Yes I Can: The Story of Sammy Davis, Jr.

by Davis, Sammy

  Arthur was standing next to me. “Listen, they probably couldn’t get a cab …”

  “I warned them, baby. You were standing right here and you heard me.”

  After an hour and a half I told the Captain to turn back and we got in at around five o’clock. They weren’t there. The dockmaster shouted up, “A boy and a girl were waiting for you but they went back to town.”

  Jim looked at me, unsmiling. “Well, you did it again, eh, Sam?” Luddy shook her head in disapproval. Shirley patted me on the back. “Beautiful move, Sammy. You really showed her.” She turned away from me.

  I glared at Arthur with disgust. “Someday remind me to do ten minutes on how much I need your brother-in-law, the horseback rider!”

  We located them at a police station. Without money they’d had no place else to go. May didn’t say a word in the cab back to the boat and I played it Charley Silent right back at her. When we got on board she went straight for her cabin. I called after her, “Dinner’s in twenty minutes.” She didn’t answer.

  Half an hour passed but she didn’t appear. I told the others to start eating and walked downstairs and knocked on her door. “May?”

  No answer.

  “May, it’s me … Captain Shnook! I’m sorry. I really am.” No answer.

  “Look, come on out and we’ll go upstairs and I’ll tell everyone I’m an idiot.”

  No answer.

  “May … I’m going upstairs for dinner now….”

  I sat on the stairs watching the knob on her door. I had a feeling that she was carrying it further than she really wanted to, that she needed an out. I sent dinner down to her but I deliberately didn’t include a fork on her tray so she could have an excuse to come upstairs. Then I could apologize and convince her to stay.

  Two hours later I knocked on her door, “May, we’re starting the movie now—it’s a great one, The Mummy’s Hand.”

  She didn’t come out until the next morning. At breakfast she laughed and joked with everyone else, then sat in the sun with Shirley and Luddy, as far away from me as possible. It was the same thing at lunch and dinner. I wasn’t getting much of a play from the others either. I was the creep of the boat. What the hell is this? I don’t have to spend the one vacation of my life like this. I told the Captain to turn around and head back to Los Angeles. Then I went back to the living room, “Well that’s it, folks, the party’s over.” I looked at her profile. And it’s the best thing that could have happened.

  On the morning of the last day I was on deck, taking pictures, when I heard “Hello, there.” My reflex was to give her the same treatment she’d given me. But I didn’t want that. I smiled, “Good morning.”

  She smiled back and put out her hand. “How about forgetting it, okay?”

  It was a gorgeous, sunny, balmy day. We talked about our fight and laughed over it. I’d offended her by expecting her to wear a bikini, as if because I’d hired a boat I was entitled to free looks. She also hadn’t been too choked up about the cliché that all Swedes are nudists. I, of all people, should have known better than to do that.

  After lunch she came on deck wearing a two-piece bathing suit. It was far from a bikini but I appreciated the gesture. We stretched out in the sun. It was a pity to have wasted all that time, but that one glorious day made the whole trip worthwhile.

  I woke up at around eleven, put on a robe and went into the kitchen. I drummed a few beats on the stove, and gave Etheline, my housekeeper, the W. C. Fields voice, “Yes, yes, m’dear, how about a little liquid libation for the master of this household….”

  After a few slugs of coffee I ran the shower good and hot, did a chorus of Pagliacci, made the big note, and started dressing. It was mid-March and May’s birthday was on the 22nd. We were shooting interiors for Oceans and this was the only day I had free to go downtown and buy her a present. I knew it was going to be a piece of jewelry but I wanted plenty of time to select just the right thing. I’d invited her over for dinner on the 22nd, only the two of us: a little candlelight, a jug of wine, and I’d hand it to her when her birthday cake was served.

  The front doorbell rang and I heard Etheline talking to Berney Abramson, the photographer who does my darkroom work. I pulled on a pair of pants and shouted, “Be right out, Bern.”

