Heat Wave

by Donald Bogle

  Her grief was long and unrelenting. On many days, she asked Joan Croomes to prepare a dish she apparently had loved as a child. “She liked potatoes and onions cooked together,” said Croomes. Waters would walk into Croomes’ kitchen and say, “I smell those potatoes, girl. You got them ready yet?” She’d also comment, “This is kind of a funny way to grieve, isn’t it? But I just don’t know why, I just want potatoes and onions.” She’d turn sad. “Maybe I should have gone.” Said Croomes: “I never want to see [potatoes and onions] anymore because [that’s how] she grieved her mother. She didn’t let go.”

  A few days after Momweeze’s burial, word came that Earl Dancer had died alone at his home in Elsinore, California.

  She was probably never again the same person. Perhaps much of her reason for living was now gone. Often she spoke of being ready for her Savior to take her. At times, she couldn’t understand why he had not, but she said she trusted his wisdom and would be ready for death whenever the time came.

  On she went, an embattled old matriarch now, white-haired and weary yet unexpectedly transcendently beautiful.

  Again talk circulated of filming her life story with Diahann Carroll in the lead, but no such film went into production. Producers from the Pasadena Playhouse asked her to star in a February 1964 remounting of The Member of the Wedding. Physically, she was hardly up to it, but she agreed, again for financial reasons and also the chance to perform for that audience out there. In the eight-hundred-seat theater, she played to capacity audiences. She had kept to her diet. Though she was obviously slower now and suffered from shortness of breath, she managed to give a powerful performance. Audiences loved her. Then during a performance on a Friday night in March, she suffered a slight heart attack. Apparently, she knew exactly what had happened as she struggled to regain her composure. A fire department rescue team, which had been called to the theater, stood in the wings ready to administer oxygen, if needed. Miraculously, she completed her performance that evening! The audience seemed unaware of any problem. Though she was urged to take it easy, the very next day—a Saturday—she gave two more performances, at the matinee and in the evening.

  “You know I’ve had640 a bad heart for many years now. This was just another slight attack,” she told the press. “I had to finish the performance. Those people came to see me. They didn’t know how I felt.”

  “I don’t believe I’ll641 ever think old. I’ll always be able to laugh. Negroes know how to laugh. We should be proud of ourselves as Negroes. We know how to enjoy life. I’m not sorry I’m a Negress,” she told another writer. “They tell me that lots of my early records are collectors’ items now. No, I don’t have many of them. I lost my voice, you know. All I sing now is hymns. I sing the Lord’s songs, but He overlooks my voice and lets me do it.”

  During the run at the Pasadena Playhouse, Algretta arrived in Los Angeles for a visit. “And she came to the show. And after the show Ethel was talking about some property that she had,” said Croomes. “That was as much as I ever saw of her . . . when she wanted something. Ethel got notes and stuff [from Algretta]. Or maybe. She never even talked about that woman.”

  On September 17 she was in New York as the guest of honor for an Ethel Waters Day at the World’s Fair. As she looked out at the crowd, her smile was as broad and warm as ever, and somehow she managed to give the appearance of being in good spirits. Shortly afterward, she was back on the West Coast.

  Not long afterward, she learned that Carl Van Vechten had died, on December 21, 1964. She wrote Fania immediately.

  In April 1965 she was a special guest at the Oscar presentations, along with such other “old-timers” as Buster Keaton, Pola Negri, Mary Astor, and Francis X. Bushman. At the post-Oscar party at the Hilton ballroom, she sat at a table with Gregory Peck and others. Columnist Hedda Hopper stopped by to say hello, a sure sign that Ethel still commanded respect from the industry’s A-listers. Of course, Hopper and Ethel had something in common. Both were fervent in their feelings about the evils of communism. A few months later, Ethel turned up with Dale Evans, Don Grady, and others at a Memorial Day service at the Pasadena Rose Bowl to honor those “Christians who have been martyred and murdered by Communists.”

