Gather Together in My Name - Maya Angelou [42]
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 white-folks' vulgarity of the black accent.
I answered the door for Mr. Thomas, and took his herring-bone 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