Sammy Davis Jr.

by Tracey Davis

  My obstetrician, Dr. Karalla, had me stay in the hospital overnight to check on the baby, but I was lucky that other than some minor bruising, we had both survived the crash. I called my father from the hospital, “I can’t attend your sixtieth anniversary tribute or I might lose your grandchild, Pop.” I told him I was nervous about the baby.

  His tribute was only a few days away, but Pop was just relieved that God had worked another miracle in his life and mine. He told me not to worry, that it was good to be nervous—it’s a sign that you are alive and well, he said.

  He recalled a story when he starred at the Royal Albert Hall in London with his two closest friends, Frank Sinatra and Liza Minnelli. It was part of the European leg of “The Ultimate Event” tour. Pop said he was so nervous when he walked into this grand concert hall, it was such a big jump from the Pigalle in the ’60s. Dad said he was sweating so much, if he had a piece of soap he could wash his hands. But he remembered what Eddie Cantor once told him, “Son, the day you stop being nervous before you face an audience, get out of the business.” “So be nervous, Trace Face,” he said, “it will keep you on your toes with the doctors.”

  Dad in one of his most unusual roles—in Alice in Wonderland, 1985. Natalie Gregory played Alice. He was game for anything!

  With Sonia Braga in the 1988 movie Moon Over Parador

  Dad was on the upswing despite the cancer ravaging his body. My father taped his sixtieth anniversary tribute before a live audience at the Shrine Auditorium in Hollywood, without me beside him. Dad’s lifelong friends paid tribute and celebrated his sixty years in show business. This heartfelt special in his honor aired in April 1990. The show won an Emmy and was my father’s last major public appearance.

  The tribute included video clips of Pop in show business all the way back to his childhood in vaudeville. Live tributes were performed by celebrity entertainers like Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Bill Cosby, Clint Eastwood, George Bush, Ella Fitzgerald, Eddie Murphy, Quincy Jones, Liza Minnelli, Bob Hope, Shirley MacLaine, Goldie Hawn, Whitney Houston, Jesse Jackson, Michael Jackson, and so many more.

  There was one particular moment when Gregory Hines finished a tap dancing number, jumped off the stage, and kissed my father’s shoes, that was very touching. Michael Jackson took the stage with a song he composed just for Pop, “You Were There.” It was a song about how my father broke down the walls of racism and opened the door for him and other young artists of color. The utmost respect for my father enthroned Michael’s face. The lyrics were so powerful; the song sung so deep from within Michael’s heart and soul, it made my father tear up in the audience. Pop and Michael were always close. Michael called him Mr. D and used to come by the house, go to the library, and borrow tapes of Pop’s shows. He told Pop in Monte Carlo in 1988, “Y’know, I stole some moves from you, the attitudes.”

  My father and Gregory Hines in a publicity shot for Tap, 1989

  This tribute could not have come at a more perfect time to lift my father’s spirits. By this time, Pop knew he didn’t have much time left, and to see his closest friends honor his long career was exactly what he needed to close the final chapter of his life.

  I was planning to go visit Pop after my baby checkup on April 19, 1990. My son’s due date was April 10, so he was already nine days late. I went for my appointment and Dr. Karalla said, “Don’t go home.” He checked me into Tarzana Regional Medical Center where he would induce labor. My husband, Guy, was by my side the whole time. My mother came before I was given a C-section.

  My son, Sam, was born the next day, on April 20, 1990. Not only had God blessed me with a beautiful son, but Pop fought the doctor’s odds, and my revelation had indeed come true. Pop was still alive to meet his only blood grandson, named in his honor.

  As we waited for the guard to open the gate to my father’s home, reporters literally laid on my car, snapping pictures of my husband, myself, and our newborn. We ignored the press, and pulled into Pop’s driveway. We grabbed the baby seat with our newborn in it and headed into Pop’s house.

  We entered from the side entrance since Altovise had been locked out of his 3,400-square-foot master wing. Pop never talked to her. He would just hand her money from time to time.

