Space Between the Stars

by Deborah Santana

  “Why did you leave without telling me?” he asked, his voice edging through the phone in a slow, drunken drawl.

  “Because I wanted to get out before you would hurt me again. I'm staying with my parents, getting a job, and returning to college.”

  “Anytime you want to come back, you can,” Sly said.

  How I wished I could. My heart yearned to be with the Sly I had first met. But the fantasy was over. We talked a few more times, and Sly's life sounded unimaginably crazier than before I had left. Sly said promoters were “messing” with him. He bought a baboon that lived in a cage outside the Bel Air house. He was a lost soul, as I had been with him.

  At night, I dreamed of Sly looming over me, a giant seething with anger, shaking and slapping me. I winced and cowered in the safety of Kitsaun's bed, scarred in places no one could see.

  Mom hovered close, fussing over me, cooking brown rice and vegetables, baked chicken and corn bread, giving me more love in a week than I had felt in many months. Dad stood close, hands in his pockets, nervously jingling his change. Kitsaun and I met at the movies, ate at the Hot House at Ocean Beach, and bought It's It ice-cream sandwiches for dessert.

  My family tended to my broken body, and my spirit cried out for healing. When Mom invited me to our family's Pentecostal church in Oakland the next Sunday, I accompanied her and Dad. My stomach jumped nervously as Dad put the car into park. I had not been in church in two years, not since I wore my purple satin hot-pant suit. Grandmother had put her long, thin arm around my waist and said, “Baby, you forgot your skirt,” in her soft, crackly voice.

  I felt I owed this day to God, because the desire for drugs left me when I came home. It seemed like a miracle. After a year of burying my pain in drugs, I sensed it was my mother's prayers here in this church with the other believers that had raised me from the depths of my stupor.

  We walked toward the bright red stairs leading to the front doors of the stucco building. I took a deep breath entering the foyer, my eyes squinting in the sunlight that streamed delicately through the stained-glass windows.

  In the sanctuary, it seemed that I had entered a forest. Arms were raised, waving from side to side, like tree branches in a gentle wind. A few voices called out “Jesus!” in a plaintive cry. Other voices moaned low and guttural. Some sang “Oooooooo” in a rising and falling pitch, like sleepy dogs on a moonlit night.

  Dad, regal in his gray sharkskin suit, carried his guitar to the amplifier next to the piano. Mom and I slipped into a mahogany pew. Ten rows up, in the pulpit, high above the congregation, stood my uncle U.S. wearing a full-length black wool robe with thick folds; an embroidered golden cross lay over his heart.

  “The Lord is good,” he proclaimed, wiping his forehead with a white handkerchief.

  The congregation responded, “Amen. Praise the Lord. Thank you, Jesus”—incantations to the God I had forgotten.

  Aunt Bitsy sat at the piano, her hands rising and falling over the keyboard like a school of dolphins at play. Dad fingered his guitar next to her, and my cousin Calvin thumbed the bass. Bitsy's eyes were closed; her head was tilted back; a heavenly countenance shone from her face. She began to sing “How Great Thou Art,” never glancing at the hymnal. Goose bumps stood the hair up on my arms, and a shiver of faith ran down my back.

  Sister Fields sat in front of me, to the left, crowned in her little straw brim with the polyester rose on top. Her light brown hair, streaked with gray, was pulled back in a soft bun. Her white missionary dress hung starched above the tops of her hard oxford shoes. Now that she was in her eighties, it was hard to imagine her the way I had heard she was when she was young: striding by the old church on Seventh Street in high heels and a tight dress, smoking a cigarette on her way to work at the house of prostitution. I'd heard her testimony many times over the years. “Once the Holy Spirit got ahold of me,” she had said, “I left that house of sin and ran home to look in the mirror, because I knew I looked different!”

  I smiled as she clapped her thin, brown hands together, singing in a soft, confident voice. God had forgiven Sister Fields her past. Wouldn't a merciful God forgive me, too? Can I stay away from Sly's world and the people who have forsaken their souls to flirt with fame and fortune? I glanced around at the sweet faces. Why had I ever left this safe haven?

