The Collected Autobiographies of Maya Angelou (44 page)

Boom boom boom rah boom rah, boom rah brah, brah.

I realized that I was frightened and I nearly panicked. My God, what was going to happen? I’d never be able to leave this place. A stake had been driven down through my head and body, rooting me forever to this spot.

R.L. flashed by again.

Boom rah boom rah.

If he would only stop that silly tap-dancing and take my hand, we could leave.

He marched up and spoke to me under the music.

“Come on, Rita. Break. Break!”

Break what? I looked at him as if I had never seen him before.

He put his arm around my shoulder like Astaire did Rogers in one of their military parodies.

He looked at me and gave me a push that almost sent me into one of the tables, and hissed, “Break, goddammit, break!”

I broke.

I started dancing all over the place. Tapping, flashing, stashing up and down the floor. I threw in a little Huckle Buck, Suzie Q and trucking. Our routine had completely disappeared, but I was the world’s dancing fool. Boogie-woogie, the Charleston. When the band was moving into the last chorus, I was just getting warmed up.

R.L. pursued me across the floor. He finally put his arm around my shoulder again, and by brute force led me off the floor, flashing to the end.

The audience clapped and I pulled away and raced back, booming and boom-rahing. R.L. joined me and again pulled me back to the wings.

I loved it. I was a hungry person invited to a welcome table for the first time in her life.

The costume rental and transportation had diminished our take to fifteen dollars apiece, I was exhausted and had the long bus ride ahead back to the city. But all was better than well. It was supercolossal. I had broken in. I was in show business. The only way up was up.

As I scrambled around the foot of the success ladder, Mother’s life flowed radiant. Fluorescent-tipped waves on incoming tides. Men
with exotic names, slick hair and attitudes of bored wisdom came into Vivian Baxter’s large dark house, stayed awhile and went, making room for their successors.

Good-Doing David, with his silky black skin (Mother always preferred very black men, saying they were the cleanest folks in the world) and silk foulard tie, sat around the kitchen table for a few months. His eyes monitored her movements carefully, and when it was nearly too late she repaid him with a sultry look, thrown over her shoulder, and a smile that promised secret delight. Good-Doing forfeited his tenancy because of a misjudgment in logic. He thought since he was her man, it followed that she was his woman. He shouldn’t have been so wrong.

One afternoon a seaman friend called her from the dock, and she invited him over. They maintained a brother/sister relationship.

“John Thomas is coming,” she said to me. “Please go get a couple of chickens from the kosher poultry store. Tell them to cut them up.” She had pulled out the wooden bowl, and laid her diamond rings in an ashtray. “I’ll whip up a few biscuits and give him some fried chicken.”

I knew that although the store was only two blocks away, she would have the bread in the oven and the oil heating for the chicken before I returned.

When they said cooking, they called Vivian Baxter’s middle name.

When I rushed back into the house, the smell of hot grease met me, and the mixing bowl was washed and draining on the sink. Mother was setting the table for two.

“You have to pick up the baby? Make me a little drink, honey. And see if there’s bourbon. John Thomas drinks bourbon. I’ll put your chicken on the back of the stove.” Her smile was partly for me, partly for the coming visitor and partly for the chicken seasoned, floured and dropping into the boiling skillet.

“You know there’s always some in the kitchen for ‘grandma ’n de chillun’.” Her favorite old-folks line slid into whitefolks vulgarity of the black accent.

I answered the door for Mr. Thomas, and took his herringbone raglan coat and hat.

“Hey, baby, still growing, huh? Where your old ugly mama?” He walked down the hall laughing.

“Let him in, he may be a gambler.” Mother’s voice clinked like good glass from the kitchen.

Their welcoming laughter mixed as I left the house.

—

The ambulance screamed as it two-wheel-turned the corner from our block. I picked Guy up, not noticing his weight, and ran to our house, where two police cars sat empty, their red eyes turning faintly in the afternoon sunlight.

For the passionate, joy and anger are experienced in equal proportions and possibly with equal anticipation. My mother’s capacity to enjoy herself was vast and her rages were legendary. Mother never instigated violence, but she was known not to edge an inch out of the way of its progress. The sound of police and ambulance sirens whine through my childhood memory with dateless frequency. The red lights whirring on top of official cars and the heavy disrespectful footsteps of strange authority in our houses can be brought back clearly in my mind at a beckon.

