A woman handed me a Styrofoam plate filled with fried chicken, greens, mac ’n’ cheese, and a piece of cornbread. I thanked her, moved over to a corner, and ate standing alone. I didn’t mind waiting.
Three
Love = Love
That Sunday after church, I walked with Whitney and Larry to his car and she whispered to me, “We’re spending the night at Larry’s place.”
I drove home and threw off the dress, changing into shorts and a tee. Whitney picked me up in a taxi. Though the rearview mirror was equipped with a little fragrance tree, nothing could cover the driver’s body odor, so, laughing, we hung out of the window to breathe.
I liked Larry; he spoke quickly, somewhere between a stutter and a laugh. When we arrived at his brick apartment building on Munn Avenue in East Orange, he greeted us and then left, saying, “Okay, girls! Y’all make yourselves at home.” At last, we were alone.
Larry’s bachelor pad, as Whitney called it, was a studio apartment with a bed, a kitchen, and a little sitting area. We made ourselves comfortable, ate some Roy Rogers, and lit a joint that Nip had brought. When we settled in on Larry’s love seat, she picked up a Bible and started reading under the low light, going straight to the sections about Jesus, covering every story that mentioned his name. She’d stop reading and say, “He’s so cool, isn’t He? I want to meet this man.” Then she’d take another hit or two, maybe three or four, and pass the joint to me. We were a little cramped on the love seat, so we pulled down the Murphy bed.
I was a little nervous. I wanted everything to go right with her. I wouldn’t push her to do anything. I wanted her friendship. That was what was most important. I didn’t know if Whitney would disappear or if it was too good to be true, but what we had just happened out of the blue of a summer, and I wasn’t even expecting it. I thought, Here’s the friend that I prayed for.
But I was learning that when Whitney wanted to do something, she just did it. And this time was no different. We watched some television and soon began to kiss. We took off our clothes and for the first time, we touched each other. Under her T-shirt, Whitney wore a bra, flesh colored—but not the color of her flesh—that unhooked in the front with a faint click.
She was just as I imagined after that first kiss. I still remember the taste of her mouth. Whitney smoked Newports like they were candy but didn’t smell like cigarettes; somehow the faint hint of tobacco was sweet on her mouth. I explored her body and mine by touching. Caressing her and loving her felt like a dream.
Whatever energy we had between us all that time was expressed through our bodies that night. It was free and honest. It was tender and loving. We both wanted to touch and explore each other, and we did until we fell asleep in each other’s arms.
I awoke first and looked over at Whitney sleeping. As I began to smile, I noticed blood all over the white sheets and on my hand. I shook her and was relieved that she awakened. Both of us sat up searching, but we quickly realized that the source was Nippy’s monthly. I recall making light of the situation. I could imagine being in her shoes and feeling embarrassed. At moments like these, she seemed really small, almost childlike. I led and she fell into place, allowing me to take control of the situation.
This was a man’s home, so there weren’t any pads or tampons to come to the rescue. I told Whitney to wrap the sheets around her like a toga-meets-diaper and to stay put. Then I ran out to the store and grabbed what she needed. When it was time to leave, we stuffed the sullied sheets in a bag and tossed them into the building’s incinerator.
We were together that entire summer. We could not stay away from each other. We didn’t share what happened with anyone, but our connection was undeniable. You could feel it. At the church that day, I knew I was in the presence of something powerful and great, but even before that, there was something about her that made me feel as if we were meant to walk side by side. We were partners. I didn’t know how long it was going to last, but I knew we were meant to be.
We never talked labels, like lesbian or gay. We just lived our lives, and I hoped it could go on that way forever. From a young age, I loved beautiful people. Sometimes the beauty that captured me came in the form of a male, and sometimes it came in the form of a female; either way worked for me.