  We went into my father’s office, where the crew was gathered: Shirley, David Steinberg (Pop’s publicist turned producer), security guards, and Lessie Lee running the house. Little Sammy was naturally the center of attention, and everyone circled around him and spoke of how beautiful he was.

  Pop was prepared that we were coming, so he was out of bed, trachea tube in, medication flowing through his IV, sitting on a huge, cozy chair in his bedroom as we walked in.

  I had never seen my father’s face so happy as I said, “Hi, Dad” and showed him baby Sammy, half bent over in pain from my C-section. He was elated with tears of happiness, the wonder of it all, that look of “Wow, this is my grandchild.” I got so lucky; I had a boy, named him Sammy, and I had him in time for Pop to meet him.

  After Sammy’s birth, Pop slipped in and out of responsiveness; cancer, bit by bit, robbed him of his life. I remember one day when I was visiting, Pop was lucid enough to say to me, “Trace, I’m scared.” I looked at him with watery eyes and said, “Me, too, Pop.”

  The next time, my husband and I were visiting, the nurse was changing Pop’s sheets. My husband held Pop like a baby, softly kissing his forehead. From that moment on, my father was our hero. In his deteriorating state, he was a distinguished man, the finest I had ever seen. He rendered himself even more worthy of our regard. Guy gently put Dad down on the bed, into fresh linens, carefully, very carefully as just a gentle rub on his skin was painful. Time passed and his condition grew worse. From some vegetative state of half memory, Pop could still feel pain, and would wince if he was touched. There was no coming back from this. By the next visit, Pop couldn’t speak at all. From his eyes, you could tell he wasn’t all together there anymore. Was he in a coma? I don’t know.

  Liza Minnelli was one of the few friends on Pop’s “OKAY Guest List” that he would allow to see him in his current condition. My father and Liza had been close pals for years. The day she came to the house, she knew it was a final good-bye, that this was the last time she would see my father alive.

  Liza had covered a show in Lake Tahoe for my father when he first got the sore throat that was later diagnosed as cancer. It was August of 1989. Little did I suspect that this would signal the beginning of the end of my father’s life. “I got a little tickle, Trace, not doing the show tonight. Wanna come up to the suite?” Pop said over the phone. I was on my way. Pop and I had reconnected, and become true pals at my bachelorette party in Vegas. My bachelorette party was filled with champagne, jokes, laughs, and lots of stories with my friend Julie Clark, the McGuire sisters, Pop, and Frank Sinatra. It could not have been more perfect. I treasure those moments every day.

  I went to my father’s suite at Harrah’s in Lake Tahoe with my friend Diane. I asked Dad what was wrong. He said, “Just a sore throat, no biggie.” My father couldn’t do the show that night. So of course, who comes in early to cover? Good ole Liza. What a kind, gracious soul. She did the show in a sweater and jeans—her luggage hadn’t arrived yet.

  By the time Liza was done, the entire audience was in her hand. They had come to see Dad, a line wrapping around the casino, but Liza had taken them over. The result was pure magic. I thought, That is why Liza is a star. Forget that she was the child of Hollywood royalty. A talent and personality all her own made her a star. At the end of the show, Liza announced that Dad was truly sorry for missing the performance. Liza was a class act all the way. She and my father were a bona fide force of professional habit, captivating audiences with a mere glance all over the world—and best buddies to boot.

  I went home late that night to Mom’s house in Tahoe. Something was bugging me; I didn’t know what, but something was bothering me. I tried to shrug it off, but it lingered in the distance, I just couldn’t shake it. Pop said he
was going to be fine. He had never lied to me, so why didn’t I believe him?

  I knew something was off but found solace in knowing that he was going to get a checkup, just to make sure. He was a singer and a smoker. He had sore throats before. Trace, I said to myself, stop. Just stop. But it stuck with me, the frailty of his condition. I felt uneasy.

  I was right to worry, I would later learn. There was a node, a little something. Not a big deal. “May have a little surgery,” Pop said on the phone. It came slamming into reality. I have to get to Pop. I have to look at him, face to face. I would know then. I got in my car and drove to him. There he was. Alone, not unusual, I thought, but then it hit me. No cigarettes, no ash tray, no nothing.

