A Song for You

by Robyn Crawford

  When I sat across from her, she asked, “Where were you last night?”

  “We were just hanging out,” I said.

  My mother pressed me about my recent behavior, and I confessed that Whitney and I smoked marijuana and did coke. She wanted to know where we got the stuff, and I said we went to different places, but mostly from a guy we knew in East Orange.

  “What’s Cissy’s number?” When I hesitated, she demanded, “Dial her number.” I did what I was told, hoping the whir of the rotary phone would slow things down.

  As I sat next to Mom on the arm of the sofa, I listened to her half of the conversation and became more distressed with each word. I wished I had been able to warn Nippy and was worried that she would now be in hot water because of my big mouth.

  “Cissy, this is Janet Crawford, Robyn’s mother. Do you know what these kids are doing? Robyn says they’re doing cocaine and smoking marijuana. Now, I’m not blaming your daughter, because I’ve raised my children to have minds of their own. But what I will say is that Robyn was not doing this before she met your daughter. Are you aware?”

  By this time I’d melted down into the sofa. When Mom hung up, she didn’t utter a word, didn’t even look at me. She got up and went to her room. The silence was deafening.

  Nippy called me later and we met up to discuss what had happened. I told her my mom knew and there was no way around the truth. I had to own up. I said it was time for both of us to shape up and that Janet Crawford wasn’t playing! It took me a few moments to realize Nip hadn’t told me anything about Cissy’s reaction.

  Finally, Whitney took a deep, slow drag on her Newport and said, “My mother spoke to me.” She did not seem the least bit concerned. In fact, she was nonchalant about it.

  When I returned home, a man and woman were sitting in the living room on kitchen chairs. They introduced themselves as drug counselors from the rehab center where my mother used to work. They offered me a seat in my own home. The man asked me what I knew about cocaine, where I got my drugs from, and if I knew what else was in them. He warned that sometimes cocaine is cut with substances that could make the drug even more dangerous. I dismissed him and said I knew and trusted the person who gave it to me. The woman asked, “How often do you do it?”

  “Not that often. I enjoy just doing a little bit and I plan on stopping soon!” I continued to make light of the situation. I remember saying, “Believe me, I know what I’m doing.” I didn’t take it seriously at all. In fact, I was practically giggling and joking about it. Whitney and I even stayed out that night.

  When I went to open the door the next day, my key didn’t work. Mom had changed the locks. She was sending me a message and wanted to be certain it was received. I felt ashamed and knew I deserved what I was getting. I called my mom and told her I knew she was disappointed in me and that I was disappointed in myself, too. I told her I would be safe and find somewhere to stay while I got myself together. Suddenly, I was homeless. I needed food to eat and a place to sleep, and it was important to me that I handle it on my own. It was summer, after all, and that would make it a bit more tolerable. At least that’s what I hoped.

  I was able to find places to stay. A guy who coached a summer-league basketball team had an extra room in the front of his house. I didn’t eat there; I just slept, made up the bed, and slid out. After about a week or two of that, I slept in a car parked in Nip’s backyard. She had her license by then and told Cissy the rental was hers. Overnights could get pretty chilly, but as soon as her mother left the house, Nip would call me inside. One time, Cissy came out and walked around the car. I hid beneath the blankets and stayed as still as a log of wood, and it worked. Miraculously, she didn’t see me.

  This vagabond lifestyle wasn’t sustainable, so I went to Newark airport and filled out a job application. Then, after three and a half weeks out of the house, I apologized to Mom for my behavior and said I was getting my act together. Mom was relieved and tearful when she let me move back home. She didn’t bring up my drug use. A few days later, I heard from Piedmont Airlines, and soon after, I was gainfully employed as a ticket agent. I had a six-month contract as a part-timer with an early-morning shift, starting at four A.M. and ending at ten A.M.

  I liked the daily routine and responsibility, but the shift was rough. I didn’t have a car of my own, which meant I had to be out of the house by three A.M. for an unpleasant walk down to the parkway to catch a ride with a coworker. I was struggling to keep myself alert and available after work for Nip, who was the reason I’d come home in the first place.

