A Woman Like Me

by Bettye Lavette

  The lyrics were perfect. When I sent them to Jim, he said, “Yes, that’s pretty much what I was talking about.” For good measure, we included a couple of Motown standards—“I Heard It Through the Grapevine” and “If I Were Your Woman.”

  I brought cousin Margaret to Nashville, where she spent all her time reading the newspaper. The sessions didn’t please me entirely. I didn’t like being told to restrain my style. I felt like I was being held back. I didn’t see the point.

  “I agree,” said Lee Young, when he heard the tapes. “I love your voice and your voice isn’t being given free rein. But don’t worry about it. I know you can do a much better album than this—and you will. The point of this record is to let everyone know that you’re back. For your next album, there’ll be no compromises—you’ll handpick the producer and the material.”

  I took Lee at his word. A compromise this time was okay, especially since Kramer and Kramer, a major agency, had agreed to start booking me. More than anything, though, I just wanted to see an album with my picture on the cover—which was when the sugar started turning to shit.

  When the proof of the cover came in the mail I was back in New Orleans. I ripped open the envelope. The title was the one we had decided on, Tell Me a Lie. But, much to my horror, my picture was not on the cover. The photo showed another woman being embraced by a black man in the process of removing his wedding ring. She looked white. I went nuts. I called the label. Lee Young wasn’t there. Some junior executive took the call.

  “We had a long photo shoot,” I said. “There were dozens of good pictures of me. So why the hell is another woman in this picture?”

  “Because everyone knows you were recently married,” said this idiot, “and we concluded that showing you with a married man wouldn’t go over.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “That is some of the dumbest shit I ever heard in my life. First of all, my marriage wasn’t exactly national news. And even if it was, people don’t exactly look at me like I’m Mary Poppins. Besides, why not just use a picture of me by myself? That’s more appropriate anyway.”

  “They’ve already been printed and shipped.”

  “Without my approval?”

  No answer on the other end.

  The next day, Lee Young answered my call.

  “You gotta do something about this, Lee,” I said. “My first album and some other woman’s picture is on the cover. That’s not right.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” he said.

  “Then you’ll stop the presses.”

  “I can’t stop anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m no longer with the company.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. Berry’s bringing in Raynoma Singleton.”

  “His ex-wife?”

  “The same.”

  “The one who’s been fighting him for years.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “The one who will have absolutely no interest in promoting my album?”

  “That’s my fear.”

  “So the album is dead on arrival.”

  “I feel terrible, Bettye, I really do.”

  “I know you do, Lee, and I can’t blame you. I can only thank you. Without you, I wouldn’t have my first album, even if it doesn’t have my picture on the cover.”

  “I’m still hoping the record does something.”

  “I am too.”

  But I knew in my heart that it wouldn’t.

  And it didn’t.

  To make matters worse, Kramer and Kramer dropped me without explanation or apology.

  Muthafuckas.

  • • •

  So what happens now?

  “Tired of New Orleans?” Donnie asked me.

  “Yes, baby,” I said. “Very tired.”

  “Well, then, I’ve got good news.”

  “I could use a little.”

  “Hyatt’s transferring me. Making me the manager of a hotel.”

  “Where?”

  “Fort Worth.”

  “Fort Worth, Texas?”

  “Yes.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You don’t sound excited, baby,” Donnie said.

  “That’s ’cause I’m not.”

  “You will be once we get there.”

  Except that I wasn’t.

  Trance

  Marrie Early had gone through some changes. She had become a Jehovah’s Witness. She had also experienced the tragic death of a child. Convinced that modern medicine was incompatible with her new religious beliefs, she refused to take the baby to the doctor. She was certain prayer would work. It didn’t, and the child died. Yet for all that she suffered, Marrie was always there for me as a loyal and loving friend. She never lost track of me or failed to call.

  “Hey, Bettye,” she said on the phone, “I want to hear how you’re doing in Texas.”

  “I’m plotting to get out.”

  “So I gather you don’t like it.”

  “The word is hate, Marrie.”

  “What about Donnie?”

  “The word is boring.”

  “But he’s a good man, isn’t he?”

  “A beautiful guy, but I’m trapped in this boring life.”

  “You gigging?”

  “In Fort Worth there’s no one to sing to except the cows. I’ve started an exercise class in the apartment complex where we live.”

  “So you’re staying in shape.”

  “Marrie, I’m always in shape. But what for? I’m going stir-crazy in godforsaken Texas.”

  “How much longer do you think you can hang in there, baby?” she asked.

  “About an hour.”

  “Oh, come on, you’ve got more patience than that.”

  “This place is sapping whatever patience I might have had. Texas is more racist than Mississippi.”

  “You can’t lose heart, Bettye. Something good’s gonna happen—and it’s gonna happen soon.”

  • • •

  A month later, something happened that at first didn’t seem good at all. Donnie lost his job at the Hyatt. Suddenly, we were both down on our luck. Where would we go now? The only place that made sense was Detroit. At least I had a house in Detroit that was paid for.

