After the Dance: My Life With Marvin Gaye

by Jan Gaye

  “You look happy,” Ed Townsend told me when Marvin had left the studio to take a phone call in the office. “I see he’s in a good place. I hope he stays there.”

  “He will,” I said.

  “You’re doing a good job of making him happy.”

  “Thanks a lot, Dad,” I said with heavy sarcasm. “Anything to keep him satisfied.”

  “Some people can’t handle happiness, so they find a way to fuck it up.”

  “Maybe he just hasn’t found the right person to make him happy,” I said.

  “Maybe you’re right, baby. I hope so. If anyone can keep him satisfied, I know it’s you.”

  I thought about that word, satisfied. It came up in the title of the song that Marvin was tweaking that day: “Just to Keep You Satisfied,” the final cut on the album Let’s Get It On. As beautiful as it was, the song didn’t feel like it belonged on the record. It pointed to another story, another time, and another character.

  “Just to Keep You Satisfied” was about Marvin and Anna. The lyrics were explicit: Anna was his wife; she represented his hopes and dreams; he endured her jealousy even as he cherished their lovemaking; his deepest desire was to satisfy her; but it wasn’t meant to be. Mental strain tore them apart. Differences could not be reconciled. They tried over and over again, but it was too late. Much too late. The marriage was doomed. The marriage was over.

  I had never heard Marvin sing more beautifully or with such profound sadness. I was comforted by his acknowledgment that his relationship with Anna was obviously finished. I wanted it finished. I wanted Marvin for myself. But I also couldn’t help but feel the strength of the emotional bond revealed in this song. I couldn’t help but feel how much Anna meant to Marvin. And I couldn’t help but fear the power that this woman still held over him. There could be no doubt: Anna was my adversary.

  As a result, I made a concerted effort to please Marvin in every way. When he described Anna as being dominant, I knew I had to be more submissive. When he told me the story of how, during a brutal argument, Anna had stuck the stiletto heel of her shoe into his forehead, I swore that violence would have no place in our relationship.

  On her side, Anna had a long history with Marvin. She had money, power, and influence. She was one of the few people on the planet who could make him work. On my side, I had youth and sex and a free-love hippie attitude that Marvin found alluring.

  Either way, it was clear that the longer I was with Marvin, the more Anna would do to make his life miserable.

  Anna was a hard act to follow. But, she represented structure. In Marvin’s world, Anna came first, then Berry, and then himself. I represented freedom. I was the one who put his happiness first. Marvin bragged to others about it, claiming that I was incredible because I worshipped the ground he walked on. I enjoyed hearing that but after a while I saw the flaws in my thinking. It showed that I wasn’t making myself happy, and in many ways, I began to take it out on myself and Marvin.

  Another week went by of beautiful lovemaking at the apartment and beautiful music at the studio. Another week when, from time to time, Marvin wandered off to Hamilton High to shoot hoops on the outdoor basketball court.

  For me, the only problem was Marvin’s man Abe. He was still living at Cattaraugus, where he slept on the hideous gold couch. Marvin knew that I was uncomfortable in his presence but wouldn’t deny himself the convenience of having his personal assistant close at hand. Compared to other superstars, Marvin was living a super-spartan lifestyle, but he was also spoiled.

  Marvin’s contradictions became more evident with every passing day. He was adamant on separating himself from Motown. When the Motown execs called, wanting to hear the new record in progress and wondering when it would be ready for release, he ignored them. He had no interest in their input and blatantly disregarded their deadlines. But late at night, when he and I were alone driving through the city, he’d turn to me and say, “I wonder what Berry will think of this record. I wonder if he’ll like it.”

  I saw that Marvin’s confidence and insecurity were in constant conflict. One day he was certain that the new album was brilliant. The next day he worried how, after the political consciousness of What’s Going On, the world would regard the carnal intensity of Let’s Get It On. He kept vacillating. The record would be a huge hit. The record would be a huge flop. He’d be rewarded or he’d be ridiculed. He didn’t need Motown to tell him how much they loved the album. But he did need everyone in the studio to reassure him that it was great.