  As far as party time was concerned, we were so busy that we were lucky to be off for a day or two. But if we had a little downtime, she’d ask, “Wanna get some?” and we’d get a gram—maybe two. Though neither of us said it directly, my mother’s confrontation had had an impact and our priorities shifted. We became more focused on the dream and what we could accomplish. Whitney would often say, “Cocaine can’t go where we’re going.”

  I was ready to get my own place but didn’t make enough money working at the airport. Whitney and I would wait for our mothers to leave and take a cab from one side of East Orange to the other, climb into bed, and make lists of songs Whitney wanted to record. She’d grab her Walkman, playing things like Al Jarreau’s albums Breakin’ Away, All Fly Home, and This Time, and sing the songs note for note wearing headphones, gesturing with her hands, pacing the floor, and sweeping her head from left to right as if she were in front of an audience.

  I kept a notebook so that one day, when Whitney Houston was famous, I’d be able to look back and say, “Okay, remember you said there’s this song that you wanted to do?” That’s exactly how “I’m Every Woman” came about. She always had ideas, but I was there to recall them for her and take the steps necessary to make them happen. At times like that we felt closer than ever.

  On Dionne’s recommendation, Whitney signed with a management group called Tara Productions. Her team featured three men: Gene Harvey, Seymour Flick, and Steve Gittelman. Steve’s father, Daniel Gittelman, was the owner. The buzz about Whitney was spreading. Valerie Simpson, of the songwriting duo Ashford and Simpson, saw Whitney performing with her mother at Sweetwater’s and called Quincy Jones to say he had to sign Cissy Houston’s daughter. But Quincy said he already had a female artist he was working with: Patti Austin, whose records Whitney loved and listened to all the time. Music publisher Deirdre O’Hara repeatedly suggested that Arista A&R man Gerry Griffith go hear Whitney sing. He finally did and was blown away, phoning Deirdre to tell her she was right, and then advised his boss, Clive Davis, to sign her immediately. He arranged a showcase for Clive to see Whitney at the Bottom Line.

  Simultaneously, Elektra Records president Bruce Lundvall attended another showcase and was simultaneously courting Whitney. In fact, her only solo recording prior to signing a record contract was “Memories,” a track on jazz fusion band Material’s 1982 album for Elektra records, One Down. Bill Laswell was the group’s founder, front man, and producer, and a bass guitarist known for his diverse musical influences, from avant-garde to funk to world music. Tenor saxophonist extraordinaire Archie Shepp also plays on the record. Before she even stepped into the recording booth and opened her mouth, Bill Laswell told Gene Harvey that she wasn’t right for the record—maybe because he thought she was too young to interpret the song. Things became tense, until finally Gene insisted that since they were there, Whit at least should be given an opportunity to lay down a vocal.

  When “Memories” was released, Village Voice critic Robert Christgau called the song “one of the most gorgeous ballads you’ve ever heard.”

  Clive attended a second showcase, after which Nip told me that he sat in the front at a table with two or three other people and just watched, expressionless, while tapping his foot. When she was done, he got up and left without saying a word. It wasn’t until Gerry told him that she had done the song for Elektra that h
e moved quickly to sign her. Arista called and Whitney was faced with a big decision: whether to sign with Arista or Elektra. Her mother and manager both wanted her to go with Clive.

  She and I talked a lot about Clive’s roster, which included Phyllis Hyman, Barry Manilow, Dionne, and Aretha. Arista was a label of legends and Whitney chose to sign with them. But if Quincy had been at the table, I believe she would have gone with him.

  Whitney finally had what she’d been working so hard for. “I signed my deal today. Now it’s time to get going.” I could hear the relief in her voice, and the pride, but Whitney wasn’t the type to praise herself and be overly excited about things “You did it,” I said. “The next thing is to find producers,” she announced.

