"Martha, here, come with me for a minute," said Jay. "Murray wants to see you." I got moving quickly, but in my mind I was wondering why I had been singled out. Questioning the move, I promptly followed Jay to the office just behind stage, next to where the star's dressing room was. Murray sat facing a mirror.

"Martha, I need you to do me a favor. You don't have to. I just think you can handle this situation, and don't worry, we'll back you up," he said.

I asked him cautiously, "What is it? Anything for you, Murray."

"One of our English acts is homesick and upset. We need someone to go and talk to her, be her friend. England is a long way from here, and we want our friends to feel at home, so I thought, if you will, you could go in and be her friend, spend some time with her."

It didn't sound like a difficult thing to do, so I agreed and asked, "Where is she?" No one answered me.

I followed Jay once more to the second floor, where there were four dressing rooms. He led me to the one on the left at the end. The door was closed, and behind it we could hear someone yelling and breaking glass. At that point, I was starting to change my mind. As I turned around to make my exit, I saw other acts standing in their doorways laughing at me.

I turned to face the door again as Jay called out, "Dusty, open the door. There is someone here to see you."

The sound of things shattering up against the wall stopped for a moment, and all was still. I knew who it was by then. I had long wanted to meet this beautiful girl from England. She was a big star and added flavor to this lineup, making the show an international one. Her first American hit, "wishin' and Hopin'," had just made the American Top Ten charts around the same time as "Dancing in the Street."

He repeated, "Dusty Springfield, open the door, honey. Martha Reeves is here to see you," and she slowly opened the door, just enough to see out of it. We could see that she had been crying and her makeup was a mess, with black streams of mascara running down both of her cheeks. Once the door was partially opened, Jay sort of stuck his foot in the door, and we started in. He placed his hand on my shoulder, nudging me gently into the room.

The room was a mess. In the center of it I saw a cardboard box full of broken cups and saucers, a few dessert plates yet intact. She obviously had been throwing some of these upside the wall. I said, "Hey girl, what's the going on here? What's got you so upset?" With that, Jay backed out of the room, closing us up in there together.

She tried to talk, but was full of despair, so I started to kick some of the broken glass around on the floor, making it seem like fun to hear the noise of dismantled china. "This one is real pretty, do you mind if I keep it?" I said.

She took a tissue, dabbed her eyes, and said in a lovely accent, "Do what you like, I don't care."

I was glad she finally spoke to me, and after awhile, she started revealing the source of her despair. She told me that Vic Billings, her manager, did not come with her to the theater and she was alone among strangers. Frustrated, she had gone to a local thrift shop and purchased this china to vent her anger. It was a tradition of her people, she said, that when they felt anxiety they couldn't contain, they broke things until their feelings changed.

She finally stopped crying, and seemed to feel better. As I started to pick up some of the larger broken pieces, she waved her hand for me to stop, and I sat down at the dressing table near her as she repaired her makeup. While she wiped away the mascara tears, we chatted, and her attitude brightened like clouds parting after a storm.

We became good friends right away. With her makeup redone and a new friend in tow, we walked out onstahe hand in hand for the show's finale. I realized then how sensitive she was behind that tough barrier she put up when she was not in familiar or friendly surroundings.

When we arrived at the theater for the next seven days, my concern was to go and check on my girl Dusty to see if she was in the right spirit, and if not, we'd talk until she felt better.

One night when I asked her if there was anything she wanted, she asked for me to send out for a bottle of vodka. We were both over twenty-one, but I personally wasn't much of a drinker. But she spoke so calmly when she requested it that I gladly complied with her wishes. She was perfectly happy having a cocktail in her dressing room after that. For the rest of the Brooklyn Fox engagement, she was just fine, and I had fun with my new friend.

Years later I found out that Dusty developed a drinking problem. It was a longtime friend, Lesley Gore, who informed me that it was I who introduced Dusty to her first drink of alcohol. I was horrified. I prayed immediately that if I was guilty of turning her into an alcoholic, it was not my design. I didn't drink any of it with her, and God, please forgive any harm I caused. Those were not my intentions.

From Dancing in the Street: Confessions of a Motown Diva by Martha Reeves and Mark Bego,
Hyperion Books, New York, 1994.

More recollections from Martha