After the Dance: My Life With Marvin Gaye (22 page)

E
d Townsend introduced me to the pipe.

Oh, the pipe . . . freebase cocaine . . .

The pipe was addictive beyond imagination.

The pipe warped one’s imagination.

The pipe destroyed one’s life.

The pipe led to utter madness.

Crack cocaine is like no other drug. It has a life of its own and a dark, dark spirit. It obliterates your senses. You become married to it and it leaves you with no moral compass. It’s true, once you try it, you forever chase that high.

I had an apartment
of my own in Reseda, a suburb in the San Fernando Valley outside LA. This was not only the first place I had lived without Marvin since meeting him seven years earlier, this was the first place I had lived on my own—
ever
. It was just me and Nona.

Nona was at daycare. Ed had come to visit. As a housewarming
gift, he brought the pipe. This was not an unusual act. In the drug culture, sharing the newest high was customary.

Cooking up this high required a kit with baking soda, a torch, a giant plate, a bottle of rum, and the cocaine itself.

“This is taking forever,” I said impatiently. “I don’t need to be bothered.”

“Oh, yes you do,” said Ed as he prepared the pipe. “This high ain’t like no high you’ve even known. You’re gonna love it.”

Ed was wrong. I didn’t love it. I worshipped it.

The pipe took over my life, seducing me with a euphoria I had never known before. Every three or four days, Ed returned to my apartment with a fresh supply. He overcharged me like crazy. I didn’t care. Just keep the shit coming.

In a monumentally ironic and tragic way, the pipe reconnected me to Marvin, who, while in England, was also freebasing cocaine. During his first high in London, he called me.

“I’m seeing something I’ve never seen before,” he said. “I see myself floating above myself. I look down and see all my selfishness. I see how spoiled I am. How destructive. How I hurt everyone around me. I see how much I need you, Jan.”

“I need you too,” I said. “But I have to be sure that Bubby is okay. Are you taking care of him?”

“My mother is right here,” Marvin assured me. “She guards him with her life. He’s never been safer, never happier—except for how much he misses you. Why don’t you fly over with Pie?”

Floating on the same high as Marvin, I was ecstatic.

This time he means it; this time he is really reconnected to his heart; this time his soul and mine are in perfect alignment; this time nothing can keep us apart. This love is real! This love is right! This love is forever!

A day later, though, when I called him to make plans, he was too fucked up to talk. Two days later, when he called, I was too fucked up to talk. Another week passed while our love for the pipe deepened.
When we finally did talk, he was enraged because I was asking for money. I had no choice. I was dead broke.

“Get it from Teddy P,” he said. “Get it from Frankie B. Get it from all those friends of mine who you’ve been fucking. But don’t expect a dime from me.”

I had no choice but to look cold reality in the face. I needed to work.

I got a job answering phones. I got a job as a housekeeper and nanny for a professional single mom. At one point I couldn’t pay my rent and had to turn to my dad Earl. He had a big house in Mid-City LA but instead sent me and Nona to live with his hooker friend I’ll call Miss Thing. Nona and I slept on pallets on the floor of Miss Thing’s living room. After a few weeks, Miss Thing threw us out and kept my clothes.

Ultimately, all roads led back to Mom’s house in Hermosa Beach. I would have liked to declare independence from my mom, but I couldn’t. Mom remained the most dependable character in my undependable life.

Mom got me drugs. Mom helped care for Nona when I was too high to manage. When Marvin called and learned that I was back with Mom, he was infuriated. He loathed Mom. During these moments, I loathed Marvin. I got satisfaction from letting him know that Nona and I were living with a lady that he despised.

The animosity deepened.

The addiction deepened.

Rick James, himself an addict, appeared as something of a savior. He called to invite me back to Maui, where he was staying at a posh resort. I flew over, hoping that this, unlike the liaisons with Teddy and Frankie, would prove lasting.

The setting was opulent. The seaside suite was palatial. Rick was expansive. He talked a mile a minute. He had nothing but praise and admiration for me. I saw that, like Marvin, Rick was brilliant. While
Marvin’s default mode was mellow, Rick’s was manic. But that was okay. It was a sweet manic, a poetic manic. He was interested in politics, religion, art, history. He was a reader, a thinker. He was also a sensualist, but when night fell and we returned to the bedroom, the cocaine he had consumed rendered him impotent. He was embarrassed, but I reassured him. He needed a friend; I did too. At this moment in our journeys, friendship was more important than sex. God knows that each of us had had enough sex to last a lifetime. We fell asleep in each other’s arms. We remained close friends and nothing more.

