Yes I Can: The Story of Sammy Davis, Jr. (68 page)

People were pulling us to their tables to offer us drinks. This is beautiful, everybody loves it. Sam, baby, you did it again. Another great move. “Let’s have ‘nother drink. A li’l booze f’r th’ happy couple, huh? How often does a guy get married? What’re y’drinkin’, Loray, honey?”

Arthur was standing close to my head, “Sammy? You up?” What the hell’s he whispering for? If I’m awake why doesn’t he just talk? But if I’m sleeping then leave me alone. “Sammy? You awake, baby?” I turned over and waved my arm at him, but he wouldn’t go away. “Sammy, your father’s on the phone. He wants to know about your engagement to Loray White.”

Oh God. I started to sit up but I grabbed my head and fell back onto the pillow. I sat up, slowly. “I’ll call him back. And Arthur, gimme a Coke, with a lot of ice.” I rested, trying to piece the evening together. “What’d my father say? How’d he hear about it?”

“It was on the radio at five o’clock this morning. That’s when I first heard it, and it’s in all the papers today. Front page here in Vegas. When’d you start seeing Loray again?”

“Baby, cool the questions. I’ve got to think.”

“Whattya mean? Isn’t it true? What happened?”

“Arthur, how the hell do I know? I asked a girl to marry me. I got drunk and made a complete, total fool of myself. That’s what happened.”

“You’re joking. But you haven’t seen her in years. Not that she isn’t a hell of a nice girl …”

“Arthur, she’s a lovely girl. So is Eleanor Roosevelt, but I’m not in love with
her
either.”

“Then you’re not going to marry her?”

“What do
you
think? You know Loray and I were all over two years ago. Do you really think I’m about to
marry
her now?” My head killed me when I yelled. I lowered my voice. “Don’t be an idiot with ridiculous questions when I’m trying to figure out what in the hell I’m supposed to tell her.”

“Maybe it’s not so serious. Loray’s a smart girl. She’s probably waiting to see if you still mean it now that you’re sober.”

“I’d like to believe that.” I looked up. “Maybe you’re right. She knows I was gassed out of my mind….”

He gave me a stack of phone messages. “You’ll have to think up a statement. All the L.A. papers have been trying to reach you. There’s a guy outside now from one of the wire services, waiting ‘til you get up. The Negro press has been on the phone every ten minutes.
Jet
, the
Courier
, some woman in New York—someone Cunningham.”

“Evelyn
Cunningham?”

“Yeah, that’s her. They’re all excited about the wedding and when it’ll be and when’d you meet Loray.”

I flopped back on the pillow. That’s it. This does it with the Negro press. Even if Loray lets me off the hook they’ll wrap this around my ears: He was just using her for publicity, he doesn’t want her because she isn’t white. Before they’re finished there won’t be a colored cat in the country who’ll talk to me.

Arthur was answering the phone. “Yes, he is, Mrs. Cunningham.”

I hissed, “I’m still sleeping.”

He put his hand over the mouthpiece and whispered frantically, “But I already said you’re awake.”

“What the hell did you think I was waving my arms at you for?”

“But she’s already called three times.”

He knows I don’t know which way to turn and he puts me on with the toughest columnist in the whole Negro press. I shook my fist at him and took the phone. “Hello, Mrs. Cunningham, so nice to hear from you.”

“Hello, Sammy, I believe congratulations are in order.”

She said it as if it was a test question. All I’d need is to say:
Congratulations for what? I took the plunge. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Cunningham. Very kind of you.”

“Then it’s true?” I could feel the phone warming up. “You and Loray White
are
engaged?”

The nails were in the coffin. “Yes, ma’am. We became engaged last night.”

“Well, congratulations!” This time she really meant it. “This is wonderful.” It was as though she was thinking: could we have been wrong about him? “When will you be married?”

“We haven’t set the date. Soon though, I hope.”

“Will Loray keep up her own career? Or will she travel with you?”

“Well, we haven’t discussed it, but if she wants to keep up her career, I certainly won’t object—she’s a very talented girl, you know.”

“Perhaps she’ll want to do an act with you.”

Oh, fine.
Another
partner. “Well, that’s certainly an interesting idea, something to think about. Of course nobody could ever replace my father and my uncle.”

“Sammy, I think this is a wonderful thing. I’m really very happy for you. Sometimes a man needs some responsibility.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

Arthur was gaping at me, mouth open, as I hung up. I nodded viciously and bowed. “And thank
you
, Arthur. You did it again. One of the great,
stupid
moves of our time.”