Our affection for each other had blossomed undetected but in full view. Like other girls, we sat close to each other or held hands. Sometimes Whitney sat in my lap while we talked in the park, or sat between my legs on the ground, resting her head on my thigh. Nearby, another pair of girls might adopt a similar posture, doing hair or lying across each other telling secrets. So many girls were physical with each other, playing at being grown women, trying out seductions. Some, like us, experimented with drugs. And all of us attempted to reclaim our bodies after being told as children to keep our legs together, our knees shut, to stay away from the attentions of men, while being groomed to one day court the same.
That summer Whitney would come to my league basketball games, or we’d go for a drive together, or we’d hang out at my house or hers. Often, with little notice, Nip would come by and we’d go to the beach. She swam like a fish and loved the ocean; I could take it or leave it. Those days of arriving at the beach, running fearlessly straight into the water without testing the temperature, were long gone for me, and sitting in the sun crammed side by side with what seemed to be thousands of people wasn’t my idea of fun. But it was heaven for Nip, and as long as we were together, I was down for whatever.
My mother was working, but if I could borrow her car, I would drive Whitney into New York for modeling appointments, called “go-sees.” More often, though, she’d get on the bus and go to the city by herself. Sometimes we would catch a train to the beach, or take the bus across the George Washington Bridge and walk down into Sugar Hill, Harlem, to buy a dime bag.
On Thursday nights, I would speed in my mother’s car to deliver her to New Hope for choir practice. At other times, I’d crawl through rush-hour traffic in the Lincoln Tunnel as Whitney changed out of her jeans and into a dress, all the while praying for green lights going up Tenth Avenue to Sweetwater’s nightclub, where she sang in her mother’s act. She told me what it was like sitting at the board with producer Arif Mardin. The way Whitney talked about music was passionate and definite.
Some weekdays she went to the city with her mother, who was working with producer and composer Michael Zager. He was always saying how great Whitney was, and had featured her on his dance tune “Life’s a Party” when she was fourteen. Other times, we would go to the home of her first musical director, John Simmons, so they could talk about songs and putting a band together.
When John began working with Whitney, he found out that she not only could sing but had a sensibility beyond her years and a vast understanding of music, and even at her young age, she somehow knew how to use her voice to make whatever she wanted to sing hers.
John, a good-natured, supportive, patient but no-nonsense professional, was the person who Whitney could depend on and trust to prep, pace, and challenge her musically and vocally. In the early days, before she was signed, I would go over to John’s East Orange apartment with Nip and could see the two bond immediately, selecting songs for showcases, while sitting side by side at his keyboard, singing different parts of a melody, modulating and arranging the music with peaks and valleys, focused, but with smiles and giggles throughout. If John got excited about something, he would do a little trot, make a high-pitched squeal, and spin around.
Johnnie—as Nip called him—had tremendous respect for her. In an interview with an Italian television station during the Moment of Truth Tour, he said, “In the States, there are a lot of singers who are just R&B or just jazz, or just gospel. And I think that she covers all of it.”
At a rehearsal one day, Whitney and I came upon a small room with a piano. She sat down and said, “Sit next to me, I’m going to play something for you.” I listened.
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br /> She played a few chords. Smiling, she said, “You don’t know it?”
“Hold on, I’m trying to,” I said. “Just give me a minute.” Whitney played and then started singing.
The first time ever I saw your face . . .
She told me that the first time she saw me she thought I was beautiful.
One night when we were hanging out, Whitney said she needed to go home to take care of something. I’d brought my sister, Bina, with me, so we all went, and it turned out she had a bunch of dishes to wash. I felt bad for Nippy because at my house all the kids had to help out. My brother cooked because my mother was working all the time. Whitney’s brothers didn’t have to do shit. The dishes would be piled high, and though she had modeling jobs and was working on her singing career, dishes were waiting in the kitchen sink when she got home. She was the girl. You could tell she was frustrated. I would offer to help and she’d say, “That’s okay.” She didn’t make a big deal about it. Even when her brothers stole the money she earned from modeling, she didn’t protest.
Bina was tired and sat down on the sofa, and I sat next to her. We were in the living room, but we could see the kitchen and chat with Nippy while she worked. It was a little chilly inside, and the sofa was deep, so Bina took off her shoes and put her feet up, covering her legs with her coat.