  Sister Hogg ushered. In her uniform white blouse, black skirt, and white, wrist-length gloves, she smiled as she passed me a fan. I was not warm enough to use it, but as I held it in my hand, I remembered hot summer revivals when members of the Texas churches had come to Oakland. The Holy Ghost had moved through the church, laying believers out in a sanctified faint. I had been afraid to be slain in the Spirit because I did not understand how its invisible power made people dance, speak in tongues, and fall over. I still did not comprehend how, but I believed Spirit could change lives. I had felt it in my own since I returned from L.A.

  Thank you, God, I prayed, for bringing me out of the fiery furnace. I had heard saints pray about the fires of hell when I was young, but I had no idea what they had meant until now.

  The singsong cadence of Uncle U.S.'s sermon bathed me in peace. His words washed over me like healing waters—a baptism. Perhaps I could start anew, the sins of my L.A. life forgiven.

  henever I thought of Sly, I would wrap my arms around our German shepherd, Nureyev, and stare out the living room window, wondering whether the pain of sorrow would make me perish. Day after day, Nina Simone sang lazily from the stereo, “The Other Woman,” her voice vibrating.

  For a couple of weeks, I drove past Mama and KC's house on Urbano to see whether Sly might be visiting his parents. I looked for the camper and the Cord, any sign of his presence, even though I would not have gone to the door. I had not talked with Sly since my first week home, and wondered whether our love had been a hallucination. The memory of his hands slapping hard against my face made me confident that I was better off without him. I told myself to put one foot in front of the other, and I willed myself not to abandon what I knew was necessary—“Save yourself!” I screamed to my insides, the weak part of me still cared about Sly.

  Lynn and Jerry left L.A. and moved back to their Bay Area home in Forest Knolls. They invited me to stay with them for a few days, and I welcomed time away from Mom's and Dad's protective arms. Lynn picked me up, and we drove over the Golden Gate Bridge through winding, tree-lined roads, to a country town an hour away. We sat on their deck beneath spruce and cedar trees, butterflies languidly gliding by. Lynn offered me lemongrass tea with honey in a china mug. Los Angeles had not changed her at all: She was bright and loving, and her house was quiet and commodious, a haven from the tumultuous past months. I was curious about Sly, but Lynn steered our conversation far away from him. It was just as well; I needed to let my heart dry out, to allow my friendship with Lynn to change its orbit. Jerry rolled cigar-like joints, but I vehemently declined sharing the smoke. Fresh air, the beauty of the Bay Area, and being free of fear was enough of a high for me.

  Kitsaun and Lynn held my fragmented life together with loving talks. My solitude allowed me time to plan for my future, rather than mull over memories of the past. I applied to San Francisco State for the fall 1972 Creative Writing Program and was accepted. I started taking hatha yoga on Dolores Street, letting quiet soothe my body and the gentle exercises rebalance my spirit.

  Goodness came back into my life in surprising ways. Sly's secretary, Stevie, called me in early June, saying, “I've left L.A. Those people have completely flipped. Sly is too stoned to work, and he's not showing up for gigs. Hamp is living at Bel Air, and they're carrying guns.” Terror shot through my body. Hamp da Bubba da Banks in L.A.? I remembered his cold eyes after Sly hit me. “God, Ste-vie.” My head felt light.

  “Hamp and Sly are against Larry. Something crazy is going to happen soon.” She paused.

  “It must have been unbearable for you,” I said. I never thought she would leave.

  “It was horrible watching Sly totally lose
it. I called because I'm working in the city at Black Expo. It's a temporary job in an office on Oak Street. I need a receptionist. Are you interested?”

  I was stunned and didn't answer at first.

  “Debbie?”

  “Yes! I'm interested, just shocked,” I whispered. “I would love to work with you. How long will the job last?”

  “Just this summer. It will be great. We're putting on a conference of speakers and music for the community,” she said, and gave me directions to the office. “Debbie, I always liked you and thought of you as a sister. It was such a combative atmosphere for me. I wanted to tell you the truth about Sly, but I was drowning, too.” I was touched by her kindness to call me and offer me work, as well as tell me she had cared about me.

  Her news had stunned me—now that I heard her story, I felt lucky to have escaped with my life.

