Space Between the Stars (11 page)

I clasped it. “It's nice to meet you.” She had heart-shaped lips and creamy almond skin.

We ate together at the hotel café, and I asked her about the novel sticking up from her bag,
The Driver's Seat.
We shared a mutual love of reading and writing. Lynn had been enrolled in college like me, and had dropped out to travel with Jerry.

When we returned to America, Sly asked the band to come to L.A. for a few months to record the new album. Lynn and I met again beside the pool at Coldwater. A fragrant honeysuckle vine climbed over the fence and mixed with her powdery lilac scent. Lynn was three years older than me. She told me about her family, which sounded like mine: old-fashioned values, deep spirituality, and sisters who were very close and involved in one another's lives. Late at night, we wrote poetry by firelight. Often we chose to read our poems to each other rather than smoke dope with Sly and Jerry. We talked about entering poetry contests and going back to college. Lynn's friendship brought me wisdom and laughter, and she encouraged me to write.

Sly had composed a thumpin' tune, “Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)” that was climbing the charts. The last lines were “Dyin' young is hard to take, sellin' out is harder.” I watched him ingest coke, barbiturates, and weed, and I wondered whether selling out might not be better—at least he would be alive. He got so stoned at night that his pencil would
roll from his hand to the floor, and his head would nod forward. Once bright-eyed and feisty, Sly slumped over a lot, and I would have to kneel down in front of him to look in his eyes. Love became a mystery to me. I had fallen hard for Sly: charmed and bewitched by his robust energy, the twinkle in his eyes, and his commanding care for me; his manhood so much more powerful and attractive than the boys I had dated. I belonged to him, and wanted to believe he would come alive again. Rhymes and lyrics twirled out of him before his head hit his chest, and he would smile at me, reminding me of the man he was beneath the veil of drugs and demons.

Mom and Dad drove down to check on me because I did not write and call as often as I once had. I cleaned the house and tried to smooth the lines of concern on my face, but when I opened the door and let them inside Coldwater, their eyes darted quickly from me to Sly, sensing that our lives were out of kilter. I was so glad to see them, to feel their arms squeezing unconditional love into my body. We sat in the living room talking, Dad on the edge of his chair, his jaw tense, his hands on his thighs in fists as Sly tried to keep up conversation. Mom kept asking, “Who takes care of all these dogs?” I think she was afraid that was one of my jobs. “I sure wish you would go back to school, honey,” she said when they stood to leave. Closing the door as they walked down the stairs to their car, I sighed in relief and anguish. Although I was happy being on my own, their loving presence far outshone what I felt from Sly.

In late spring, Sly began making excuses for why he couldn't take me out with him at night. As independent as I
was, I hated being alone in the five-bedroom house, with the dogs howling in the yard. I would call Lynn and keep her on the phone for an hour. These talks were what allowed me to hear myself admit that my commitment to my own life was eroding and that my role with Sly was changing from girlfriend to caretaker. I was merely twenty, unable to see that he was in a downward spiral that he did not want to come out of. He bought drugs from a freaky doctor with bushy white hair and a square jaw that barely moved when he talked. Lumbering along in the camper, we sometimes drove to the secluded road in the Hollywood Hills where the doctor lived, and we would sit in his hillside home cluttered with books and magazines covered in dust while he counted out the barbiturates, one by one. At home, Sly locked the jars of downers in the safe and sat in the living room playing piano until the drugs took effect. He'd say, “Baby, take down these lyrics,” and I waited beside him, holding my pen, eager for his muse to arrive.

The band played a gig in Fresno, and we stayed up all night. In the afternoon, Sly and I packed our clothes in silence to drive back to L.A. There was a loud knock on our motel room door.

Sly growled, “Who is it?”

“Hey, man. It's me, Bubba.”

Sly jumped up, his chest bare, and he opened the door wide to embrace a caramel-skinned man who stood about five feet eight inches, with hair so short, it looked like a shadow on his skull. “We're running buddies from way back,” Sly said to me. “My sister Rose's husband, Hamp da Bubba da Banks.” He made a song of his name. “This is Debbie.”
I shook his hand, thinking he was cute in a little-boy way. His light brown eyes sparkled deviously when he said, “Nice to meet you.”

Our room was dark, even though it was afternoon. The drapes were pulled shut, making the brown furniture and shag carpet look drab and dirty. A hanging light over the table cast a sallow glow.

