The Collected Autobiographies of Maya Angelou (93 page)

During the revue’s run, Guy had been free to spend his part-time salary on summer entertainment. He and Chuck Killens spent fortunes at Coney Island. They pursued the mysteries of pinball machines and employed the absence of adults to indulge in every hot-dog and spun-sugar fantasy of childhood.

Although Godfrey collected me when he could and took me to Harlem or delivered me back to Brooklyn, the money used for other transportation and the lunches at Frank’s on 125th ate away at my bankroll. Rent was due again.

Grossman, a night-club owner from Chicago, phoned. Would I be interested in singing in his new club, the Gate of Horn? I kept the relief out of my voice with great effort. Two weeks at a salary which would pay two months’ rent and pay for Guy’s back-to-school clothes.

After I accepted the offer, with secret but abject gratitude, I began to wonder what to do with Guy.

Grace and John offered to let him stay at their house, but Guy wouldn’t hear of that. He had a home. He was a man. Well, nearly, and he could look after himself. I was not to worry about him. Just go and work and return safely.

I called a phone number advertised in the Brooklyn black newspaper. Mrs. Tolman answered. I explained that I wanted someone who would come for three hours a day in the afternoon. Just cook dinner for my fifteen-year-old, clean the kitchen and make up his room.

I diminished her reluctance by saying that I was a woman alone, raising a boy, and that I had to go away for two weeks to work. I asked her over to the house to see how respectful my son was. I implied that
he was well raised but didn’t say that outright. If I was lucky, when I returned from Chicago, she’d use those words herself.

Despite the harshness of their lives, I have always found that older black women are paragons of generosity. The right plea, arranged the right way, the apt implication, persuade the hungriest black woman into sharing her last biscuit.

When I told Mrs. Tolman that if I didn’t take the job in Chicago, I wouldn’t be able to pay my rent or buy shoes for my son, she said, “I’ll take the job, chile. And I’m going to take your word that you’ve got a good boy.”

Convincing Guy that we needed a housekeeper demanded at least as much finesse. After I told him about Mrs. Tolman, I waited quietly for the minutes he needed to explain how well he could look after himself and how she was going to get in the way and how well he could cook and that he wouldn’t eat a bite of her food and after all, what did I think he was? A little baby? And “Oh please, Mother, this is really boring.”

“Guy, Mrs. Tolman is coming because of the neighborhood. I’ve been looking at it very carefully.”

Against his will, he was interested.

“I’m convinced that a few professional burglars live down the street. Too much new furniture going in and out of the house. If those people don’t see an adult around here, they may take advantage of the hours when you’re away and clean us out.”

He got caught in the excitement of the possibility of crime.

“You think so? Which people? Which house?”

“I’d rather not point the finger without knowing for sure. But I’ve been watching closely. Mrs. Tolman will come around three, she’ll be gone by six. Since she’s going to be here, she’ll cook dinner for you and wash your clothes. But that’s a front. She’s really here to make the burglars think our house is always occupied.”

He accepted the contrived story.

John understood Guy’s display of independence, and told me it was natural. He urged me to go to Chicago, sing, make the money and
come home to New York where I belonged. He would keep an eye on my son.

—

The modest Gate of Horn on Chicago’s Near North Side was located only a few blocks from the plush Mr. Kelly’s. The Gate had in warmth what Mr. Kelly’s had in elegance. I arrived in the middle of the Clancy Brothers’ rehearsal. Mike was at the microphone checking the sound system.

“Is this loud enough” Too loud? Can you hear us or are we blowing the ass back out of the room?”

The Irish accent was as palpable as mashed potatoes and rich as lace.

After the sound was adjusted, the brothers and Tommy Makem sang for their own enjoyment. Their passion matched the revolutionary lyrics of their songs.

If the words Negro and America were exchanged for shamrock and Irish, the song could be used to describe the situation in the United States.

The Clancy Brothers already had my admiration when we met backstage.

Amanda Ambrose, Oscar Brown, Jr., and Odetta came to opening night. We sat together and made joyful noises as the Irish singers told their stories.

