After the Dance

by Jan Gaye

  Hours later in the hotel suite, he and I were finally alone.

  “It was beautiful,” I said. “You were beautiful.”

  “I didn’t forget to sing your song.”

  “Why did you tell the audience that I asked you to write it?”

  “Well, dear, I didn’t want to upset anyone.”

  I knew what he meant. As a superstar, you have to make all the ladies believe that they are special. If he wrote a song for me on his own, it would mean that they are not special to him. He was also afraid to upset the Motown execs, and surely, Anna.

  I considered complaining about his inaccurate introduction to the song but didn’t. “Thank you,” was all I said.

  “Did it make you feel special?”

  “It did.”

  “And did it make you want to go back to Topanga so we could be alone again?”

  “Yes, if we ever could really be alone.”

  “We can. We will. I’ll tell Frankie to leave. It will all work out.”

  I agreed, but the calm never came.

  Nestled back in the canyon, I saw that Marvin’s usual cool had been undermined by the triumph in Oakland. His ego had been excited. The moments of quiet humility were noticeably fewer. When Motown delivered a million-dollar check reflecting royalties, Marvin made a copy and hung it above the fireplace.

  “Why put it there?” I asked.

  “To remind me,” said Marvin.

  “Of what?”

  “That I’ve already made and spent three other fortunes.”

  “And you intend to squander this one?”

  “No, I intend to ignore the demands of this cold world and stay here with you, dear.”

  “But what about this manager of yours who keeps talking about a world tour?”

  That manager was Stephen Hill, a highly educated black Jamaican with green eyes and wavy hair who spoke in an aristocratic tone and had won Marvin’s confidence.

  “Stephen is brilliant—and also strong enough to take on the Gordys. He has no fear of anyone.”

  Do you? I wanted to ask Marvin, but stopped myself in time. I realized that in some ways the answer was yes. But I knew that Marvin didn’t want to admit it. Marvin wanted to act as though he had no fears. There was the macho Marvin who did not want to remember the times he had gone to Berry, begging him to bail him out of one financial mess or another. The macho Marvin also did not want to recall the long years in Detroit when, according to those closest to him, Anna ruled the roost.

  Those were the same years when, to prove himself, macho Marvin trained to be a boxer. When the attempt was unsuccessful, he began investing in boxers. His latest fighter had recently been knocked out in the second round in a prize fight in San Diego, leaving Marvin more deflated than the fighter himself. I saw that hiring a super-confident manager like Stephen Hill was Marvin’s way of regaining his always-precarious confidence.

  “Stephen keeps saying that you shouldn’t be living in the canyon,” I reminded Marvin. “He thinks you need to be in Los Angeles or New York.”

  “What he thinks and what I do are two separate matters, dear,” said Marvin. “What I’m most interested in doing is loving you all day and night until we make a beautiful baby boy together.”

  When I failed to have my period at the end of January, I harbored hope that I was pregnant again. I kept the news to myself, though, for fear of disappointing Marvin.

  Our lovemaking, while blissful, had a new edge of determination. I flashed back to the night after the Oakland show when, high on the success of his performance, he came inside me with a force I had never felt before. Had that been the magical moment of conception? Exactly nine months later I would learn that it was.

  Against the backdrop of growing love there was the subtext of growing fear. Maybe it was being isolated in the canyon; maybe it was all the pot we consumed; maybe it was coming home one day to find that Shad and Caesar, our Great Danes, had been attacked and maimed by someone who also stole the AK–47 rifle that Marvin had hidden in the house.

  Serenity soon turned to paranoia. We feared that the perpetrator of the crime would come back to kill us. Our security was compromised. We panicked and fled to the city for the weekend where in a hotel suite we turned on the television to watch reports of a brushfire raging through Topanga Canyon.

  The day after the blaze we drove back to see if the house had survived the flames. It had, but our nerves had not.

