The Collected Autobiographies of Maya Angelou by Maya Angelou
I went to Bob Dustin and explained that I would be leaving in one month and what a pleasure the tour had been. That evening he came to my dressing room, took a seat and looked at me solemnly.
“I am sorry, but I’ve got bad news for you. Since you’re handing in your notice, we do not have to send you home. You’ll have to pay your own way. And you’ll have to pay your replacement’s fare, first class, from wherever we find her.”
The fares could come to over a thousand dollars! I had not seen that amount of cash since the war when I had kept the keys to my mother’s money closet.
Bob left me alone with my tears. I told Martha and Lillian, who sympathized but had no money to lend me. Desperation began to build. I had to go to my son, but how could I find the money to do it?
Bricktop answered the private phone number she had given me. “Well, now, stop crying and tell me what’s the matter.”
I told her how I had left my son and that my family was down on its luck and that I needed to have another job to earn my fare home.
“That’s nothing to cry about. I’ve heard of dancers crying because they were worked too hard, but never because they weren’t worked enough. Put your faith in God and come down here this afternoon to rehearse with my pianist. You can start tonight.”
For the next two months I not only danced in the opera and sang at Bricktop’s but also found daytime employment. Some dancers at the Rome Opera House asked me to give them classes in African movement. I charged them as much as they could afford and watched each penny carefully, so that my bankroll grew. Bricktop fed me often, and once when I was so depressed I could hardly speak she asked me to her house. When I entered the large foyer she lifted her skirt and showed me her knees. The light skin was bruised and scratched.
“I went up the holy stairs on my knees for your son. And I’ve been lighting a candle and praying to the Holy Mother for him every day. Now, will you please have faith and know that he is all right?”
I counted the money unbelievingly; every penny I needed was there. I made reservations on the Cristoforo Colombo. Martha and Ethel, Lillian, Barbara, Bey, Ned, the Joes (Attles and James) gave me a lavish farewell party.
Martha said, “Miss Thing, why don’t you fly home? The way you’re going it’ll take you two weeks to reach California.”
I was afraid. If the plane crashed my son would say all his life that his mother died on a tour in Europe, never knowing that I had taken the flight because I was nearly crazy to be with him.
Lillian made a face at Martha. “Let her alone, Miss Fine Thing. She gets these hunches and sometimes they work. Let us not forget about the Cairo and the défrisage.” We all laughed at the good times in the past which were good enough when they happened but were much better upon reflection.
The nine-day trip from Naples to New York threatened to last forever. I seemed to have spent a month going to bed in the tiny cabin where sleep was an infrequent visitor. Uncomfortable thoughts kept me awake. I had left my son to go gallivanting in strange countries and had enjoyed every minute except the times when I thought about him. I had sent a letter saying I was coming two months before and had felt too guilty to write and explain my delay.
A barely adequate band played music in the second-class salon, and after the third restless night I started singing with them.
A very thin and delicate-looking man from first class introduced himself and sat every evening until the last song had been played and the musicians had covered their instruments. Without the band and his company the trip would have been totally unbearable.
My friend was a chronic insomniac, so we played gin rummy and talked until sunrise. He told me he was a friend of Tennessee Williams, and we discussed the future of drama. I recited some of my poetry, which he said was promising.
We exchanged addresses at the dock and I took a taxi to the train station. The three-day trip in a coach deposited me tired, frazzled, but happy at the Third and Townsend Station of the Southern Pacific in San Francisco.
CHAPTER 28
Lottie answered the doorbell and gave a shout of welcome. In seconds the family closed around, kissing, stroking and hugging me. They guided me to the sofa, talking and asking questions that they didn’t expect to be answered. When I sat down, Clyde jumped into my lap and snuggled his head under my chin. Every minute he would pull away to look at my face, then nestle again against my neck. Mother patted my hair and my cheek and laughed, wiping her eyes. Lottie said, “She needs a cup of coffee.”
