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Clyde had little to say. The loquacious, beautiful and bubbling child I had left had disappeared. In his place was a rough-skinned, shy boy who hung his head when spoken to and refused to maintain eye contact even when I held his chin and asked, “Look at me.”

That evening I went in to hear him say his prayers dully, and when I bent to kiss him good night he clung to me with a fierceness that was frightening. In the very early hours of the morning I heard a faint knock at my door.

I turned on the light and said, “Come in.”

My son tiptoed into the room. His face was puffy from crying. I sat upright. “What's the matter?”

He came to my bed and looked at me directly for the first time since my return. He whispered, “When are you going away again?”

I put my arms around him and he fell sobbing on my chest. I held him, but not my own tears.

“I swear to you, I'll never leave you again. If I go, when I go, you'll go with me or I won't go.”

He fell asleep in my arms and I picked him up and deposited him in his own bed.

CHAPTER 29

Disorientation hung in my mind like a dense fog and I seemed to be unable to touch anyone or anything. Ivonne was happily married at last; she introduced me to her new husband, but my interest was merely casual. At home I played favorite records, but the music sounded thin and uninteresting. Lottie prepared elaborate meals especially for me, and the food lay heavily on my tongue—it had to be forced down a tight, unwilling throat. Mother and I showed each other the letters we had received from Bailey. The sadness I experienced in Europe when I read the mail had obviously been left abroad, and now rereading his poignant and poetic tales of prison life left me unmoved.

I was aware that I was not acting like the old Maya, but it didn't matter much. My responses to Clyde, however, did alarm me. I wanted to hold him every minute. To pick him up and carry his nine-year-old body through the streets, to the store, to the park. I had to clench my fists to keep my hands off his head and face whenever I sat near him or moved past him.

Clyde's skin flaked with scales and his bedclothes had to be changed every day in an attempt to prevent new contagion. I had ruined my beautiful son by neglect, and neither of us would ever forgive me. It was time to commit suicide, to put an end to accusations and guilt. And did I dare die alone? What would happen to my son? If my temporary absence in Europe caused such devastation to his mind and body, what would become of him if I was gone forever? I brought him into this world and I was responsible for his life. So must the thoughts wind around the minds of insane parents who kill their children and then themselves.

On the fifth day home I had a lucid moment, as clear as the clink of good crystal. I was going mad.

Clyde and I were alone in the house. I shouted at him. “Get out. Go outside this moment.”

“Where, Mother?” He was stunned at the violence in my voice.

“Outside. And don't come back, even if I call you. Out.”

He ran down the stairs as I picked up the telephone. I ordered a taxi and telephoned the Langley Porter Psychiatric Clinic.

“I am sorry. There's no one here to see you.”

I said, “Oh, yes. Someone will see me.”

“Madame, we have a six-month waiting list.”

“This is an emergency. My name is Maya Angelou. Some one will see me.”

I grabbed a coat and went to sit on the steps. Clyde came running around from the backyard when he heard the cab stop. He squinted his eyes as if he were about to cry.

“You're going away?”

I said, “I'm just going to see a friend. You go back in the house. I'll be home in an hour or so.”

I saw him watching the taxi until we turned the corner.

The receptionist was not alarmed at my hysteria. “Yes, Miss Angelou. Doctor will see you now, in there.” She showed me to a door.

A large, dark-haired white man sat behind the desk. He indicated a seat. “Now, what seems to be the trouble?” He put his hands on the desk and laced his fingers. His nails were clean and clipped short. His good suit was freshly pressed. He looked