Chapter 1:
Growth
When my father, “The Entertainer,” a black, Puerto Rican, one-eyed Jew, got throat cancer and died, well, I just fought with God. After everything he’d been through, was this some kind of sick prank? He was suffering from a cancer that made its presence known every day by a tumor that protruded on his neck from the source of his illness—his throat, once the source, at least to my mind, of the most outstanding voice in show business.
The irony of it all was an epic tragedy to me. He was so frail he took on the semblance of a caricature of his former self—one of the greatest entertainers of all time, who also happened to be my beloved father. I stood by helplessly, pregnant with my first son, overwhelmed by the reality that my father was going to suffer and die without ever meeting his grandchild. Pop stayed strong, but it often seemed more than I could bear. The struggle between God and I raged on for months, but I still prayed and prayed that Pop would hang on long enough.
I remember vividly one night waking up from my sleep, in utter panic, having an out-of-body experience. Things and places, past and present circled around me in the dark. As I tried to climb out of this terrifying abyss of uncertainty, it was right there before me: the future. In a flash, I was with my husband, putting my newborn baby into my father’s arms. Was this a premonition? Was God working up some kind of miracle? I didn’t know, but I decided to give God a break. From that night on maturity set in. It was God who gave Pop all his talent. Perhaps the true test of faith is how you face death. In light of the gifts God gave my father, I had no right to regret his impending death.
Dad sure got a lot into sixty-five years as a performer. He was on the vaudeville stage by the age of three, packed in over forty albums, seven Broadway shows, twenty-three movies, television-show-host spots, and zillions of nightclub and concert appearances. He was a five-foot-six-inch, one-hundred-twenty-pound legend. As my father would say, “God gave me the talent, all I had to do was not screw it up.”
What a journey it was of pure talent and sheer determination to triumph as the world’s greatest entertainer amidst all the racial adversity of his day. My father was a bona fide star, used his talent as a weapon to fight racial indignities, created his own rules, and planned to leave the world just as he wanted—to quote him, “while I’m still interesting.” Pop was dying and I didn’t want to miss a minute of it, no matter how bittersweet. If my father was going to do the death march, I was going to march right by his side.
When Pop got sick, I was pregnant with his grandchild. Starting a mere few months from delivery of my child, on April 20, 1990, cancer ravaging my father’s throat, we spoke more than we had in my entire life. Conversations took on new meaning. We were laser-focused on Pop’s life, knowing each time I saw him could be the last time we talked. Later, he would hold his trachea tube just to speak. But we talked and talked, treasuring each word with impending urgency, in a manner infinitely more rapid and spontaneous than ever before.
In 1961 the world was curious as to what the daughter of Sammy Davis, Jr. and his “Swedish goddess” wife would look like. I’m about five years old here, just coming into my own “look.” As my father neared the end of his life I was soon to give birth to my own interracial child—one I hoped my father would live long enough to meet.
We were together all day, every day—a far cry from the days when Pop didn’t even know my phone number. Typically, an assistant would call and send for me. It was liberating just to saunter through the front door of his Beverly Hills home without being sent for. From death would grow life, so I started my journey back in time with my father.
“Hey, Trace Face, you get uglier every time I see you,” his eyes sparkled with joy as I entered.
Pop’s 1151 Summit Drive estate held fond memories of years of Hollywood entertaining, his most proud moment being my interracial wedding to Guy Garner inside his 12,600-square-foot home. Pop’s most sacred sanctuary was his 2.5 acres of lavish emerald gardens with pungent eucalyptus trees and a sparkling pool. It was a tranquil oasis where he could drink in the air and reflect. It is where my father would spend the last days of his life.
His gourmet kitchen in the guest house was his pride and joy, back in the day. Pop loved to cook. Lessie Lee Jackson, who started as our nanny but ended up a family member, was Dad’s prep cook. Lessie Lee was the estate matriarch. Her most infamous line to my father’s third wife was, “I was here before you, and I’ll be here when you leave.” Lessie Lee in her slippers and old Southern house coat, would often saunter across the lawn to the guest house kitchen to deliver the ingredients for my father’s favorite chicken cacciatore.