  Shortly after, Whitney came by my mother’s apartment and said she had a gift for me. She placed a box in my hands, and inside there lay a slate-blue Bible. She said that we shouldn’t be physical anymore, because it would make our journey even more difficult. She also said she wanted to have children one day, and living that kind of life meant that we would go to hell.

  “You know what we shared,” Whitney added. “You know how I feel about you and we will always have that.”

  I told her I didn’t want to go to hell, either. But I also knew that if Whitney had said she wanted to keep our relationship going, I would have gone ahead with that, too, because Whitney was the kind of person I wanted to love. There was no reason not to. I wasn’t totally blindsided that day; in the recent past, we’d talked about how our relationship might affect her career. By this time, we were feeling the pressure. People knew we were tight and were starting to ask about us. We were so connected we could communicate without talking.

  “If people find out, they’ll never leave us alone,” she said.

  I knew what the church and the Bible said, and I loved her anyway. The love I felt for Nippy was real and effortless, filled with so much feeling that when we talked about ending the physical part of our relationship, it didn’t feel as if I was losing that much.

  After Whitney and I had that talk, the only thing that changed was the physical intimacy. We remained best friends and companions, and we continued to be there for each other every day, on every level.

  We started looking in the papers and found a recently built condominium complex near Woodbridge, New Jersey, just south of the Oranges. Seven oh five Woodbridge Commons Way in Iselin felt safe and offered easy access to restaurants, shops, and Route 1. It was a straight shot to Newark airport and the turnpike heading toward the Big Apple.

  My mother was concerned about our ability to take care of ourselves. She knew that our cooking skills were way below par. But she was never one to stand in the way, so on moving day she gave us Spam and a couple of other canned goods and recipes, and wished us well.

  Next, we went to Whitney’s house to gather her belongings. Her mother steered clear of us until we got into the car. As I turned on the engine, Cissy came out to the front porch. She held up a feminine product and hollered, “Don’t forget your douche bag.” Nip shed tears as we drove off. I was merely moving on from my house, but she was running from hers.

  We moved into a first-floor apartment in a tasteful mint-green building with tennis courts directly behind our patio door. It was good sized, and the layout was nice: kitchen, living room, two bedrooms, and bathroom. Nip had her room; I had my room. Often I’d end up sleeping in her bed, because we were already hanging out in there. And if we got high together, I didn’t like leaving her alone. I didn’t want anything to happen to her, and it felt safer being together.

  As for our furniture, well, it was basic. We had unfinished-pine platform queen beds with drawers underneath, an ironing board, and one sorry floor lamp that we carried from room to room. We managed to scrape together enough to purchase dishes and pots and pans from a home store, as well as our big splurge, a Technics turntable, a Hafler receiver, and a pair of really good speakers. We were going to make things happen; she had the dream, and I was going to help her fulfill it.

  I kept the Bible she’d given me on top of my headboard. In order to embrace God and honor our love for each other, we cemented our sentiments on its endpapers. We each wrote a page about our love, pledged that we would always be honest and loyal, and left our past there. We signed it on February 13, 1982. We knew that God understood what we felt and that we had a bond that no one could penetrate. It would be our secret, and it would hold us together.

  Later that year, Whitney went into the studio for her second solo recording ever, making a guest appearance on the record Paul Jabara and Friends with a ballad called “Eternal Love.” That day, we met Martha Wash and Izora Armstead, the duo originally known as Two Tons O’ Fun. Those large sangin’ mamas, now called the Weather Girls, were there recording their smash hit “It’s Raining Men,” which appears on the same album.

  Six

  Nobody Loves Me Like You Do

  On June 23, 1983, about a year after we moved in together, I sat in our living room in front of the TV waiting for Whitney Elizabeth Houston to appear on The Merv Griffin Show. Clive Davis relaxed on Merv’s couch as if he was visiting a friend, talking about how he’d “discovered” Nippy. At this point, I’d met Clive once or twice at Sweetwater’s. He would bring industry folks to hear Whitney sing as part of his master plan to create buzz by introducing her as his new “discovery.” He was cordial enough to me, but I could see he was laser focused on making her debut a commercial success.

