CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Allison took a week off from work to spend time with her family and to move into her new apartment. She threw herself into the move to avoid thinking of Skip.
She was at the Leonetti house packing up her records when Skip’s letter came. Bobby, helping his sister pack, saw the horrified look on Allison’s face and asked what was wrong. Speechless, she gave him the letter.
“Oh my god,” said Bobby. “Maybe you oughta sit down.”
She didn’t move.
“Come on, sis.” Her nudged her into a chair and called downstairs, “Hey, ma? You better come up here.”
When she did, Maria saw her daughter staring blankly into space and turned to Bobby for an explanation. He gave her the letter.
Maria gasped. “You and Skip…?”
“Her and Skip,” said Bobby.
“You knew?”
“Yeah, I knew.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Wasn’t our business, ma.”
“Well, it’s our business now, ain’t it?”
They heard a choking noise and turned toward Allison. She was slumped down in the overstuffed armchair, sobbing effusively. Maria found a handkerchief, removed Allison’s glasses and dabbed at her daughter’s tears.
Once her sobs had ebbed, Allison glared at Bobby. “You just had to be a singer, didn’t you?”
He stepped back. “What do you mean?”
“Bobby Dreamland, the family’s Great White Hope. Well, your fucking success has ruined my life!”
Maria said, “Don’t talk to your brother like that. It ain’t his fault Skip’s dead.”
“It’s everybody’s goddamned fault! Yours, dad’s, Bobby’s that piece of shit Stronzo…. Get out of my room, both of you.”
Bobby walked toward his sister, but Maria stopped him.
“Let’s give her time to calm down.”
“That’ll be the day,” said Allison.
She slipped out the back door and drove to the graveyard where Millie Jett-Black was buried. Allie stared at the disc jockey’s tombstone and cried with abandon.
“Skip’s dead, Mil. What do I do now?”
She dropped to her knees and ran her fingertips over the lettering:
1924 – 1968
Forty-four years old; just eight years older than Skip.
When she left the graveyard, Allison drove to the nearest gas station, filled her tank and bought a roadmap. Ten hours later, she was in Memphis. Allie checked into a motel, bought a newspaper and turned to the obituaries. The write-up stated that Mitchell had “died suddenly.” It also advised that the service would be “private and at the convenience of the family.”
“Terrific,” Allie muttered. “They’re gonna burn him, just like the record business did.”
Next to the obituary was a glowing full-page article about the man and the music he had produced. Allie sneered at the piece. When Skip was alive, they called him a “nigger-lover.” But now that he was dead, they called him a “talented musical visionary.” Why were people were so full of shit?
The church service was a who’s-who of African-American music. Ray Charles and Aretha Franklin performed a gospel duet, while Solomon Burke, and Wilson Pickett, Atlantic’s Jerry Wexler served as pallbearers. Allison was amazed that his wife had allowed an integrated funeral. Perhaps, Allie allowed, Della had understood her husband better than he thought she did.
Allison did not attend the reception that followed Skip’s memorial service. Instead, she drove back to New York. Her first stop was the nearest package store, where Allie bought some vodka. The she went to her new apartment.
As Allison walked in the door, Janet exclaimed, “Where the hell have you been? Your family’s worried sick.”
“Fuck ‘em.” She opened the bottle and took a deep swallow.
“They’re leaving for California in just two days, you know.”
“Sooner the better.” She held out the bottle. “Want some?”
“Call your family, for chrissake.”
“Get off my ass, will you?”
“Fine! Then I’ll call them.” Janet reached for the telephone.
“You do and our friendship’s over.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t want a goddamned thing to do with my family. The only man I ever loved is dead because of those bastards.”
“Dammit, girl, pull your head outta your ass! And what’s with that goddamned vodka? You don’t drink that shit.”
“I do now.”
“Are you going to call your family?”
“No; and you’re not, either.”
She woke up with a painful hangover, which made the pounding on her bedroom door that much harder to hear.
“Allie? It’s Bobby. Will you let me in?”
“No.”
“It’s not my fault Skip killed himself.”
“Piss off.”
“Patrice is with me.”
Growling, she tumbled out of bed and unlocked the door. “That was a dirty trick.”
“Sorry, sis.” He gave her the baby.
Allie kissed Patrice’s cheek. “Hey, sweetheart. I’m going to miss you something fierce.”
The baby touched her sister’s face. “Allie.”
Her eyes filling with tears, Allie clutched the infant to her chest.
Bobby said, “Mom and dad are in the car. Can I go get them?”
“Just what I need with a hangover. Yeah, go get them.”
When Vince and Maria came up, Allie joined them in the living room. She explained that she didn’t really blame Skip’s suicide on them. “If anything, I’m pissed off at Skip. How the hell could he do that to the people who loved him? Like me.” She felt the tears coming and put the baby down on the couch.
Vince kissed Allie’s forehead. She put her arms around his ample form and rested her head against his beefy shoulder as she sobbed. Vince looked uncomfortable but did his best to comfort his daughter.
Once her sobbing ebbed, Allison let go of her father and collapsed onto the couch. Patrice climbed up and sat in her lap.
Vince said, “Allie, I wish to Christ you’d come to L.A. with us.”
She wiped her eyes with her shirtsleeve. “I wouldn’t live in L.A. if you paid me.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure! I’ve got all my friends here.”
“You mean, all those nig…?” Vince caught himself. “Sorry, Janet.”
Janet couldn’t help but grin.
“Look,” said Allison, “I’ll get through this, OK? It’s gonna take some time, but I’ll get through it.”
Bobby sat next to his sister and put an arm around her shoulders. “We all love you, you know.”
She started to cry again and took the baby off her lap. Bobby held Allison and stroked her long black hair. He kissed her cheek and said, “I’d give up all that money and fame if it’d make you stop hurting.”
“It won’t, kiddo, but thanks for the offer.”
The next morning, the Leonettis left for California. During an emotional farewell at the airport, Allison took her brother aside.
“Listen, you be careful of Stronzo. He’s a no-good son of a bitch.”
“Oh, come on. He’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad? He gave you a fucking royalty check for twenty-three cents!”
“Hey, I’ve done pretty damned good for a fifteen-year-old.”
“But it’s not gonna last, kiddo. When your star burns out, that prick’ll drop you in a second.”
Bobby said nothing but thought of his latest single. “Cokes and Kisses” only got to number twenty-nine in Billboard. Clark Fulsome had said that Bobby had left Cloaca just in time, before they started losing money on him. Stronzo had assured his client that it was only sour grapes, but Bobby couldn’t help but wonder if his sister was right.