  Dad in Tap, 1989

  A tribute to the great musical numbers in films of the past, That’s Dancing!, 1985

  Pop tried to cover, but I knew we were in for a fight. I wanted answers. For better or worse, I got them. The sore throat had turned into a node and the node into cancer. Could this really be happening to my father? What now? I thought. Dad started his radiation. He was tired but he was strong, and even maintained his sense of humor. He had developed a bright red area on his neck. It was well known that he loved his Strawberry Crush. He said the red spot on his neck was from drinking so much of it; it finally leaked out. I laughed, but there is was. Cancer.

  Liza had been there from the start, from the sore throat in Lake Tahoe, and now she was doing the death march with us. As Liza headed up the stairs to Pop’s bedroom, she had to stop on the huge landing and sit on the couch. She was scared to go up. She wanted to know every detail about his condition. “Trace Face, how bad is it? What does he look like?”

  One question after another I answered to soothe her nerves, but it was clear that her anticipation was worse than actually seeing Pop would be.

  When Liza saw my father, she kissed him, told him she loved him, and left. As I walked her out, she said seeing Pop “was heavy.” My father’s state was weighing on us all, family and close friends.

  About a month after little Sammy was born, I was in Dad’s bedroom. I kept remembering what my father had said a few months before: “I will live to see my grandson, and after that I have nothing left to live for.”

  Dad and Liza Minnelli, 1990. He’s holding his American Dance Honor.

  Pop arrived in style at the Royal Albert Hall for one of his final performances, in 1989.

  I leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Dad, it’s okay if you have to die. It’s okay. It’ll be okay. I remember everything you said. And I’ll take care of it, I promise.” I was referring to keeping his legacy alive. “I love you, Popsicle.” I kissed my father on his forehead and held his hand. I could feel his thumb brush against mine, so I knew he heard me. He gave me three tiny little squeezes. It was noticeable and deliberate, not an instinct.

  Since my father was a megastar, we’d grown used to the press swarming about, but the whole family had been taught a code when we were young by our mother. The code was, if anything was up, squeeze Mom or Dad’s hand three times. Pop was not able to say anything back, but he squeezed my hand three times. That was enough for me.

  My father died the next morning in his home at 5:56 am, on May 16, 1990. He was sixty-four years old. His funeral was held at the Forest Lawn Memorial Park in Glendale, California. Being Jewish, the family did not want a viewing. We knew Pop would never want one. We were overruled by Altovise, now his widow, who insisted on having a wake with an open casket.

  I refused to go to the wake, but would attend the funeral. I sent my husband, Guy, to the wake. Guy told me a photographer was taking pictures of my father in his casket. Appalled, I reached out to Shirley, who asked David Steinberg to do something about it. David threatened the photographer—told him that Frank Sinatra was so angry he was planning to have a contract put out on his life—if he didn’t hand over the film. It wasn’t true, but the photographer surrendered the film.

  My father was generous to a fault. He left the bulk of his money to Altovise and trusts for his children. There was also an auction where a pair of his tap shoes sold for $11,000 among other memorabilia. His entire estate, property, house, gun collection, art, and memorabilia valued between six and eight million dollars.

  People from all over the world, of all races and religions, mourned Dad’s death. Fans celebrated his life as the heavyweight champion of the entertainment world. Thousands stood in the roadway from my father’s house to Forest Lawn Memorial Park, clapping, shouting, and tipping their hats as the hearse and our limo motorcade drove by. I noted one fan even shaved words into his hair: LUV YOU SAMMY. Lessie Lee rode in the motorcade of limos with us, in a hat with short veil, a pocketbook, and all the trimmings of Southern style respect.

  Out in Las Vegas, the lights on the Strip were darkened for ten minutes in honor of Sammy Davis, Jr.—an event that had only happened before for the deaths of President John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr. Performers, entertainers, celebrities, family, and close friends eulogized him. Publications, some of which had criticized my father during his career, published glowing obituaries. Ebony magazine would write a tribute to Dad that through living his life, “the entertainer wrote the Fourteenth Amendment of Show Business.” Given Dad’s legacies, Ebony continued on and I quote, “Sammy Davis, Jr. established racial and religious tolerance in the entertainment industry.”

