You Don't Know Me

by Ray Charles Robinson, JR.

  The next morning we returned to the city. Anatoli wrapped our film a few weeks later, and we would travel to Sochi, a coastal city on the Black Sea that is referred to as the Russian Riviera. We attended a film festival there where our film was well received. Instead of going home after the festival as I’d originally planned, I decided to stay in Russia for a while. I had a girlfriend there, and there were other projects I wanted to develop in Moscow. I began looking for an apartment in St. Petersburg. Once again I would return home briefly during the summer of 2003.

  During the months I was in Russia, I’d gotten in the habit of reading the news on the Internet every morning to keep track of what was happening at home. One morning in Moscow at the end of September 2003, I saw a news article announcing that my father had canceled the remaining dates on his tour. That was highly unusual. I knew he had postponed his tour when he admitted himself to St. Francis, but this information caught me by surprise. My mind flashed back to the last time I had seen him, at the brunch with all of my brothers and sisters. The uneasiness returned. Something was wrong.

  I rushed back to my room at the hotel and called Ray Charles Enterprises, where I spoke with Valerie Ervin, Mr. Adams’s assistant. I asked her, “Is my father okay? I read in the news that he’s canceled all his concert dates.”

  Valerie said, “Your dad hurt his hip, but he’s okay. I’ll have him give you a call, though.”

  I felt somewhat reassured, but I still needed to speak with my father. Despite Valerie’s promise, I did not expect my dad to return my call so soon, and he would have to catch up to me while I traveled back and forth to Moscow.

  I had traveled to St. Petersburg to see my friend Alla and I was in my hotel room when the call came through. I heard a soft voice say, “Hello. Hello.” I could barely hear the voice, and I didn’t realize at first that it was my father. His voice was so soft, and my father always started phone conversations with me by saying, “So it’s you. It’s your father.”

  I said, “Who is this speaking?”

  He replied, “It’s your father.”

  I immediately replied, “How are you? Are you all right? What’s going on with your health?”

  He just replied, “Well, how are you?”

  I told him, “I’m great. I’m in Russia finishing a film. I started making this film before we started the production of Ray and I had to return to finish shooting. How are you and what is happening with your health?”

  He said, “Well, you know, I have some pain in my hip. I had to have some surgery. I’m a little tired. Son, that chemotherapy kicked my butt.” He paused a moment, and my mind raced. Chemotherapy? That meant cancer, but he did not go into any details about his condition. Then he continued, “Son, it’s just nice to hear your voice. It’s just good to see another day.”

  My heart almost stopped. I knew at that moment that he was dying. He didn’t say so. He never used the word “cancer.” But I knew. I didn’t know what to say to him. The shock was overwhelming. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind. Until that moment, I had truly thought that my father was immortal. In many ways, so did he. He had always been larger than life to me. I had never imagined him becoming terminally ill.

  His world had been turned upside down. Strangely, my life began to flash in front of my eyes even though I was not the one dying. All the pictures of my father in my mind started flitting by. My mind kept going, beyond the pictures of the past to pictures of the future I had expected us to have together. All the conversations we would have. The walks we would take. The tours I would go on with him. Helping him when he grew old. Having him there to experience his granddaughter Blair’s singing career. It had never once crossed my mind that we wouldn’t have more time together.

  After a moment my father broke the silence. He sounded tired. He said he had just finished chemotherapy and was pretty worn out, but he needed to hear my voice. I told him I would be back as soon as I could, and I rang off. I finished up some business and then took a plane back to Los Angeles. It was October 2003. I checked into a hotel room close to the airport. I didn’t plan to stay long. I just needed to see my father.

  It was several days before I was able to visit him. When I did, I took my daughters with me. He was still spending a lot of time at the studio. I was tense and anxious as we went upstairs, wondering how he would look. When we walked into his office, to my great relief, he didn’t look as bad as I feared. He’d lost some weight, and his skin was very dark, somewhat like my mother’s when she had peritonitis. But he was up and around as usual, still pretty vibrant and able to have a sound conversation. There were no serious signs of deterioration. He’d had time to recover from the stress of chemotherapy and was feeling stronger.