The two weeks sped by, punctuated by telephone calls to Guy, who was understandably “doing just fine,” and to John Killens, who said everything was smooth. Oscar Brown and I spent long afternoons volleying stories. He was writing a play,
Kicks & Co.
, for Broadway and I bragged that I had just come from a successful run of Cabaret for Freedom, which I partly wrote and co-produced.

We set each other afire with anger and complimented ourselves on our talent. We were meant for great things. The size and power of our adversaries were not greater than our capabilities. If we admitted that
slavery and its child, legal discrimination, were declarations of war, then Oscar and I and all our friends were generals in the army and we would be among the officers who accepted the white flag of surrender when the battle was done. Amanda’s husband, Buzz, inspired by the fever of protest, made clothes for me based on African designs. Odetta, newly married, and radiant with love, was off to Canada. Before she left she gave me an afternoon of advice. “Keep on telling the truth, Maya. Stay on the stage. I don’t mean the night-club stage, or the theatrical stage. I mean on the stage of life.” And my Lord she was beautiful.

“And remember this, hon, don’t you let nobody turn you ’round. No body. Not a living ass.”

Closing night had been a hilarious celebration. The Clancy Brothers’ fans had found room to accept my songs, and the black people who had come to hear me had been surprised to find that not only did they enjoy the Irish singers’ anger, they understood it. We had drunk to each other’s resistance.

The next morning Oscar stood with me in the hotel lobby as I waited to pay my bill.

A uniformed black man came up to me.

“Miss Angelou? There’s a phone call for you from New York.”

Oscar said he’d keep my place in the line and I went to the phone.

“Maya?” John Killens’ voice was a spike, pinning me in place. “There’s been some trouble.”

“Trouble?” Somewhere behind my kneecaps there was a place that waited for trouble. “Is Guy all right?” The dread, closer than a seer’s familiar, which lived sucking off my life, was that something would happen to my only son. He would be stolen, kidnapped by a lonely person who, seeing his perfection, would be unable to resist. He would be struck by an errant bus, hit by a car out of control. He would walk a high balustrade, showing his beauty and coordination to a girl who was pretending disinterest. His foot would slip, his body would fold and crumple, he would fall fifty feet and someone would find my telephone number. I would be minding my own business and a stranger would call me to the phone.

“Hello?”

A voice would say, “There’s been trouble.”

My nightmare never went further. I never knew how serious the accident was, or my response. And now real life pushed itself through the telephone.

“Guy is okay.” John Killens’ voice sounded as if it came from farther than New York City. “He’s here with us. I’m just calling to tell you not to go to your house. Come straight here.” Oh, the house burned down. “Was there a fire? Is anything left?” I had no insurance.

“There wasn’t a fire. Don’t worry. Just come to my house when your plane arrives. I’ll tell you when you get here. It’s nothing serious.” He hung up.

Oscar Brown was at my side. His green eyes stern. He put his hand on my shoulder.

“You O.K.?”

“That was John Killens. Something’s happened.”

“Is Guy O.K.? What was it?”

“Guy’s O.K., but John wouldn’t say.”

“Well, hell, that’s a bitch, ain’t it? Calling up saying something’s wrong and not saying …” He went over and picked up my bags.

“You pay your bill, I’ll bring the car to the front door.”

The drive to the airport was an adventure in motoring and a lesson in conversational dissembling. Oscar made erratic small talk, driving with one hand, leaning his car around corners, passing motorists with such speed that our car threatened to leave the road entirely. His chatter was constantly interrupted with “Guy’s O.K. Now, remember that.” He would turn to look at me. Fixing a stare so intense it seemed hypnotic. Noticing that he was conducting a car, he would swivel his head occasionally and give a moment’s attention to the road.

At the airport, he held me close and whispered. “Everything’s going to be O.K., little mother. Call me. I’ll be at home waiting.”

I dreaded the flight. Afraid that I would begin to cry and lose control. Afraid that the plane would crash and I would not be around to look after Guy and take care of the unknown problem.

“Well, and isn’t it the wonder of Maya?” The accent was unmistakable. I raised up and looked in the seat behind me. Mike Clancy was grinning over a glass of whiskey with Pat next to him. Liam and Tommy were seated across the aisle.

