Sammy Davis Jr(41)

Dad returned to the cocktail party after the private greeting. He was having a great time when he noticed a group of black guys that were peering out of the kitchen. Next thing I know, Dad was gone. Later, we found him in the kitchen, with his bow tie loosened, hanging out with all the folks who had made the evening possible. What else would you expect from Sammy Davis, Jr.? It was a touching moment, but nothing out of the ordinary. It was just Pop.

The evening of the Kennedy Center Honors, my father was beaming. The room was electric. It was not lost on me that it was the “Kennedy” Center: named after the Kennedys, who hurt my father so deeply when he was not invited to the JFK inauguration celebration—after all his hard work performing for the campaign. Ironic, I thought.

One day, we were invited to the State Department for a seated dinner with George Pratt Shultz, former US Secretary of State under Reagan. We rode in separate limos from the Ritz-Carlton, and pulled up to what I would call Fort Knox security. Once cleared by security, we entered a huge but somehow intimate ballroom with Kennedy Center honorees and other invited guests.

Over dinner, George Shultz spoke about football, the history of the room, and told funny stories about other dinners that put the table guests at ease.

After the State Department dinner, we returned to the Ritz-Carlton. We had drinks at a big table with honorees and guests—everyone laughing and kicking off their shoes, talking about our three-day extravaganza. We went around the room, each of us saying what we were thankful for. No one wanted the evening to end. We returned home on Bill Cosby’s Camille. Washington, D.C., was sure a once-in-a-lifetime trip.

Back to the reality of sitting by Pop, reminiscing about our travels in my head, as he rested. I told him something like, “I love you, Pop, you are an icon. Your star shines bright on the Hollywood Walk of Fame!”

“Thanks, Trace Face. Just don’t let me die here.” Pop was referring to his legacy, and keeping it alive. His heavy eyelids closed for the night and I headed home.

Once in my own room, melancholy set in motion. I kept hearing my father’s voice, “Just don’t let me die here.” I closed the blinds to shut out the moonlight and surrendered myself to a state of darkness. Despite my resistance, reality was mounting, and I knew the end was near.




Out of nowhere, I found myself in my Nissan 240SX upside down in an embankment off Tierra Rejada Road, near Thousand Oaks, California. I woke up to someone banging on my window pane. I felt water on my face. Was it raining? Where was I? No, it was not raining; it was blood on my face and I was stuck upside down in my car, pregnant. Don’t let me die, I thought. Don’t let my baby die. Bad enough that Pop was dying.

I was driving home from a CSUN Alumni basketball game, listening to “Tears for Fears” on a cassette player, when a big old car on a two-lane road between Simi Valley and Moorpark came smack into my lane. It hit me head on, and I rolled into an embankment, flipping upside down. I was pulled out of the car. It had automatic shoulder restraint seat belts. Luckily, I had forgotten the manual lap belt around my belly, which saved my unborn child’s life.

A sheriff’s deputy radioed in that “we have a fatality.” Paramedics came to the scene. The deputy asked, “Who else was in the car with you?” I replied, “No one. Call my dad.” The police asked, “What’s his name?” I said, “Sammy Davis, Jr.” There was a moment of disbelief, and I said, “Yeah, that’s him.” I gave up the number. My father was panicked, naturally. I could only imagine Pop hearing the news with flashes of his own nearly fatal car accident that took his eye.

They told my father that they were taking me to Los Robles Hospital and Medical Center. Mom was in Lake Tahoe at the time. Someone phoned her as well. A stranger called my husband, Guy. By the time Guy arrived, there were fire trucks and police cars everywhere. He pushed through the crowd shouting, “That’s my wife! That’s my wife! She’s pregnant!”

My obstetrician, Dr. Karalla, had me stay in the hospital overnight to check on the baby, but I was lucky that other than some minor bruising, we had both survived the crash. I called my father from the hospital, “I can’t attend your sixtieth anniversary tribute or I might lose your grandchild, Pop.” I told him I was nervous about the baby.

His tribute was only a few days away, but Pop was just relieved that God had worked another miracle in his life and mine. He told me not to worry, that it was good to be nervous—it’s a sign that you are alive and well, he said.

He recalled a story when he starred at the Royal Albert Hall in London with his two closest friends, Frank Sinatra and Liza Minnelli. It was part of the European leg of “The Ultimate Event” tour. Pop said he was so nervous when he walked into this grand concert hall, it was such a big jump from the Pigalle in the ’60s. Dad said he was sweating so much, if he had a piece of soap he could wash his hands. But he remembered what Eddie Cantor once told him, “Son, the day you stop being nervous before you face an audience, get out of the business.” “So be nervous, Trace Face,” he said, “it will keep you on your toes with the doctors.”