Midnight would pass and become a distant memory, and Mother would turn to the rest of the group and say, “What’s wrong with them? Why doesn’t that little man just go home and let us sleep?”
Meanwhile, my mother had jumped into a second hasty marriage with another tall, handsome churchgoer. She was twenty-four years old by then, an old maid by her generation’s standards, and she was beginning to fear that she would never have a child. She had always dreamed of a husband and family of six children, and this man appeared to be someone to start a family with. From the outside, he seemed ideal. But this marriage failed even faster than the first one. Her second husband was more violent than the first, and she was frightened of him, too frightened to return home when the group’s next tour was winding to a close. Instead she left the tour on an impulse and ran away to New York City. It was winter. She had no job, no prospects, and no winter clothes. But she was desperate and afraid, and she didn’t know what else to do.
She vividly remembers arriving in New York. There were six inches of snow on the ground, and when she stepped off the bus in her pumps, the snow came up to her ankles and filled her shoes. She went to the only hotel she could think of, the Hotel Theresa. It catered to a black clientele, and its claim to fame in those days was an infamous stay by Fidel Castro. Castro had shown up at the posh Manhattan Shelburne Hotel with his entourage and refused to stay there because of their unacceptable cash demands. Castro and his entourage would then go to the Hotel Theresa and rent out eighty rooms for $800 per day. The story quickly became legend, and when my mother checked in, that was about all she knew about the hotel except that famous black performers often stayed there. She found a job filling in for a sick waitress at the hotel restaurant and tried to figure out what to do next.
After a week of hiding out in the hotel and eating all her meals there, she got sick of it and went down the block to a nearby coffee shop one afternoon. The snow had been cleaned off the sidewalk, which made it easier for her to make her way down the street. She had decided to get a couple of doughnuts and some milk for lunch. When she walked in, she didn’t look around. She felt shy and uncomfortable, so she sat down quietly and waited for someone to take her order. No sooner had she given her order than a strange man approached her and asked, “Is your name Della?”
My mother panicked, assuming the man had been sent by her estranged husband, and thought, “Oh my Lord, he found me. He’s sent somebody to get me.”
She swallowed and replied, “Yes. Why do you ask?”
The man nodded his head toward the lunch counter and said, “Mr. Charles …”
She went blank and said, “What? Who?” her mind still on her husband. But then she looked in the direction the man had nodded, and there was my father, sitting there listening and playing with his keys. He had recognized my mother’s voice the moment she ordered and sent the man to speak to her. Realizing what had happened, she went over and spoke to him.
My father said, “What you doin’ here by yourself, Bea? Where’s Cecil and the girls?”
She replied, “Well, I’m not with Cecil right now. I’m here for a while.”
He said, “Oh. Where you stayin’?”
She told him, “The Hotel Theresa. Right next door.”
And my father said, “You don’t say. So am I. Ain’t that somethin’?”
My father played it very cool, like he had no idea she was on her own. But he knew. He had kept in regular touch with Cecil about my mother for over a year by then. My father pursued her with the same single-minded determination he used in his music. He would keep after a piece until he got the notes just right, and he kept after my mother long after most men would have given up. He had faith that she would come around one day. He could wait as long as it took. When my mother finally found out that Cecil was helping him, she told my father, “If it was legal, I’d kill both of you.” In the coffee shop that afternoon, he told my mother he was in New York doing gigs there and in New Jersey. He had several appearances lined up in the area, so he would be around for a while. He would keep in touch. They talked for a long time that afternoon.
As the weeks went by, my father was true to his word. Every time he got back to town, he checked on her. He worried about my mother. He asked her what she was doing for work. She told him she’d found a job waiting tables, but it wouldn’t last long because she was replacing someone who was ill. She was still looking for a more permanent job.
He worried about her getting cold. He told her, “You don’t have the clothes to stay here.” It was bitter cold, and she couldn’t afford the clothes needed for a winter in New York. He wanted her to leave and return to Texas, but she told him she was afraid to. She was still married, so she couldn’t return to Houston. It wasn’t safe. She had nowhere to go.
He told her, “I’m goin’ to Dallas, and I have a place there. Why don’t you come on back with me when I leave? You can stay there as long as you want, ’til you find a place of your own.”
Mother replied, “No. I don’t think so. I can’t do that.” So they continued to talk, and he continued to ask, and she continued to say no.
Finally he told her, “Well, I’ve got a couple more gigs around here, and I’ll let you know before I leave.” A few days later, he left for Texas.
The minute he was gone, the loneliness hit her hard. To make things worse, money was getting really low. She didn’t have enough to pay the whole week’s rent, and she was scared to death they were going to throw her out in the street. She didn’t know a soul in New York, and she kept thinking about how cold it was outside. She pictured herself slipping and sliding in the snow in her flimsy shoes. The day after my father left, she went down to pay what she could toward her rent. Her plan was to pay part of it and let them know she would pay the rest the next day, as soon as she got another paycheck. Her hope was that if they knew she was good for the money, they wouldn’t throw her out.