  The first thing he wanted to talk to me about was my film obligations. I was shooting two films simultaneously. He expressed his disappointment that I was not in the production photo shoot for Ray at the studio. I reassured him that Mr. Anschutz was adamant that the film be made with dignity and discretion. I also told him that I’d had complete confidence in Taylor Hackford. Taylor cared deeply about this film and about presenting my father’s journey as the triumph it was. Our conversation seemed to reassure him and clear the air.

  Then my daughters joined in. Blair continued talking to her grandfather about her plans to sing. She and my father talked about the music business for a while, and my father told her that he wanted to help her get started. He had all the studio equipment she needed to work on her first CD, and he said she could use his recording studio. He was excited about the possibilities and Blair was, too. Then I gave my dad the big news about my older daughter, Erin. She was pregnant with her first child. He was surprised by the news, but he got a kick out of the fact that I was going to be a grandfather. It meant another generation of Robinsons. I was elated for my daughter, my dad’s third generation unfolding before him and my becoming a grandfather. For Erin’s part, she was excited about the baby and looking forward to putting her grandfather’s great-grandchild into his arms. He told us he was working on a new CD. Finally we said our good-byes and I told him we would see him soon. As we were leaving, my dad said, “By the way, Ray Jr., I want you to hear some of the new tracks.”

  It was the last time I would see my father face-to-face and alive.

  CHAPTER 17

  Unchain My Heart

  Unchain my heart.

  Won’t you set me free?

  —TEDDY POWELL AND

  ROBERT SHARP JR.

  NOT LONG AFTER THE VISIT WITH MY FATHER, I RETURNED to Russia and my projects there. I needed to work, and I would be a great distance from the reality of my father’s health. I know the power of denial, and denial became my first refuge in the face of my father’s mortality. I tried to convince myself that his illness wasn’t as serious as I feared. It was difficult to get accurate information about his condition. I called the studio regularly, but for one reason or another I was never put through to him. I would leave a message, but weeks would go by without hearing anything back. I did talk with him a few times. Usually, I would be told that he was napping or with the nurse. I knew that my half sister Evelyn, who is a nurse, was helping with his care. My father was seeing almost no one. But Mable John, who was a former Raelette and remained one of my father’s close friends, was one of the few people allowed to visit him. A minister for many years by then, she became a spiritual adviser for my father as his health worsened.

  After a while, I didn’t hear from him at all. When the reality that my father was dying made dents in my shield of denial, I took refuge and dwelled in the memories of my life as his son.

  In April my father’s studio and office at 2107 were declared historic landmarks in an outdoor ceremony. I was not notified of the ceremony. I watched the dedication on CNN. The mayor was there with other civic dignitaries and a line of celebrities to dedicate my father’s building. The ceremony began without my father. As the dignitaries took turns making speeches, people watched the door, wondering if
he would make an appearance. Finally, near the end of the ceremony, the door opened and my father was brought outside in a wheelchair. He was pushed close to the podium, where he was lifted from the chair and supported on either side by Clint Eastwood and Cicely Tyson. My father was gaunt and drawn. I was stunned by his appearance, fighting back tears as he whispered a thank-you to the city for the honor. After struggling for a moment, he finally managed to whisper, “I’m weak. But I’m getting stronger.” He was carefully lowered into the chair and wheeled back inside. The newspaper photos of that day told the story of my father’s fate.

  I returned to Los Angeles to await the birth of my granddaughter. I tried to concentrate on the blessing that was coming, but I was also worried about my father’s health. As the stress mounted, I turned to self-medicating once again. Cocaine was the only way I knew to find emotional relief. But instead of providing relief, the drug magnified my fears. I moved into another hotel, isolated and overwhelmed. Looking back at that time, I was filled with self-recrimination for my behavior. It should never have been about anything other than the present, my family, and their needs. But instead I was caught in a vicious, selfish cycle that made a difficult situation intolerable.