  None of Ethel’s old friends could figure out what her anti-communism sprang from. Nor could anyone understand some of her feelings about the civil rights movement. Rather than joining the fight for rights, she seemed to dismiss or ignore some of the very blatant racism she had endured throughout her career. An interviewer asked, “In your long career642, Miss Waters, you must have been refused admission to certain restaurants because of your . . . er . . . race. Have you suffered because of it?” She replied, “Land, no, Honey? I can’t stand white cooking!” Perhaps she simply wanted to avoid any controversy. Of course, her comment was a kind of putdown, suggesting that she had no desire to socially or culturally integrate into a system that didn’t offer her much. But she still seemed removed from the contemporary issues, struggles, and attitudes of Black America. In fact, she abhorred the use of the word “Black” and always used the term “colored” or “Negro.” In that respect, she was like some others of her generation who had grown up at a time when “Black” was the worst thing you could call anyone of color.

  Other times she applauded social and racial progress. “The improvement in the643 Negro community is tremendous,” she said when she returned to Philadelphia in November for an appearance on The Mike Douglas Show. “When I was a girl we had almost nothing. But now I see Negroes living in all sections of the city and working in stores of the city and banks—why, it was unheard of.” She also took the opportunity to express her feelings about her life in show business. “I have met some of the finest people,” she said.

  Whenever an “acceptable” television movie came her way—even though her criterion for what made certain parts acceptable must have puzzled many—Ethel leapt at the roles and appeared happy to be back in front of the cameras with showbiz folk. TV viewers got to see her in the Vacation Playhouse drama “You’re Only Young Twice,” a pilot for a projected series. They also saw her in Jello-O commercials at a time when Blacks were rarely used to pitch products. Advertisers believed their mainstream customers would respond negatively to products that African Americans promoted. But in 1968 Young and Rubicam thought consumers felt differently about Waters. Bill Cosby would be another Black celebrity with whom the advertising agencies felt comfortable. He too would do Jell-O commercials. But in many respects, Ethel broke new ground. “We weren’t even surprised when they turned out to be some of the highest-scoring commercials we ever made,” said a representative from Young and Rubicam. “What did surprise us a little were all the fan letters Miss Waters got. But, after all, star quality is star quality—even in a commercial.”

  Often Joan Croomes drove Ethel to her appointments and engagements. On such occasions, Ethel was the Ethel of old, not the grandmotherly figure of the Crusades but a high-flung diva. When she was scheduled to appear on TV’s Hollywood Palace with some new reigning stars of the late 1960s, Diana Ross and the Supremes as well as Stevie Wonder, she told Croomes, “Bring me my jewelry. . . . I’ll show them bitches.” “She had all this jewelry,” said Croomes. “Out of it, she took this diamond watch. And it was something to be had, baby. And then she had on several of her rings. And she had the diamond earrings and all.” She had also carefully selected her wardrobe. “I’ll show them bitches how to dress.” Said Croomes: “I tell you, honey, when Miss Ethel Waters walked in, everybody acknowledged her.”

  On the broadcast, a rather subdued Diana Ross gave Waters a proper laudatory introduction: “Ladies and gentlemen. If I seem to take special pride in presenting our next guest, it’s because I really am honored to be appearing with her on Hollywood Palace tonight. Miss Ethel Waters and I never met until this week. And for me, this is a show business legend come to life. Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Ethel Waters.”

  Ross then joined Ethel, who was seated on a bench. They were a ph
ysical and stylistic contrast in eras and perspectives. Ross was decked out in a mini with a curly hairdo, not really an Afro but not one of the lacquered wigs that she wore during the rise of the Supremes to stardom. Ethel wore a grayish print dress with her white hair pulled back and held in place by a sparkly wide headband—and with a ponytail that hung down her back. The two stars chatted, just small talk to lead into their duet together. Throughout, Ross was surprisingly restrained without the energetic extroversion that was one of her trademarks. As she hugged and kissed Ross, Ethel was pure pro. She was like warm honey, sweet and engaging, supremely sincere, presenting the perfect image of a well-traveled matriarch without any competitive feelings for the new stars. When the slender Ross referred to her skinniness, Ethel informed her of the days when she too was slim—and was called Sweet Mama Stringbean. Actually, Ethel said “Sweet Mama Stringbeans.”

