I thought about what a puzzle he was. He was obviously smart, but acted like a thug rather than intelligent in front of others. Since we had met, I had come to respect his poetry, his view of the world through his songs. Like Bob Dylan, a spokesman for social change for our generation, Sly's lyrics cleverly touted racial harmony, acceptance of those different from the mainstream, and standing up for one's beliefs even when the whole world tried to tell you that you were wrong. He was charismatic and sparkled with energy. When he spoke, his voice hummed, animated with laughter. I loved being near him when he captured melodies on the piano, singing new lyrics.

He sat in the seat beside me with the book in his hands and bent his head close to mine. My skin grew hot. “You're like music,” he breathed, “new melodies I've got to play. We're going to have fun. ‘Hot Fun in the Summertime,’” he said, quoting the title of the single the band had just released. He threw his head back, laughed, and opened the dog book. “What do you think of a bulldog?”

I looked at the photo of a short, stocky dog, swaybacked
with loose jowls. “Hmm. Pretty ugly. We always had German shepherds. Don't bulldogs get lockjaw?”

“Only if they get in a fight—I like that they lock onto the other dog,” Sly said. “Stoner's getting old. I wanna get some new dogs. I'm thinking about a pit bull or a bulldog. Maybe both.” He turned the pages, and I looked at the photos and read the descriptions with him.

We flew over Manhattan before landing, the Empire State Building's silver art deco spire glimmering in the distance. I followed Sly from the plane onto the Jetway. A thin wave of blistering air seeped through the rubber molding and scorched my arms and legs. I was glad I had worn my white knit sleeveless dress. It was perfect for the August heat. Outside the terminal, Sly guided me to a waiting limousine. I had never been in a limousine, and I looked around to see whether the other band members would get in first. The driver opened the door of the long black car, and Sly put his arm on my back, gently pushing me in. I saw Freddy, Rose, Larry, Jerry, Cynthia, and Greg— the rest of the band—climb into a long van.
Sly sets himself apart from his musicians.
I wondered how that made everyone else feel. I felt awkward—ostentatious—sitting in the back of a car that could hold six people. “Should I get my bag?” I asked.

Sly ducked into the limo and yelled to his father, “Dad, don't forget Debbie's suitcase!” The driver closed our door and climbed into the front seat. Sly said, “Let's go to Forty-second Street. I want to get a new tape deck.” He raised the smoke-tinted window.

I had gone to Forty-second Street when I was in New York in June with Kitsaun. The shops with electronics piled high in
windows, signs with “slashed prices” dangling, and dark-haired men hanging in doorways had intimidated me. Sly knocked on the glass. “Stop here.”

He pulled me along from shop to shop, where he haggled with salespeople. I felt like a rag doll behind him, the limo cruising slowly along the curb beside us. In front of me, a tall, shapely black woman switched her hips from side to side as she walked in a skintight miniskirt, her hair curled in lustrous ringlets. Her arm was extended, holding a leash. “What a cute dog,” I said, looking at the bundle of white fur she followed.

“Every working lady in New York has a dog,” Sly said, his voice gruff. It took me a minute to realize what kind of work he meant. He pulled me closer to his side and tipped his head toward the woman. She smiled at him.

At the next store, Sly made his purchase. We were driven to the Hilton, Sly clutching his new tape deck and grinning. KC was waiting for us in the lobby. He stuttered, “I-I wish you had c-come on with the band. I-I was worried.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Sly patted him on the back, took the room key and my hand, and led me toward the elevator.

“Y-You have a press c-conference tomorrow, Sly,” KC called after us. Sly raised his hand in the air as a response and pushed the button for the elevator. He turned to me and put his face nose-to-nose with mine. When the elevator doors opened, he almost carried me inside, not noticing other people or moving to let them on. At our floor, he put his arm around my shoulders, glanced at the key, and steered me down the hall.

Now that we were alone, my confidence waned. I wanted to leave my “good girl” lifestyle to be with Sly physically, but I
was also scared. He opened the door to our room, waved his arm through the threshold, and bowed as I entered. I tried to drift easily into the room like a woman, but I felt awkward, like the inexperienced girl I was. The suite was large, grand. An overstuffed couch covered in bright yellow flowers sat between dark mahogany armchairs. Our suitcases were leaned against the wall. I scanned the room: A door led to a bathroom; the bed sat in front of a window; curtains were open; and New York City skyscrapers towered outside.