  He was in the living room holding a package of enlargements. “Your yachting pictures, Commodore.” He grinned and tapped the package, ‘That May Britt’s a wild-looking chick!”

  I pulled it out of his hands and walked into the bedroom. He followed me in. “Sammy? What’s wrong?”

  Berney’d handled pictures of countless girls I’d photographed. Maybe a hundred times he’d made similar, friendly remarks and I’d only been pleased. How could he know it would steam me this time when I wouldn’t have known it myself? I gave him a friendly shot on the arm. “Everything’s fine, baby. No problems. Thanks.” I walked him to the door.

  I separated May’s pictures from the others and spread them out on the floor. I’d had them made up 11 × 14 and they were incredible. From every possible angle she was beautiful. I picked up the nearest one, to study it more closely, and as I held it I was struck by the contrast of my thumb against her arm.

  I put the picture down and went into the bedroom. I forced myself to look in the mirror at my broken face, at my bad eye, the scar across my nose … I thought of her beauty, of the hundreds of desirable men she could have. Still, she wasn’t telling me to go away, she’d come to Vegas, she’d made the boat trip … Sure, Charley, she needs you! You want to fool yourself that you’re Charley Dapper, Charley Star? Well, you go right ahead, keep forgetting you’re colored and you’re short and you’re ugly—until you get reminded. Better still, throw yourself in front of a truck! It’s quicker and it’ll hurt less.

  I couldn’t cancel our date for her birthday, not without giving a good reason. The thing to do would be to go through with it, playing everything down, and let it taper off until I could bow out gracefully.

  On the 22nd when we broke for lunch I called Etheline and told her to pick up a birthday cake. There was no point in being rude. We finished shooting early and I headed home. I felt rotten having no present for her. She had no family over here … what the hell, maybe I’d get her something silly, something that doesn’t mean anything. I drove to Beverly Hills and browsed through the Toy Menagerie, looking at joke-type presents like a giant stuffed giraffe. But I didn’t want to give her a giant stuffed giraffe.

  I walked a few blocks, stopped at Si Sandler’s and looked at the beautiful rings and clips and pins in the window. I’d never wanted anything like I wanted to give her one of them. But she was no “chick” who’d accept an expensive gift from a guy she wasn’t really serious about. She’d hand it back and feel badly about embarrassing me. And that would be it.

  I stared into the window. What could I lose? Who was I kidding? I was in so deep that I couldn’t walk away from her any more. She’d have to send me away.

  I raised the lid of the box and set it down on the coffee table in front of her. It contained a simple diamond cocktail ring, one that couldn’t possibly be mistaken for an engagement ring. “Okay. You can open your eyes now.”

  She looked at it. She didn’t speak or move.

  I shrugged, “Look, not everybody likes jewelry, so I won’t be offended …”

  She lifted the ring out of the box and put it on her finger. Her voice was a whisper. “Thank you.”

  After dinner she said, “The studio gave me some rotten news today. They assigned me a new picture. Murder, Incorporated. I can’t afford to go on suspension so I have to take it.” She looked away. “I have to go to New York next week. We’ll be shooting most of it on location there.”

  The story of my own life was the constant moving from town to town, pretending not to mind leaving behind the things you can’t pack in a suitcase, so I was able to accept the fact that she had to go, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask for how long. “Do you know where you’ll be staying?�
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  “The Sherry Netherland. I’ll have to be there for a month.”

  We spent every possible minute together for the little time that was left and on Sunday I drove her to the airport. As we pulled up in front of the TWA building, she said, “I hate saying good-bye.” She got out of the car, ran inside, and was gone.

  I drove back to the house, had a quiet dinner with the family and killed the next few hours going over my lines for Monday morning’s shooting, until I knew she’d be at her hotel and I could call her. I knew I couldn’t give my name. Maybe because it was Sunday I thought of the characters in “Peanuts,” the comic strip we both liked, and when the hotel operator asked who was calling, I said, “Tell her it’s Charlie Brown calling Peanuts.”

