Gather Together in My Name - Maya Angelou [37]
“Yes.” Er … “Yes, ma'am.” She was an officer. Oh hell, I mean … “Yes, sir.”
“Did you or did you not sign the loyalty oath?”
“I did.” Did I? I had gone down a few weeks before and sworn to uphold the flag, defend the country and protect my fellow Americans with my life, if need be. I had been so moved by my sincerity that I added to myself, “My country may she always be right but right or wrong, my country.” Off we go into the wild blue yonder and the caissons go rolling along.
“Were you or were you not asked if you had ever been a member of the Communist party?”
“I was asked, and I said no.” Well, if that was all it was! I felt the blood pushing to open up its old passages and start to flow again.
“You lied, Johnson.” The voice sirened up to a screech.
“Lied, sir? No, sir. I've never—”
“This is your signature, Johnson?” She produced the loyalty oath by slight of hand. I didn't need to peer to see the large curving Marguerite Johnson.
“Yes, sir. That is my signature.”
She flipped the paper over and grinned her pleasure. “The California Labor School is on the House Un-American Activities list, Johnson. Do you know why?”
“No, sir. I only studied dance and drama there.”
“Oh, come now. Don't be stupid. It's a Communist organization and you know it.”
“Maybe so, but I have never been a member.”
“You went to the school for two years.” She had regained her composure, her stiffness.
“But that was when I was fourteen and fifteen. I had just come from the South, and a playground teacher got me a scholarship. It was because I had trouble talking—”
“Communists are ungodly, Johnson. And this man's army fights under God.”
I felt as if I were drowning in straw. The light was still visible but no amount of struggling brought me nearer to it.
“Because you were young and, I hope, you're still innocent, the Army is not going to bring charges of falsification against you. But we definitely cannot risk you as a soldier in our army, Johnson. Dismissed.”
I was suspended, physically and mentally, for a second.
“Dismissed.”
I know I'd have made a good soldier because without the benefit of habit or training, my body turned sharply and walked out into the sunshine.
Mother and the baby were still out when I returned to the big house. Papa Ford was away on his noonday constitutional. The rooms were all dark and cool. I sat at the ornate dining-room table and tried to sort things out.
My clothes were gone, I had no job and I had been rejected by the Army. That damn institution, which accepts everybody (to tell from its soldiers), had turned me down. My life had no center, no purpose. I had to admit, though, that I had lied. Not on the issue they charged against me (hell, I wouldn't have recognized Stalin if he'd been in my class when I was fourteen. Literally, all white folks still looked alike to me: pale and similar), but I had lied about Guy's birth. I wondered if justice was served. If maybe I should just shut up and take my punishment. I needed Bailey. I longed for the old days when I could speak to him and work out my problems.
I got up from the table and opened the door to his room. It had a strange emptiness. Not as if the occupant had just stepped out and was expected back, but as if it had never been occupied and expected nothing. There was a dead-ness in the air. I turned on the overhead light, went to the windows and pulled up the shades. The gray spring light dared only to enter a yard or so. I decided to change his linen, clean up and put fresh flowers in his room. Meanwhile I would think over my problem.
I stripped the blankets and folded them, then I tugged at the linen. For a moment I was so amazed I forgot my whereabouts. This couldn't be Bailey's bed. He was the model of cleanliness, neatness, decorum. Every member of my family had said at one time or other, “Maya should have been a boy and Bailey a girl. She's so sloppy and he's so neat”—and more to that effect.
The sheets were gray and black with