Hamp and Sly sat on the bed, talking in low voices. I combed my hair in the tiny bathroom, took my book from the nightstand, and sat in a chair to read. Hamp picked up his black bag and unzipped it. Sly said, “We'll be right back.” They walked into the bathroom, closing the door. After a few minutes the door opened a crack, and a voice called out, “Bring me my bag, bitch.”

I froze. Was that Sly? What had he said? I didn't move. I couldn't move. He called louder, “I said, bring me my bag, bitch!”

My face flushed. I put my book down and sat up straight. What should I do? I wanted to run, but my purse was across the room in the small alcove next to the bathroom. Panic shot through me.

While I sat half in and half out of the chair, Sly threw open the bathroom door, flooding the bed with light. I stood up as he rushed toward me, his legs skinny but quick. He grabbed my blouse with both hands and jerked my body in the air. Letting go with his right hand, he backhanded me across the cheek, his diamond pinkie ring catching my lip. I screamed as my head snapped back over my shoulder. My neck made a cracking sound.
“When I tell you to do something, you do it, woman,” Sly sneered. “Hamp Banks has seen me do worse to a woman for much less. Do you understand?”

“All I understand is that you'd better not touch me again,” I said through clenched teeth.

I pried his hand from my blouse, shoved past him, and grabbed my purse. Hamp sat in the bathroom on the counter, a vial of white powder swinging between his fingers, a smile across his lips. I pushed past Sly, opened the door, and stepped out into the bright sunlight. Walking and running toward the lobby, I could hear Sly laughing and I shuddered.

I stumbled, and a sob hiccuped from my throat. I could still feel Sly's hand on my cheek—like a branding mark. I clutched my purse to my chest. This was not the Sly I had gone out with in San Francisco. This was the person I had seen kick in the broom closet door at the apartment on Fountain. The glass doors to the lobby opened automatically, and I hurried to the ladies' room across the carpeted foyer.

I ran the cold water and leaned into the mirror. My lip was split open where Sly's ring had made contact. My eyes were red and swollen. With shaking hands, I splashed icy water on my face and gently dabbed my cheeks with a paper towel from the silver canister on the wall. My heart ricocheted through my chest, wounded as though from a bullet. I gulped back tears as I remembered Dad's words: “You're headed for a brick wall, Dobs.” I had had no idea what he'd meant when he said it, but I knew I had just hit the wall head-on. Where could I go? Should I call Kitsaun to come get me?

The bathroom door opened. I jerked my body around, a
scream waiting to spring from my throat. Without raising her eyes, a gray-haired woman entered the room and walked into a stall. My heartbeat slowed, and I fumbled through my purse for lipstick. Hands shaking, I rubbed color to my lips, careful to avoid the cut. I couldn't stay in the bathroom all day. I had ten dollars in my purse, so I cautiously stepped back out into the lobby and headed for the coffee shop.

“Table, honey?” The waitress smiled.

I nodded yes. She led me to a small booth and handed me a menu. I felt lost, like a bubble floating above my own life, not knowing where to land, or whether I could without bursting. A fat tear splashed onto the salad section of the menu. I squeezed my eyes closed and dabbed my cheeks with the paper napkin. If Kitsaun picked me up, it would be a three-hour drive. Where would I wait for her?

“Do you know what you want?”

The waitress's question startled me. “Uh, I'll have a tuna sandwich,” I stammered.
Tuna? I hardly ever eat tuna. Well, at least I'll have a reason to sit here.

“Something to drink?”

“Iced tea, please.”

I could see the glass doors to the outside in the mirror over the counter. The waitress set down my tea. As I tore open a sugar packet, I saw Sly push the door open. He wore a bright yellow shirt and a cowboy hat. Shades covered his eyes. I slipped down in the booth, hoping he hadn't seen me. I thought about kneeling under the table, but the waitress's eyes were on me.
Oh, God
, I thought, sitting up.
He can't hit me in public.
I poured the sugar into my glass and stirred frantically. I kept my eyes on the swirling ice cubes as Sly slipped into the booth. He put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me into his chest. His shirt was soft against my bare arm. “I'm sorry, baby,” he whispered, kissing my neck. I tried to pull away, but his grip on me was tight, forceful.

When I opened my mouth to speak, a gurgling sound came out. I closed my mouth. When the waitress came back with my sandwich, she asked Sly, “Would you like to see a menu, sir?”