  On this particular night, after spending another three or four days sweetening the vocals, Marvin was still reluctant to let Motown hear what he had done. He was behind the wheel of the green Caddie. I was by his side. I was still amazed that the man of my dreams had let me into his world. He kept saying that, like a dream, I had stepped into his life. A midnight mist covered the Sunset Strip. Tourists lined up outside the neon nightclubs. Working girls stood in the shadows of the streetlights. Some were long-legged beauties. Others looked tired and sad.

  “Would you roll us a jay, dear?” Marvin quietly asked me. He loved calling me dear. I loved how the word fell so easily from his lips.

  We shared a joint. It wasn’t a fresh high—we had been smoking off and on since early afternoon—but it was a good late-night high, a high that let us cruise through Hollywood with the sweet anticipation of heading home and making love. It was a trouble-free high that had us especially mellow . . . until we heard the siren and saw the flashing police light.

  Marvin pulled over. Two cops stepped up to the car. Marvin had no choice but to roll down the window. The smell of pot was pervasive.

  “Please get out of the car,” said the first cop.

  “Aren’t you Marvin Gaye?” asked the second.

  Marvin was upset, but he hid it well. He knew the police would search the car and find a bag of weed in the glove compartment.

  “Officer, if I could use your car phone to make a single call,” he said, “I’d be most grateful.” Instant charm!

  They obliged him.

  It took only ten minutes for a tall, beautiful light-skinned black woman to pull up beside us. This was Suzanne de Passe, high-ranking Motown exec and Berry Gordy’s closest aide. She was no-nonsense. She gave me a look as if to say, Wow, two stoned idiots. She was friendly but stern with Marvin before moving quickly to address the police. I couldn’t hear what Suzanne was saying, but she was obviously effective, because within minutes the cops were leaving the scene. There were no tickets, no repercussions. Marvin got off scot-free.

  On the way back to Cattaraugus, Marvin was silent. I knew that he was relieved, but I also knew that he was unhappy that I had witnessed his dependence on Motown. Like a child in trouble at school, he needed his lifeline—Motown—to rescue him, even though Motown was the authority against which he rebelled. This incident had made him feel less like a man and more like a boy.

  There was no lovemaking that night. In the morning, there was the awkward presence of Abe.

  “You’re not comfortable when Abe is around, are you?” Marvin asked me.

  “You know I’m not.”

  “And if I asked him to move out and invited you to move in—how would that make you feel?”

  The question took my breath away. I had been wishing for this very thing. It hadn’t been two months since that night I’d first come to the studio.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  “And what if your mother objects?” asked Marvin.

  “My mother? No problem. How soon can Abe go?”

  “Be patient, dear.”

  Patience didn’t come easily. I was afraid that Marvin would change his mind and never ask Abe to leave. He’d never allow me to move in.

  As my love for Marvin grew, so did my own fears and insecurities.

  I started to grow up as our relationship grew. Even though I was seventeen and under the influence of drugs, I was beginning to realize that I, too, needed someone to make me feel special, to want to make m
e happy. I wanted to give him the children that he asked for. I wanted to let him have his flings, even if I had to bite my lip later and cry when he was away. I gave in when I probably shouldn’t have. I danced along that dangerous line of being accommodating but not giving in too much, and I was often left alone and hurting.

  In Love with the Night

  My mother and I awaited the arrival of Marvin, who was on his way to gather up all my worldly possessions and move them into his simple, unimpressive one-bedroom apartment. Abe was gone.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” my mother asked me.

  I was sure of one thing: my connection to Marvin was the strongest emotion I’d ever felt.

  “I’ll be fine,” I told Mom.

  “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I won’t. He loves me, I love him.”

  “You haven’t even known him a couple of months.”

  “You’ve married men you’ve known for less time than that.”