Back in Los Angeles, Rick gave me a job in his office. The idea was that I could write press releases and publicity for his new records. But in the end, he basically used me as an errand girl to bring him drugs. I didn’t mind because he didn’t mind if I skimmed off the top.

So it went: a scattered life, living here and there, scuffling for enough money to eat and live, to buy drugs, to stay high on the pipe.

My growing friendship with Rick was a blessing. I saw the best in him, just as he saw the best in me. We often talked of quitting drugs but—at least for now—neither of us had the will.

Meanwhile, there were reports from London.

Marvin’s mom had returned to Los Angeles but had little to say to me—only that Bubby was fine. I missed my son terribly.

Kruger had Marvin on tour, but the tour proved disastrous. Like Marvin’s former manager Stephen Hill, Kruger thought he could control Marvin. But the truth was that Marvin was uncontrollable. No one could manage him. He couldn’t manage himself. Marvin manipulated Kruger unmercifully. He got him to give him money, get him gigs, and then wound up humiliating him. When Kruger held a press conference, Marvin avoided the reporters by sneaking out through a bathroom window. When Kruger booked a command performance for Princess Margaret, Marvin refused to appear. In a panic, Kruger called me in LA to ask me to persuade my husband to take the stage. For the time being, I was back in Marvin’s good
graces. We’d been having long and loving transatlantic phone conversations. I was the only one he’d talk to. Kruger told me that if I could persuade Marvin to perform, he’d send me a first-class ticket to England so I could finally see my son.

“What is going on?” I asked Marvin when I got him on the phone. “Kruger says the princess is a huge fan of yours. Why won’t you sing for her?”

“Because Kruger had me take a six
A.M.
flight from Switzerland to London this morning,” he said, “claiming that was the only nonstop. Later I learned there was a noon flight that he didn’t tell me about. He was afraid I’d sleep through it. So he kept me up all night and drove me to the airport at five
A.M.
You know how I hate getting up in the middle of the night. You know how I hate flying. I will not be played like that. I will not be disrespected. Let
him
sing for the princess.”

“He’s willing to pay you an extra twenty thousand dollars,” I said. “He’s saying his reputation is on the line.”

“Fuck his reputation. Fuck him.”

“What about the princess?”

“Fuck her.”

“I’m sure she’d like to fuck you,” I said, finally eliciting a laugh out of Marvin.

“There are many women over here,” he said, “but they don’t understand me like you do, Jan. They can’t make me laugh. They can’t love me. If you were here, dear, you could make me sing. I’d sing for you, not some silly princess.”

“Look, dear,” I said, “just be a good boy. Go out there and sing for the royals. Make your manager happy. He’s sending me a ticket so we can be together. I’ll see you soon.”

“Yes! And put all this foolishness behind us! That’s beautiful, dear. I’m getting dressed as we speak. I will sing tonight. Thanks for talking me through this.”

But by the time Marvin arrived at the concert hall, he was two
hours late and the princess, tired of waiting, had already left. Kruger had no reason to send me a ticket to London. In fact, this marked the end of Marvin’s relationship with his English manager.

Motown released
In Our Lifetime?
in January 1981, before Marvin had tweaked his final vocals and approved the final mix; that marked the end of his two-decade relationship with the label. He was enraged and vowed never to record for Berry Gordy again—and never did.

He turned his fury inward and fell deeper into his addiction. And in his fury, he renewed his anger at me. His head was filled with fantasies of me with other men. Our transatlantic calls became bitter and ugly. I responded with a fury of my own. In our verbal battles, I became as nasty as Marvin. I was tired of his broken promises, tired of his bullshit, tired of a ruinous relationship that brought only pain. I was also tired of myself. I was filled with self-hatred.

Only the pipe brought relief.

There were men who would bring me drugs. There were men who would praise my beauty and provide me with comfort. They may not have been Marvin Gaye, but they would do. They would have to. And if my drug buddies didn’t come through, I turned to Bacardi 151 rum to drown my disgust.

Marvin was in London with no plans to return. He had a young Dutch girlfriend named Eugenie who, if the rumors were true, was a groupie he’d met after a show. She was willing to do whatever freakish things he wanted to do. She was entirely submissive.

When he tired of Eugenie, there was a sixty-three-year-old English lady, an aristocrat with a great country estate where he spent weekends.

“I have found my true home here,” he told me during one of the calls when we were being civil with each other. “I’m certain that in a former life I was English. I adore their speech, I adore their style, I adore the way they appear cold and controlled but underneath they’re the freakiest. I could live and die in London.”

