Yes I Can: The Story of Sammy Davis, Jr. (41 page)

I walked a few blocks, mulling it over. The poor guy had been so solemn, he’d seemed so worried that I couldn’t resist doing a bit with him. I bought a gold cigarette case and had it engraved: “Thank you for the advice. Gratefully, Sammy, Jr.” What the hell, so I’d owe a hundred thousand plus another six hundred.

Mama was sitting on a chair in the front hall, wearing her hat and holding her umbrella. Her suitcases were standing near the door. “Sammy, I’ve got my carfare and I’m going back to New York to a furnished room.”

My father and Peewee had adopted two little girls, Sandy and Suzette, and when we’d gone on the road Mama, Peewee, and the kids had moved into my house.

“Mama, what’s wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong that you’ve done, but I can’t live here any more. If it’s not the children screaming then it’s Peewee having her friends over for company. I don’t blame her. I know it gets lonely for her with Sam on the road and all. And when he’s home they’re always having parties and people come up and I don’t know what anybody’s talking about and I can’t hear the television. Last night Sam was all juiced up and I just can’t take it any more so I’m leaving. It’s the only thing I can do to get some peace and quiet. I’m an old woman, Sammy, and I need my rest.”

As she spoke I realized that as much as I loved her, I hadn’t taken the time to really look at her in years. Sure I’d kissed her and hugged her and listened to her words, but I’d missed the most important part. The history of her lifetime was indelibly etched into her face, and there was no disguising it with a new dress or a smile. It was all there: the hard work, the struggling, the years of hoping the relief check would arrive on time—I could see what it had cost her to buy me the drums, and the food she would never have bought for herself, to never have a day in all these years when she didn’t worry about me. But I hadn’t taken the time to worry about her, the one person in the world who never stopped thinking about me. I sat down next to her. “Mama … I’m sorry …”

“Sammy, you’ve been good to me, and I know you’ve done everything you could.”

“Mama, please, don’t leave me. I need you.” I took the umbrella out of her hand. “Give me three days and I’ll have a house for you. A home like I always said we’d have. Please. Now come on, give me your hat and don’t worry. I’ll get you a house. Just don’t go back to New York.” I kissed her and rushed out to the car.

Dave was in our suite at the Garden of Allah. “Baby, how much have I got in the bank?”

“Goose egg. You
had
about six thousand but I wrote checks for those bills you were going to pay.”

“They’ll have to wait. I’ve got to buy a house.”

“But I thought you were going to cut down.”

“That’s all fine and good but I’ll have to start next week.” I sat down and made a list of club owners. Julie Podell at the Copa, Dallas Gerson and Dave Dushoff at The Latin Casino in Philadelphia….

Dave was looking over my shoulder at the names and the figures next to them. “What happens if they say no?”

“They won’t.”

The problem was going to be the racial thing and I didn’t have that kind of time to lose. I’d have to ask Herman Hover to help me.

I stood at a window in the living room stunned by the sight of Los Angeles spread out for miles below.

The broker was aghast. “Are you
sure
you don’t want to see any others?”

“I don’t have to. This is
it
. Can you wait here for fifteen minutes?”

Mama was watching television. “I’ve got the house, Mama. Let’s go see how you like it.”

“I’ll change my clothes.”

“Don’t bother about that. You look beautiful.”

“Sammy, stop dragging me. You’re getting me out of breath. If the house won’t be there long enough for me to see it without running, then it can’t be much of a house to live in.”

I got her into the car and zoomed up the hill. “You’re going to love it. It used to be Judy Garland’s. It’s on three levels ‘cause it’s built on the side of a hill. I figured out how you could have your own private apartment. We’ve got about five acres of land—there’s
no swimming pool, but we’ve got plenty of space to build one someday.”

“Well, that’s good, Sammy. You know how I need my swim every day.”

I opened the front door and led her into the living room. She broke into a smile. I took her from floor to floor, I was racing ahead of her, in one room and out the other. “Now in here’s where I figured we could …” I looked around. “Mama? Where are you?”