“The prodigal daughter,” Mother said, “That’s who you are. The prodigal daughter returns home.”
Lottie, in the kitchen, said, “Oh, baby. We’ve missed you.”
“If we lived on a farm,” Mother said, “I’d kill the fatted calf. Oh, yes, baby.” She turned to my son. “That’s what the mother does when the prodigal daughter returns.”
Clyde’s arms were wound around my neck.
“Clyde,” Mother said.
He murmured into my collar, “Yes, Grandmother?”
“You’re too big to sit in your mother’s lap. You’re a little man. Come on, get up and go find a fat calf. We’ll kill it and cook it.”
His arms tightened.
I said, “Mother, let him sit here awhile. It’s O.K.”
The first day was spent dispensing gifts and telling each other snatches of stories. I talked about the company and some of the cities we visited. Mother and Lottie told me about losing the restaurant lease and how Clyde had missed me and how they had taken him to a dermatologist who recommended an expensive allergist, but nothing seemed to help.
Clyde had little to say. The loquacious, beautiful and bubbling child I had left had disappeared. In his place was a rough-skinned, shy boy who hung his head when spoken to and refused to maintain eye contact even when I held his chin and asked, “Look at me.”
That evening I went in to hear him say his prayers dully, and when I bent to kiss him good night he clung to me with a fierceness that was frightening. In the very early hours of the morning I heard a faint knock at my door.
I turned on the light and said, “Come in.”
My son tiptoed into the room. His face was puffy from crying. I sat upright. “What’s the matter?”
He came to my bed and looked at me directly for the first time since my return. He whispered, “When are you going away again?”
I put my arms around him and he fell sobbing on my chest. I held him, but not my own tears.
“I swear to you, I’ll never leave you again. If I go, when I go, you’ll go with me or I won’t go.”
He fell asleep in my arms and I picked him up and deposited him in his own bed.
CHAPTER 29
Disorientation hung in my mind like a dense fog and I seemed to be unable to touch anyone or anything. Ivonne was happily married at last; she introduced me to her new husband, but my interest was merely casual. At home I played favorite records, but the music sounded thin and uninteresting. Lottie prepared elaborate meals especially for me, and the food lay heavily on my tongue—it had to be forced down a tight, unwilling throat. Mother and I showed each other the letters we had received from Bailey. The sadness I experienced in Europe when I read the mail had obviously been left abroad, and now rereading his poignant and poetic tales of prison life left me unmoved.
I was aware that I was not acting like the old Maya, but it didn’t matter much. My responses to Clyde, however, did alarm me. I wanted to hold him every minute. To pick him up and carry his nine-year-old body through the streets, to the store, to the park. I had to clench my fists to keep my hands off his head and face whenever I sat near him or moved past him.
Clyde’s skin flaked with scales and his bedclothes had to be changed each day in an attempt to prevent new contagion. I had ruined my beautiful son by neglect, and neither of us would ever forgive me. It was time to commit suicide, to put an end to accusations and guilt. And did I dare die alone? What would happen to my son? If my temporary absence in Euro
On the fifth day home I had a lucid moment, as clear as the clink of good crystal. I was going mad.
Clyde and I were alone in the house. I shouted at him. “Get out. Go outside this moment.”
“Where, Mother?” He was stunned at the violence in my voice.
“Outside. And don’t come back, even if I call you. Out.”
He ran down the stairs as I picked up the telephone. I ordered a taxi and telephoned the Langley Porter Psychiatric Clinic.
“I am sorry. There’s no one here to see you.”
I said, “Oh, yes. Someone will see me.”
“Madame, we have a six-month waiting list.”
“This is an emergency. My name is Maya Angelou. Someone will see me.”
I grabbed a coat and went to sit on the steps. Clyde came running around from the backyard when he heard the cab stop. He squinted his eyes as if he were about to cry. “You’re going away?”