  How had I lost my identity and purpose in Sly's life of duplicity? I had been drawn in by his smooth, slick words that complimented the way I looked. How very stupid of me. He had never known me or wanted to know me, had he? Now that I knew his reckless character—the lack of respect he had for women, the lies he told as easily as he swallowed his pills or in- haled a cigarette—I felt cheap and disillusioned with love. But I was wiser, too.

  The Black Expo staff was organizing a weeklong summit of nationally known black entertainers in August. Ray Taliaferro, local radio announcer and talk show host, was the director of the project. Stevie managed the office staff and production coordination of the conference; she was experienced from having been Sly's personal secretary and from planning his tours, studio schedule, and travel details. She was a hard worker who accomplished every job given to her. As receptionist, I directed calls to staff, took messages, and spoke with artists' managers. We worked with eight other people, and I loved being busy and using my mind. My life had its own significance again.

  In July, Lynn and Jerry invited Kitsaun and me to a Tower of Power concert at the Marin Civic Center. We rode the ferry from San Francisco to Sausalito, the wind briskly churning the water gray as the boat plied through the bay. It felt strange being near San Quentin, the prison where George Jackson had been shot to death barely a year earlier. I had recently read about the legendary political prisoner and leader of the Black Panther Party—his book Soledad Brother had just been published. Imprisoned ten years for allegedly robbing seventy dollars from a gas station, George Jackson was forced to spend seven of those years in solitary. His murder was a tragedy of the war between the Black Panther Party, the government, and the police. His legacy would live on in his writings and in the thousands of freedom seekers, like me, who refused to believe that blacks were inferior or that we should accept a lesser system of civil rights. Now that my mind was clear from drugs, the old fire of social justice was stoked in me again, and I wanted to regain my purpose to work toward eradicating ignorance and injustice.

  Lynn and Jerry picked us up two blocks from the ferry launch at the Trident Restaurant. Lynn squeezed me tight. “You've put on some weight, Deb. You look great.”

  “Thanks. Mom's been stuffing me with macaroni and cheese, meat loaf, fresh orange juice with brewer's yeast—I'm eating three meals a day.” I actually had bulges in my eyelet sweater, and my hips were round again.

  Jerry sped up Highway 101, bringing the Jeep to a bucking halt in the Marin Civic Center theater parking lot. Donning dark glasses, we hopped onto the pavement and sauntered to the round box-office window where tickets and backstage passes were waiting in Jerry's name. The sun, just beginning to slide behind Mount Tamalpais, cast a peach-hued glow over the hills around us. Ripples of heat shimmied skyward from the turquoise-tiled dome of the crouching buildings. Jerry led the way through corridors, stopping to slap hands with musicians he knew. Kitsaun saw someone she knew and bid us farewell. Lynn and I walked through dressing rooms, where musicians and their lady friends looked up from conversations, and trumpeters and sax men were running their fingers up scales. We sat together on a couch and talked about our idea to compile a book of poetry written by the girlfriends and wives of musicians. We were going to ask women to submit poetry written while their boyfriends or husbands were on the road. I had written at least twenty poems while Sly was gone and I was waiting for him. Lynn raised her hands, excited by her thoughts. “We could call the book Road Widows. I'll get a list of people to call from Jerry's phone book.”

  “I'll ask Stevie to help me get names and phone numbers. She knows everybody.”

  A man's voice, muffled from below, announced Tower of Power. The music blared through the floor, and the bass vibrated the cushions in the couch. We strained to hear each other over Tower of Power's horn section. “Let's go listen to the band from the stage,” I shouted.

  I trailed Lynn downstairs, weaving between men and women who were swaying to the music on the side of the stage. We passed a man with dark hair curling down the back of his off-white suit, standing with a black guitar case against his leg. Long-waisted and skinny, he was a head taller than the two blondes who stood next to him. His shoulders curved forward, and his head bent shyly. I stared, caught by a bewitching energy. He returned my glance, cocking his head inquisitively at me, his dark eyes claiming the distance between us.