“Sammy.” Her voice was coming from outside. “I’m out in the yard, Sammy.” She spotted me in the window. “How’d I get down here?” She started laughing so hard the tears were rolling down her face.

Two days later, I walked into her old bedroom and turned off the television set. “The house is yours. We’re moving in tonight.”

“I can’t move in tonight. There’s no furniture and the electricity has to be put on and …”

“Mama, I’m leaving town tomorrow and I want to spend one night in your new house with you. You’ve got bed linen and Dave and Arthur’ll help me bring over your bed, and I can sleep on the floor.”

I helped make her bed and I rolled myself up in a blanket alongside her.

“Sammy, how’re you going to sleep at this hour?”

“I’ll sleep fine.” I turned out the flashlight. Neither of us spoke. We just enjoyed the feeling of the new house and the glow from the lights of Los Angeles far below.

“You happy, Mama?”

“Yes. I’m happy. I love my house.”

“You don’t want to leave me and go back to New York anymore, do you?”

“No, I don’t want to go back to New York. But now you’re going to be leaving this beautiful new house you just got. Do you feel bad about leaving, Sammy?”

“Yes and no. I’m always leaving
some
place.”

“Well, someday you’ll miss it. Someday when it’s filled with your wife and children. You’ve gotta have reason to stay home. And that can’t be me. The Lord didn’t make it for children to love their folks the same way their folks love them. Don’t ever feel badly I miss you, Sammy, ‘cause missing you is part of loving you and I’m as glad for one part as the other. I’m as happy as I can be.”

“As you can be?”

“Someday I’ll be happier. When you’ve got someone to miss. That’s when I’ll know you’re happy. Good night. And thank you for my house.”

I was sailing down the road doing forty around the curves when I spotted a Porsche coming up the hill, honking its horn. It was Jimmy Dean. He had Ursula Andress with him. We skidded to a halt in the middle of the road and he jumped out of the car looking like he was in costume for
Giant
, with the Levi’s and a cowboy hat and a rope in his hand. “Hey, Sam, I gotta show you something I learned in Texas.” In two seconds he had the rope spinning.

“Hey, that’s a gas, Jimmy.”

“And I’m getting a little faster with the guns.”

“But you still have no chance against me, no chance at all, right?”

He grinned. “I just got back for re-makes and dubbing, I’ll be here for a couple of weeks. Can I come over?”

“I’m leaving town in an hour. We open Chicago tomorrow night.”

He let the rope fall. “Oh. Okay … see you, Sam.”

Some cars trying to get up the hill were honking their horns at us. “As soon as I get back we’ll get together. I’ve got something I want to tell you.”

“Then I’ll call you when I hear you’re back.”

“Please do, Jimmy. I really want to talk to you.”

We got back in our cars and it was
rrrrrrrr
and away we went trying to see who could kick up the most dust.

Dave opened the dressing-room door. “There’s a Finis Henderson outside.”

Finis, a buddy since our early days around Chicago, stood in the doorway, holding back a smile. “Mr. Davis, I presume?”

I played it angry. “Finis, where in the damn hell have you been? I’ve been in town since yesterday.”

He held up his hands. “Please. Don’t raise your voice at me ‘cause I don’t need you. I’m poor but I’m proud.”

“You silly nut, come on in here. Listen, this is Dave Landfield,
my secretary, and you know Morty. Hey, where’re the rest of the guys?”

He looked away. “Oh, I guess they’re busy or something …”

“Busy or something?”
I turned him around to face me. “What the hell is
that
? On my opening night? You’re lyin’ through your teeth, Finis. Now let’s have it. We go back too far for you to do mysteriosa bits with me.”

“Well, you know … maybe they’re a little mixed up. They figure you’re living over here with the ofays, when you oughta be over there instead. They think maybe you’ve gotten a little snow-blind.”

“Hold it, Finis. Look at my face. I’ve had my nose broken too many times to hear I’m an Uncle Tom.”

“Well, they don’t understand. They read all the stuff in the papers and … well, they figure it must be true what people’ve been saying.”

“And just
what
have people been saying?”

“Oh, come on now, daddy, don’t put me on the rack. I came over here to see my buddy. If I want a third degree I’ll rob a store.”