“Sammy, I’m sorry. I know how important those papers are to you so I thought you’d want …” He shrugged helplessly.

The phone was ringing again. “Go ahead baby, you can’t bury me any deeper.”

I was flopped out on the bed listening to him chat with Loray, “Arthur, if I’m not intruding, you’d better tell her to come over here this afternoon around five,”

He hung up, “She’ll be here. What’re you gonna do?”

I couldn’t breathe without causing waves of nausea. “I’ll explain the whole thing and ask her to go along with me. We’ll get married, we’ll make it look good for a while, and then we’ll get divorced.”

“Do you think she’ll go along with it? Y’know you didn’t treat her so well that she oughta be looking to do you any favors. And, another thing, once a chick becomes Mrs. Sammy Davis, Jr., she’s not going to let go so easily.”

“Arthur, may I assume this is
all
the good news you have for me today?”

“What I mean is, maybe it’s not worth it. You’ve been in trouble with the press before.”

“Of course it’s not worth it! But this is one time I can’t afford trouble with them.”

“Why now more than ever?”

“Baby, just know this: if I back out now, I’m dead.”

“I don’t know … it just doesn’t seem right, I mean going into marriage like this.”

“Arthur … is that your considered opinion?” I got out of bed and started dressing. Will arrived. He cocked his head to one side. “This true, Mose Gastin?” He hadn’t called me that in years. He looked confused, which, all things considered, was about as good a way to look as any other.

“It’s true.”

“Do you love this girl?” He searched my face. “You get her in trouble?”

“Not the kind you’re thinking of.”

“Then—”

“Massey, I got drunk and I asked her to marry me. It’s that simple. What’s worse, I had to get up on the stage at the Silver Slipper and make sure everybody knows.”

“Well, then, you gotta come out and say it was all a mistake.”

“Sure.” I turned on him. “I’ll take full page ads in
The Defender, The Amsterdam News
, and the
Courier:
‘Sorry, folks, it was all a mistake. Old Sam got loaded. Heh, heh, heh.’ Massey, I’ve thought it over very carefully. There’s no other way to handle it.” I walked into the bathroom to get away from him but he followed me in with Arthur right behind him.

“Sammy, nothing is as bad as if you marry someone you don’t love.” He was trying to control himself, speaking carefully—like I was an inmate at a mental institution.

Arthur nodded. “I agree with Will, Sammy.”

I glared at him.
“Do
you, doctor?” He backed up. “Now look, you guys, it’s my life. Whatever happened was my fault. Mine. I did it and I’ve gotta straighten it out.”

Loray sat stiffly erect on the couch, waiting, expecting me to tell her, “It’s all a mistake,” and I almost enjoyed the dramatic moment. “Loray … I need your help.”

She didn’t move a muscle. “You don’t have to marry me, Sammy.”

When I’d finished explaining it to her, for about three long minutes she just stared at me, then she stood up. “Fine.”

“Great. I can’t thank you enough. Now look, don’t leave town, I’ll call you as soon as I need you.”

My father tried to talk me out of it; the phone kept ringing all day; everyone was butting in, all of them certain they knew exactly what was best for me. I made arrangements for the ceremony. The sooner the better.

On the night of the wedding I did only one show at the Sands. Loray was at ringside. I introduced her and did all the shtick the audience expects from a guy who gets married: the bedroom humor, with a leer and “Well, folks, I’ve gotta get back to the room.”

I had a few shots of bourbon with some of the people who’d come to the dressing room, but I couldn’t keep up the front any longer, I had to get them out. I sent them ahead to the party with Loray. I don’t know why they thought I wanted to be alone, but they winked and grinned and left. The unbelievable lunacy of the whole thing had reached its full proportion. I locked the door. I couldn’t have taken it to see them nudging each other, “Look, he’s so happy, he’s crying.”

I read a few of the telegrams that had been pouring in from all over the country, from people who were wishing something good for me. How cheap could I get? How many people could I fool, using their warmth and their affection against them, letting them put themselves in unflattering positions like this?

The party was in a saloon on the West Side and it was going full blast when I got there. I emptied a full bottle of Jack Daniels into an ice bucket, then added a few Cokes and I drank from that. All the guests thought it was hysterical; the “family” didn’t. They’d never seen me like this before. Who had? Who went around getting married to make other people happy? Me. Beautiful godamned me.

