Lady Sings the Blues - Billie Holiday [66]
Good old Bobby Tucker, my accompanist, saw me bleeding and almost went crazy. I’m trying to wash it out and Bobby’s screaming, “Lady, you can’t go on, you must be dying.” And meantime backstage the man is calling, “Five minutes, Miss Holiday,” and thirty-five hundred people are waiting out front. Thank God I had on a black dress, so the blood didn’t show too bad. I mopped it up best I could and tried to fix my face. I sang thirty-four numbers in all. By the time I was on the thirty-third I signaled Bobby to skip “Night and Day,” and by the time I started on “Strange Fruit,” between the sweat and blood, I was a mess.
I made it backstage somehow. But when it came time to come out for the third curtain call I said, “Bobby, I just can’t make it no further,” and I passed out like a light.
Being around New York those first few days as a jailbird sure separated the sheep from the goats as far as my friends and colleagues were concerned. I’ll never forget their reactions, and nothing can change or make me forget the way they treated me.
Friends like Bobby Tucker were always trying to take me around, get me back in the swing, pretending like I’d only been away. They worried about my morale. They knew that public acceptance is a big anonymous thing, and a girl can’t live on that kind of love alone. I had to have a few hugs and kisses from people I had known intimately and helped and worked with.
So the first week I was out Bobby insisted on going to see Sarah Vaughan. She was giving a concert and Bobby took me backstage. The people hanging around there were wonderful, the air was full of “Hi, baby” and “oo-pa-pa-da” and everybody telling me how great I looked.
We waited for Sarah to come off between sets. I was glad to see her. And I expected she’d be glad to see me. All I expected was a little hello—after all, she was working. When she came off she turned up her nose and walked straight by me to her dressing room without a sign. To get this from someone I had worried over and tried to help really hurt.
I broke down and cried. Sarah made me wish I’d never left jail or, worse, like I was still in or carried the bars around with me.
She tried to explain later by telling me her husband, George Treadwell, had told her I was hot, just out of jail.
On the other side of the book there were people like Lena Horne who made me feel like I’d never been away.
One of those days when I was still hung over from being out of jail, I was hanging out with John Simmons of the Ellington band. John knew by ear how I felt and tried to help.
Anyway, this morning John insisted on taking me down to the Strand, where Lena was playing. I was ashamed. After my experience with Miss Vaughan, I was naturally wary. I didn’t want to let myself in for another swift one in the stomach. I insisted we’d sit in the back of the theater where it was dark and just take in a rehearsal. I should have known better. Anyway, somebody told Lena, “Lady Day’s out there.”
“Lady Day?” said Lena.
And that pretty little thing took off from that stage like a beautiful little bird. She came running down the darkened aisles hollering for me. When she saw me, she rushed up, took me in her arms, hugged me, looking at me, smiling and weeping at the same time.
“Baby, darling, why, oh why didn’t you come backstage to see me?”
“Honey, don’t you know?” I told her. “I’m a jailbird.”
“Don’t you say that!” she exclaimed. “You’ve been sick and away for a little while, that’s all.”
Then she took me by the hand, back to her dressing room. After the first show she insisted on taking me out with her and bought me lunch, and we had a wonderful schmooze about the old days in Hollywood when they gave her a bad time making