Gather Together in My Name - Maya Angelou [61]
“My, you're not leaving me, are you?”
“No.”
He balled himself up in Mother's bed and was asleep in minutes.
I awakened to the splash of water and the sound of Bailey singing in the bathroom.
“Jelly, Jelly, Jelly, Jelly stays on my mi-i-nd.” He could imitate the bass baritone of Billy Eckstine.
“Jelly Roll killed my pappy, and ran my mammy stone blind.”
His voice rolled over joyously in waves. My instant response of elation lasted seconds. He couldn't have made such a quick adjustment. I joined Papa at the kitchen table and waited.
“Hey, Maya. Fresh coffee? Good morning, Papa Ford.” His face was no wider than my outstretched hand, and the usual rich brown color was dusty like an old chocolate bar exposed to the light. A smile struggled free and limped across his lips.
“Boy, I sure was upset last night. I hope I didn't worry you too much. And Mom. Goddam, that was inconsiderate of me to go to her hospital room screaming and crying.”
“It wasn't inconsiderate, Bail, you were upset. You went to your mother. Where else could you go?”
“Yes, but she's sick herself. And, after all, I'm a man. A man. A man takes his knocks. He doesn't go running to his mother.”
He poured coffee and drank standing, refusing the chair I pulled out for him.
“Shall I make breakfast for you?” His grin was a little scary, something more than impish, and not yet satanic. “I've learned how to make Eggs Benedict.” He turned to Papa.
“Papa, can you make Eggs Benedict? That's what rich white people eat.”
Papa growled, “I never cooked for white folks, rich or not.”
Bailey poked in the refrigerator, and took out eggs and bacon. He nearly ran to the kitchen closet and was back in a flash with pots, pans, skillets.
“I'll cook for you, Bailey.” Not knowing how to console him. “I think you need turkey and ham for Eggs Benedict.”
He turned on me in red anger. “Will you please leave me alone? I'm no fucking invalid. I wasn't the one who died, you know.”
I liked it better when he cried. I could pet him and talk softly and feel as if I were effectively coping with his grief.
“I'm Cuban Pete.” He started singing in a bad Latin accent, “Oh, I'm Cuban Pete.” He Cesar Romeroed around the table, to the sink, over to the stove, his grin awful. In a few minutes he placed burned bacon, scrambled eggs and lopsided stacks of hot cakes on the table.
“Get your own silverware. I'm the chef, I'm not the waiter.” He straightened up the pancakes with his hands and broke off the ragged edges, trying desperately to make them uniform.
“Sit down, I'll get your plate, Bailey.”
“I'm not going to eat right now. But you all enjoy yourself. Bon appétit.” He walked out of the kitchen. “I want to hear some music.”
In moments, the sound of water splashing in the bathtub mixed with Lester Young's mellow sax reached the kitchen.
Papa Ford frowned. “He's had one bath today, ain't he? He ain't dirty enough for two baths.”
“There's nothing wrong with him. He's just nervous.” I slammed the sentence out, a barrier against further conversation.
In two days Bailey lost pounds from his already skinny frame and gained in degrees of deception.
Only once did we speak of Eunice.
“If I could have afforded it, I'd have taken her out of San Francisco General and put her in St. Joseph's. People lie who say you die when it's your time to die.” He quoted Robert Benton, his favorite at the time. “Hate can be legislated too.”
He opened his face by dint of will. “My, I want a favor.”
“Anything.”
“Eunice's funeral is tomorrow. After that, I never want to hear her name again.” He waited.
“All right, Bailey.”
“Thank you, My.” He closed in upon himself and smiled the new grimace. I lost part of my brother forever.
I didn't report to Mother that the next morning he put on fresh white tennis shorts and shirt, thick white socks and tennis shoes, and walked into the church carrying his new tennis racket.
Papa Ford frowned his disapproval. “Your brother sounds crazy to me. He said he's going to quit his job. This ain't no time to leave the road. Get his meals free. Tips. He can bring home