  Back in the day, if I loved an artist enough to buy their album and not just a single, I’d study the artwork, logo, and credits listing who was who and who had done what. So I already knew Clive’s artists. A lot of them were popular and female: Phyllis Hyman, Angela Bofill, Aretha Franklin, and hometown favorite (and Whitney’s cousin) Dionne Warwick. In my mind, it was fitting to refer to the label as a home for legends. Unlike most music executives, Clive was highly visible in the media and his name was also synonymous with acts like Janis Joplin; Barry Manilow; Bruce Springsteen; Sly & the Family Stone; Earth, Wind & Fire; Patti Smith; the Grateful Dead—the list went on and on. His successes across all music genres solidified his reputation as “the man with the golden ears.”

  Having seen Clive in action schmoozing with people after witnessing Nip do her thing, I shouldn’t have been surprised that he was holding court on Merv’s couch. Ever the promoter, Clive knew how to draw out the intro and build expectations, but in this moment, he was making me crazy. I wished he’d hurry up so Whitney could come on!

  Finally, Merv introduced Whitney, who was practically sparkling; she looked almost as sweet as she did on the night of her prom. She was stunning in a purple off-the-shoulder top with puffed sleeves, and her long black skirt and high heels made her look even more statuesque than usual. Watching her introduction on the show, I felt the pressure that was on her. She seemed a little nervous, standing at the mic, rubbing her hands together and clasping them in a way that reminded me of my mother. But her body relaxed as she started to sing “Home” from The Wiz, her voice soaring as she powerfully delivered the words. Somehow she made it all seem easy, natural. No strain at all. I couldn’t see the audience, but I could tell from the silence that she had them. She sang with conviction:

  And I’ve learned

  That we must look inside our hearts

  To find a world full of love

  Like yours

  Like mine

  Like home

  Home became a long note held at the end of the song. Most singers would have been spent, but Nip even added vibrato.

  When Merv came over from the couch, Clive and Whitney embraced, celebrating a shared moment of victory. “You won’t forget that name,” Merv proclaimed. “Whitney Houston.”

  Merv Griffin invited Nippy back onstage to close the show, this time with her mother. Together they sang a medley of songs from the off-Broadway musical Taking My Turn, which Ci
ssy was appearing in. Whit deferred to her mother in the duet, holding back, giving only what the songs needed, staying in her place while her mom was out front.

  When Nippy came home, I gave her a big hug of my own and insisted that she tell me everything.

  “I know you could see my mother back there leading the band,” she said.

  “That was her?” I laughed. She was right. I could feel the tempo was too slow, then saw a body appear in front of the band, arms moving up and down as the tempo quickened.

  Whitney said the band had been dragging on “Home,” so Cissy went out and started conducting to get them to pick it up. It worked, and Whitney was able to lock into the groove. Sometimes when I think of Nip and those early days, I’ll search the web for that appearance, and there’s Cissy moving her arms up and down behind the sheer iridescent-blue curtains that obscured the band.

  Although things were looking up for Whitney and her music, the past year had been a hard one for my family, especially for Marty. The summer before, he’d been in an accident.

  He had joined the armed forces and was a bomb loader stationed at Seymour Johnson Air Force Base in Goldsboro, North Carolina. He was driving home from a sweet sixteen party in his Fiat hatchback with three women who lived in his neighborhood squeezed in among the equipment he’d brought to DJ. He stopped at a corner and began inching out to see beyond the cornstalks blocking his view. The coast was clear, but suddenly a drunk driver came speeding down the road. The point of impact was at the hinge of the driver’s-side door, so the car door was flung open, sending Marty flying as the car tumbled over and over.

  When Whitney and I returned from a day in Atlantic City and got the news, my mother had already left for the airport. We scrounged together $100, filled up the car with gas, grabbed Bina, and drove straight through to North Carolina with orange juice and Mary Janes for sustenance.