  May was laughing as the connection was made. “Tell me, Sharlie Brown, are you somebody I just left a few hours ago?”

  I kidded her about the way her accent slid over the “Ch” sound, softening it to “Sh,” and, maybe to take the emphasis off the fact that I had to use a code name, I laughed a little harder than it was worth.

  When we finished shooting on Monday I browsed around a flower shop for almost half an hour. I enjoyed choosing what I thought she’d like, and it occurred to me that since I’d been a star I’d probably sent out ten, twenty, maybe even thirty thousand dollars worth of flowers, but this was the first time I’d ever been in a florist’s shop.

  We spoke on the phone as often every day as we could. I had scenes to shoot all week and at night I forced myself to go to sleep early. On Sunday I called to say good morning and we spoke until afternoon. Neither of us had anything to do all day long, but there were three thousand miles between us.

  I bumped around the house trying to get involved in books, television—anything to help pass the time. I went down to the Playhouse to straighten out my record albums. I rolled out the first drawer of the cabinets in which Jim had them filed and cross-indexed, trying to find some out of place, but they were all exactly right. I pushed the drawer shut, fixed myself a drink, and sat down on the couch. It was fantastic that with all the things I’d done, all the people I knew, one girl with a funny Swedish accent, who answered the phone “Tell me” could, by herself, fill my life—or leave it so empty.

  I knew that if I had a brain in my head I’d get busy on the phone and have the place swarming with chicks. But I had no eyes for all the chicks in Hollywood put together, it was too late for that. There was no suddenly saying “This is the woman I love” yet it was impossible to imagine the day I’d ever stop seeing her, and I knew that compared with what was coming, I’d never had a problem in my life.

  What do I do when she becomes aware of how much I love her and she says, “I’m sorry. I like you, maybe even love you, but I … well I never dreamed you were thinking of marriage.”

  Even as the world’s greatest optimist how can I hope for anything else? Let’s say she loves me. It’s one thing to have quiet dinners together, go on private boats, come to Vegas with her mother and with Frank covering for her. But marrying me brings it out in the open. There’d be no secret-service style, no being surrounded only by close friends. She thinks she doesn’t care about her career, but how will she feel when they take it away from her? How can I expect her to face the world and her family and say, “This is my husband. He’s a little dark, folks….”

  Night after night I placed my calls to her, like an alcoholic watching the bartender pour his drink, waiting anxiously while the operator connected us and then, finally, relaxing as the warmth of her voice spread through my entire being, restoring resilience to my overstretched emotions, suspending my fears. Then, after each call, as the phone touched the receiver, the fears and the doubts gripped me again and I lay stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling, hating myself for breathing life into a relationship which I’d known was condemned before it was born.

  After shooting on Thursday I went to Romanoff’s with Frank, Dean, and Peter. Right after dinner I excused myself and went back to the house.

  We’d been on the phone for almost an hour, she’d been telling me how she hated being away, we’d counted the days she’d been gone and I just said, sort of wistfully: “Wouldn’t it be great to be married?” The instant I heard my own words slip out I hurried to make a joke of it, “Listen, at these prices on the phone two could live cheaper than one.”

  She said, “It sure would be great, wouldn’t it?”

  I was unable to continue talking. I told her I’d call back and we hung up. I sat on the edge of the bed, my hand still on the phone, hearing her answer over and over again.

  But she was in New York and I was in California and she couldn’t see my skin through the phone. Had she considered that after marriage comes children? And with us they might be colored? Was she prepared for that?

  I let go of the phone, trying to break contact, forcing myself to face some reality. Did she know what she was saying? Had she thought seriously about it before, or had she answered too quickly?

  I walked around the room thanking God she hadn’t said no, but knowing that I couldn’t accept her “yes” so easily. I couldn’t let myself go blundering happily on until a month or who knows when from now when we’d talk about children and she’d say, “I guess I didn’t really give it enough thought.” I owed it to her and I owed it to myself, now, once and forever to be sure she understood what she was doing.

