Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas - Maya Angelou [103]
“I went up the holy stairs on my knees for your son. And I've been lighting a candle and praying to the Holy Mother for him every day. Now, will you please have faith and know that he is all right?”
I counted the money unbelievingly; every penny I needed was there. I made reservations on the Cristoforo Colombo. Martha and Ethel, Lillian, Barbara, Bey, Ned, the Joes (Attles and James) gave me a lavish farewell party.
Martha said, “Miss Thing, why don't you fly home? The way you're going it'll take you two weeks to reach California.”
I was afraid. If the plane crashed my son would say all his life that his mother died on a tour in Europe, never knowing that I had taken the flight because I was nearly crazy to be with him.
Lillian made a face at Martha. “Let her alone, Miss Fine Thing. She gets these hunches and sometimes they work. Let us not forget about the Cairo and the défrisagt” We all laughed at the good times in the past which were good enough when they happened but were much better upon reflection.
The nine-day trip from Naples to New York threatened to last forever. I seemed to have spent a month going to bed in the tiny cabin where sleep was an infrequent visitor. Uncomfortable thoughts kept me awake. I had left my son to go gallivanting in strange countries and had enjoyed every minute except the times when I thought about him. I had sent a letter saying I was coming two months before and had felt too guilty to write and explain my delay.
A barely adequate band played music in the second-class salon, and after the third restless night I started singing with them.
A very thin and delicate-looking man from first class introduced himself and sat every evening until the last song had been played and the musicians had covered their instruments. Without the band and his company the trip would have been totally unbearable.
My friend was a chronic insomniac, so we played gin rummy and talked until sunrise. He told me he was a friend of Tennessee Williams, and we discussed the future of drama. I recited some of my poetry, which he said was promising.
We exchanged addresses at the dock and I took a taxi to the train station. The three-day trip in a coach deposited me tired, frazzled, but happy at the Third and Townsend Station of the Southern Pacific in San Francisco.
CHAPTER 28
Lottie answered the doorbell and gave a shout of welcome. In seconds the family closed around, kissing, stroking and hugging me. They guided me to the sofa, talking and asking questions that they didn't expect to be answered. When I sat down, Clyde jumped into my lap and snuggled his head under my chin. Every minute he would pull away to look at my face, then nestle again against my neck. Mother patted my hair and my cheek and laughed, wiping her eyes.
Lottie said, “She needs a cup of coffee.”
“The prodigal daughter,” Mother said. “That's who you are. The prodigal daughter returns home.”
Lottie, in the kitchen, said, “Oh, baby. We've missed you.”
“If we lived on a farm,” Mother said, “I'd kill the fatted calf. Oh, yes, baby.” She turned to my son. “That's what the mother does when the prodigal daughter returns.”
Clyde's arms were wound around my neck.
“Clyde,” Mother said.
He murmured into my collar, “Yes, Grandmother?”
“You're too big to sit in your mother's lap. You're a little man. Come on, get up and go find a fat calf. We'll kill it and cook it.”
His arms tightened.
I said, “Mother, let him sit here a while. It's O.K.”
The first day was spent dispensing gifts and telling each other snatches of stories. I talked about the company and some of the cities we visited. Mother and Lottie told me about losing the restaurant lease and how Clyde had missed me and how they had taken him to a dermatologist who recommended an expensive allergist, but nothing seemed