  Lynn and I walked closer to the stage. He followed, standing right behind us. Tower hit the opening notes to “You're Still a Young Man,” and I got lost in the keyboard solos and the vocals of the song. The band started “You've Got to Funkifize,” with the bass amplified to ten. The long-haired guitarist walked out, lifted his guitar strap over his head, and played a blistering solo. The audience roared. I asked Lynn, “Who is that?”

  She turned to Jerry and asked him. “Carlos Santana,” he said. The music stopped, and the house lights were raised. Lynn and I were pushing through the crowd toward the dressing rooms. I stopped at a water fountain near the stairs for a drink. When I lifted my head, Carlos stood next to me, his gaze washing over me slowly, gently.

  I turned and walked back to Lynn. We went upstairs, my heart pounding. His handsome, mysterious face stayed in my mind. Without speaking a word, Carlos had imprinted a desire inside me to know him. On the drive back to Lynn and Jerry's, my mind lurched and my stomach rolled. How can I be attracted to another famous musician? Santana's songs “Black Magic Woman” and “Oye Como Va” were constantly on the radio.

  When we reached their cabin, Jerry went outside to smoke on the deck.

  Kitsaun, Lynn, and I stretched sheets across the daybed where we would sleep. “I saw Carlos staring at you,” Lynn said. We tucked in the blanket. “Jerry says he's a real gentleman.”

  “I noticed him, too. But musicians are off my radar screen.”

  “Well, we could call him and ask if his girlfriend writes poetry.”

  “Fine. You can do that. After I'm gone.”

  The next day, after Kitsaun and I left, Lynn called Carlos. She then called to tell me that he'd asked for my phone number—and she'd given it to him.

  “Lynn! I'm hardly over Sly! Oh well, I'm sure he won't call.”

  A few weeks went by. I called women on my list who had been involved with musicians or were dating them at the time, asking for a literary submission. I was so busy working, I forgot all about Carlos Santana. Then one night, Mom called me to the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi,” he said. “I saw you in Marin a few weeks ago. I'm Carlos. Carlos Santana. I would like to meet you.” His voice was soft. His words sounded moist as though each one rested awhile on his lips before coming out.

  “Oh, I remember.” I saw his mustache above his full lips, his dark eyes piercing mine.

  “Would you like to meet me next Friday at the Carousel Ballroom? Azteca's playing.”

  “I don't know.” I liked Azteca's music, but I didn't know whether I wanted to take a chance on seeing Carlos.

  What was it that pulled me to him?

  Carlos said he would leave my name on the guest list, and hoped I would come. I
hung up and lay against the pillow in my room. It had been merely three months since I had left L.A. I was starting college again. I had definitely moved beyond believing Sly and I would ever be together again, or even that we should have been together in the first place. He was never seriously in love with me, but he had been my first real love.

  I wrestled with myself all week. Between phone calls at Black Expo, I felt excited to see Carlos, and fearful, all mixed together. Wanting to see Carlos again and talk with him overrode my trepidation about his being a musician. On the drive downtown to the Carousel, I was nervous. I got my pass and found my way backstage. The cramped dressing room was smoky. Carlos stood surrounded by a circle of men and women in front of an old red velvet couch. I recognized a few people from my days with Sly and nodded hello, making my way to a chair across the room, my eyes on Carlos's face, waiting for him to notice me. He looked handsome, his eyes black, his mustache rising and falling on his full, pink lips. When he looked my way, I curved my index finger, beckoning him to leave the crowd and come to me. He excused himself and walked toward me with a smile. He took my hand and bent forward to kiss my cheek. We moved into a corner.

  “How are you?” he asked. “When I saw you, I couldn't forget you.”

  His dark mustache was bushy like Dad's. “Thank you. I'm fine.”

  “Do you live in the city?”

  “Yes. I live out by City College.” His eyes were smoky lanterns in his pale skin.

  “What are you doing now?” I asked. “Are you touring?”

  Carlos rubbed his thumb and index finger down his mustache. “My band just broke up. I'm starting to rehearse with some new musicians. Two of the original band members stayed with me.”

  “Why did you break up?”

  “People change.” He looked from my eyes to his hands. “I want something different in my music. I want to play Miles and Coltrane. Some of the guys were into drugs more than music.”