The Last Note
Based on true events.
Los Angeles, April 1, 1984
The house hadn’t changed.
Same walls, same peeling wallpaper. The same tired scent of dust and old wood, laced with the lingering bite of cigarette smoke. Even the air felt thick, like it was waiting for something to break.
Marvin sat on the edge of the bed, robe slipping from one shoulder, silk hanging loose against his skin. His hands rubbed together absently, fingertips tracing the calluses long left behind by the keys of a piano he hadn’t touched in months.
Through the walls, his father’s voice rose—sharp, clipped, a hammer striking steel.
His mother’s voice followed, softer, frayed at the edges.
Marvin sighed and leaned back, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks.
He wasn’t supposed to be here.
Once, he had walked the streets of Paris at dawn, let the city hum beneath his feet. He had watched the world open for him, doors swinging wide. He had been untouchable, unstoppable. The lights, the music, the women, the way his name filled rooms and the way applause felt like something he could hold.
And now, here he was. Back in his childhood bedroom.
A knock at the door. Light, hesitant.
“Marvin?” His mother.
He closed his eyes. Didn’t answer.
A sigh from the other side. The shuffle of slippers against the carpet. Then, softer: “Don’t let him get to you, baby.”
Marvin exhaled slowly. The heat of her words sat heavy in his chest, but before he could respond, his father’s voice tore through the quiet.
“You gonna stand there all night? Or you gonna listen when I’m talking to you?”
Marvin sat up. The tension in the house pressed against him, thick as the California heat. He pushed himself off the bed, rolling his shoulders. He moved toward the door, running a hand over his face as he stepped into the hallway.
The kitchen smelled like fried onions and something faintly burnt. His mother stood at the sink, her hands submerged in soapy water, moving in slow, methodical circles. His father stood near the table, arms crossed, cardigan slouched off one shoulder, a cigarette balanced between two fingers.
Marvin stopped in the doorway.
His father barely spared him a glance. “Thought you’d keep hiding in that room.”
Marvin ignored the jab. He turned to his mother. “You okay?”
She didn’t answer right away, just wiped her hands on a towel.
“She don’t need you speaking for her,” his father cut in.
Marvin’s jaw tightened. He kept his eyes on his mother, but she only shook her head slightly—don’t, baby. Let it go.
But he couldn’t. Not this time.
“I said that’s enough,” he said firmly. “Go on and leave her be now. I’m in my room trying to write and I don’t need all this nonsense in my head.”
His father’s face wrinkled into disgust. “Boy must be out of your damn mind! You are in my house! And I don’t care how high and mighty you think you are. I am still your father. I brought you into this world. I’ll take you out of it.”
“Your house? Your house?” Marvin raged. “I bought this house. Did you forget that?”
“Marvin!” his mother exclaimed.
His father let out a slow exhale, shaking his head. “That mouth of yours. Always talking back, always thinking you know something.” He tapped his cigarette against the table. “Yeah—you bought it—back when you were something to be proud of. When you were somebody. But look at you now. You’re back here— wouldn’t even have food in your mouth if your mother didn’t feed you. Why you ain’t out there in the big, shiny world no more? You may as well just find a job in some factory. All that talent and you ain’t worth a damn.”
Marvin’s teeth clenched. His father didn’t raise his voice. Never needed to. He knew how to cut without volume, knew exactly where to aim.
“Look at you,” his father continued. “Sitting in that room like some lost boy, waiting for somebody to save you.” He scoffed. “Ain’t nobody coming, son.”
Marvin took a slow breath. His mother watched them both, fingers twisting the dish towel between nervous hands.
His father exhaled smoke, voice flat. “A man don’t crawl home unless he’s got nowhere left to go.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Because they were true.
Marvin took a step forward. “And what’s that make you? You’ve been here your whole damn life. Always gonna woulda coulda. What did you ever do? When did you take your shot?”
The moment stretched.
His father’s cigarette hovered in midair, thin trail of smoke curling toward the ceiling. Then, quiet as a blade sliding from its sheath:
“You better watch yourself, boy.”
Marvin’s hands curled into fists. “Or what?”
His father moved fast. Open palm, sharp slap. The sound cracked through the kitchen, a shockwave splitting the air.
Marvin staggered back a step, breath caught in his throat.
His father stared him down, daring him to do something.
And this time, Marvin did.
He shoved him—hard. His father stumbled, heel catching the rug, back hitting the table.
Silence.
Marvin stood there, chest rising and falling, breath like fire in his throat.
His mother moved first, stepping between them, hands raised. “Enough.”
His father pushed himself up slowly, gaze locked on Marvin, dark and unreadable. He straightened his cardigan, smoothed it down. His father looked as if he might come straight through his mother fists flying. But he didn’t. Instead, the older man turned, and left the room.
Marvin didn’t respond. He turned, walked out, shoulders tight.
Back in his room, the air felt different. Thick, expectant.
Then—footsteps.
Not his mother’s. He knew that sound.
He turned toward the door just as it opened.
His father stood there, framed in the dim hallway, something heavy in his hand.
Marvin’s stomach went cold.
The older man’s hand held a gun.
Marvin’s stomach turned.
Not just any gun.
The one Marvin had bought for him. A gift. A mistake.
“Dad,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
His father didn’t answer.
He raised the .38, the barrel leveling, his eyes empty.
Marvin took a step back. The walls of his childhood bedroom, the same ones that had closed in around him his whole life, seemed to shrink smaller.
“Dad,” he repeated. He heard the plea in his own voice, hated it.
His mother’s scream cut through the air.
A flash.
A crack.
The pain bloomed hot in his chest.
Marvin stumbled, knees buckling. The floor caught him, the rough fibers of the carpet pressing into his cheek.
His father fired again.
His mother’s hands were on him, warm and shaking. Her voice was distant, echoing.
His lips moved, but no sound came out.
Somewhere in the house, the old radio was still playing.
Gospel music, the harmonies spilling through the walls. Marvin Gaye was gone. But his voice—the voice of love, heartbreak, and longing—would never stop playing in the bedrooms of countless millions of lovers.
Author’s note: After killing his son, Marvin Gaye Senior, went out on the front porch and sat down to wait for police. They arrested him and he was at first charged with first degree murder. His lawyer argued the event had been caused by a brain tumor. His charge was reduced to manslaughter and he was sentenced to a 6 year suspended sentence with 5 years probation. He never spent time in prison for his crime. His wife Alberta left him after the trial and divorced him in 1985. He lived alone in a nursing home after that where he died from pneumonia in 1998 at the age of 84.
When asked after the crime if he loved his son, reportedly, he replied “Let’s just say I didn’t dislike him.”
What a senseless murder.