Inside, Mother was slipping into her suede coat, a quiet smile on her face. She saw me and turned to the brace of policemen who waited for her.

“This is my daughter, Officers. That’s who I was waiting for. Baby …” Now for the instructions that I already knew well. “Call the bail bondsman, Boyd Puccinelli. Tell him to meet me at Central Station.”

I knew better than to ask what happened. I held the baby tighter.

“It’s just a little business with David. Now, don’t you worry. I’ll be back in an hour.”

She checked her make-up in her compact mirror, gave me and the baby a peck on our lips and walked down the steps with the police. Separate and dignified.

Then from the bottom: “Your dinner’s in the oven. On low. Oh, and baby, clean up in the bedroom before that stuff dries, please.”

There was no sign of Mr. John Thomas in the kitchen. After my son and I had eaten, and I put him down for an afternoon nap, I opened
her bedroom door. One chair was on its side, but elsewhere things were in order. As I walked in, the weak winter sunshine paled over dark rust blotches on the rug and showed the lighter red splashes down the sides of the mantel.

Lukewarm soap suds are best to remove bloodstains from furniture. I had nearly finished cleaning up when Mother returned.

“Hi, baby. Any phone calls?”

“No.”

“Here, leave that, I’ll do the rest. Come on in the kitchen and let me tell you what happened.”

Over a fresh drink she gave me what she called a “blow by blow” description.

“John Thomas and I were up to our elbows in fried chicken (I made a gravy longer than I been away from St. Louis for the biscuits) when Good-Doing rang the bell. I let him in and brought him back to the kitchen. He saw John Thomas and stopped shorter than a show horse. Said no, he didn’t want to eat. Didn’t want a drink, didn’t want a chair, so I sat back down and started tending to business. Every time I looked up, I saw he was getting fuller than I was. Finally he said he wanted a few words with me and would I come to the bedroom. I told him to go on, I’d be there. I excused myself from John Thomas and went up the hall.

“ ‘What’s that nigger doing here?’ He got ugly in the face and jumped around like a tail on a kite.

“I said, ‘You know John Thomas. He’s my friend. He’s like a brother to me.’

“ ‘Well, I don’t like him eating here. Get him out of the house.’

“I said, ‘Good-Doing, don’t get it twisted. This is my house and my chicken, and he’s my friend.’

“He said, ‘Bitch, you supposed to be so bad. You need a good ass-kicking.’ ”

She looked at me, puzzlement wrinkling her pretty face.

“Baby, I swear to you, I don’t know what sent him off, but before I could say anything, he reached in his pocket and pulled out a knife. You know he’s got something wrong with the fingers on his left hand,
so he bent his head over and was trying to open the knife with his teeth. Now, you can see by that, that he’s a fool. Instead of moving away from him I just stepped over to the mantel. I put Bladie Mae in my pocket before I went up to the room. When he came up with his knife half open, I slapped him cross the face with ole Bladie.

“He jumped faster than the blood. Screamed, ‘Goddammit, Bibbie, you cut me!’

“I said, ‘You goddam right, and you lucky I don’t shoot you on top of it.’

“He was holding his face, blood dripping down his hands on to his Hart Schaffner and Marx suit. I gave him a pillow off my bed and told him to sit down. I told him moving around makes the blood pump faster. I came back to the kitchen and told John Thomas to make himself scarce—no point in him being involved—then I called the police and the ambulance.”

Mother inspected the contents of her glass, then she took my large hand in her smaller, plump one and ordered my close attention.

“Baby, Mother Dear’s going to tell you something about life.”

Her face was beautifully calm, all traces of violence lost.

“People will take advantage of you if you let them. Especially Negro women. Everybody, his brother and his dog thinks he can walk a road in a colored woman’s behind. But you remember this, now. Your mother raised you. You’re full-grown. Let them catch it like they find it. If you haven’t been trained at home to their liking tell them to get to stepping.” Here a whisper of delight crawled over her face. “Stepping. But not on you.