  Reverend Jesse Jackson held the funeral service at Forest Lawn. He spoke of Sammy Davis, Jr. and said: “In this one person, black and white, east and west, find common ground. In this one person, African Americans and Jews find common ground.” His tribute to my father warmed our hearts. He referred to my father as “Mr. Bojangles” and asked the crowd to stand as he played a recording of Pop singing the song. I cried until I had no more tears left in me.

  My Dad left the world of show business bereft of a pioneer whose vast talent shined in the face of racial adversity and opened the door for so many upcoming artists of color. Sammy Davis, Jr. touched generations of performers—beyond color barriers—with his talent and determination.

  To me, the greatest relief I felt when Dad died was that the satellite trucks and reporters that were staked outside of his house on the narrow Summit Drive would leave. They had come one by one like buzzards to a carcass. This was pre-Twitter and still the press knew everything.

  Now it was over. The trucks were backing away and packing up. Reporters left. The circus was leaving town and that could only mean one thing. Dad really was dead. He was? Yes, he was. Throughout this last personal journey with my father, the doctors told me that he would not recover from cancer, but I never really believed it. He had triumphed over so much adversity in his life, surely he would beat this.

  In a way I was angry. Even at my own father. A smoker, no—a lifetime smoker. It had killed him. I still couldn’t entirely accept it. One time I found myself driving up to his house on Summit out of mere habit, arrived at the gate, only to realize what I had done, and turned the car around. I fought with God in my car. Please, I begged God, give me one word, one sign, that would ease my fear of living without my father. I tried to fix my thoughts on the future, my beautiful newborn son, my husband, anything that would carry me across this bridge, over this terrifying abyss, to a place where thoughts were beautiful again.

  I wanted to be smack in the middle of Pop’s lavish emerald gardens with pungent eucalyptus trees and a sparkling pool. I wanted to be in a tranquil oasis where I could drink in the air and extract words, memories, stories, laughter, anything that would make me smile. Then, it came to me. I thought of what my pop would say at one of his private parties: “Leave while you’re still interesting, baby.” Somehow, someway, I cracked a smile and made my peace with Pop’s death.

  Today, it is twenty-four years since my father passed. I still struggle with his loss at times. I recently wrote a “Final Good-Bye” letter to Pop after visiting him at Forest Lawn cemetery:

  Dear Pop,

  Oh my gos
h, how you are missed. So many things to talk about and so many things left to be said. You taught me not to worry if I was a round peg in a square hole. You taught me to make my own hole. Who cares, you said.

  I wish you could see all my children, Pop. I have four now, two boys and two girls. Sammy named after you, Montana Rae, Chase, and Greer. Remember when you said you were going to be the best grandpa ever? They missed that. But not to worry, Pop, I teach my kids about you all the time, bet you know that right?

  I didn’t always realize it but I was the luckiest little girl and I am so happy you are my father. Brought up by two parents who looked racism in the eye and laughed at it—who built a cocoon for us, taught us to love no matter what. I must keep the legacy of your talent, determination, generosity, and love alive. I’m working on a new book about you that I hope will do just that.

  I gotta go now, Pop. You’re my hero.

  I will talk to you tonight, forever, for always, for love.

  —Me

  My brother Mark and I taking a swim with our father, 1966.

  SAMMY DAVIS, JR. DISCOGRAPHY

  Starring Sammy Davis, Jr. (1955)

  Just for Lovers (1955)

  Mr. Wonderful (1956)

  Here’s Looking at You (1956)

  Sammy Swings (1957)

  It’s All Over but the Swingin’ (1957)

  Boy Meets Girl (1957)

  Mood to Be Wooed (1958)

  All The Way . . . and Then Some! (1958)

  Sammy Davis, Jr. at Town Hall (1959)

  Porgy and Bess (1959)

  Sammy Awards (1960)

  I Gotta Right to Swing (1960)

  Mr. Entertainment (1961)

  The Wham of Sam! (1961)

  Sammy Davis, Jr. Belts the Best of Broadway (1962)