Please Be with Me: A Song for My Father, Duane Allman

by Galadrielle Allman

  A troop of little children lived on their street: girls with runny noses and messy hair, loud boys with pockets full of marbles. The brothers fell in easily with the crowd. Duane, with his flattop haircut, crooked teeth, and a gleam in his eye, rose in the neighborhood ranks quickly; he was the swaggering gangster, the crack-shot archer, and the redheaded stranger on a wild painted pony. He was soon the leader in every game and Gregg followed in his wake, running to keep up.

  Beyond the school yard fence, a few trees shaded a shallow brook where patches of wild mint grew and a field of red dirt stretched the length of a city block. It was the perfect spot for cowboy games. Duane surveyed the wild territory with an invisible rifle on his back, watched by silent braves lying on their bellies in the brush. Hours were spent re-creating scenes from movies the neighborhood kids watched at the Tennessean Theater downtown. But fight scenes could easily turn into real fights. Duane was moody. He’d suddenly cross his arms, cut his eyes at an offending friend, and stalk home in a rage, where he’d kick walls and slam doors until he cooled off on his own. It wasn’t easy to calm him down.

  When Gregg first told me that Duane kicked his ass every day of his childhood, I thought he was joking; it was so at odds with my romantic notions about their brotherly bond. Then he filled in the details: knuckles to the skull, punches in the ear, constant shoves and kicks, how Duane pounded his fists into Gregg’s back while he curled himself tightly into a ball, and I knew it was true. Gregg was often on the receiving end of Duane’s anger, which is not to say that they were not close. Part of the reason Duane felt he could hit him and push him was that he felt Gregg belonged to him. The brothers had an absolute pecking order, with Duane dominating his little brother at every turn, unchallenged. But when other boys tried to join in roughing up Gregg, or even when girls pinched him because he was so cute, Duane defended his baby brother ferociously. Protecting Gregg was Duane’s most serious job; they were united against everyone.

  Gregg completely idolized him, even when he was hurting. He and his brother were two halves of a whole, two sides of a coin, and they were never apart for long. Gregg says he never learned how to be completely alone. He never had to, because his big brother was always there.

  Jerry was struggling. She needed to learn a skill that would pay if they were going to be able to survive. Her first real job out of high school had been at Montgomery Ward, and when the bookkeeper quit suddenly, she talked her way into his job. She was confident with numbers and she learned quickly, so she decided to study bookkeeping at night school. The boys adjusted to eating supper in their pajamas at ten o’clock, after she had completed her endless day.

  Duane and Gregg had beds arranged toe to toe in the corner of their shared bedroom. Duane fell asleep deeply and quickly every night, worn out by the day. Gregg wandered back to his mother, asking for one more glass of water, one more trip to the bathroom.

  Jerry stayed up late writing letters to Janie in Rocky Mount, and sipping from her glass, listening to “April in Paris.” As tired as she was, it was the only time she had to herself. She read romance novels, listened to crooners on the radio, and balanced her checkbook. She would soon have to admit she couldn’t continue to juggle everything, even with Betty’s help. Finding a boarding school for the boys was her solution. Because of Bill’s service, the boys qualified for reduced tuition at Castle Heights Military Academy. It was in Lebanon, Tennessee, about an hour from Nashville.

  Gregg was eight years old and Duane was nine when she sent them away.

  Jerry drove with Janie beside her in the front seat and the boys and Jo Jane in the backseat for the drive to Castle Heights. Trees filtered the late summer light and the car was quiet. She had been up half the night packing the boys’ clothes, pressing their pants and moving a button a quarter inch over on the neck of Gregg’s white dress shirt. They were growing faster than she could clothe them. She told them they could wear these things when they came home for a visit soon. She was tired and nervous, grateful for her sister’s steady company. The boys were dressed in their new uniforms, complete with stiff hats and shiny black shoes. No one spoke for long stretches of road.