  Topanga was no longer an option. The tranquil retreat had transformed into a nightmare. Fires raging, killers on the loose.

  “I don’t think we should ever come back here,” said Marvin.

  I didn’t argue.

  We climbed back into the jeep and headed down the winding roads through the canyon for the last time. Looking back at the home we had once shared, I realized that we were running from our fears. We were also running from a period of our lives in which our love had been nourished. I regretted the run but, sharing Marvin’s anxieties about the unexplained crime and the deadly blaze, I also welcomed it. Either way, I was glad that we were running together. Our relationship had strengthened. We had survived Cattaraugus; we had survived Topanga; we had survived the hysteria of Oakland.

  I had every reason to be jubilant, if only for the fact that when we reached the ocean and followed the coast back to the city, I shared with Marvin the news that he had been hoping to hear.

  A child was growing inside me.

  Mother, Mother

  I think of my mother, Barbara, and of Marvin’s mother, Alberta.

  I consider their struggles as mothers. And then I think of my own challenges.

  Within days of turning eighteen, I had learned that I was to become a mother.

  When, in 1974, the doctor confirmed in March a due date in September, I knew that nothing would ever be the same.

  I felt new joy. I saw the gladness in Marvin’s eyes when he heard the news.

  “A boy,” he said. “A son.”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “For certain,” he confirmed.

  I wished his hopes had been different. I wanted him to say that any healthy baby would be a great blessing, but this wasn’t the time to confront his prejudice. The important thing was that I had made him happy. What’s more, his positive reaction to the pregnancy was further confirmation of the strength of our bond. Those cynics who dismissed me as a temporary distraction would soon see that they were wrong. Marvin didn’t want out. He wanted in. He wanted to start a family with me. That single fact helped ease my gnawing insecurities. I’d do everything in my power to maintain a high level of health during my pregnancy. I vowed to protect my child and my relationship with Marvin.

  After we left Topanga and moved into a luxury apartment in Brentwood, there were wonderful times—quiet dinners at the Hungry Tiger in Hollywood, intimate evenings at Harry’s Bar in Century City, where Marvin made me feel especially sophisticated.

  There was a quick trip to Detroit where Marvin took the time to show me the different homes where he and Anna had lived. He introduced me to Esther Gordy, Berry’s sister, who was sweet and welcoming. We went to the 20 Grand, the famous Detroit nightclub where all the Motown acts had honed their skills. James Brown was performing that night. Before the show, Marvin took me to the dressing room to introduce me to James, who had rollers in his hair. His false teeth sat in a jar. He mumbled in a manner that I couldn’t understand. It didn’t matter. Marvin understood James and acted as his translator.

  One day at the office of his company, Right On Productions, someone showed up with a pound of potent weed that looked like a bagful of hops. Marvin called it Cheeba Cheeba. Everyone who came through grabbed a handful. The supply was soon exhausted. Marvin wanted more and asked Frankie to scout around for smoke of similar quality. Frankie scored. When he brought in a pound of killer pot, Marvin named the new supply Frankie Frankie.

  There were road trips up the coast in his RV to Carmel and to Ventana in Big Sur, an inn with a sw
eat lodge and super-healthy food. Marvin loved being captain of his RV. He loved being out on the land, in the woods, and on the beach. On one of those trips he bought a ranch in Round Mountain, an idyllic spot in Northern California. That was the time his mom, along with several nieces and nephews, came along. I was thrilled because after we arrived, Marvin gave me an adorable little kitten. Trouble arose, though, when his mother refused to ride in the same RV with the animal. I promised to keep the kitten out of her way, but Mother Gay wouldn’t relent. (Marvin had added an “e” to the family name.) Marvin had to choose between his mom and me. He chose his mom. It broke my heart when I was forced to leave the kitten behind.

  Off the road and back in LA, mounting professional demands put Marvin on edge. He was elated that Let’s Get It On had turned into the biggest hit of his career. Never had he been offered this much money to tour. Yet he was also disappointed in himself for not resisting the lure of the limelight.

