He showed me the Wonderland that was his walk-in closet. All his clothes were organized by color, beginning with black and then brown, red, and an amazing array of purple, indigo, and blue. Coordinating shoes were lined up on the floor below, and by this time, I felt we knew each other well enough that I could let my curiosity lead the way.
I chose a pair of black boots, and we both laughed when I had to forcibly jam my foot into one. No Cinderella here. His shoe was a tight fit for me, and I wore a women’s size 7. I was usually wearing flats, and most of his shoes had a generous heel, so I didn’t realize for a long time that at five feet four, I was actually two inches taller than him. Onstage, his presence loomed larger than life, and in person, he had such power and charm that he somehow occupied the room with a stature that was not small, as if he were bigger on the inside than he was on the outside. Then and now, I can’t imagine him being any taller. He was perfect, really. Exactly the right size to be himself.
It was about stance more than height. Something in your spine is different when you wear heels. Whenever I go shopping with Jan or with girlfriends, I stand on my tiptoes. It doesn’t matter what you’re trying on; it’s going to look better. I dance barefoot, but I still dance on my toes, as if I’m wearing invisible heels. Prince was the same way; he always preferred to have a substantial heel to his shoe. He finally started wearing those fuzzy, flat Ugg boots that came into fashion a few years later, but even then he’d still get on his toes when he played guitar.
Our last stop on the tour was downstairs, where there was a garden-level apartment with its own kitchen and bathroom, where people stayed sometimes. Mama stayed there once when I was having a hard time, but in general, guests were a fairly rare occurrence at Prince’s house, and only a bit less rare when it was a home we shared. The apartment was mainly occupied by a pool table and game room, and there was another grand piano. This space was the studio Prince worked in before Paisley Park was built, so all the doors were those heavy wooden studio doors, and some of the walls were still covered with soundproofing. This was where he and Susannah Melvoin, Wendy’s twin sister, wrote “Starfish and Coffee” together.
At the time, I just thought the place was very cool. It didn’t occur to me until much later that he’d had a lot of women in that house before me. And after me. At least one during me. But that’s a matter for the sad woman sitting on the pier, not for the fresh-faced seventeen-year-old. See, people, this is the inconvenience of all lives existing at all times: we cross paths and trip over each other occasionally. I don’t know which self to follow, because so many memories—so many versions of myself—existed in this place at different times. I was both a child and a mother in this house, a beloved wife and an unwelcome ghost who haunted the place until he tore it down.
Prince was sensitive to what these walls had witnessed. Maybe that was the reason for the habitual wardrobe change the house underwent—at least on the outside—every year or two. Right before we got married, he had the entire place revamped to welcome me home. He very carefully and consciously made it our home with lavender carpet that I loved and our entwined zodiac signs at the bottom of the stairs. Our family symbol—a combination of his symbol and the letter M combined—was mounted on the wall and inscribed on the sinks in the master bathroom. The drawer pulls and closet knobs were fancy gold Ms that formed a heart. All the furniture was new and reflected a home in which children and Christmas trees and dogs and family would be the natural next step. He spent a lot and paid great attention to detail. When he carried me over the threshold, slung over his shoulder caveman-style, it was like coming into a completely new house. A huge delivery of boxes arrived, and he was very excited to show me.
“It’s our china,” he told me. It had been specially made with an imprint of his symbol combined with an M.
It seemed rather overboard, but it was such a lovely gesture that I hated to point out, “But we never eat at home.”
“We will,” he said. “I’ll make you some eggs.” And he did.
After the grand tour, he asked if I wanted to eat. I was too overwhelmed to imagine eating, but I said, “Sure.”