  At the school, they wandered under tall trees and around immaculate flower beds and posed for pictures by a giant cannon. The scale of the brick building was awe-inspiring. Jo Jane ventured that she guessed it sort of looked like a castle. Duane said, “More like a prison.” After putting off the moment for an hour or more, taking the official tour and leaving their trunks in their shared room, she hugged her boys goodbye. As their mother’s car pulled from the curb and rolled down the long drive, Gregg started to cry. He ran after the car as fast as he could, chasing his mama out of the school gate. Duane stood watching him, then sat on the dorm’s stone steps with his arms crossed tight in front of his chest. He twisted his mouth into an angry scowl and if he felt tears rise, he swallowed them. When the car turned out into the road, Gregg walked back with his shoulders shaking and his face red and wet. Duane rose and put his arm around him. If Duane was afraid, Gregg couldn’t see any sign of it, and that made him feel a little better. “We’re in this together, Baybro,” calling Gregg by the endearment he always used, slurring together the words baby brother.

  Jerry wept in the car and insisted she was doing what she knew was best. They would learn strength and discipline, things she couldn’t teach them herself. They would be home for vacations. They would adjust. Janie nodded her agreement and sniffed into her handkerchief. Jo Jane was trembling in fury. Twisting around and looking out the back window, she watched Gregg running, his arms reaching toward his mama, his hat flying off into the gravel road. She couldn’t believe what she had just seen. It was a terrible betrayal.

  · · ·

  Duane and Gregg were marched through strictly organized days at Castle Heights. The clothes they loved were packed away and their hair was cropped close to their scalps. They were expected to wear their summer uniforms every day: gray cotton pants with a black stripe down the side and gray shirts so full of starch they could have stopped bullets. During their first year, Duane and Gregg shared a small room for a short time, sleeping in bunks that folded away into boxes during the day, like Murphy beds. Then they were separated into their grades. It took a while to get used to the strange sounds of coughs and whispers floating down the halls at night. It was never completely quiet. They woke up to the sound of a bugle playing in the yard as the sun rose and marched in formation to the dining hall for a breakfast of mush. They had separate classes all day, where they were expected to sit in silence. Along with math, English, and ancient history, the boys learned to assemble, clean, and fire real weapons. They carried M1s without the firing pins, and practiced shooting at targets with .22-caliber rifles on a range. They had drills in the afternoon and were confined to quarters after lunch to study. Rebellion and disobedience were not tolerated; punishments were given by a complicated system of demerits and restrictions. The school had all the structure and gravity of the military. There were rules for everything: how to shine your brass belt buckle on both sides, how to make your bed tightly, and how to tie your shoelaces. They checked to see if your fingernails were clean. Compared to life in their mama’s house, this was surely hell on earth.

  The rigors of the day wore Gregory out. He found it easy to be obedient; he sat quietly in class and did all of his work well, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had been abandoned. It seemed like life would never be easy or happy again. Duane saw their new school as a challenge. He didn’t like it, but it wasn’t going to break him.

  Castle Heights had its share of troubled boys sent there for disciplinary reasons, mixed in with the well-bred sons of military families. Duane could talk to anyone. He had the swagger and intelligence to befriend older boys who taught him when it was safest to steal away into the dense woods behind the school, or sneak cigarettes in a secret spot called the Butt Hole. There were late-night gab sessions in boys’ rooms in Hooker Hall, where Duane learned new
cuss words and how to throw a real punch. But he saw how brutal school was for Gregg and how he retreated into himself. He kept his eye on his little brother and helped him when he could. He showed Gregg the best way to organize his footlocker before inspections, and stayed in his room with him when he saw he was down. On Wednesdays, they were allowed to go into town to see a movie or go to the drugstore for a soda. It was amazing how special something like that could feel when you couldn’t do it all the time.