“You hear me?”

“Yes, Mother. I hear you.”

—

There had been some changes at home. Bailey had found his first great love. Eunice was a small, smiling brown-skinned girl who had been our classmate. They had met again, and over the protests of her family, rushed to marry. Bailey, the airy false charmer, had drifted to earth and was happy. He laughed and joked again.

They invited me to their Turk Street apartment, where large Gauguin
and Van Gogh prints enlivened the walls and fresh flowers sparkled on waxed tables.

He told funny dirty stories and the three of us laughed into the cheap wine and congratulated ourselves on being smart enough to be young and intelligent. We could see the plateaus of success in our futures. Plateaus where we would wait and rest awhile before climbing higher. When he looked at my 8” by 10” professional glossies, he said I had the “biggest nose in show business” but it was prettier than Jimmy Durante’s and I ought to be proud.

I tried to punch him, but he laughed and swerved out of the way.

“You’ll be the tallest dancer on Broadway. Ha ha.” He ran around the table escaping my outstretched hand. “You’ll make a million with each leg and a zillion with your nose.”

Relief made me laugh out of proportion. Later I kissed them both good night and wished I knew how to thank Eunice for helping Bailey find his sense of humor again.

I walked the dark streets toward home and shivered at Bailey’s close escape. Most of his friends, funny and bright during our schooldays, now leaned in nighttime doorways, nodding as their latest shot of heroin raced in their veins. Sparkling young men who were hopes of the community had thrown themselves against the sealed doors set up by a larger community, and not only hadn’t opened them, but hadn’t even shaken the bolts. The potential sharp-tongued lawyer, keen-eyed scientist and cool-hand surgeon changed his mind about jimmying the locks and took to narcotics so that he could float through the key hole.

Eunice’s happy love and soft laughter had come just in time. My brother was saved.

Poole and Rita were booked into the Champagne Supper Club. Pride made me go beserk. I quit my job. How could I exchange the glittering
sequined bathing suit and purple satin tap shoes for a waitress apron and old-lady comforts? I wouldn’t insult my muse, Terpsichore, by letting even the idea of the Chicken Shack enter into my thoughts.

A two-week engagement in Big Time, and I was ready.

My lights in stars, my name in lights, my name in stars.

For a few months before the opening we worked for whatever money was offered and practiced daily. R.L. showed me increasingly complicated steps. As soon as I learned, he laced them into our routines. When I had no cash, I asked Mother for a loan. I explained that I was investing my time in career preparation, and when the investment paid off she would be with me, holding hands and laughing and reaping the returns.

With characteristic talent, she enlarged my skit into a full-length revue. And she was the star. She reminded me that during the war years, when she had had lots of money and could have afforded to sit back idle, she had studied barbering, cosmetology, ship-fitting, welding, tool-and-dye making, and that the diplomas attesting to her perseverance hung on the walls of her den. She said she had no intention of ever going to work in an airplane factory or barber shop, but if push came to shove (she snapped her fingers), she was qualified. She approved of sticking to an idea until it was definitely proven bad or good.

She lent me the money, without further preachments, and Poole and Rita continued to practice.

Although I lived and ate at home, the small savings I kept in a jar under my bed diminished. My son always seemed to need new clothes; on Sundays I traditionally bought fresh flowers for the house; and then there were the tap shoes. Rehearsing wore out more taps than dancing three times a night in a cabaret.

I approached Bailey for a small advance. He sat, stubble-jawed, on his corduroy sofa, and looked at the adjacent wall.

“I’ve put Eunice in the hospital. She’s very sick.”

“What’s wrong with her?” I made my voice soft.

“She just had a cold. That’s all.” But he didn’t believe that was all.

“Well, come on. She’s young. Nobody dies from a cold.” If only I
could get him to look at me. I went on making a joke. “They only wish they could.”

“Yeah.” He put his feet on the cluttered coffee table, leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes.

“Good-bye, Maya.”

“Bailey, it’s not that serious.” He didn’t try to hear me and I could not intrude further by repeating myself.

The apartment stank of dead flowers and dirty dishes. His voice blurred but didn’t rise or fall. “I’ve cut out all the runs except Los Angeles so I can be with her.”