The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [33]
The Irish accent was as palpable as mashed potatoes and rich as lace.
After the sound was adjusted, the brothers and Tommy Makem sang for their own enjoyment. Their passion matched the revolutionary lyrics of their songs.
“… The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground.”
If the words Negro and America were exchanged for shamrock and Irish, the song could be used to describe the situation in the United States.
The Clancy Brothers already had my admiration when we met backstage.
Amanda Ambrose, Oscar Brown, Jr., and Odetta came to opening night. We sat together and made joyful noises as the Irish singers told their stories.
The two weeks sped by, punctuated by telephone calls to Guy, who was understandably “doing just fine,” and to John Killens, who said everything was smooth. Oscar Brown and I spent long afternoons volleying stories. He was writing a play, Kicks & Co., for Broadway and I bragged that I had just come from a successful run of Cabaret for Freedom, which I partly wrote and co-produced.
We set each other afire with anger and complimented ourselves on our talent. We were meant for great things. The size and power of our adversaries were not greater than our capabilities. If we admitted that slavery and its child, legal discrimination, were declarations of war, then Oscar and I and all our friends were generals in the army and we would be among the officers who accepted the white flag of surrender when the battle was done. Amanda's husband, Buzz, inspired by the fever of protest, made clothes for me based on African designs. Odetta, newly married, and radiant with love, was off to Canada. Before she left she gave me an afternoon of advice. “Keep on telling the truth, Maya. Stay on the stage. I don't mean the night-club stage, or the theatrical stage. I mean on the stage of life.” And my Lord she was beautiful.
“And remember this, hon, don't you let nobody turn you 'round. No body. Not a living ass.”
Closing night had been a hilarious celebration. The Clancy Brothers' fans had found room to accept my songs, and the black people who had come to hear me had been surprised to find that not only did they enjoy the Irish singers' anger, they understood it. We had drunk to each other's resistance.
The next morning Oscar stood with me in the hotel lobby as I waited to pay my bill.
A uniformed black man came up to me.
“Miss Angelou? There's a phone call for you from New York.”
Oscar said he'd keep my place in the line and I went to the phone.
“Maya?” John Killens' voice was a spike, pinning me in place. “There's been some trouble.”
“Trouble?” Somewhere behind my kneecaps there was a place that waited for trouble. “Is Guy all right?” The dread, closer than a seer's familiar, which lived sucking off my life, was that something would happen to my only son. He would be stolen, kidnapped by a lonely person who, seeing his perfection, would be unable to resist. He would be struck by an errant bus, hit by a car out of control. He would walk a high balustrade, showing his beauty and coordination to a girl who was pretending disinterest. His foot would slip, his body would fold and crumple, he would fall fifty feet and someone would find my telephone number. I would be minding my own business and a stranger would call me to the phone.
“Hello?”
A voice would say “There's been trouble.”
My nightmare never went further. I never knew how serious the accident was, or my response. And now real life pushed itself through the telephone.
“Guy is okay.” John Killens' voice sounded as if it came from farther than New York City. “He's here with us. I'm just calling to tell you not to go to your house. Come straight here.” Oh, the house burned down. “Was there a fire? Is anything left?” I had no insurance.
“There wasn't a fire. Don't worry. Just come to my house when your plane arrives. I'll tell you when you get here. It's nothing serious.” He hung up.
Oscar Brown was at my side. His green eyes stern. He put his hand on my shoulder.