The Whitney I Knew (9 page)

Near the end of the movie the woman sitting in front of Whitney turned around and said emphatically, “Can you just shut up! Please! Just shut up!” and then turned around and sat back down.

I watched Whitney lean up to whisper something in her ear, and the whole time I'm praying that “Jersey Whitney” doesn't come out. After Whitney whispered in her ear, the woman turned around again and said, “Just shut up! You're talking too much!”

“Lord, keep ‘Jersey Whitney' away. Save this poor woman.”

For a moment, it seemed like my prayers were getting through. But then Whitney leaned up again, grabbed the woman's blond ponytail, and said, “You shouldn't be so rude!” Then she pushed her head forward by the ponytail!

Robyn said, “BeBe, get her outta here! Go!” because the woman stood up and screamed, and her boyfriend stood up like he was getting ready to fight.

Robert and I grabbed Whitney and we bolted from the theater. CeCe and Robyn caught up, and we ran for the car. Once we piled into the car, trying to grab our breath, Whitney blurted, “That was so much fun!” grinning from ear to ear.

“Fun? That wasn't fun!” I said. “My heart is pounding out of my chest!”

That was the last movie I went to with Whitney until
The Bodyguard
released.

Many years later, I felt like we were in a movie—because it couldn't possibly be real. But there CeCe and I were at New Hope Baptist Church the night before Whitney's funeral, making preparations. I turned to her and said, “CeCe, if there's anything I want to share, it's what I'm going to miss most of all: that Whitney who was plumb out of her mind in terms of how loyal she was to us as a friend.”

CeCe agreed, so when it was my turn to share, I spoke of the Crazy Whitney I knew: “CeCe and I were making plans for our first headlining tour when Whitney called. The story goes like this.”

“Y'all need to come on over.”

“What?”

“Yeah, come on over; I need to talk to you.”

Remember—and I was always reminding Whitney of this fact—we lived in Nashville and she lived in New Jersey. So for us to “come on over” meant booking a plane ticket. It wasn't like we just lived next door, though that's how she acted.

But we booked a flight and landed in New Jersey. Once we got to her house, we somehow, amid the small talk, ended up in her closet. I'm not sure how it happened, but that was Whitney. Besides, it's not like we were hurting for room in her closet—her closet was as big as the sanctuary we gathered in to remember her. So, not to worry, we weren't crowded.

Sitting there among the dresses and shoes, she let us in on her master plan.

“So, here's what we're going to do.”

“What do you mean, ‘What we're going to do?' ” I asked.

“Well, I went ahead and I had some uniforms made.”

“What? What uniforms? What you talking about, girl?”

“I ordered the dresses for the background girls.”

CeCe just looked at me.

“Yeah, yeah, they're cream. And I got the band their uniforms—their shirts and pants and all that. And BeBe, I got you a suit. It's
cream too. And CeCe, I got you a melon dress made. Oh, and I got me a green one.” She had a green one made,
for herself
!

“Hold on, hold on. What you mean, you made yourself a green one?” I asked.

“BeBe, this is for
our
headlining tour—for the tour, BeBe.”

Now, as I was telling this story at her funeral, I remembered Clive [Davis] was in attendance. And I recalled that Clive was not happy that Whitney was heading out on the road with us. But Whitney was into her plan and was excited to be telling us.

I broke in and said, “Whitney, you can't be doing that. No one told you to do that. This is not a materialistic relationship—you don't have to do any of this.”

“Okay, okay, I know, BeBe. But let me ask you something. You my brother and sister, right?”

CeCe and I both responded, “Yeah, of course.”

“And I'm your sister right?”

“Yeah. You're our sister.”

“And we love each other, right?”

“Yes,” we said, “we love each other.”

Then Whitney said . . . and this is what I'm really going to miss . . . she said, “And y'all broke, right?”

Oh my!
We just stared at her.
Should we laugh? What should we say?

“And I'm rich, right?” she continued.

No hesitation there, “Yeah, . . .”

“So I can buy whatever I want for y'all.”

Bottom line, we were about to open our first major headlining tour in Los Angeles. The smart thing, the normal thing, for a tour like ours was to start in a small city, work out the kinks, and then move to
a major market. But we were headed to LA, and Whitney knew that, and I think she was a bit nervous for us. She wanted it to be perfect; she wanted to help make it perfect.

Now, that is the Whitney I am going to miss—the true Whitney.

After I told that story, CeCe tried to escape the platform, but I didn't let her. She needed to be there, and I needed her support—and so she stayed while I tried to make it through the song I wrote for my brother Ronald when he passed.
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Family had gathered on that day of days, that time when Whitney lay quiet—her voice no longer audible. At that moment, all the thoughts and feelings of Ronald and Whitney intermingled, and I hurt deeply for my
family
. But in my mind, Whitney's voice persisted. That thing she used to always say to me before I sang, I could hear her saying to me on that day, in the Jersey girl's home church: “Don't embarrass me, brother. Get it together.”

And so the music began, and the words came out:

The more I play these stories over in my mind, the more I keep remembering. Like the night CeCe and I sang on
The Arsenio Hall Show
. Whitney had called earlier that day and found out we were going to be on: “I'm coming over there,” she said.

Sure enough, when we arrived at the studio, she was there. And during the performance, she stood backstage and watched her friends sing. CeCe sang “Don't Cry For Me”; I sang backup with the girls. CeCe nailed it.

When she finished, Arsenio ran up, grabbed CeCe's arm, announced her name, and did all the things a host does. And who do you think ran out with Arsenio?

Whitney.

That girl ran out with the host of the show and gave CeCe a huge hug on national television. Then she looked back at me and the girls and said, “That was perfect, y'all.” Who else could just show up on the set of a major network and then run out on stage with the host to congratulate her friends? Only Whitney.

After a while, we came to expect these “drop-ins.” In fact, it wasn't uncommon for Whitney to drop in on our tours. Sometimes
she'd stay for two days, sometimes a week. We kept a bunk ready for her on our bus, just in case.

One thing that makes me smile even today is the time all three of us were on the bus headed to our next concert. Whitney was hungry and wanted to stop and get something to eat.” Now, CeCe and I were early in our touring career, and there were many things we didn't know—like what you should expect from your bus driver and all that jazz. But Whitney educated us.

“We'd love to stop,” I said, “but the bus driver won't let us. He said he doesn't take breaks between tour stops.”

Whitney became indignant. “He
told
you that he won't stop?”

She stood up and marched to the front of the bus and confronted the guy. “Are you telling them that you don't take breaks between tour stops? No, no, no! You're going to stop at the next place that you see that has a restaurant.”

The two of them exchanged words, and Whitney returned to the back of the bus with us. “Okay, we're stopping. I can't believe that,” she muttered. Then she went on to make a laundry list of the things the bus driver was supposed to do as a paid employee of the tour.

“Does he make your beds?”

“No, we make our beds.”

“What? He's supposed to make up the beds and wash the sheets . . .”

In mid-sentence she stood up again and marched to the front of the bus. “And when we get out to get something to eat, you need to make up all these beds.”