Yes I Can: The Story of Sammy Davis, Jr. (77 page)

“Do you think she’ll want me here?”

“I know she will.”

Mama smiled happily, “Then that’ll be fine, Sammy. That’s what I want. May is a nice quiet girl. I’ll like that.”

We went to a few parties at Frank’s, and at Tony and Janet’s, where I knew there would be only close friends and I could be sure nobody was going to slip into the other room, grab the phone and do a “Hello, Louella.”

Hugh Benson called. “Why don’t you and May come over for dinner tomorrow night? Diane and I are inviting some of the kids, Peter Brown, Nancy and Bob Culp …”

I thanked him and hung up, appreciating the way he’d anticipated my thoughts and had casually given me a guest list.

Jim and I picked up May and as we neared Hugh’s house she asked, “Sammy, can we tell them?” Her face was aglow like: “She’s lovely, she’s engaged …” Seeing my hesitation she said, “After all, they’re friends.”

“Let’s see if the right moment presents itself.”

She smiled happily, looked through the window and began humming. She waved to a woman waiting at a bus stop. “Hello there. Good news. I’m engaged to Sharlie Brown.” She said it against the soundproof glass and I wondered if she suspected the answers she might get when the window was rolled down. She was wide open, naively trusting, bursting to tell them all, to share her happiness—as though we were Debbie and Eddie and the whole world was waiting to throw flowers at us with unrestrained joy—and I dreaded the moment when her openness, her trust in the goodness of people
would be met with a “How nice,” or a raised eyebrow or any of the signs of disapproval. It had to happen and there was no way for me to tell her that “friendship” did not always transcend a lifetime of one-way thinking; no way for me to prepare her for the few who would turn away from us, without educating her to be an outcast, turning her into a human Geiger counter like I’d been, testing and probing for the presence of hatred. Should I force her to wear a raincoat twenty-four hours a day because it may rain occasionally?

Throughout dinner the conversation seemed constantly to arrive at “kitchens,” “babies,” and a dozen other topics that were perfect cues for me to tap a glass and say, “I have a little announcement to make,” and as each opportunity arose, May turned to me expectantly but I looked away, scanning the faces at the table, wondering. Hugh’s thirteen-year-old son Jeffrey was at dinner with us and even if the adults reacted as I hoped they would it was almost a sure thing that Jeff’s youthful honesty would expose an immediate reaction—a glance from May to me and the almost out-loud thinking, ‘But she’s white and he’s colored.’ I wanted to spare Hugh and Diane the embarrassment of fumbling for cover-up lines, and May the pain and shock of hearing them, but each time I switched the talk away from marriage I saw the eagerness fade from her face, and by the time we were halfway through dinner the bright-eyed excitement she had radiated was completely gone, shrouded by a bewilderment which caused mechanical smiles when she was talking and a near glumness when she thought she wasn’t being watched.

At my next chance I said, “Look, we’ve been keeping it quiet because we don’t want a whole publicity thing, but you’re all friends so May and I would like you to know that we intend to be married.”

Jeff’s face brightened. “Hey, that’s great. Wow …” and from all directions the air filled with the warmth of good wishes as people stood up to kiss May, to shake hands with me and to offer toasts. She was blushing happily and I smiled, accepting the congratulations, resting against the back of the chair, concealing my complete exhaustion.

Just before midnight Gail, the Bensons’ daughter, got home from her date. Again my stomach knotted as Hugh told her, “Darling, we’ve got great news. Mr. Davis and Miss Britt are engaged to be married.”

Her face reflected spontaneous excitement. “That’s
wonderful!
That’s
fabulous!”
and as she rushed across the room to kiss May, to
kiss me, to kiss everybody, I looked at Hugh and Diane, my eyes watering, ashamed of myself for imagining it could have been different, filled with awe and devotion for a man and woman who had raised their children with enough love and care to overcome what kids almost can’t help but pick up from others who are brought up differently.

We dropped Jim off at his house and as I drove May out to Malibu she sighed, “Boy, that was a beautiful party.”

I nodded, wishing she could enjoy the depth of satisfaction I felt, yet hoping to God she never would learn enough to be able to fully share this kind of an evening with me.