I’d wanted so badly to be married to the right girl and have a home and kids and a life in the community. I was married now, drinking out of my loving cup—a cardboard ice bucket in a broken-down saloon, letting photographers pull me all over the room for “a shot of the happy couple.” I kept drinking and posing for pictures, my arm around Loray, and walking around the room with my ice bucket.

Arthur was trying to take the bucket away. “Sammy, maybe you’ve had enough.”

“I’m okay, baby … just wanta find a wife … just want people leave me alone …”

He had his arm around me. “Come on, I’ll drive you and Loray home. Can you stand up okay?”

I got up. I was dead but I just wouldn’t fall down. I took a last look around. This was my wedding night,
the
night in a man’s life.

I was in the front seat with Arthur. I wanted to break something or tear something. I was clawing at his sleeve while he was trying to drive. Loray reached forward to stop me. I’d forgotten about her. Loray. She was in the back seat, and it was all her fault; I grabbed her by the throat. Arthur was pulling me away from her with one hand and trying to drive with the other. I nudged him. “Hey, y’got a little congratulations for old Sam? Huh, baby, old buddy? A little kind word f’r old Sam who finally came through? Now everybody’s happy, right?” He didn’t answer. He was trying to drive the car and he was crying and trying to hold my hands down. “Hey, what the hell are you cryin’ for, huh, Arthur? You cryin’, baby? … somethin’ wrong?”

The car had stopped moving and Arthur was standing at the open door, holding out his hand. I leaned back against the seat. “I don’t wanta get out. I wanta stay here. Hey, whattya say we spend the night here, like in the old days—you still got your sleeping bag, Arthur? Remember when I used to sleep on the floor at your folks’ place? Remember? That was beautiful … hey, how’re your folks, old buddy? Gee, I haven’t seen your folks in so long.”

“Come on, Sammy. Take it easy. The bridal suite’s all set up for you. Come on …”

“The bridal suite? How ‘bout that? Hey, Loray, they gave us the bridal suite. That’s touching, huh? Gets y’right here. The bridal suite for good old Sam and his bridle. ‘Sure, what the hell, give ‘em the bridal suite. We can throw away the furniture or send it out to be cleaned after he leaves.’ ”

Arthur was carrying me into the hotel in his arms. “Arthur, put me down. I’m no godamned baby.”

The tears were pouring down his face. Loray was there and she was crying … why the hell is everybody crying? …

From the day of the wedding everybody knew it was a phony. They didn’t know why or how so they grabbed for the nearest, most obvious reasons and the papers broke loose like I was World War III: “A blonde movie star just lost 20 lbs. No diet. Simply begged the love of her life to marry another to save her career and now she misses him. Boo-hoos herself to sleep every nite” … “The facts: Mrs. Sammy Davis, Jr. has a six month contract with her husband. The deal: a flat $10,000 and no options.” … “SD Jr. moved his new wife into a new house on a hill overlooking Hollywood. Close friends say he overlooks her too.” … “Insiders say Harry Cohn paid $50,000 to guess which song-and-dance man, to take the heat off Columbia’s top box-office property.”

Almost everything I read about the marriage was wrong except
for the single underlying truth, that nobody was fooled by it. Despite a wedding, announcements and pictures of “the happy couple,” the people sensed it was a phony, they could smell the hoax. It was the absolute proof of how impossible it is to accomplish anything through dishonesty.

But the complete shock was that as I moved across the country, the crowds grew bigger than ever. I was
hot
again. I taped some of the shows. The false humility was still there, it just wasn’t coming through as strong because the drama was covering it. I was riding the crest of a controversy and there was no way to kid myself that I had anything but a reprieve that was limited in life by its own nature. The important thing, the shows, were abominable, and the new interest in me would fade with the rumors.

For the first time in my life I dreaded facing audiences. Whatever they were thinking or guessing, whatever opinions they had about me and the marriage, it was humiliating to have to stand before them to be inspected, it was degrading to know I was selling a performance but they were buying a display. Invariably as I walked onstage there were women at the ringside looking me up and down, like: What’s he got? and the guys were grinning and winking like I was the swinger of all time, even more than they had after the Ava Gardner story. I was so genuinely miserable that I couldn’t begin to hide it, and that was probably the first honest emotion I’d communicated to the audience in at least a year. As I sang, my fists would clench and I’d pound my leg or my side, and they connected the songs to Loray or to the rumors or to unhappiness in general—whatever they were thinking it brought tears to their eyes while I performed. That was the final, sick joke: to touch them but for the wrong reason.