  “I don’t need to go out there,” he told me. “I need to stay home with you, sing lullabies to the baby boy growing inside your womb.”

  “I would love that,” I said.

  “But there is the question of my public. I feel as though I owe my public—the same public that’s dying to give me their hard-earned cash for the pleasure of hearing me sing. How can I let them down? How can I refuse their offering?”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “You won’t think I’m greedy? You won’t think that I’m abandoning all my artistic principles?”

  “Don’t artists want to be appreciated like everyone else in the world?”

  “Of course. Adoration ain’t so bad.”

  “You deserve it.”

  “But I still have no desire to go out there and make a spectacle of myself. Why should I shake my ass?”

  “You don’t have to shake it. Just show it a little.”

  He laughed, but he was still troubled by the prospect of touring.

  Inside Marvin’s mind, the arguments raged on. He wanted more money but didn’t want to go on the road. He wanted more adoration but didn’t want to do the demanding work of mounting a show.

  Stephen Hill put the arguments to rest. He put together a multi-month schedule that would earn Marvin millions. The money was too big to reject. The coast-to-coast concerts would take place over the course of my pregnancy. Naturally, I wanted to accompany Marvin on the tour.

  “The travel is too brutal for you to come along, dear,” Marvin said. “I won’t subject you to the stress and strain. You can fly out for a date here and there, and I’ll be flying home to see you on many weekends, but you’re better off situated in one place. I think the best place would be with my mom and family back in Washington.”

  I was mortified. When I expressed skepticism about that plan, Marvin had a surprise that had me smiling.

  “Stephen has booked the first concert in Jamaica,” he said. “It’s his home country and a place I dearly love. I want you to come to Jamaica with me. It’ll be a dream.”

  The dream was exotic, even if short-lived. The sky was sapphire blue, the beach sun-bleached white. Tropical breezes blew through the open windows of the suite in the fabulous resort overlooking Kingston Bay. Marvin stretched out in bed, me by his side. He gently stroked my stomach, which, in my second trimester, had started to swell.

  “Put on a robe, dear,” he said. “Stephen is on his way up.”

  Stephen arrived in the room like a commanding officer. He was firmly in control. He said that for this Jamaican concert Bob Marley had been booked as Marvin’s opening act. When he began to explain Marley’s importance, Marvin stopped him.

  “I know all about Marley,” said Marvin. “I love and respect him. You don’t have to sell me on Bob Marley.”

  Stephen did have to sell Marvin on the post-Jamaica ten-state tour he had put together. Marvin was still resisting the ordeal. The demands on his time would be too much. The grind would wear him down. He didn’t want to be away from me. He refused to back down.

  “That’s impractical, Marvin,” said Stephen, “and, to be blunt, inconceivable. You will not back out. You will fulfill your commitments as you initially promised.”

  When Marvin remained adamant, Stephen used flattery to win him over. Doesn’t Marvin want to enhance his already legendary status as an international artist? Why, right here in Jamaica the highest-ranking government officials, including the prime minister, Michael Manley, have been clamoring to meet him. He will be the guest of honor in stately mansions belonging to the most powerful people on the island. That will be true wherever he goes.

  The flattery worked. Marvin recommitted to the tour. Stephen was relieved and reminded him that, at Marvin’s own request, he had made arrangements to fly in the Gay family from Washington, DC.

  The news surprised me. I thought it would be just the two of us. When Stephen left, I questioned Marvin.

  “Why do you want your mother and father here?”

  “Who said anything about my father? My father is certainly not coming. I don’t want to discuss my father. Far as my mother goes, you know that she is my heart. I want her to see this glorious place. She has worked all her life so I could have opportunities like this. Why would I deny her this treat? Why would you ask me to?”

  “I wouldn’t. I’m glad she’s coming . . .”

  “Are you?”