  ”I was tall and skinny and was shaped like a stringbean. Now I guess I’m known and better known and shaped like a brussel sprout.” Ethel suggested that Ross come to her house so she could fix her a soul food meal—black-eyed peas and rice, honeyed yams, collard greens, the whole works. That led to Ethel, joined by Ross, singing “Bread and Gravy.” It was a very nice television moment. Immediately afterward, Ethel, following another intro by Ross, performed “Supper Time” with little more than a small table and chair to serve as a setting for the number. Though at one point it looked as if she might be too dramatic, ultimately her brilliant theatricality made the song powerful and emotionally affecting for the studio audience.

  Ross must have been impressed with Waters, perhaps even in awe of her and a bit guarded because of stories about the Waters temper. In the next decade on one of her television specials, she would pay tribute to great Black goddesses who had preceded her: one was Josephine Baker, another was Ethel Waters.

  Another television appearance with yet another new era star was on The Barbara McNair Show. “May I call you Ethel?” McNair asked. “You certainly may, you little tiny thing, you,” replied Ethel. Keenly aware of the image she wanted to project, she had deflected any comments viewers might have about her weight by making fun of it herself. She also clearly wanted to let viewers know she was a woman of great faith. “I know you have been doing a lot of work with Mr. Billy Graham,” McNair said. “It’s a labor of love with my precious children, and they just humor me because I don’t do nothing,” said Ethel, “but . . . I love being around them, and they give me an opportunity to talk about my precious savior.” Then Ethel commented on McNair’s good looks. She was considered a beauty in the tradition of Lena Horne and Dorothy Dandridge. “But I want to say something about you,” said Ethel. “You know I’ve been looking at you for a long time, and I want to say in front of this viewing audience and the children here in the studio. You’re a very sweet girl, and the beauty that I see in you isn’t only surface. It’s from within, and it’s lovely. I’m glad you have it.” Much like Diana Ross, McNair did not seem to be fully herself as she sat with Ethel. It would be hard to say if Ethel had had one of her outbursts, which might have inhibited McNair. Regardless, the two women performed a duet of “Holy unto the Lord.” McNair was the principal singer; Ethel mostly provided the chorus, her voice now very husky and deep. There was not much of a voice left. Still, she carried off the duet and provided it with a structure and an emotional depth. Then—standing alone, she said to the audience, “I got to say ‘Hi’ ”—she performed a solo of “Partners with God.” Again the voice was no longer a dazzling instrument. But she understood how to rhythmically communicate the religious meaning of the song.

  Such programs as The Hollywood Palace and The Barbara McNair Show made Ethel aware that now she was a matriarch for yet another new generation. Already she had seen several new eras of stars: from the days when she held onto her turf against Billie Holiday, Ivie Anderson, and Ella Fitzgerald; to the early 1940s, when she appeared with Katherine Dunham and Lena Horne; to the Eisenhower era of Dorothy Dandridge and Eartha Kitt in the clubs and actors like Harry Belafonte, Ruby Dee, Ossie Davis, and James Edwards, with whom she appeared in television or films. Now she was working with stars of the politically restless 1960s. For her, the stars of this new era could never be real rivals. She was too confident, too weathered, and perhaps too emotionally battered to feel she had to stake her claim. If need be, she would always speak her mind. That would never change. But no one could really take anything from her, and she could appear to be genuinely gracious. She was now the queen mother of them all.

  Another TV performance—when she sang and did not act—was on The Pearl Bailey Show. Clearly, Bailey still idolized her.

  “I think she was happy when I was around,” said Croomes. “Sometimes when I was driving her, she’d sing. She’d say, ‘Now pick up the chorus.’ I’d say, ‘I can’t sing.’ ‘If you can talk, you can sing.’ That’s what she said. I think the happiest thing I can see is her singing.”

  Other times for a woman in failing health Ethel proved surprisingly resilient. “They had a storm one night. We had to drive from a theater—by the sea—back to where we lived,” Croomes recalled. “The rain was blowing and I couldn’t see, and then something got wet and I couldn’t turn the wheel or something. She took that wheel, honey, and leaned up and drove that [car]. She got us there. I gave up. I said, ‘I got to pull to the side.’ And I mean she got us there. But she was a brave woman, and she never gave up on anybody or anything.”

