Gather Together in My Name - Maya Angelou [60]
My Lord. For once she wasn't quick enough. “For what? And how is she?” My calm voice was a lie.
“Operation. Pretty goddam serious. She keeps asking for you. You'd better come home.”
I took my son back to Big Mary and told her I had to leave town for a few days. Baxters never tell family business to outsiders, so I left her with no explanation, and my son screaming his motherlessness out, shut up in a back room.
I thought about L.D., but I had no phone number for him, so I asked the landlord to tell him that I had to go to San Francisco … trouble in the family.
I turned my thoughts with the Greyhound, toward San Francisco.
My mother's head dipped into the pillow like a yellow rose embedded in a pan of ice. Her forefinger stood sentinel over her red lips.
“Sh. Bailey's over there.” A small figure, semaphored on a chaise longue in the corner of the hospital room.
“Eunice died today. He's completely broken up. Today is their one-year anniversary. I got a sedative for him, so he's been asleep for an hour.”
Her face and voice showed the strain of worry and illness.
“How are you?”
She dismissed her illness. “Just a female operation. The things I had removed have been used and I wouldn't be needing them again.” She still whispered. “I'm glad you came home, though. Bailey needs us. I don't think he'll pull through without one of us around. And I'm going to be in the hospital at least a week. Can you take off from your job?”
“Yes.” Sure could.
“Try and wake Bailey up and take him to the house. Have you got somebody good taking care of the baby?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“And make him something hot. He hasn't eaten all day. Remember, he's the only brother you've got.”
I sat on the seat beside my only brother and gently shook him. He came out of sleep reluctantly. I called his name and he opened his eyes, sat up, looked around. His eyes found Mother, examined the room, came back to me, stunned. He couldn't grasp who he was or where he was.
“My?” His childhood name for me was nearly a cry. His eyes knew something was very wrong, but for the first seconds couldn't remember. The recall split his face open and tears poured down his cheeks.
“Oh my God, My. My. It's Eunice. They've … oh, My.”
I took him in my arms and cradle-rocked his body. The sounds of Mother's crying mingled with his muffled moans.
“Let's go home, Bail. Let's just get to the house and we can talk. Let's go home, Bail.”
He was eight years old again and trusting. His big wet black eyes looked at me wanting to believe I could do something for his grief. I knew I had no magic, when he most needed me.
“Let's go home, Bail.” I could hide the shame of my inadequacy in a skillet and drown out his sobs in the rattle of pans.
We hugged Mother and they cried together for a moment, but he freed himself without my prodding and came with me to the old high-ceilinged house as obedient as a penitent child.
Grief works its way on people differently. Some sulk, or become morose, or weep and scream a vengeance at the gods. Bailey cried for two hours, unintelligible human sounds growled and gurgled from his throat. Then his face was dry. All tears wasted. And he began to talk.
He ate the food I gave him, automatically, greedily, never stopping or slowing the string of chatter that ran from his mouth.
He told me about Eunice's illness, double pneumonia and tuberculosis, the details of her treatment. The small talk of their sickroom visits. His voice didn't lower and become dramatic when he related how she began to fail. He spoke of the nurse, new on the floor, who barred his way to Eunice's room. “Mrs. Johnson? Mrs. Johnson? Oh, she died this morning. They've taken her away.”
He rattled about his new tennis rackets and the better courts in San Francisco. The Southern Pacific dining cars and how hot Arizona was.
I let him talk and didn't try to answer. By morning he began to run down and finally noticed that he was repeating himself. “Oh, My, I told you about that, didn't I?” He drew words around as protection against his news. I gave him a sleeping