  I called her back an hour later and after we’d talked for a while I said, “You know how I love kids. Won’t it be great when we’re married and have lots of little brown babies?” I said it gaily, but I meant it to be clear and realistic.

  “I’d love to. Lots of them. Sammy? … Sammy, are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you want little brown babies?”

  I had to fight to hold the phone to my ear. I couldn’t speak. The tears were running down my face. I don’t know exactly what I’d feared—a deathly silence, or words that would cut me in half. I’d dreaded being one inch from heaven when the gate swings closed. But then to have all the fears miraculously disappear like a horrible dream from which you’ve just awakened and the sun is shining and it’s a beautiful day and you know that it always will be a beautiful day—the relief was paralyzing. A few hours earlier I hadn’t even known that I was going to propose to her, yet if she had turned me down, if she hadn’t wanted my little brown babies, I knew then as sure as I stand on God’s earth, I would have hung up the phone and blown my brains out.

  I asked Frank, “Can I have a few days spare? I want to go to New York.”

  “Sure, Charley. See you Monday.”

  I told Jim to book us on a flight to New York with a return Sunday.

  “Us?”

  “Baby, I can’t go walking into the Sherry Netherland like ‘Hello America: Sammy Davis and May Britt are an item.’ Jane and Burt are in Florida and they gave me their apartment—it’s right around the corner from the hotel. I’ll need you to pick May up and bring her over and I want you to stay there like a chaperone so if anybody does get hip at least I can always prove this is no ‘Hey, they’re having secret love trysts.’ ”

  I called May and told her I’d be in New York the next morning.

  “Oh, Sharlie Brown, that’s marvelous. I can’t wait to see you. By the way, a journalist called me about us. You’ll probably see it in the papers tomorrow. He wanted to know if it’s true I’ve been dating you. I said yes, and he wanted to know ‘Is it serious?’ ”

  “What’d you say?”

  “I told him, ‘Any time I see a man more than once I consider it very serious.’ ”

  “Darling, that was a beautiful Mary Moviestar line but do me a favor, don’t talk to any more press guys until we can discuss it.”

  “Okay.” Her voice was touched with disappointment because I wasn’t thrilled with her statement. She asked, “When is your plane coming in? I’ll meet you at the airport.”

  “No. Stay in your hotel and wait for me.”

&
nbsp; “But I want to. I’ll rent a car.”

  “Darling. You’ll wait in your suite. I’ll call you when I get in.”

  “Boy oh boy I didn’t know I was marrying a dictator.”

  “You’re marrying somebody who loves you and who’s asking you to do what’s best. Just bear with me. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Her picture was on the front page of the New York Journal American, captioned, “Going Steady?” I knew that as soon as it became known and confirmed that we were going together the opinions would start flying, and with them would come pressures and stares and antagonism that was pointless to subject her to for a single day longer than absolutely necessary. It was almost mathematical: the moment it’s known, the furor will start building, it will reach its peak when we get married, then lose its heat and begin dying down. I can’t prevent the furor but I can spare her some of it. I put down the paper. “Darling, I’ve been thinking that with your divorce not final until September, we have five or six months before we can be married, so we’ve got to cool it with letting it be known we’re going together. No more cute-ums bits with the press. We’ve got to let them forget us. We can’t be seen together—”

  “You mean we can’t be seen together for six months?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You mean I’ve got to duck journalists and give them phony answers? Why can’t I just come out and tell them, ‘Yes, I love him and I’m going to be his wife’?”

  “Please, take my word, it’s better this way. God knows I’d love to make an announcement and say, ‘This is the girl I love and we’re going to be married.’ But if we do that then there’s going to be six months of a whole publicity free-for-all, with will-they-or-won’t-they, and you certainly don’t want that, do you?”

  “Oh boy no. I’d hate it.”

  “Then that’s it. We cool it.” She nodded agreement. “Darling, do your parents … do they know about us being serious?”