  The car I’d bought with my Motown money had been repossessed, so we packed up all our shit and put it in a U-Haul that broke down halfway between Texas and Michigan. I was falling out of love by the minute. Somehow we made it to Detroit.

  Bad fortune turned good when a black-owned corporation bought the famous Book-Cadillac Hotel in downtown Detroit. They were only too happy to have Donnie, a college graduate with extensive experience, manage the property.

  The Book-Cadillac was an apt metaphor for the state of my marriage and career as I headed into the mid-eighties and age forty. The hotel was built in the twenties at the corner of Michigan Avenue and Washington Boulevard in downtown Detroit. Designed like an Italian Renaissance palace, it was an architectural jewel, redone in the thirties and modernized in the fifties. By the seventies, along with the rest of the city, the hotel had fallen into disrepair. When, in the aftermath of its restoration, Donnie came to manage it in 1983, there was new hope. The Book-Cadillac was coming back. I was coming back. All was not lost.

  Donnie moved into the home I still owned and where Mama and Terrye, now a grown woman, still lived. My original support group, led by the ever loyal Jim Lewis, was still in place. Donnie helped in every possible way. He gave cousin Margaret a good job at the hotel. He gave my friend George Richardson a cleaning contract so lucrative that George was able to buy another dry cleaner location and two vans. He also booked me in the hotel’s
nightclub for a long-term engagement.

  On an even happier note, my return home made me realize that, for the first time in some twenty years, I was over Clarence Paul. I think that happened when I made the ill-fated Motown record. Singing those Motown songs, I realized that my obsession had finally run its course. I didn’t seek him out, didn’t dream of him, didn’t fantasize that one day he’d see the truth, sweep me up in his arms, and carry me off to paradise. I’d always have a special place for Clarence in my pantheon of men, but that was it. My crazy love was spent.

  While my own career was going nowhere fast, I could celebrate the success of my friends with a grateful heart. Tina Turner’s triumph as a solo artist was beautiful. It was nearly as good as if it had happened to me. I felt that it could happen to me. Her cover of “Let’s Stay Together” followed by “What’s Love Got to Do with It” were hits and proof that she could do it alone.

  When Marvin Gaye, who had been hitless after “Got to Give It Up,” came back with “Sexual Healing,” I was also thrilled. I loved it when he got his first Grammy. I’d lost track of Marvin, and through other people’s accounts, I came to realize that the guy I had known so well in Detroit—easygoing, charmingly relaxed, funny as hell—had changed. He had gone through some terrible battles of the soul. I never knew the disturbed Marvin. I’m glad I didn’t know that man. I cling to the memory of the lighthearted Marvin with his mellow approach to life. Obviously, his life had turned topsy-turvy. On April Fool’s Day, 1984, when Clarence Paul called to say that Marvin had been shot to death by his preacher father, I cried for my dear friend; I also couldn’t help but think about the dark side of religion and what it can do to the human mind.

  My mind was on my own emotional survival. Donnie’s gig at the Book-Cadillac was fine, but his health was not. He was showing early signs of multiple sclerosis, a shock to everyone. For a while, we coped as best we could.

  I read in the paper that famed producer Barry Hankerson was putting on a play in Detroit. Clifford Fears, Katherine Dunham’s premier dancer and a local Detroiter, was the choreographer and Ron Milner, a great Detroit playwright, was doing the script. Naturally, I went to audition. I was received enthusiastically. When Jim Lewis called Clifford and Ron to encourage my being cast, they said they were creating a special character for me. Donnie provided the rehearsal space—the grand ballroom of the Book-Cadillac—and we were all set.

  My character sang a gospel song, “Have You Tried Jesus?” Well, not really. And maybe it was my agnosticism that did the show in, because, after nine months of rehearsals, it opened and closed in a week. Where’s Jesus when you need him?

  • • •

  Bettye,” said the guy on the other end of the phone, “it’s Steve Buckingham. I’m calling to apologize.”

  After my Buckingham-produced Tell Me a Lie Motown album disappeared without a trace, this was the first time I’d heard from Steve.

  “I feel terrible,” he went on. “The album was great and should have been your breakthrough.”

  “Where have I heard that before?”

  “I mean it. I should have been in touch before this, but I’ve been busy.”

  “Wish I could say the same thing.”

  “But I’m not just calling to apologize, I’m calling because I have a track that needs your vocal.”

  “What kind of track?”

  “A dance track. I call it ‘Trance Dance.’ Will you come down to Nashville and sing it?”

  Why not? What else did I have to do? The track had a post-disco Chic feel to it. In terms of hit potential, I thought it was a day late and a dollar short. Unfortunately, I was right. It became another one of those Bettye LaVette oddities—a song no one remembers. Steve went on to a brilliant career. He produced a bunch of records and became writing partners with Dolly Parton. They had a number-one hit, “Rockin’ Years,” and all sorts of platinum records. That’s the period when Steve’s power in the record industry was at its height. That’s also when I was hoping to hear from him again—but I didn’t.