“But what about Bubby? Who’s taking care of him?”

“He is his father’s son. He’s pampered by Patsy, his nanny. Round the clock women are watching him with loving care. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Put him on the phone. Let me talk to him.”

“Let me get him.”

“Mum,” said Frankie with a decidedly English accent, “is that you?”

“I miss you, Bubby. I love you so much. I can’t wait till you come home.”

“I miss you, too, Mum.”

“Are you okay, son?”

“Yes, Mum, I’m okay. I’m reading my Mr. Men books. Mr. Topsy-Turvy is my favorite.”

“You see,” said Marvin, back on the phone. “Everyone is doing fine.”

But no one was doing fine.

Marvin was sick and getting sicker.

I was sick and getting sicker.

Marvin had no money, no record deal, no willpower.

My willpower was less than zero.

In the middle of the night, the phone rang.

Marvin was calling from somewhere in London.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “Have you been thinking about me?”

I couldn’t lie.

“Yes,” I admitted. “All the time.”

“Then it is love,” he said. “It’s always been love, hasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I repeated.

“And love will see us through all this garbage,” he insisted, “won’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Are we going to try again?”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

T
he summer of 1981
.

I was excited, ecstatic even, because Nona and I were packing our bags. We were flying to France to meet Marvin and Bubby, whom we hadn’t seen for over a year.

That year had been hell. Marvin had fallen to new lows, and so had I. Several times he nearly overdosed on drugs. Friends visiting him in London were shocked at his appearance. He was thin. He went off on rants. When he called home he was sometimes loving, sometimes crazed, sometimes weeping, sometimes laughing, sometimes remorseful, sometimes resentful, sometimes incoherent, sometimes clear as a bell.

I mirrored him at every turn. I was just as uneven, just as stoned, just as angry and afraid, just as desperate to stay away, just as desperate to reunite. I had sex only to remind myself that I was still desirable.

Marvin had my son. Marvin had my heart. I was still in love with him. He was still in love with me. We spent a fortune on phone calls. Weeks would go by when he would torture me by not allowing
Bubby to speak to me. Other times he would speak of how he could no longer live without me.

Moving about Great Britain, he was very covert. He feared, I believe, that I would hire someone to bring my child back to me. But I would never traumatize my son like that. Marvin kept reassuring me that the nanny was taking good care of Bubs.

The reassurance fell on deaf ears. For most of the time, I was beside myself. I should have sought the help of doctors. I should have sought the help of lawyers—besides the ones who claimed the situation was hopeless. I should have, should have, should have . . . The should-haves were maddening.

My head was high, my heart was heavy, my thinking cloudy. For all the insanity that preceded my trip to France, for all the evidence that argued that reconciliation with Marvin Gaye was not even a remote possibility, I sought reconciliation. Marvin sought reconciliation. We were honestly convinced that this time, for the sake of our souls and for the souls of our children, we would make it work. We chased that idea round the world.

It didn’t matter that he had bottomed out in England. It didn’t matter that he had spent the last month flirting with self-destruction. What mattered was that, according to everyone close to Marvin—and according to Marvin himself—he was on an upswing. A small-time promoter from Belgium had visited him in London and convinced him to leave England. That man, Freddy Cousaert, had brought Marvin to Ostend, a subdued Belgian city of eighty thousand, and set him up in an apartment overlooking the North Sea. Like Stephen Hill and Jeffrey Kruger before him, Cousaert had convinced himself that he could manage Marvin. Marvin had convinced Cousaert to give him what he needed most—money and an off-the-beaten-track place to regain his health. Cousaert was certain he had Marvin in his back pocket. He held up Marvin like a trophy.

In the face of utter confusion, who didn’t want to cling to certainty?

I was certain that my love for Marvin—and his love for me—was the only thing that would save us from annihilation. I was certain that once the family was reunited, minds and hearts would be healed.

I had heard a change in Marvin’s voice. Ever since he’d moved to Ostend, he had grown close to Cousaert, his wife, and their two daughters. He had been reminded of the joy of a warm and loving family.

“Being here in this peaceful community with these peaceful people,” he told me, “has reminded me how much I need peace. I need the peace of seeing my children play together, the peace that comes with being with the one woman I cherish above all others. That’s you, dear. That’s always been you.”

“I want to believe you,” I said.

“I am believing that God has intervened to send me to a place of healing, Jan. It’s a blessing to be away from London and all its pollution. You’ll love it here. You’ll love the quiet. You’ll love the people. You’ll love how I’ve cut out the pipe. You’ll see how I’ve cut down on the other stuff. I’m breathing in fresh air. I’m running on the beach. I’m eating good food. I’m meditating in the morning and praying all the day through. I go to sleep early. I’m in a sound and sane place. Maybe that’s because I’ve left Motown and all the madness.”