  Duane and Gregg were encouraged to join the marching band. Jerry splurged and bought them identical trumpets, no small investment, but their interest didn’t last for long. The band room had a piano and Duane was drawn to it. He began taking lessons and his teacher found him so promising, she gave him permission to play during any free class period he had. He didn’t like her much. She came on with an intensity he found embarrassing. She sat too close on the piano bench and told him he had beautiful hands. Sometimes she put her palms against the back of his hands to keep them arched correctly. She made strange sighing sounds and smelled of powdery perfume. His friends heard her encourage him and teased him about it: “Off to tinkle those keys, Allman?” That did it. Getting out of study hall and playing music alone in the afternoons whenever he liked was great, but he wasn’t going to take shit for it. On the eve of his first piano recital, Duane told his teacher he didn’t want to play anymore. She knew he had practiced for it; he knew every piece by heart, but he could not be moved. He told her he didn’t see the point of playing music. His teacher was so upset she called Jerry in tears. She told her Duane was excelling, but wouldn’t perform. He had a rare, natural gift, she said, and she didn’t want to give up on him. Jerry told her that once Duane had set his mind on something, no one could change it—just forget it. He never took another music lesson.

  After two years at Castle Heights, while home for a rare weekend, Gregg told Jerry he felt like she had fallen off the face of the world. It shook her to her core. She knew she had to make a new plan. She had finished her degree in bookkeeping and had befriended the two men who ran the NAPA franchise where she worked. She hosted cocktail parties and cookouts for their families, grilling steaks in her big backyard while dressed to the nines, and charmed everyone. Her boss, Mr. Hicks, said his wife had inherited a small hotel in Daytona Beach, Florida. He and his partner were relocating their families, and planned to run an Amoco gas station there while they renovated the hotel. Jerry told them that she wanted to come along.

  In February 1957, at the age of forty, Jerry took Duane and Gregg out of school and moved to Daytona Beach, the vacation spot she had visited with her first husband, Roy, more than twenty years before. It was a place of happy memories, and damn, she could use a little happy.

  When my mom was four years old, she made it out of her house alone. She paused at the end of the driveway and looked back at the front window, hoping her mother would see her go and feel sorry for shouting at her for giggling with her sister during their nap.

  She wandered along the edge of the freshly paved street, finding it easy to keep walking. She walked for a long time, carrying her cardboard suitcase. It wasn’t heavy; it held only a blue plastic comb, a pair of white socks rimmed in lace, and a doll with golden hair and tiny shoes. Her brother’s small red cowboy hat hung down her back. She had never taken anything from her big brother before. The hat’s white string pressed into her neck. She did not turn around to look back. She would never go back.

  She made a gunslinger’s shadow in the street, turning her knees out bow-legged and pulling the hat onto her head. There were no sidewalks in the neighborhood and the street was a danger in itself, she knew. After a while, houses grew taller and yards widened and her heartbeat sounded in her ears. This was the feeling she was looking for, a little ripple of fear and thrill. She had always wanted to walk until she crossed the invisible line beyond which nothing looked familiar, but she usually got caught before she could.

  She sat on a grass plot for a moment and pushed the toe of her sandal into a bubble of warm tar at the road’s edge. It didn’t pop, only squished silently. She rested awhile, and then walked on until she passed a white house with gray shutters and a green lawn full of trees and shadows. A stranger stood in her doorway waving her hand. Donna waved back and walked up the path to meet her on the covered porch. The woman bent down and asked her if she wanted a cookie. She wore bright red lipstick. Donna nodded silently and followed the woman inside. She asked Donna how old she was, and Donna held up four fingers. She asked her name and where she lived and she said, “Iveland Drive.” “Where is your mother now, dear?” she asked. Donna answered, “Home.” “Well, you made it pretty far on your own, didn’t you?” she asked. After two cookies, the woman told her she would walk with her back to the corner of Iveland Drive. Donna decided that was all right. She could run away again tomorrow.

  She made it home just before the porch lights came on in the darkening street. The woman waved her inside, then disappeared. The house was cool and she could hear her mother’s radio crooning through the closed kitchen door. Donna smelled the dizzy lacquer smell of her mother’s nail polish. Her father was still at work; otherwise he would have whistled for her, a shrill single note that shot down the block like a bullet made of sound. Donna climbed up the small staircase to the hall of bedroom doors. She rested her brother’s hat on the floor in front of his door, then went silently into the room she shared with her little sister. Joanie was still napping under a pink blanket, breathing deeply with her mouth open. Donna lay down on her bed’s slick satin spread, a bit of saved cookie still curled in her hand. She passed it into her other hand and licked the melted chocolate from her salty palm and closed her eyes.