I said, “I’m just going to see a friend. You go back in the house. I’ll be home in an hour or so.”
I saw him watching the taxi until we turned the corner.
The receptionist was not alarmed at my hysteria. “Yes, Miss Angelou. Doctor will see you now, in there.” She showed me to a door.
A large, dark-haired white man sat behind the desk. He indicated a seat. “Now, what seems to be the trouble?” He put his hands on the desk and laced his fingers. His nails were clean and clipped short. His good suit was freshly pressed. He looked muscular. I thought he’s probably one of the tennis players who drive expensive sports cars and his wife has Black servants who wash her underclothes and bring her breakfast on a tray.
“Are you troubled?”
I started to cry. Yes, I was troubled; why else would I be here? But what could I tell this man? Would he understand Arkansas, which I left, yet would never, could never, leave? Would he comprehend why my brilliant brother, who was the genius in our family, was doing time in Sing Sing on a charge of fencing stolen goods instead of sitting with clean fingernails in a tailor-made suit, listening to some poor mad person cry her blues out? How would he perceive a mother who, in a desperate thrust for freedom, left her only child, who became sick during her absence? A mother who, upon her return, felt so guilty she could think of nothing more productive than killing herself and possibly even the child?
I looked at the doctor and he looked at me, saying nothing. Waiting.
I used up my Kleenex and took more from my purse. No, I couldn’t tell him about living inside a skin that was hated or feared by the majority of one’s fellow citizens or about the sensation of getting on a bus on a lovely morning, feeling happy and suddenly seeing the passengers curl their lips in distaste or avert their eyes in revulsion. No, I had nothing to say to the doctor. I stood up.
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“If you’d like to make another appointment—”
I closed his door and asked the receptionist to call a taxi.
I gave the driver the address of Wilkie’s studio. I arrived in the middle of a lesson. He took one look at me and said, “Go into my bedroom. There’s a bottle of scotch. I have another student after this one, then I’ll cancel for the rest of the afternoon.”
I sat on his bed and drank the whiskey neat and listened to the vocalizing in the next room. I didn’t know what I was going to say to Wilkie, but I knew I would feel better talking to him than to that doctor, to whom I would be another case of Negro paranoia. I telephoned home and told Lottie where I was and that I’d be home soon.
The piano was finally silent and Wilkie opened the bedroom door. “O.K., old sweet nappy-head thing. Come on and talk to Uncle Wilkie.”
I walked out into the studio and collapsed in his arms.
“Wilkie, I can’t see any reason for living. I went to a psychiatrist and it was no good. I couldn’t talk. I’m so unhappy. And I have done such harm to Clyde …”
He held me until I finished my babbling.
“Are you finished? Are you finished?” His voice was stern and unsympathetic.
I said, “Well, I guess so.”
“Sit down at that desk.” I sat.
“Now, see that yellow tablet?” There was a legal-size yellow pad on the blotter. “See that pencil?” I saw it.
“Now, write down what you have to be thankful for.”
“Wilkie, I don’t want silly answers.”
“Start to write.” His voice was cold and unbending. “And I mean start now! First, write that you heard me tell you that. So you have the sense of hearing. And that you could tell the taxi driver where to bring you and then tell me what was wrong with you, so you have the sense of speech. You can read and write. You have a son who needs nothing but you. Write, dammit! I mean write.”
I picked up the pencil and began.
“I can hear.
I can speak.
I have a son.
I have a mother.
I have a brother.
I can dance.
I can sing.
I can cook.
I can read.
I can write.”
When I reached the end of the page I began to feel silly. I was alive and healthy. What on earth did I have to complain about? For two months in Rome I had said all I wanted was to be with my son. And now I could hug and kiss him anytime the need arose. What the hell was I whining about?
Wilkie said, “Now write, ‘I am blessed. And I am grateful.’ ”
I wrote the line.