“No. I'll have what she's having. She's really healthy.”

I knew he was teasing me, and I glared at him.

When the waitress turned away, Sly pulled me closer, turning my face to his. He lightly fingered my lip. “I love you. I didn't want to hurt you. I love those beauty marks on your neck.” He was twisting compliments and apologies together. It was confusing, but his whole way of living bewildered me. One minute his charm and passion drew me in; the next minute his selfish need for power attacked me. “You want some coke?” he asked.

“No.” I slid two inches away and looked Sly straight in the eyes. “Don't you ever hit me again,” I sneered.

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. I was not afraid of him. I was sad that our love was turning into misery, and I would fight to the end to be who I was and not a slave to his indiscriminate moods. Even though I was in love with the charming Sly, my father's and mother's courage and bravery were in my DNA. I was a fighter, even in my confused state of love.

While we ate, Sly clowned to entertain me. He smiled and tried to move close again, touching my arm. He reached behind
me, rubbing my back. I watched him warily. He dropped two Seconals into my palm after I finished my sandwich. I drank them down with the last of my iced tea, knowing that in minutes I would feel mellowed by the drug.

“It will never happen again. I promise,” Sly said. “Ready to drive back home?”

His face was serious, his voice gentle. I wanted to believe him. I felt desperate by myself in Fresno. If I did not go with him, where would I go?

I nodded.

He paid the bill and wrapped his arm around me as we walked back to the room. Hamp had vanished. I never wanted to see him again. I finished packing, wrestling with my thoughts, which were muddled now that the “red devils” had taken affect.

Back at Coldwater, Sly tried very hard to be charming, and he begged me to go to the studio with him for inspiration. He could be so close, pull me into a kiss, under the roof of his power. He made the act of getting high—whether it was sharing a smoke or having me bend into his hands to snort coke from his tiny mother-of-pearl spoon—an intimate exchange of love. Sly made me feel as though he needed me. Stevie told me I was different from other girlfriends Sly had had. “You're sincere,” she said.

Sly asked Stevie to find a bigger house with a studio so that the band could record day and night. She quickly found a house to rent in Bel Air in which John and Michelle Phillips of the Mamas and Papas were living—they would be moving out in a month. More grandiose than Coldwater, the Spanish mission–style house
was in the center of circular footpaths beneath hundreds of fragrant blossoms. The living room led to a balcony overlooking a sunken garden with rounded hedges and a stone-edged pool next to a pool house. The master bedroom had a window seat hiding cupboards beneath plush cushions, a marble bathroom, and pink carpeting. There was a recording studio on the third floor and a suite over the garage, with peacocks living in the dense pine trees surrounding the drive.

Just before the move, Wendy, a young blonde from the San Fernando Valley, began hanging out at Coldwater. I suspected Wendy was trouble when she staggered drunkenly out of her baby-blue convertible Mercedes. Not knowing where she had met Sly, I assumed she was around because she had drugs. She brought a dark cloud with her. Wendy liked to sniff a white crystal powder called PCP, which was a horse tranquilizer that could cause seizures. I begged Sly not to snort it. He pushed me away as Wendy sprinkled the PCP onto a mirror. My grandmother's sweet brown face appeared before me for an instant, and I knew—without a doubt—the drug was evil. I stood up and left the room, my grandmother's image a strong warning. But Sly tried it. He was incoherent and immobile for hours. His mood was unreasonable and paranoid. I hated Wendy.

The week we were packing to move to Bel Air, Kitsaun came down to visit. I was happy to see her and hear about home. Her Afro had grown out, and her hair curled around her brown, angular face. She was completing her second year at City College, and she and Jake had broken up. “I'm working with Frank as a showroom model to make money. I want to go to Europe this summer,” she told me.
Kitsaun looked in our refrigerator and asked why there was no food. “How do you guys survive?” she asked. My consumption of drugs made eating a once-a-day event. Coke squelched my appetite completely.

“We order a lot of Pioneer Chicken and Chinese food,” I said. She shook her head in dismay, and we ordered dinner by phone and went upstairs, where everyone was hanging out in our bedroom. I sat down on the bed near Sly. Jerry, Lynn, Kitsaun, and Freddy all sat on the rug around us, talking. Sly had given me a Seconal and a Placidyl. He talked about new songs, his words beginning to sound like a tape on slow speed. I looked at Kitsaun, and her face became fuzzy and began losing its shape. My head felt heavy.