But when she got down to the lobby and began to talk to the desk clerk, he said, “Oh, you’re already paid up.”
“No, I’m not paid up. Tomorrow, I’ll stop by the desk and pay my balance.”
He repeated, “No, you’re paid up, says so right here.”
She didn’t know what was going on. She thought he must be new. Maybe he had confused her with someone else. “How long have you been working here?” she asked.
Finally the clerk said, “Well, I guess I better tell you. I wasn’t supposed to, but—before Mr. Charles left, he paid for a week for you.”
Mother was stunned. She couldn’t think of anything to say except, “Okay.” Then she slinked out the front door, too embarrassed to even look up. For days afterward, she thought about what had happened. “Why did he do it?” she wondered. She knew he didn’t have much money. He couldn’t afford to do something like that. And he had never tried to push her into an affair, as she knew he had with other women. He hadn’t asked for anything but her company. His departure left her lonely and miserable. She realized that she missed him. She had gotten used to having him around. The Ray she knew wasn’t the careless womanizer everyone said he was. The man she knew was kind, patient, always willing to listen. And when he went away, she was lonely without him.
So when he called a few days later and asked if she had thought any more about coming back to Texas, she was torn. He told her, “I tell you what. You go on down to the Western Union. I’m goin’ to send you the money to get you a ticket to Dallas. You can stay at my place for a few days, just until you find a place of your own.”
She hesitated, debated with herself, and finally found herself saying, “Okay.” It was only for a few days. She needed the help, and it really was kind of him to offer.
He told her, “Do not ride the bus, either. I shall send you a ticket to travel by train.”
So my mother packed the two little suitcases that contained all her worldly belongings, went down to Western Union, picked up the money, and bought a train ticket for Dallas. She only intended to stay for a f
ew days. But when she saw my father again in Dallas, she realized that she had fallen in love with him. No one was more surprised than she was. Somewhere along the way, during those hours of talking to him, through all the small kindnesses he’d done for her, he had patiently worked his way into her heart. After twenty-five years and two failed marriages, she discovered what it was like to truly love a man. The man who she felt was all wrong for her had captured her heart.
From the very beginning, my father made it clear to my mother that his intentions were serious. And from the beginning, she kept telling herself it would never work between them. They were from different worlds. As she puts it, she was over here, and he was way over there. His world was constant travel, one-night stands with women he hardly knew, performances in clubs where anything went, and little in the way of conventional morality. Her world was the church and gospel music, with chaperones to protect the women from men like my father. Dad urged her to sing with him, to come on the road where they could be together and share their musical gifts. My father loved her voice and thought singing would be a good way for their relationship to grow. He was still doing a lot of pickup work in those days, struggling to find his own musical path. Mother refused, believing God would not approve of her becoming part of that world. But my father persisted. He kept telling her that their differences didn’t change the way they felt about each other.
The differences between them were not the only problem. My mother was still legally married to her second husband. She was afraid of him, worried he would find out she was back in Texas. She was also painfully discouraged about marriage. She didn’t trust men, and more important, she didn’t trust herself. She told my dad, “I don’t ever want to get married again. I always made the wrong choice in men. I can’t make heads or tails of it. It’s too hard. I don’t want to try that again. And I can’t have babies, either. I want children, lots of them, but I can’t get pregnant. I’m just not cut out to be married.”
The standoff might have gone on indefinitely if it hadn’t been for me. Even then, my father almost didn’t get her to the altar.
My father knew I was on the way before my mother did. She still doesn’t understand how he knew. One day early in 1955, my father called home from San Francisco. He was on the road, and my mother was in Dallas. Almost as soon as my mother picked up the phone, my dad said, “Bea? Are you pregnant?”
At first she thought he had lost his mind. “What are you talking about? I’m not pregnant. I’ve never been pregnant.”
Undeterred, my father persisted. “Bea, you gotta be. I just know it.”
Then my mother got angry. She was certain my father had gotten another woman pregnant and mixed up which one it was. She started cussing him out, saying, “You have gotten someone pregnant and then you have the nerve to call me?” But instead of backing down, my father insisted she see a doctor as soon as possible. This made her even angrier. “I am not going to the doctor to be made a fool of again!” All the women on my mother’s side of the family had given birth in their teens. She was certain she was barren and determined not to get her hopes up again. The more my father insisted she was pregnant, the madder she got.
Finally she told him, “Get off the phone! I’m not talkin’ to you! I’m gettin’ out of here!” And she slammed down the phone and started packing. She had no intention of sticking around while my father made a fool of her. She crammed everything she owned into her two small suitcases, including a pair of red high-heeled shoes. She loved those shoes. They were the prettiest ones she had ever owned.
A few minutes later, Dr. Jordan called. Dr. Jordan was my parents’ physician and a close family friend. When my mother picked up the phone, she heard Dr. Jordan’s voice. “Dell-a?”
This only made my mother angrier. “Oh, my Lord. He’s gotten to you, too.” Dr. Jordan told her she needed to come in and get a checkup, just to be sure. She flatly refused.