  “He’s already married.”

  “He’s separated.”

  “But still married.”

  “The marriage is over. He’s even written a song about how it died.”

  “A song isn’t a divorce.”

  “He’s getting a divorce.”

  “I want to trust him,” said Mom. “But I know these singers. I know them all too well.”

  When Marvin arrived, it was as though he had heard that remark. He was barely polite to Mom. He resented whatever authority, no matter how tenuous, my mother held over me. In his mind, I now belonged to him, not Mom.

  He swept me away.

  My possessions weren’t any more than a hope chest from Pier 1 and clown-shaped salt-and-pepper shakers.

  The minute I arrived in the apartment, I felt a huge difference. Before, I was a visitor. Now I belonged. In the following weeks, Marvin and I fell deeper in love. Late at night, when Marvin couldn’t sleep, he sat in front of a little keyboard and fashioned melodies with such astonishing ease that I could only watch and marvel. As he pressed the keys, the wordless sounds he sang carried a lush beauty that was otherworldly. It was as though he was lost in prayer or meditation. After a while, he reached over and picked up a paperback book, dog-eared to a particular page. He stopped playing and began to read out loud. As he recited the lines, his eyes were lit with love, alive with a glow I had never seen before. He kept looking at me. I held his gaze.

  O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art

  As glorious to this night, being o’er my head

  As is a winged messenger of heaven

  Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes

  Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him

  When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds

  And sails upon the bosom of the air.

  “What are you reading?” I asked.

  “I found this in one of your books.”

  I walked over to where Marvin was seated and saw that he was reading from my copy of Romeo and Juliet.

  “It’s when Romeo is looking at Juliet up on the balcony,” said Marvin. “I won’t be able to say it as well as Romeo. No matter what words I use, I’ll never be able to explain how much I love you.”

  “I’ve always loved you, dear.”

  “That was before you knew me. But what about now—now that you know me?”

  “I love you even more now.”

  “I need to hear you say that. I’ll never tire of hearing that.”

  “I’ll never tire of saying it,” I said.

  His eyes filled with tears. I was weeping as well. We embraced, holding each other tight, elongating the moment in which our world consisted only of this embrace. No coldness, no cruelty, no pain, no problems, no heartaches, no hardships—just this closeness, this union, this love.

  Later that night he turned back to the keyboard in search of a song that had eluded him. I fell asleep on the couch. The sound of his voice informed my dreams. When I awoke, he was still playing. Day was breaking.

  The next morning, I rolled the first joint of the day and started dressing for school. Still in bed, Marvin accepted the joint and begged me to stay.

  “What’s the point?” he asked.

  “To learn.”

  “I can teach you everything you need to know,” he said only half jokingly. “We’re reading Shakespeare together, aren’t we?”

  “Literature is one thing, driver’s education is another. I’m learning to drive.”

  “I’ll teach you. I’ll be a far more loving and patient teacher than whomever the school provides. I think it’s time for you to leave school.”

  “To do what?”

  “To do what you’ve said you’ve always wanted to do—live your life with me.”

  The offer was undoubtedly tempting. Much of school was boring, but I wasn’t ready to leave. Ever since I’d been a little girl I had been told that I was bright. Quitting school didn’t feel right. Wasn’t a diploma the key to the future? At the same time, I couldn’t imagine a greater future than being with Marvin. And, truth be told, I did harbor a secret ambition to be in show business. I knew I could sing. I could dance. And yet I did want my degree.

  “Why should you care if I stay in school?” I asked.

  “I care about us being together—every hour of every day. I don’t want to share you. There are all those strapping young high school football players looking to love on you.”

  “They’re boys, Marvin, not men.”

  “Nonetheless, they’re my competitors. They’re young and horny and I’d not be surprised if more than a few broad-shouldered jocks have caught your eye.”

  “They bore me.”

  “You say that now, but when you’re still young and fine and I’m old and gray, you’ll say that same thing about me.”