  Riding to the grocery store with her mother the following week, they passed the woman’s house, a half mile or so down the road. Donna pointed and said, “That’s where the cookie lady lives.” Her mom didn’t know what she was talking about.

  The next time she tried to run away, her mother saw her slip through the gate and was behind her instantly, swinging a switch torn from their tree, landing stinging licks on the backs of Donna’s legs. “Where do you think you’re going, young lady?”

  I recognize my mother in miniature in this memory of hers. She was always a gypsy and a rebel. But most of her childhood stories play out in a strict home I don’t recognize at all. Her descriptions of her parents in no way resemble the kind people I knew as Grandma and Grandpa.

  I have watched the Roosmann family home movies with fascination. Pastel-pink birthday parties, Christmas mornings around the tree, and trips to the zoo—each scene is orderly and formal. Donna is a tall, painfully thin girl, her knees poking out from under layers of petticoats, her teeth covered by braces that push her lips into a pout. She and Joanie wear matching perfectly starched white pinafores even while playing jump rope and hopscotch in their driveway.

  Their mother, Tommie Jean, made all of their clothes, the curtains and throw pillows, everything in their home. She is gorgeous in printed day dresses protected by crisp aprons, her auburn hair set in elaborate swirls. She has the bearing of a celebrity, waving off the camera, peering over sunglasses. In several scenes, the kids are lined up on their concrete porch, dressed for church: the girls in buttoned coats and sculpted felt hats, their brother Gil Jr. in a suit and fedora, a miniature replica of their father. Laura, their baby sister, is held in Tommie Jean’s arms, her pale curls tucked under a white bonnet. They are groomed and still, like children imagined by Hollywood. I don’t entirely believe this lost world ever existed; it is completely foreign to me.

  Donna traveled a long way from her origins before she had me, and brought very little discernible baggage with her. Mom raised me in a different world, one she built for herself. The more I learned about her childhood, the clearer that became.

  Donna’s father, Gilbert Roosmann, worked for a trucking company as a rate clerk and her mother, Tommie Jean, stayed home with their four children. In the early fifties, they
lived in a St. Louis suburb called Overland, one of many neighborhoods sprouted from seeds planted by the GI Bill for soldiers returning from World War II. Their little gray house on Iveland Drive was one of many identical homes built in a grid.

  Tommie Jean kept her home quiet and spotless. Their dinner table was silent, without talk of school or sports. Their days followed a steady routine, from Mass in the morning until bedtime prayers.

  Six days a week at 8 A.M., Donna went to Mass at All Souls Church. She was awakened in darkness and sent to clean up in the bathroom, where she crouched over the heating vent and let the warm air fill her nightgown like a balloon. She smoothed her navy jumper over a freshly starched white blouse. She liked wearing her school uniform; she felt it disguised her secret self like a costume. She was a dreamer, a ballerina, and a painter hidden in a schoolgirl’s garb. In winter, she wore a wool beanie secured to the crown of her head with a felt-tipped hatpin. In spring, a white lace chapel veil covered the curls made by the perms her mother gave her. Every few months, starting at six years old, Tommie set Donna’s head in tight rows of metal curlers, arranged according to the charts in her hairdo magazines. The chemicals burned her scalp and stank.

  Donna rode the school bus to church, and her class entered the pews ordered by age, youngest in front, eldest at the rear. All Souls Church was the most beautiful and exotic place in Donna’s life. The grand stone walls danced with transient stained-glass colors and the air smelled of spicy sweet incense. The Mass was chanted in Latin, a low humming drone that washed over her like a magical incantation. They sang hymns and memorized catechisms. Who made you? God made me. Who is God? God is the creator of all things. Why did God make you and all things? For his own glory. How can you glorify God? By loving him and doing what he commands. A carved Christ hung on a cross high above them, a remarkable presence: a mostly naked man, beautiful, long-haired, and bleeding. The girls took in his transmogrified body in the form of the sacramental wafer, dusty and bland on their tongues. Donna loved the way it made her feel to share in the rituals, like secrets unspoken but witnessed and kept.