A Song Flung Up to Heaven - Maya Angelou [7]
I asked, “Does she think she’s liberated?”
Bailey said, as if he had always known it, “Some folks say they want change. They just want exchange. They only want to have what the haves have, so they won’t have it anymore. Now, Mom is not like that. She just wants to be left alone. She thinks if no one gets in her way, she can get her freedom by herself. She doesn’t want even Martin Luther King to tell her where her liberation lies—and certainly not Malcolm X.”
When we walked into Jack’s Tavern, we were greeted by Mother’s friends.
“Well, Vivian’s children came from the ends of the earth to see about their old mother.”
Another voice came from near the bar: “Better not let Vivian hear you call her old.”
Someone answered, “If anybody tells her I said it, I’ll deny it to my dying day.”
“How are you all doing?”
One of the oldest regulars told the bartender, “Set them up. Their money’s no good in here.”
I was relieved to find Trumpet still tending bar. He had been a pal of mine during the lean days when I was studying and teaching dance, trying to raise my son, keep my love affairs intact and live on one grain of rice and a drop of water. We had spent long hours as buddies, talking about the ways of the world.
I said, “Trumpet, I know you heard about Malcolm.”
“Naw, baby. When did you come home? Good-looking old tall long-legged girl.”
“Trumpet, Malcolm is dead. Somebody shot him.”
Trumpet stood up straight. “Really? No, that’s awful. Awful news. Sorry to hear that. When did you get home? How was Africa?”
Bailey said to me, “Get your drink. Let’s sit down at a table.”
I followed him. He must have seen that at the moment, I was quite soberly going mad.
“You know, of course, that you can’t go back to New York. With Malcolm dead, there is no OAAU, and you can’t start one or restart his on your own. You wouldn’t know who to trust. Accusations are going to be flying thick as grits, and that is no place for you.”
Bleakness and grief welled up in me, and I started to cry.
Bailey said, “Stop that. What happened to you in Africa? Did you forget? You can’t let people see you cry in public. That’s like laying your head down on a chopping block in the presence of an executioner.
“Now, you want the black people to rise up and riot. Don’t count on it. Nothing’s going to happen right away. I mean nothing. But after a while, a white man is going to step on a black woman’s toe, and we’ll have a civil war again.”
I asked, “What can I do? I don’t want to go back to Africa. You say don’t go to New York. I hate San Francisco right now.”
“Come back to Honolulu with me. Aunt Leah is there. You can stay with her for a while.”
My mother’s only sister was an evangelist in Oahu, and I didn’t take much comfort in Bailey’s invitation.
“You can go back to singing in nightclubs. A lot of new places have opened since you were last there.”
He continued talking, but I stopped listening and began concentrating on regaining my self-control.
“Maya. Maya.” He spoke softly, and for the first time his voice was heavy with sympathy. “Baby, let me tell you what’s going to happen. In a few years, there are going to be beautiful posters of Malcolm X, and his photographs will be everywhere. The same people who don’t give a damn now will lie and say they always supported him. And that very bartender, the one with the sword”—Bailey mispronounced the word as the bartender had done—“he will say, ‘Malcolm was a great man. I always knew he was a great man. A race man. A man who loved his people.’”
I looked at my brother, who was always the wisest person I knew, and wondered if he could possibly be wrong this time.
When we returned home Mother had the grace to give me her sympathy.
“I didn’t care for his tactics, but nobody should be shot down like a yard dog. I know he was your friend, baby, and I’m sorry. I want you to know I’m sorry he was killed.”
It took me two days to reach Ghana by telephone, and when I did, Guy’s voice was hardly audible. He spoke through the crackle of international static.