  “Never.”

  “So say you’ll leave school and stay by my side. I want to be with you every hour of every day.”

  “Marvin . . .”

  He reached out and brought me back to bed, where we made love until we were exhausted. I arrived at school two hours late.

  At the end of the school day, Marvin drove up to Hamilton High in the white Bentley. I was happy to see him, but not the car.

  “Did you tell them you’re leaving?” was the first question he asked.

  “Whoa,” I said. “You just brought it up this morning. Won’t you give me a little time to think about it?”

  “Long ago and far away a poet once wrote, ‘At my back I always hear time’s winged chariot hurrying near.’ Time is rushing, rushing, rushing.”

  “Well, I really do need time to think it over. But it’s hard for me to do any serious thinking in this car. You told me you weren’t going to drive it anymore.”

  “I’m returning it now. I’m bringing it back to Anna. She and little Marvin are at her sister Gwen’s.”

  “We’re going over there now?”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Of course. You know it does. How could it not?”

  “I just need to switch cars and pick up my son. It’ll take just a minute. Be cool, dear.”

  We drove up to Gwen Gordy’s house, where Marvin parked the Bentley and had me wait in his maroon Lincoln in the driveway.

  Waiting for Marvin to emerge from the house, I was nervous. I didn’t want to be there. I hated that he had forced me into this position. I wondered whether he was putting me on display. Had he driven me here so that Anna could get a glimpse of the Other Woman, the young chick with whom he was having a torrid affair?

  When the door to the house opened and Marvin emerged, followed by his seven-year-old son and then Anna, my heart sank. Anna was scary—a strong woman in her fifties who, with a determined gait, walked to where I was seated on the passenger side of the Lincoln. She was heavily made-up, a not-unattractive matriarch with a round face and fair skin. She wore a purple crushed-velvet pantsuit, diamond earrings, and a heavy gold chain around her neck. Her hair had been softened and styl
ed. Her eyes burned with anger. She was focused on me.

  “Look here, Anna,” said Marvin, “don’t go and start trouble.”

  Paying no attention to her husband, Anna ordered me to roll down my window. Filled with fright, I lowered the electric window only an inch. I was afraid Anna might haul off and sock me.

  “I just want to see what someone like you looks like,” Anna said with undisguised disgust.

  A few seconds passed. I was speechless, but Anna was not. She added, “Now that I’ve seen it, don’t ever bring it back here again.”

  The words haunted me for the rest of the day: Now that I’ve seen it, don’t ever bring it back here again.

  I wasn’t a person. I was an “it.” I felt like shit.

  Marvin drove off with me in the passenger seat and little Marvin in the back. He said we were having lunch at Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles restaurant on Gower Street. Marvin’s arrival caused a commotion. Fans ran over to ask for an autograph. Everyone wanted their picture taken with him. Polite to a fault, he accommodated nearly everyone. But seeing that his son was not happy sharing his dad with the world, Marvin gently cut off contact with his fans, explaining that this was a family moment and would they do him the courtesy of affording him a bit of privacy. His request was expressed so solicitously that the people quickly backed off.

  I considered his remark about this being “a family moment.” In truth, Marvin’s nuclear family was shattered. His relationship with Anna was damaged beyond repair. He said little about his biological family. His mother and father were back in Washington, DC. Marvin spoke of his mother in saintly terms. He adored her. He rarely mentioned his father at all, but when he did a look of consternation passed over his face. Clearly he held no affection for the man. When I asked more about Father Gaye, Marvin said only, “He’s very strange.” Then there was the “happy Motown family” that Marvin called a myth. Gordy’s strategy of exciting competition between his artists and producers had led to vicious sibling rivalries.

  Within that family, though, certain people treated both Marvin and me with extreme kindness. Clarence Paul, for example, was wonderful. He was a writer-producer who had acted as Stevie Wonder’s surrogate father during Stevie’s early years at Motown. He also acted as a surrogate big brother to Marvin.