  Muthafucka.

  • • •

  The matter of my marriage weighed heavily on my mind. Donnie’s condition was deteriorating. He was a good man and there was no reason why he shouldn’t be taken care of. But I couldn’t see myself in the role of caretaker. I had to level with him.

  “We’ve barely been married five years,” I said, “and it’s been rough going.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that I haven’t been happy.”

  “Was it something I did?” he asked.

  “No. You’ve done all you could. You’ve been working in the hotel business. You’ve had to go where you were sent.”

  I didn’t tell him that I was disappointed that he hadn’t really performed in the corporate culture as I had expected. I thought by now he’d be the manager of a major hotel in New York, Paris, or Rome. But this wasn’t the time to say that. He was sick and needed help.

  “You’ve told me that your condition is never gonna get better,” I said.

  “It’s not.”

  “That’s why I think you need to go home to Philly.”

  “Home?”

  “To your mom and dad. They’re the only ones who can take care of you and give you what you need. I hope I’m not sounding cold, Donnie.”

  “You’ve always been honest, Bettye. I appreciate that. I understand what you’re saying. And I don’t wanna be a burden to you.”

  “I just don’t think I can do it. I wasn’t made to devote all my time and energy to a husband. I respect other women who can do that, but I can’t lie and tell you that I can.”

  “I’m always gonna love you,” he said.

  “I’ll always love you too, but I can’t be with you anymore.”

  A few days later, with all sorts of mixed emotions, I drove him to the airport. He was leaving me and Detroit for good. I was guilty, I was relieved, I was regretful, I was hopeful, I was experiencing every feeling under the sun.

  I must give Donnie credit. He heard me loud and clear. He left without drama. No pleading, no crying, no fits, no harsh words. He flew back to New Orleans, where he thought he could make it on his own. Donnie was the straightest guy in the world except for his love of cocaine. Back down in Louisiana, that love, combined with his failing health, fucked him over. He got strung out on crack and finally did what I had suggested—he went home to Philly and let his parents care for him.

  But all that was in the future. In the present, after dropping him off at the Detroit airport, I stopped at the Fairlane mall, bought a real tight black dress and a fur coat, and went out to have a good time.

  • • •

  Not long after I said good-bye to Donnie, another good-bye filled me with sadness. In 1989, my mentor Jim Lewis died at the age of sixty-seven.

  Although we’d enjoyed an early romantic dalliance, the physical part of our affair had stopped years before. Our musical affair never stopped. Even today I never go onstage without thinking of Jim. I never approach a song without Jim in mind. I can’t read a lyric without remembering what Jim taught me about singing.

  “You caress a song,” he said, “you don’t attack it. You relax and let the song come to you. You dramatize the story like a great actress in a classic film. You take your time. You consider every word, every note. You offer the composition the dignity it deserves. You turn a phrase with subtlety and grace. You never ignore dynamics. You never stop calibrating your volume. Your intuitive feel for melody will tell you when it’s time to sing with heartbreaking softness or explosive power. You have it all, you silly bitch, it’s just a question of learning how to use it.”

  Jim taught me how to use it. The man taught me how to sing. Without him, I would never have found the professional strength to endure. He did so much more than get me thousands
of gigs around Detroit that kept me from fading away completely. He was protective. He was fatherly.

  “How can you be a lady,” he’d ask, “when you’re always on the verge of running off with some bass player or bouncer?”

  Jim Lewis took a wiseass, stubborn kid and turned her into a singer. He was a lion trainer. He was a lion tamer. I can’t think of anyone else who could have trained and tamed me the way he did.

  I miss Jim and Sister every day. Oh, how I wish they could both see me now.

  Trimming Hedges

  Donnie was gone, Jim was gone, and I was at home on Trowbridge. In my life, all roads led back to Trowbridge, the home that had been in our family for what seemed like a hundred years. Sister was gone, and Terrye was away at college, but Mama was there. Me and Mama were the main coupleship.

  At the start of the nineties, I was a forty-four-year-old woman still looking to get over in the one area where I knew I possessed unusual gifts—music. Because I had nurtured those gifts, they seemed to be strong and getting stronger every year. Because I worked out and kept in shape, I was ready to get in the ring the first chance I had. Trouble is, no promoters were interested.

  Little things—very little things—came my way. I guess that’s what they call the trickle-down effect. When I read that a show called The Gospel Truth was being produced in Detroit, I sprang into action. Mickey Stevenson, who had once been Clarence Paul’s partner and a Motown big shot, was writing and directing. Mickey and I had little love for each other. But Mary Card, my Detroit friend who had worked on Bubbling, was one of the producers.

  I called her to ask if she’d hire me.

  “All we have left are understudies for the principals.”

  “I could be an understudy,” I said.

  “You’ll be a lousy understudy. You’re too self-assured to be under anything. You’re a leading lady and nothing else.”

  “Agreed, but I need the money. Can I have the gig?”