  “It’s just that I love being alone with you, but I understand.”

  “Then you’ll understand if my brother and sisters are coming too.”

  I didn’t say a word.

  “What’s wrong, dear?” Marvin asked.

  “Nothing. You want me to be surrounded by your family. I understand.”

  “But do you understand that all those years I was married to Anna . . .”

  “Was married? You still are.”

  “For all those years I was together with Anna, my family felt shunned. She wanted nothing to do with the Gays. She looked down on them. They were never welcome in our home in Detroit, never welcome when we moved to Los Angeles.”

  “And you didn’t say anything?” I asked.

  “I left Anna. I’m with you. And I expect you to welcome and love my family as I expect them to welcome and love you.”

  I first met Marvin’s mom, Alberta, some months back in Los Angeles. The encounter was not unfriendly. Mother Gay was a woman with a sweet disposition and quiet manner, much like her sons. She accepted the fact that Marvin had taken up with a young woman—what choice did she have?—but at the same time regarded me with unspoken skepticism. She was not cold to me, but neither was she embracing. I felt that Mother Gay had adopted a wait-and-see attitude: My son is obviously infatuated with you, but let’s see how long it lasts.

  When Mother Gay arrived along with Frankie, sister Zeola, and older sister Jeanne, there were hugs all around. For now, the mood was pleasant. As they lunched with us on the patio, they talked about how Marvin might help them relocate to LA. With Anna out of the picture, they felt empowered to reestablish their place in Marvin’s life. They saw that I, unlike matriarchal Anna, had neither the power nor the inclination to exclude them. I wanted to please Marvin. And if ingratiating myself with his family brought him pleasure, I had no choice but to go along with the program.

  The absence of Father Gay was profound. During those rare moments when he was in the mood to discuss his dad, Marvin had told me how the man never held down a job for long. His position as a minister in a charismatic church was his central work. But it didn’t pay. Marvin’s mom was forced to toil as a domestic to keep the family in food and shelter.

  “My father fashioned himself as an important man in this somewhat bizarre congregation,” Marvin once explained. “But as a kid, I didn’t see it as bizarre. I saw it as beautiful. The women were all dressed in white. The women loved my father. They revered him as an exalted spiritual leader. They also loved me when they heard that I had inherited his gift for singing. His voice, praising God, rang out loud and true. I fel
t the spirit of God—the loving and living God—in that little church where I knew, even as a young boy, that I would one day take my father’s place. All the elders said so. The women in white told me that I was highly favored. I felt blessed. I felt privileged to go with my father as he rode around Maryland and Virginia where he was asked to sing and preach at other holy churches belonging to our little sect. We were different from other Christians. I liked that feeling. It felt special to go to a church that celebrated the Sabbath on Saturday, not Sunday, and strictly followed all the rules of the Old Testament as well as the New.

  “The strictness meant that you obeyed God. Since Father saw himself as God’s chosen leader, he demanded strict obedience from everyone, including Mother and especially his children. My brother Frankie and my sisters Zeola and Jeanne were intimidated. They were compliant. They knew not to challenge his authority. But because I had been anointed and felt empowered by my own gifts, I was not compliant. I was defiant. My defiance brought out Father’s brutality—or maybe it was vice versa. I don’t know, and I can’t tell you when it happened, but when it did, everything changed.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “I went from idolizing Father to loathing him.”

  “That’s a strong statement.”

  “Not strong enough. Not after what he did to me.”

  “What did he do?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “I do, I really do.”

  “I don’t want to say.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  I thought of the brutalities I had suffered as a child. Ruth. The nun. But at least at that moment, he was not ready to say any more. I wanted to share more of my past with Marvin, yet I didn’t. I knew better.

  To everyone around Marvin, including me, it was clear that his story was the only one that mattered. Not that I minded. I willingly suppressed my story for the privilege of being included in his. I identified with Marvin so closely that it was his concerns I worried over, not my own.