Sammy Davis Jr(7)

When I returned to my father’s home the following day, I came with my husband, Guy Garner. Guy was six foot three inches, handsome and half Italian. Guy loved Dad as much as I did, and they were very close. They had often had “movie nights” together. Lessie Lee marched upstairs to the master bedroom to announce our arrival. She came out and motioned us up the stairs.

“What’s up, Guy, getting taller?” My father joked, sitting up in bed. Guy smiled.

“Pop, Guy and I have something to tell you . . .” I said, choking up. Guy had to finish for me.

“Mr. D,” he said, “we found out we are having a boy. We decided to name our baby Sam, after you.”

There was a moment of silence. Pop and I locked eyes. Then my father trembled, broke down, and burst into tears. “Thanks for my gift,” he said in a soft whisper.

Guy and I went back downstairs so as not to cry convulsively in front of my father. By the time we got downstairs, my father’s doctors had arrived. He asked to have a word with me outside.

Three doctors and Pop’s assistant, Murphy, explained that my father would not be alive when our baby was born. I should not have any false hope. I knew they were trying to prepare me, but I didn’t believe one word. I trusted God now. I trusted in the revelation that I would one day place Dad’s newborn grandson in his lap.

One more thing, they added, your father wants you to be responsible for his wishes. What wishes? I thought. He is in so much pain, the doctors announced, we will have to up his morphine level, but it will ease out with the overloading—the morphine will eventually stop his heart.

I went back up to my father’s bedroom, only to find his window wide open. Pop had overheard the doctor. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “I’m not going anywhere until I see my grandson. I’m staying around to see Sam. After that, I have nothing left to live for.”

I kissed Dad on the forehead, and went back downstairs in tears. I trusted my father’s determination and his will—more than the stinging words out of medical mouths.

I made the decision that today would not be a good day to reminisce with my father, given the emotional roller coaster we were all riding. I planned to revisit in the morning, open the four French doors off the living room to his emerald garden sanctuary, and take Pop out to drink in the air, sit, and talk.

Frank Sinatra was playing on the stereo in the living room when I returned in the morning. My father was on his Gucci half-moon couch resting. I opened the French doors out to the garden oasis. The nurse assisted my father outside. We sat on a couple of chaise lounges to take in the beauty of the outdoors. We listened faintly to Uncle Frank’s music sent forth from the living room. Pop was happy I was there to tell his tales to, and I was delighted to hear him in good spirits, sharing monologues from his lips to my ears.

“The first time I met Frank Sinatra was in 1941 at the Michigan Theatre in Detroit,” Pop said without skipping a beat.

“The Will Mastin Trio was replacing an act for three days and we opened for the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra and Frank. It was the swing era, Trace Face—the Stone Age to you. Frank and I shared a sandwich before showtime. I was the entertainer; Frank was the voice.”

I added, “Uncle Frank may have been the voice, Pop, but he was also the agitator! You were the go-to-hell guy! Uncle Dean was the make-it-work gentle kind of soul. He seemed to soften everybody up like a Downy sheet in a dryer.”



Pop could often be found with a camera in hand. Here he is during rehearsals of a Mastin Trio performance.


“True, Trace, but that was later, in the Vegas days. Back in 1941, it was just me and Frank, the entertainer and the voice. We bonded that day at the Michigan Theatre, talking shop.”

“Soul brothers for life,” I said. Comedian and actor Pat Cooper told documentarians Sacher and Langer that, “Nobody but Frank Sinatra could have put Sammy Davis where he was. Sinatra, first of all, was never a racist kind of a guy. He cared about everybody being equal. . . . When Frank said, ‘This guy’s great’—they all paid attention.”

Pop told his story about Uncle Frank: “I remember how Frank used to study Dorsey—examine him like some specimen,” Pop said. “Frank noticed how Dorsey snuck in breaths through an air hole in the side of his mouth while playing the trombone. Frank said he wanted to use that technique to hold his notes longer, keep a stanza going without having to stop for air. Frank’s vocal range was outstanding, smooth, romantic, and rich with nuance. Never occurred to us back in the day that moons later we would be living in the limelight as the Rat Pack in Vegas,” Pop explained.