  I struggled to pull myself together as my grandchild’s birth drew near. I managed to regroup, and I promised Erin that I would be there for the baby’s birth. She was very excited. On the way to the shower, I called her to say I was on the way. Though I had stopped using, I looked awful and I felt ashamed. I simply did not want to embarrass her. I did not show up to the shower. She got through the shower as best as she could, and the week before the birth, she went to visit her grandfather and tell him the baby was due any day. I missed that visit, an opportunity to see my father again, because yet again I had stopped communicating and continued to isolate myself.

  On March 11, 2004, Kennedy Michelle Williams was born. I would see Erin and Kennedy for the first time weeks after her birth. I was finally able to hold her, and she was a beautiful, healthy baby. My hand gently traced her face and I touched all of her limbs. At the beginning of May I admitted myself to a sober-living home. My family put me in touch with a family friend, Danny Laws of Laws Support Center, and he agreed to admit me into one of his homes. For the next four months, this was where I lived. I still hadn’t been able to see my father.

  Erin had called her grandfather almost as soon as Kennedy was born, but like me, she could never get through. My mother, meanwhile, had been delivering my father’s favorite foods to the studio, to encourage him to eat. By the first week of June, Kennedy was almost three months old, and Erin was anxious to show off her baby to her grandpa. My mother had arranged to bring some of his favorite pies to my father that week, so she suggested Erin come along and bring the baby. Erin was very excited, and they agreed it would be the perfect chance to see him. That way my mother could share the joy of introducing their first great-granddaughter to my father.

  On the afternoon of June 10, 2004, I was at Aron’s Records on La Brea with Blair. I had just finished a month in sober living and was spending as much time as possible with my daughters and grandchild. Erin was at home with Kennedy while Blair and I shopped that day. The phone rang at her house, and when Erin picked up, it was her aunt Inga, a close friend of her mother’s. Without any preliminaries, Inga asked, “Are you all right?” Erin had no idea what she was talking about. Inga told her, “You need to turn on the news. Your grandfather’s passed.”

  Erin was stunned, but her first thoughts were of me. She realized I hadn’t heard the news, for I would have called her. She knew I was out with Blair and that the news would soon reach me. She didn’t want me to find out over the radio. Erin immediately called Blair’s cell phone and gave her the news. Blair was standing in the record store looking at CDs when the call came. She said, “Oh, no!” and then looked at me, standing a few feet away. Walking away from me to hide the conversation, she told Erin, “I don’t want to tell Dad. He’s going to lose it.” Blair called her grandmother Elaine Chenier and asked her to call me. A few moments later my cell phone rang, and Elaine told me with great kindness that my father had passed away. I almost fainted from the shock. Wouldn’t somebody have called us if he was that close to death? I immediately dialed Ray Charles Enterprises, but the line was busy. I was desperate to find out what was happening and why we were not notified before the information was released about his death. Blair and I got in the car and raced over to 2107 W. Washington. When I turned on the car radio, I heard the announcement. Mr. Adams had issued a press release before informing the family. We would receive the news from one another or from a radio or television broadcast.

  When we reached Ray Charles Enterprises, I pulled into the driveway. Blair and I climbed out, but we couldn’t go any farther. The gate had been closed and locked, preventing entry through the driveway. We tried entering the building through the front door, but that was locked, too. Frantic, I called the office again. I identified myself and said Blair and I could not get into the parking lot. The person replied, “Mr. Adams has locked the building.”

  Incredulous, I said, “You mean we can’t come inside?”

  The voice calmly replied, “No, Mr. Adams doesn’t want anyone in the building.”

  A thousand things were swirling through my mind. I couldn’t take in what was happening. “I don’t understand … then can I speak to Mr. Adams?”