So he asked, “Well then, tell me. Have you had any symptoms?”
She thought about it for a moment. There had been some strange cravings. She couldn’t seem to get enough of sardines and biscuits and syrup—together. In fact, she’d eaten so many that the grocery clerk had commented on it. “No, no symptoms,” she told Dr. Jordan. “I’m not coming down.”
Dr. Jordan replied, “Now come on, Della. You know we’re good friends. I’m not taking any sides in this. I just want to be sure you’re all right.” After a little more gentle prodding from the doctor, she reluctantly agreed to see him.
The examination left no doubt. Dr. Jordan told my mother she was three months pregnant. She argued with him a little while longer, insisting it was a mistake, but finally she gave in. She was pregnant. She couldn’t believe it.
Dr. Jordan continued. “Now Ray tells me you’re leaving.”
Mother replied, “Yes. I got my clothes packed. I’m going back to Houston.”
Dr. Jordan pleaded, “No. Don’t leave. Just wait. Just for me. I know you’re angry with Ray, but are you angry with me?”
“No,” she said. “You haven’t done anything to me. You’re my friend.” So she agreed to wait. A couple of weeks later the tests came back, confirming her pregnancy. By then she was too sick to argue. She unpacked her suitcases and was immediately overwhelmed with regret. Her beautiful red shoes were ruined. After days of being crammed into the suitcase, they were twisted and flattened. She was sorry about what she had said to my father, and she certainly wasn’t sorry about being pregnant. As far as she could see, it was a miracle from God. But she was very sorry about the shoes. Those shoes were never the same again. Neither was she.
With news of my impending arrival official, my father told my mother they should get married. This presented an immediate problem because my mother had never gotten a divorce. Getting a divorce meant moving back to Houston, her legal place of residence, for thirty days. She was afraid because I was on the way, for she didn’t want her estranged husband to find her. A friend recommended a lawyer, and they worked out a plan. She returned to Houston long enough to see the lawyer and leave some clothes at her aunt’s house, to make it look like she was living there. Thirty days later, the divorce was official.
By then her pregnancy was having serious effects on her health. She was very ill, vomiting continually and confined to bed from weakness much of the time. Her resolve, however, was as strong as ever. She thought it was kind of my father to offer, but she didn’t really believe he wanted to marry her. She knew he had lived with other women, and with him on the road so much, for all she knew, he still was. Her first responsibility was to take care of the baby, and she was determined to make sure that I would be all right. My father assumed I would take his last name, but she didn’t want me to. Her father had never married her mother, and that had really hurt her. Growing up, she had seen too many men give a child their last name, then later claim, “That’s not my child.” In her view, being disowned was the most hurtful thing that could happen to a child, and she was determined it would not happen to me.
She decided the best thing would be for me to carry her father’s name, Antwine. The problem was that legally she still had her married name. The divorce decree meant she was no longer married, but the decree did not give her back her maiden name. So she made an appointment with a lawyer in Dallas to buy her birth name back. My father knew nothing about her decision. He was on the road at the time.
The night before her appointment, however, my father unexpectedly came home. The next morning he slept until past noon, as he always did when he’d been on the road. My mother was dressed and heading out the door to see the lawyer by the time my dad had awoken. When he asked where she was going, she hesitated a little, then told him that she was on her way to a lawyer to get her maiden name back.
Dad sat up and said, “Now wait a minute. Come back in here, and let’s talk about this.”
My mother explained. “Well, I decided I don’t want the baby to wear your name. Things might change, and I do not want the b
aby to have your name. So I think it’s better if he wears my father’s name. Then later on, if you decide we can make it and you really want to marry me, you could always adopt him and give him your name.”
My father couldn’t believe what he was hearing. She wanted him to adopt his own child? He started cursing and said, “What kind of thinkin’ is that? Are you crazy, woman?” After a few moments he calmed down a little and said, “I’ll tell you what. I have to go back out of town tomorrow. But as soon as I come back, we’re goin’ to go down and have a blood test, and then we’re goin’ to get married.”
My mother agreed. She didn’t believe for a minute that he would actually marry her. But if it calmed him down, she would pretend that she did. She canceled her appointment with the lawyer, and my dad went back on the road. She really did not expect him to return anytime soon, but the next thing she knew, Dad was back at their apartment with a friend to pick her up. When she asked where they were going, my father said, “To get a blood test.”
Mother replied, “It’s Sunday! What’s wrong with you?” In Texas, nothing was open on a Sunday. But my father had found an Asian doctor who did stay open on Sundays, so my parents got their blood test. The doctor told them that if the blood tests were all right, they would have two weeks after the results came in to get married. My father left immediately to go back on the road.
Three days later the doctor called and told my mother the lab results were in and that everything looked fine. My father was calling her every day to make sure she was all right, but she never mentioned the doctor’s report when he called. She remained convinced that my father didn’t really intend to marry her. Then one afternoon, they had just started their daily phone call when my dad said, “Oh, by the way. It’s been almost two weeks. Did you get the doctor’s report yet?”
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