Mrs. Houston entered from the hallway, big and tall, in pajamas and a bathrobe, with rollers in her hair and a scarf wrapped around her head. I’d seen her directing the choir that day at the church, but we’d never actually met.
I was duly intimidated, but I wasn’t prepared. Whitney had warned me that her mother wasn’t going to like me, but I hadn’t been worried. All my friends’ parents loved me. Bonita’s mom hadn’t hesitated to let me stay with her while I was working in Atlantic City. My high school friend Paulette’s mother suffered from migraines, and I loved her so much I would put my hand on her head to take the pain from her. I didn’t know what I would have done with that pain had it worked, but I believed I could handle it.
Mrs. Houston was looking straight at Nip, but then she saw Bina and me, sitting in the low-lit room. She turned her formidable backlit silhouette in our direction and said to my sister, “Get your damned feet off my sofa!” It was enough to make Bina cry. Nippy had told me that her mom was rough, but based on that first conversation, she struck me as just plain mean.
“That’s Robyn and her sister, Bina,” Whitney said, trying to smooth things out.
“Oh, well, don’t put your damned feet on my sofa,” Cissy replied.
Nip loved going down to the shore and usually we went by train. I didn’t love just sitting on the beach, because one time I suggested we rent a rowboat instead of our usual sunbathing and occasional dip. I paddled us out until I grew tired. It was beautiful and tranquil, and for a moment there was nothing for us to do but enjoy the gentle rocking of the boat. After a while, I asked Whitney to take a turn on the way back. She had the nerve to say, “No, this was your idea, I ain’t rowing shit!” We started arguing, and when I tried to make Whitney take one of the oars, she let it slip through the hole and into the water. By this time we were full-on yelling at each other. A man who had been watching us went by in a huge sailboat, shaking his head as if to say we weren’t going to make it. I watched him move out of sight, then realized that Nippy’s standoff had given me a rest, so I used the single oar to bring the floating one closer, fished it out of the water, and rowed us back to shore.
If Mrs. Houston wasn’t around, we were in her backyard in the pool, Whitney jumping around like a nut, bobbing in and out of the water, singing, “Oooh you make my love come down!” But most of the time we stayed away. We were constantly on the go. We’d go out to the park, and Whitney would take her tennis racket and hit a handball against the wall while I practiced basketball. Sometimes we’d hang out with Felicia and Larry or stop by my cousin Cathy’s house, but it was always better when it was just the two of us.
We spoke about musicians, mostly reading liner notes, album jackets, and music publications like Billboard and Pollstar, and took note of producers. Sitting in her living room, we’d analyze Quincy Jones’s claps, and Whitney talked about background singers with whom she would have loved to sing during a session. I easily identified which musicians played on one album or another. I further developed my musical ear with Whitney, after years of listening to records like Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On, Quincy’s Body Heat, Heatwave’s Too Hot to Handle, Donny Hathaway’s Extension of a Man, and Change’s Miracles, and listening to MFSB and Love Unlimited with my brother, Marty. On the radio or watching television, I knew that Luther Vandross was the one singing “Be all that you can be in the army” and that Phyllis Hyman’s voice was behind the Mastercard jingle.
You could tell Whitney and I were tight. It wasn’t all about our sleeping together. We could be naked. We could be bare and didn’t have to hide. We could trust each other with our secrets, our feelings, and who we were. We were friends. We were lovers. We were everything to each other. We weren’t falling in love. We just were. We had each other. We were one: That’s how it felt.
Our relationship remained between us, although we both believed God was there, too. If you’re a believer, God had to have been there. We safely hid it from everybody else; it was our secret, but we couldn’t hide from Him—or whomever God is. Despite our understanding of what religion might say about our love, neither of us expressed any guilt or judgment; we were immersed in getting to know each other. That’s what was important.