  The reply came, “Mr. Adams is not available.” There was nothing to do but leave. I never received a call from Mr. Adams about any aspect of my father’s death. Not one word.

  The radio and television bombarded us relentlessly with news surrounding my father’s death. It was painful to listen to, yet it was our primary source of information. The local news showed Johnny Grant, honorary mayor of Hollywood, next to my father’s star on the Walk of Fame on Hollywood Boulevard. The star was already surrounded by flowers and flocks of mourners. The news of my father’s death traveled extremely fast. The papers reported that “Mr. Charles died surrounded by family and friends.” Family and friends? Whose family? I found that a very interesting statement. My father’s complete medical diagnosis was never fully disclosed to me. We later learned, through the media, that he had died of acute liver disease.

  I needed a friend to talk to, someone who would be there in the midst of my grief and confusion. A few days later I received a call from Rhonda Bailey, a friend from my college days. She said that she had heard the news about my father and was calling to tell me I was in her prayers, that she was there to support me in any way I needed. I was surprised and deeply touched by her offer of friendship. That phone call ultimately would be the beginning of our new relationship. I am deeply grateful that she offered her heart to me at a time of tremendous emotional turmoil. I don’t know where I would be today if she had not stayed in my life.

  Stunned and grief-stricken, the family gathered to comfort one another and decide what to do next. We were able to find out that my father’s body was at Angelus Funeral Home on Crenshaw at Thirty-ninth. We decided to have a private memorial service in the chapel there before the public memorials began. We contacted our close friends and our families, and we contacted Angelus to inform them of our plans to have a private memorial. Our plans were set in motion by my brother Robert. We were informed that we would be met with opposition by Mr. Adams. But we moved forward anyway.

  As everyone arrived, we gathered outside the funeral home. My mother and daughters were there, with Erin holding little Kennedy, and we stood at the entrance, greeting our family and friends. Once everyone was assembled, we entered the building, but Mr. Adams and private security quickly moved to prevent us from going farther. Mr. Adams told us that we did not have permission to let “these people” view our father’s body. The people Mr. Adams was referring to were family members and our close family friends who knew my father but who would not be attending the funeral at the First African Methodist Episcopal Church, better known as FAME. “If your friends want to see Ray Char
les,” he told us, “they can go to the Los Angeles Convention Center and look at him there like everyone else.”

  I cannot begin to explain how disgusted and angry everyone felt. A heated discussion started as security blocked our way. Erin took Kennedy outside, away from the crowd, to calm the baby down. There was confusion and pandemonium. My brother Robert took the funeral director aside and spoke to him privately, then the funeral director spoke to Mr. Adams. Eventually Mr. Adams agreed that the family could enter the viewing room to see our father’s body, but our friends would have to wait in the chapel.

  Our friends were directed into the chapel. Then Mr. Adams and his security took us down the hall to the room containing my father’s body, unlocked the door, and we filed inside. Mr. Adams closed the door, leaving his security outside the entrance. We gathered around my father’s coffin. He looked so thin and frail, as he had years ago lying in the bed at St. Francis. We were all struggling for control of our emotions as we looked at him, especially my mother. Meanwhile Mr. Adams stood there, watching us. We were intensely aware of his eyes on us. Even in death, we were not allowed to be alone with my father. We struggled with a mixture of grief and anger.

  We could have our private memorial in the chapel on the condition that my father’s coffin remain in another room under lock and key. Robert led us through the brief memorial service. Our friend Ollie Woodson, who also loved my father dearly, sang “Walk Around Heaven All Day.” I spoke about Ray Charles Robinson: his humble beginnings, his loves, his pain, his dreams, his rise to fame, and our relationship. “Ray Charles became the man he was meant to be, with music flowing through his veins. He lived for the enduring love and embrace of his audience,” I said with love and respect. I promised my father that I would be a better person. I said, “Dad, you can rest now.” Saying that tore me apart inside, and I continued to mourn in private. Our family would have our memorial.