  She also still exhibited the discipline that had been so important during the heyday of her career. “If she set out to do something, she was going to do that. Like when she went on this diet,” said Croomes. With her diabetes and high blood pressure, Ethel had been instructed again by her physician to lose weight. “It was a hard thing for her. But she stayed with it. She stayed with it till she made it through,” Croomes recalled. “She had to eat special foods and everything. I made the meals for her. But the only thing she would renege on was if I fried some chicken. Boy, she’d have her friends come over. ‘Take some of this chicken,’ she says. ‘It’s the best chicken in the world.’ ”

  “She had a lot of people that came by to see her. But somehow I remember more people coming to Pasadena than my house to see her. She had a lot of company up there,” said Croomes. “She had a baby grand piano sitting in my living room. . . . [It was later moved out of my house] . . . But it looked good in there. And she would sing and rehearse her music there. And I enjoyed that. I enjoyed hearing her sing. And I enjoyed her when her friends would come over. She was happy. She liked people. She really liked people. When they were gone, [she’d] probably say they were ‘a bunch of bitches.’ ” Croomes also noted that most who visited were white. But while the crowd was around, Ethel clearly enjoyed them. “I used to drive her to Pasadena. I went back and forth. She went other places too. We went to Eartha Kitt’s one night for dinner. Juanita Moore was there. Ethel wanted collard greens, and Eartha Kitt cooked the greens for her. I went to San Diego with her. We had to drive to the theater. I remember that Joel Fluellen did a lot of things for Ethel. He tried to write her story. We went a lot of places.”

  With Croomes, she could also be protective and motherly. “But, girl, you shouldn’t have done that,” she might admonish Croomes about something of which she had not approved. “Once I was leaving with a friend of mine . . . going out to have a good time. She was upstairs. And she came out. ‘Joan, Joan, you come back here.’ And I said, ‘I don’t have to. You don’t own me.’ Oh, she was mad at me. And I went on with my friend. So when she did see me, she was angry. But she wasn’t really that angry. . . . I think when she loved you, she sincerely loved you. With all your faults, she would love you still. She always still wanted to be friends.”

  But eventually tension flared up between Ethel and Croomes because of the young man with whom Waters was still involved. Croomes felt he took advantage of Waters. “I just couldn’t stand it.” He also was untrustworthy, and she didn’t want him in her home. When Croomes
discovered that jewelry and other items were missing from her home, she was convinced that he had taken them. But Ethel refused to believe it. “She fell in love with this young man. Or she thought she was in love with him,” said Croomes. Croomes found him crude and disrespectful to Ethel, but Ethel ignored his dishonesty and the way he treated her. “It’s what you would call elderly abuse. And she didn’t know that. That’s my saddest moment when I saw how he abused this elderly, gray-haired old lady who had nothing but good. And when I saw he had complete control over her. And I kept his name and number for a long time because I wanted to turn him in.” So enamored was Ethel that she became rather reckless and indiscreet. Croomes knew her neighbors were clearly aware that Ethel’s relationship with him was a sexual one. She was also convinced that Ethel had used some of her savings to help him purchase a home—and also to help with the purchase of the home in Pasadena in which she lived with the couple from the Graham organization.

  Croomes’ disapproval of the young man eventually led Ethel to leave the apartment. “She didn’t leave right then,” said Croomes. “She started going on tour more. So then when she’d come home, she’d call me on the phone. She had a buzzer on the phone. She could buzz me downstairs. I wouldn’t pick it up because I just didn’t want to do it anymore. . . . He was still coming around. I didn’t want to do it anymore. So I just said, ‘That’s it.’ And I never would answer the phone. So she wrote me a note. ‘Well, you’re not answering your phone. So I guess you don’t want to be bothered with me.’ It made me cry. That’s the saddest thing. She moved. When she first left me—he moved [her things out].”

  Ethel also moved out of the home in Pasadena. “Now the people she lived with—the Wilsons—they moved somewhere. They sold the house.” Croomes had long questioned the intentions of the couple, especially when Ethel “found out that Billy Graham was sending them a check every month for her.” Said Croomes: “And I mean it wasn’t no little money check. She showed it to me. I think it was a thousand and something a month that they were sending to the Wilsons. And she didn’t know it. And she was giving them money, too, thinking that she had to pay them.”