“You thought you could lose us, did you? Never, little darling. We have sworn to follow you to the ends of the earth. How’s about a tipple to cinch the agreement.”

I said I’d order something when the stewardess came around.

There was no need to wait. Mike had prepared against the eventuality of a stingy attendant or a plane run by teetotalers. He reached under the seat and when he straightened up, he was holding a bottle of whiskey. Pat pulled a glass from the pocket of the seat in front of him.

Mike said, “If you insist on frivolities such as ice and water, you’ll wait until the serving lady comes. If not, I’ll start pouring now and you tell me when to stop.”

I didn’t wait.

The trip was riotous. Many passengers were incensed that four white men and a black woman were laughing and drinking together, and their displeasure pushed us toward silliness. I asked Liam to translate a Gaelic song that I had heard him sing a cappella. He said he’d sing it first.

His clear tenor floated up over the heads of the already-irate passengers. The haunting beauty of the melody must have quelled some of the irritation, because no one asked Liam to shut up.

Mike tried in vain to start conversations with two stone-grey men who sat behind him, but they retained their granite aloofness.

As the plane landed in New York, we sang a rousing chorus of “The Wearing of the Green.”

The Clancys offered to share a taxi into the city, but I said I was going to Brooklyn.

Brooklyn and Guy. My heart dropped and I sobered. The company and the drink had erased Guy and the problem from my mind.

I thanked them and got into a taxi with my bags and a load of new guilt.

What a poor kind of mother I was. Drinking and laughing it up with a group of strangers, white men at that, while my son was in some kind of trouble.

When the taxi arrived at John’s house, I was abject as well as apprehensive.

Grace hugged me and smiled. “Welcome home, Maya.” Her smile told me things couldn’t be too bad. Mom Willie called from the dining room, “That her?” I answered and she walked into the foyer. She was looking serious and shaking her head. Her look and gesture said, “Well, boys will be boys, and that’s life.” That was a relief. I asked where Guy was. Grace said he was upstairs in Chuck’s room but John wanted to speak to me first.

Mom Willie gave me coffee as John explained what happened. A group of boys had threatened Guy and John heard about it and decided Guy would be safer at his house until I returned.

I nearly laughed aloud. Only a disagreement among kids.

John continued, “The boys are a gang called the Savages. They killed a boy last month, and as he lay in the funeral home, the Savages went in and stabbed the body thirty-five times.”

Oh my God.

“They terrorize everybody. Even the cops are scared of that bunch. When I heard that Guy had offered to fight them, I drove over to your house and got him. He didn’t want to go. He had stuck all your butcher knives in the curtain at your door and told me he was waiting for them to come back. I said, ‘Boy you’d better get your butt in this car.’ I told the woman downstairs to tell the gang, when they came back, that his uncle came to get him.”

Mom Willie spoke first. “Well, honey, raising boys in this world is more than a notion. Ask me about it. While they’re young, you pray you can feed them and keep them in school. They get up some size and you pray some crazy white woman don’t scream rape around them and get them lynched. They come of age and white men call them up to go fight, and you pray they don’t get killed over there fighting some white folks’ war. Naw. Raising a black boy makes you sit down and think.”

John had respectfully waited for his mother to finish her remembrances.
“I’ll get Guy now.” He went to the stairs and called, “Guy, come down. Your mother’s here.”

I heard the heavy steps rushing down the stairs and I wanted to stand, but my body wouldn’t obey. Guy bounded into the kitchen and the sight of him brought tears to my eyes.

“Hi, Mom. How was the trip?” He bent down and kissed my cheek. “Gee, it’s great to have you home.” He read my face and stopped smiling. “Oh, I guess Mr. Killens told you about the little incident. Well, it wasn’t really serious, you know.” He patted my shoulder as if he were the reassuring parent, and I the upset child.

“What happened, Guy? How did you get involved with a gang like that? What—”

“I’ll discuss that with you. Privately, please.” He was back on his dignity, and I couldn’t deflate him. Whatever the story, I had to wait until we were alone.

John understood and said he’d drop us off at home. Guy shook his head. “Thanks, Mr. Killens. We’ll walk.” He turned to me. “Where are your bags, Mom?”