“It’s time for you to go to work. I’ll call you a cab. Stop at the theatrical agency on your way home and tell them you’re ready to go to work. Anywhere, anytime, and for any decent amount of money.”
When he walked me to the door he put his arm around my shoulders. “Maya, you’re a good mother. If you weren’t, Clyde wouldn’t have missed you so much. And let Uncle Wilkie tell you one last thing. Don’t ask God to forgive you, for that’s already done. Forgive yourself. You’re the only person you can forgive. You’ve done nothing wrong. So forgive yourself.”
I told the agent I would accept any job and the only stipulation was that I had to have transportation and accommodation for my son. He was surprised at the unusual request, but we signed contracts and I went home.
My lighter mood influenced everyone. I told funny stories about the singers and stopped lying about how miserable I had been.
Mother said, “Well, at least. I knew you had to have some good times.”
Lottie was cheered by my new appetite and planned even more elaborate meals for my pleasure. And Clyde began to tell me secrets again. He resurrected Fluke and the two of them held interminable conversations in the house’s one bathroom. I took him out of school for a week and we spent days riding bikes in Golden Gate Park and having picnics on the grass.
Before my eyes a physical and mental metamorphosis began as gradually and inexorably as a seasonal change. At first the myriad bumps dried and no fresh ones erupted. His skin slowly regained its smoothness and color. Then I noticed that he no longer rushed panting to my room to assure himself that I was still there. And when I left the house to shop we both took the parting normally, with a casual “See you in a minute.” His shoulders began to ride high again and he had opinions about everything from the planning of meals to what he wanted to be called.
“Mother, I’ve changed my name.”
I’m certain that I didn’t look up. “Good. What is it today?”
In the space of one month, he had told Fluke and the rest of the family to call him Rock, Robin, Rex and Les.
“My name is Guy.”
“That’s nice. Guy is a nice name.”
“I mean it, Mother.”
“Good, dear. It’s quite a nice name.”
“Clyde, I called you. Didn’t you hear me?”
He had always been rambunctious, but never outright sassy.
“I heard you calling Clyde, Mother, but my name is Guy. Did you want me?”
He gave me a mischievous grin.
Mother, Lottie and I failed for a time to remember his new name.
“Aunt Lottie, if you want me, call for Guy.”
“Grandmother, I have named myself Guy. Please don’t forget.”
One day I asked him quietly why he didn’t like Clyde. He said it sounded mushy. I told him about the Clyde River in Scotland, but its strength and soberness didn’t impress him.
“It’s an O.K. name for a river, but my name is Guy.” He looked straight into my eyes. “Please tell your friends that I never want to be called Clyde again. And, Mother, don’t you do it either.” He remembered “Please.”
Whenever anyone in the family called him Clyde, he would sigh like a teacher trying to educate a group of stubborn kindergarten students and would say wearily, “My name is Guy.”
It took him only one month to train us. He became Guy and we could hardly remember ever calling him anything else.
CHAPTER 30
I received a telegram from Hawaii:
OPENING FOR YOU THE CLOUDS. $350 DOLLAR WEEKLY, FOUR WEEKS. TWO WEEK OPTION. TRANSPORTATION AND ACCOMMODATION YOU AND SON. REPLY AT ONCE.
The three women who owned the hotel and night club met us at the airport dressed in long, colorful Hawaiian dresses. They were white Americans, but years in the islands had tanned their skins and loosened their inhibitions. Ann, a tall blonde and one-time professional swimmer, smiled warmly and draped fresh leis around our necks. Verne, the shortest of the trio, kissed us, while Betty, handsome and rugged, clapped our backs, grabbed our bags and herded the company into a car.
On the drive to Waikiki I imagined Bing Crosby and a saronged Dorothy Lamour standing under palm trees, singing “Lovely Hula Hands.” The air was warm and moist and the perfume of our flowers filled the car. Guy asked how deep I thought the ocean was and if there were any sharks. And did they have any life guards?