After Motown released
In Our Lifetime?
prematurely—and without his permission—Marvin kept his vow and quit the label. Eventually he was signed to CBS Records through the efforts of Larkin Arnold. He was now cutting a new record in Belgium.

“It’s taking me a while to figure out what I want to say,” he confessed, “but I’m determined to do something meaningful. I also want to score big. I want to prove to the world—and myself—that I’m still capable of making hit records.”

I understood. It had been nearly five years since his last hit, “Got to Give It Up.” His records since then—
Here, My Dear
and
In Our Lifetime?—
had been brilliant but strange. While the critics damned them, the public ignored them. For all of Marvin’s philosophical
leanings, he remained a competitive artist. He didn’t like being off the charts for long.

“It will come back together,” Marvin told me. “My music, my peace of mind, my family. You’ll see all this, dear. You’ll feel all this when you come to Europe. You’ll come as soon as this summer tour is over.”

Marvin’s band, led by his brother-in-law Gordon Banks, had been living in Belgium, working on the new record, and rehearsing for a series of gigs around Europe. I later learned that the tour was more dysfunctional than Marvin had led me to believe. Although he had dramatically decreased his drug intake, there were still times when he reverted to his old ways.

Cousaert forcefully spun the story to the press that, under his management, Marvin had foresworn all stimulants and become engaged in a rigorous program of rehabilitation. In interviews Marvin took this same tack. He convinced himself, just as he convinced me, that he had turned a new page.

I needed to turn a new page. I needed to get off drugs. I needed to see my son. I needed to believe that this long separation would soon end. Even though I had heard these words before, and even though those words had proven misleading, I needed to believe Marvin when he said, “Replace your fears with faith. Have faith that we have weathered the worst of the storm. Be assured that nothing is more important to me than making sure that my son sees his mother and I see my daughter and my wife.”

Nona and I boarded the long flight to Paris. We were too excited to sleep. We couldn’t stop thinking of finally reuniting with Marvin and Frankie.

It was Marvin’s idea to meet us at Charles de Gaulle Airport and then drive back to Ostend. After clearing customs, we started looking for Marvin and Frankie. They were nowhere to be seen. I started to panic.

Has Marvin changed his mind?

Is this a trick?

Is this whole venture another terrible mistake?

Have I fooled myself into believing that things could be different?

For ten minutes, Nona and I wandered around the airport.

“Why isn’t Daddy here?” asked Nona, crying.

“He will be, honey,” I said. “He’s just a little late.”

“He’s a
lot
late,” Nona insisted.

The search continued. I put on a good face, but my panic deepened.

Is this another one of Marvin’s devious manipulations? Is this another one of his cruel tricks?

“It’s Daddy!” screamed Nona loud enough for people to stare.

Yes, there he was: he was standing at the top of an escalator. Frankie was next to him. Marvin was wearing a white suit and colorful knitted skullcap. His eyes were covered with dark aviator sunglasses. He looked beautiful. With his hands in his pockets, he looked detached. Frankie was jumping up and down. Nona raced up the escalator into her father’s arms. I followed and gathered up my son who, in his adorable English accent, was screaming, “Mum! Mum!” I was crying, Nona was crying. Marvin’s distant demeanor broke down. Now he was crying. Now the four of us were joined together in a huge hug. No one would let go.

The warmth was offset by the presence of Freddy Cousaert, who was waiting outside the terminal behind the wheel of a blue Mercedes-Benz. I immediately felt his disapproval. It was only at Marvin’s insistence that Nona and I had come to Europe. Cousaert feared that we would distract Marvin from work on his new record. Cousaert feared that we would lure Marvin back to America. The new manager’s agenda was to keep Marvin in Ostend and have him operate out of Europe.

Cousaert drove us into Paris and dropped us at the George V hotel. We were thrilled to be together at long last. In our suite, we ordered room service. The kids jumped on the bed and we all played hide-and-seek. That night Marvin and I made beautiful love.

The next day, on the drive from Paris to Ostend, Cousaert said, “Marvin has found peace here in Europe. To maintain his sanity, he must stay in Ostend.”

When it came to Marvin, I felt that Cousaert was selfish, much like Stephen Hill had been. He wanted Marvin all for himself.

“We’re like brothers,” said Cousaert. “We have adopted him into our family. At this point in his life, he is closer to me than anyone. He knows that my only concern is his welfare.”