Jim picked May up at the studio and as she walked in the door I took her by the arm and escorted her to the couch. She sat down, watching me, sensing I had something exciting to tell her.

I bowed low. “Mademoiselle, I take pleasure in informing you that your fiancé has this day been invited to appear at a Command Performance before the Queen of England.” Her eyes widened with delight, her excitement as great as my own.

“Here I am the world’s greatest nut for castles and moats and ‘Ah, yes, m’liege’ and ‘By your grace, m’lord’ and I get an invitation from Buckingham Palace.” I turned to Jim, “Baby, before I forget, call Sy Devore and tell him we need a complete list of my measurements. And when you get them, shoot them right over to the Morris office so they can cable them to London.”

He went to make the call. “I’ll be wearing my own tux for the show but I need tails for the presentation to the Queen. They said I could bring my own or they’d supply them. And one thing I know, England is England and if I get my tails from the Royal Tailor, or whoever they use, there’ll be no question about looking right. I don’t want no ‘Hmmphs’ from them cats in the bowlers.”

I sat down next to her, holding the invitation for both of us to see. “Mr. Sammy Davis, Jr. is requested by Her Majesty, Elizabeth, Queen of England, to appear at The Royal Command Performance at Victoria Palace, on the sixteenth of May, nineteen hundred and sixty….”

I smiled, “Thanks, awfully,” at the British Customs inspectors. I wasn’t putting it on; from the second I set foot on British soil I
felt
English.

Al Burnett was waiting for me and as we walked toward the car he said, “I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a press conference at the club. I hope you’ll oblige.”

“I’ll be happy to.” He gave instructions to his driver, then settled back in his seat. “Your arrival has stimulated strong interest here and the press is eager to meet you personally.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I’ll bet they are.”

He smiled, “I gather you’ve heard there have been occasional failings in chemistry between American performers and our press?”

“Al, every performer who heard I was coming here called me—long distance—to tip me off ‘Hey, stay away from this one ‘cause
he’s tricky and dangerous.’ … ‘Don’t open your mouth to so-and-so ‘cause he twists things’ and ‘Don’t face ‘em all at once ‘cause it’s a rumble!’ ”

He became serious. “Well, if you’d rather not … I could make your apologies.”

“No. I’m looking forward to it. I love the challenge of a good hard interview.”

I gazed through the windows of the car as we moved through London. It was everything I’d expected it to be. I knew I was in England, and I dug it! Signs and billboards swept by in a montage of names and trademarks I’d never seen before—then, as we pulled up in front of the club I had the thrill of standing on a strange street in a strange country and seeing my own name.

The Pigalle was one flight downstairs, like the Copa. I sauntered into the main room and skidded to a halt at the sight of what awaited me. It seemed there were twelve million of them. I nudged Al, “Are these the reporters or the readers?”

They cleared an aisle through their midst to the center of the stage. Al introduced me, then stepped back as though removing himself from a fight, leaving me in the ring.

The questions exploded like fifty feet of Chinese firecrackers. I had to get control. I put up my hands. “Hold it.
Hold
it, fellas.” I jumped up on the piano. “Gentlemen, you’ve got the days mixed up.
Tomorrow
is the lynching. Today we have a press conference.” They laughed. I looked at one of the reporters. “Now, sir, you were saying?”

“Is there anything between you and May Britt?”

“I sincerely hope so.” It got a laugh.

“Do you intend to marry her?”

They had English accents but they were no tea drinkers. I couldn’t deny it or admit it. I parried. “Who wouldn’t want to marry May Britt? Imagine some guy saying, ‘No, I don’t want to marry the most beautiful girl in the world.’ Now, whether or not she wants to marry
me
is something else.”

They laughed and the questions kept coming. “Mr. Davis, we in England have read of your amorous affairs with the glamorous women of the world. What do you have that makes you so desirable to these fabulous creatures? If I may say, without intending to be insulting, you know, you’re not the most attractive man in the world.”

I looked around the room, thinking: well, here they are, the British Press: tough, mischievous, skeptical. I gave him the Jack Benny stare, stalling. If I say why I think I’m attractive I come off like I believe I’m Cary Grant. If I say I haven’t the faintest idea it has to sound like false modesty. Further, to steam me into being foolish he’d added the zingy about me not being good-looking. Who in this world doesn’t see
something
attractive in himself?