I pulled on my jacket and jammed a silk handkerchief into the breast pocket. “Boy, that’s beautiful. Wouldn’t you think they’d say, ‘Go, man! You’re makin’ it and you’ve got the strength swingin’ for you so
live like you wanta live! Fight it for the rest of us.’
But instead, the immediate reaction is ‘Hey, whattya think about Sammy livin’ white?’ Instead of sayin’ here’s a cat who might make it a little better for all of us, they turn against me and I become an outcast. I don’t hear ‘Hey, crazy! Maybe I can follow him through that door.’ All they want is to drag me back to the gutter with them. Well, man, I ain’t comin’ back!”

The door opened and my father looked in. “Sammy, can I see you a minute?”

“Finis, we’ll talk later at the hotel. Go on out to the table.”

I followed my father into his dressing room. He closed the door. “Sammy, maybe this ain’t the best time …”

The expression on his face was terrible. “What’s wrong, Dad? You all right?”

He nodded. “I’m okay; nobody’s sick or nothin’ like that. I just wanta ask you to help me out with something.” He opened a drawer and took a magazine out from under some shirts and pointed to the last line of a review on our Ciro’s run. “Although there is no telling
what heights young Davis may reach, it is a certainty that Will Mastin and Sam Davis, Sr. will go down in show business history along with Gummo and Zeppo Marx, Irving and Morris Ritz, and the third Dolly Sister.” I shook my head, “Man, they’re after us all; you, me and Will.” I kept looking at it, stalling until I could decide what to say to him.

He sat down on the bed. “Poppa, that guy’s laughin’ at us. What I was hoping is maybe you could talk to Jess Rand or somebody so maybe they wouldn’t write that stuff.”

“Dad, Jess can’t do anything about this.” The hope fell from his face. “Look, leave it to me. I’ll think of something. I promise you I will.” I put the clipping in my pocket. “They just don’t understand. Come on. Hey, betcha I can make you laugh.”

He looked at me, a smile on his face that his eyes didn’t know about.

“Ladies and gentlemen, as most of you know I don’t usually do special material, like ‘Hello, hello, I’m back in Chica-go!’ But there’s something important I want to say and I have to do it in the way I know best. It’s been a long road that brought me here and I didn’t travel it by myself.” The music started lightly behind me. “I’d like to tell you about the two gentlemen you see here with me, my father and my uncle: two men whose presence on this stage gives me more class than I could ever have alone.” The music swelled and I started singing.

I bowed to my father and Will. The audience was applauding them, warmly, sincerely.

When we got off I saw Freddie Robbins standing in the wings—a buddy from New York, one of the first disc jockeys to play my records, when I’d needed it. I walked over to him, smiling.

“Great show, Sammy. Wonderful. Hey, Jimmy Dean just died.” I searched his face for a sign that it was a joke. “It just came over the air. Car crash. He was …”

I went into the dressing room and closed the door. Dave was standing in front of the radio, his face ashen, listening to the report of how it had happened.

I never got a chance to tell him. I never gave him the pleasure of hearing it. And he didn’t have that many people who told it to him.

They started the commercial. A jingle. I ripped the plug out of the socket and the sound died.

I sat down and looked at Dave. “We had him and all we did was brush him off. I did to him what I wouldn’t want anybody to do to me. I tolerated him. I treated him like a kook.”

“But he never knew that.”

“Of course he knew. He was a sensitive man. He felt everything. And I made jokes about him.”

How could
I
have judged a man before I knew what he was all about? Me, who’s suffered from prejudgment. Oh, God, I just hope—as corny as it sounds—I hope he knows I mean it, that I wish I’d said to him, “I know you were my friend and I wish I’d been your friend, too.”

After the second show, I borrowed a car and went for a drive by myself, circling through the winding road in the park, trying to shake the guilt that was ripping at me like an iron claw. I’d been so busy being Charley Star that I hadn’t seen a guy who was reaching out to be my friend. Even on the hill when I could have said
something
—I could have yelled, “Hey, you were great”—I’d wanted the pleasure of telling it to him just right.

Why don’t you tell someone you appreciate them while you still can?