I doubted that.

“Freddy likes to trip about masterminding my career,” Marvin whispered to me. “I let him. Meanwhile, he has provided me with food and shelter in this small city far from London or Los Angeles. It’s cool. You’ll like it.”

I did like Ostend. The place possessed a certain elegance. Marvin’s apartment on the strand afforded an expansive view of the North Sea. It was calming to watch the ships sail by. The children were thrilled to be together, and Bubby was thrilled to be with me, Nona thrilled to be with her daddy.

The four of us spent that evening together. The feeling was warm and loving. It was a feeling that each of us had been seeking ever since our family was torn apart.

“This is the dream I told you about,” Marvin said to me. “This is the dream that I swore would come true.”

That night Marvin and I made love again. The passion was renewed. So was the sweetness. Body and soul, we were one. The lovemaking was powerful enough to erase the pain from the past.

“I forgive you,” said Marvin, holding me in his arms. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“I can,” I said, kissing Marvin’s eyes. “But can you
really
forgive me?”

“Yes,” he said.

I heard his words. But in my heart, I did not feel that I deserved his forgiveness.

The fantasy of a happy family was further fulfilled the next morning over breakfast. That afternoon we strolled on the promenade. We went to the beach, to the park, to the Chinese restaurant. Nona and Frankie were holding hands, Marvin and I were arm in arm. The city moved along at a satisfyingly slow pace. The air was fresh and clean. The citizenry was fashionably attired: attractive couples with their pedigree dogs, bikers in professional gear, joggers in flashy outfits.

To me, the world felt new. Marvin spoke about biofeedback and the amazing ways that, drug-free, he’d been able to use his mind to heal his body.

I was delighted to hear Marvin talk this way. He’d been reading books on metaphysics. He’d also gone back to Scripture. We had endless discussions about Psalm 91 and how God is our ultimate protection:

“Because he loves me,” says the Lord, “I will rescue him;

I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name.

He will call on me, and I will answer him;

I will be with him in trouble,

I will deliver him and honor him.

With long life I will satisfy him

and show him my salvation.”

Something was happening in Ostend, and in the first week that something felt powerful and positive.

Then came our second week together. The kids had gone to sleep. Marvin and I, still in chilled-out mode, were looking through a large book of the art of James Ensor, a radical expressionistic painter from Ostend who built a reputation in the first half of the twentieth century. Marvin had visited a local museum that featured his work when he was struck by a self-portrait, reproduced in this book, of Ensor wearing a floral and feathered woman’s hat.

“Who does this make you think of?” Marvin asked.

“Your father,” I said, trying not to laugh.

Marvin scowled. “I knew you’d say that.”

“Then why’d you ask me?”

“To test you. To see if you’d jab me.”

“Marvin, let’s not start up.”

“I asked you a question and you answered. I have your answer.”

“I don’t want to fight, Marvin.”

“Then why did you mention my father?” he asked.

“Because that’s who came to mind. It was an honest reaction.”

“And you honestly wanted to manipulate my mood.”

“I wouldn’t use the word
manipulate
,” I said.

“And why not?”

“Stop! I’m not having this fight over a hat in a painting.”

“You wouldn’t know anything about hypocrisy, would you, Jan? In the history of our relationship, you’ve never been hypocritical, have you?”

“Yes, I have. But I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to be attacked.”

“Now I’m the one who’s attacking! That’s a joke. This whole thing started with your attack on me and my father.”

I didn’t bother to reply. There was no winning. I stayed silent, hoping Marvin’s combative mood would pass.

“Kiss me,” I finally said.

He did just that, but as he did there was a knock on the door. He went to answer.

“Cool Black,” he said to the man standing there. “Brother, you are right on time. Jan, come meet my man Cool Black.”

For all of Cousaert’s talk about Marvin being drug-free in Ostend, Cool Black was Marvin’s drug dealer from London. I watched Cool Black sell Marvin a supply of temple ball—opium and hashish. The men mixed it with cocaine, put it in a pipe, and lit up. Marvin took the first hit.

“Jan,” he said as he offered the pipe, “you wanted to change the
subject. This is the very instrument to affect that change. This will change us in a hurry. Have a puff.”

I said yes. I accepted the pipe and joined in on the high. The pattern was set: from time to time in the weeks that followed, Marvin and I indulged. It happened at night when the kids were off to sleep. It happened because we both wanted it to happen. It happened because bonding through stimulants had always been essential to our relationship. It happened because the highs allowed us to cover up our conflicts and avoid the bitter fights. It happened until the highs led to even more bitter fights.