I asked, “Are you married, sir?”

“Why, yes, I am.”

“Is your wife pretty? I mean, is she beautiful—attractive?”

He was becoming uneasy. “Yes, I think she’s attractive.
Most
attractive!”

“Well, if I may turn the phrase around—ever so slightly—y’know you’re not exactly Sir Laurence Olivier. What attracted her to
you
?”

He rubbed his chin. “Jove, that’s a good point.” He laughed and the other reporters got a kick out of it.

A man in the rear raised his hand. “Mr. Davis, is my information correct—you’re appearing here for twenty-six nights at a flat 20,000 pounds? In American dollars that would be approximately fifty thousand.”

“That’s correct.”

“Are you aware that this is an extraordinary sum of money for a performer to earn here?”

“I’ve been told that. And I’m most appreciative and flattered by it.”

“Do you suppose that people will pay a charge of thirty dollars per couple merely to get inside the Pigalle to watch you? Plus additional charges for everything they care to order?”

“I have to rely on Mr. Burnett’s good judgment in establishing his prices.”

He smiled. “Is it true that you earn close to a million dollars a year?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe that you’re worth being paid that much money?”

“I am to the people who pay it.”

“Sir. How good a performer would you say you are?”

“I’m a very good performer.”

“Mr. Davis, earning as much money as you do, how is it possible that you’re in debt? Or is that not true?”

“It’s true.”

“I suppose it’s due to the fact of high taxes.”

“No. It’s due to the fact that I was an idiot.”

“Oh?” He smiled. “Might I inquire: are you still an idiot?”

“I sincerely hope not.”

Another reporter waded in. “You dress very well. Are you influenced by our styles?”

“I’m influenced by good taste.”

He advanced again, “Do you always wear a vest or did you do that for us?”

“I often wear them at home. I love a vest. Among other reasons, I like them because I can wear watches like this one.” I took out an antique gold pocket watch.

“A family heirloom?”

“Yes, but not
my
family.”

“I see you wear high-top shoes. Are those lifts?”

“No, they’re dancers’ shoes. José Greco and a few other dancers wear them. I started wearing them because I’m a great fan of Lincoln’s. He used to wear Congress Gaiters which were a similar high-top shoe. I like them because they go well with my pants which are,” I smiled, “tapered.”

I was able to maintain control by making switches, turning the loaded questions around or taking the bite out of them with jokes. There’s nothing in the rules that says you have to discuss anything you don’t care to but my answers to their questions indicated the respect I had for them and it wound up like the corny movie scene in which the two heroes fight, beating the hell out of each other but getting nowhere, and as they lie on the ground puffing and panting, you can see that now they like each other, they’ve developed a strong mutual respect.

The doorman at the Mayfair Hotel opened the car door and smiled pleasantly, “Good afternoon, sir,” and I had a feeling he didn’t know who I was. We crossed the lobby to the front desk and as I registered I sensed politeness and cordiality. There was no bending over backwards, no special treatment in either direction.

Al took me to dinner at Les Ambassadeurs. I waited awhile before getting around to “How’re the reservations?”

He answered with both eyebrows. “Enormous. Jack Benny, Judy Garland … virtually every American performer who’s been here has added to the legend that you’re quite the most extraordinary thing in America. Frank Sinatra, for one, was asked whom he
thought to be the best entertainer in America and he said, ‘Sammy Davis, Jr.!’ ” He smiled. “His exact words were, ‘He can do everything except cook spaghetti.’ And, incidentally, it was a superb piece of timing playing the Command Performance on your second day. You couldn’t hope for a better introduction to England.”

The morning papers had me on Page One, and the stories read like a kiss on the lips. I looked across the breakfast table at Murph. “Baby, your employer and friend has successfully run the British Blockade.” I went into the bedroom to dress. I looked over my clothes for just the right rehearsal outfit … light gray slacks, a double-breasted six-button blazer and a white, button-down-collar shirt.

As we walked into the theater a buzzing began among the performers. Morty went backstage and Arthur and I sat in the back of the theater. Nat Cole was onstage. This was his second Command Performance. The press, most of the same guys I’d seen the day before, were shooting pictures and writing things down. They waved hello to me and I waved back and mouthed the words “Thank you.”