Sometimes we’d go to a hotel. Usually, we couldn’t stay for more than one night because we didn’t have that kind of money, even with my stash from the casino and all the modeling Nippy was doing. She didn’t like the modeling world or how they treated her, but she liked the money. Sometimes we’d go to Asbury Park and stay in a little beachfront hotel near the Stone Pony, where Bruce Springsteen was the boss of the shore.
Ours was a typical teenage relationship, with, I guess, the exception of cocaine.
The first person to give me a hit of cocaine was a friend of Whitney’s stepbrother Gary. I was over at her house sitting on the porch and Gary and his friends were there and had some blow. His friend Kelly asked me if I’d tried it before, and I said I hadn’t. He said, “Do you want to try it?” and I said, “Yeah.” I took a little hit, and then I took another one, and nothing happened—until about five minutes later, when I felt myself rising above the steps.
While I was floating high, Whitney came out of the house and looked at me funny. Kelly said something like, “Robyn’s feeling nice.” She was looking at me, she didn’t say a word. We all got up and went for a stroll down near the train tracks, and Whitney told me that she was fourteen years old when she first tried cocaine.
A few days later, Whitney and I did coke together for the first time. We bought some from an older guy—handsome, well dressed, and driving a sky-blue Mercedes. We bought a little and left. That’s how we did things—get it and go. From then on, it became our thing. We had limited funds; we mostly relied on a local guy who would sometimes give us marijuana and a little blow.
One day Nip wanted to stop by her house and grab a few items before going to the beach, so we took a cab over there, and I waited in the car. When she came out of the house, she clearly wasn’t happy. Someone had taken her stash. This wasn’t the first time that something of hers—weed, coke, or money—had gone missing. Someone was stealing from her in her own home, which was totally messed up. So the plan changed—the beach was out and NYC was in.
On the bus into Manhattan, out of the blue Whitney said, “Let’s go to my cousin Dee Dee’s.” I’d met Dee Dee once before at her mother Lee Warwick’s house in South Orange. Another Warwick cousin, Barry, was there, and for years after, whenever he was visiting, the three of us would hang out. As we sat at her mom’s kitchen table chatting, Cousin Dee Dee emptied the tobacco from a cigarette
onto the table. Then she mixed in some hash and put the mixture back into the cigarette shell, twisting the end closed. After she lit up and took a few tokes, she held it out and Nip and I each took a puff. That was some strong stuff! You had to be a cigarette smoker to handle that combo, I thought.
Nip told me that Dee Dee had a ton of talent and easily could have had a successful career but she was just too crazy. There was the time Nippy watched her onstage singing background for Dionne, visibly bored—huffing, puffing, and rolling her eyes. Contrary to what has been said, Whitney loved Dee Dee. She spoke fondly of her cousin and maintained close ties to the Warwick family even after she became famous.
Just as I remembered, Dee Dee had a totally cool disposition, a big laugh, and bright white teeth, and was funny as hell. Dee Dee had the lights low in her Upper West Side apartment, so I couldn’t see much, and it looked as if she hadn’t been out in a minute. Though we arrived in the afternoon, she was dressed for bed in cream silk pajamas. As we sat talking, she asked if we’d do her a favor and move her Cadillac to the other side of the street. When we returned to the apartment, we told her that there were at least a dozen tickets on the windshield.
Then Dee Dee had another favor to ask. Her bright idea was for us to drive the car to Jersey and park it at Nip’s house. That sounded good to us—we were more than delighted to help her out. So we drove to East Orange, and when we turned down the radio, we could hear a sound like bells coming from the car.
Apparently, someone had helped themselves to the rims and the rim locks were dangling as the wheels turned—creating a constant jingle that sounded much like Santa was coming. I can still hear Mrs. Houston as we walked into the house: “Who the hell’s car is that, and you two look like you’ve been working on the damn chain gang!” We couldn’t have cared less. We had wheels! Or I did, at least, since Nip didn’t have a license and the last time I’d allowed her to get behind the wheel, she’d slammed into the back of a car on the George Washington Bridge.
A Song for You Page 4