The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [5]
They went to his room, and I followed. Guy sat on the side of his bed and Billie began, a cappella, “You're My Thrill,” an old song heavy with sensuous meaning. She sang as if she was starved for sex and only the boy, looking at her out of bored young eyes, could give her satisfaction.
I watched and listened from the door, recording every sound, firmly setting in my mind the rusty voice, the angle of her body, and Guy's look of tolerance (he'd rather be reading or playing a word game).
When I dropped her off at the Sunset Colonial Hotel, she told me to pick her up the next morning, early. I was amazed to hear her say that she was having trouble sleeping, so she might as well bring her Chihuahua along and spend the time with me.
For the next four days, Billie came to my house in the early mornings, talked all day long and sang a bedtime song to Guy, and stayed until I went to work. She said I was restful to be around because I was so goddam square. Although she continued to curse in Guy's absence, when he walked into the house her language not only changed, she made considerable effort to form her words with distinction.
On the night before she was leaving for New York, she told Guy she was going to sing “Strange Fruit” as her last song. We sat at the dining room table while Guy stood in the doorway.
Billie talked and sang in a hoarse, dry tone the well-known protest song. Her rasping voice and phrasing literally enchanted me. I saw the black bodies hanging from Southern trees. I saw the lynch victims' blood glide from the leaves down the trunks and onto the roots.
Guy interrupted, “How can there be blood at the root?” I made a hard face and warned him, “Shut up, Guy, just listen.” Billie had continued under the interruption, her voice vibrating over harsh edges.
She painted a picture of a lovely land, pastoral and bucolic, then added eyes bulged and mouths twisted, onto the Southern landscape.
Guy broke into her song. “What's a pastoral scene, Miss Holiday?” Billie looked up slowly and studied Guy for a second. Her face became cruel, and when she spoke her voice was scornful. “It means when the crackers are killing the niggers. It means when they take a little nigger like you and snatch off his nuts and shove them down his goddam throat. That's what it means.”
The thrust of rage repelled Guy and stunned me.
Billie continued, “That's what they do. That's a goddam pastoral scene.”
Guy gave us both a frozen look and said, “Excuse me, I'm going to bed.” He turned and walked away.
I lied and said it was time for me to go to work. Billie didn't hear either statement.
I went to Guy's room and apologized to him for Billie's behavior. He smiled sarcastically as if I had been the one who had shouted at him, and he offered a cool cheek for my good-night kiss.
In the car I tried to explain to Billie why she had been wrong but she refused to understand. She said, “I didn't lie, did I? Did I lie on the crackers? What's wrong with telling the truth?”
She decided that she didn't want to be taken to the hotel. She wanted to accompany me to the night club and catch my act. Efforts to dissuade her were unsuccessful.
I took her into the club and found her a front-row seat and went to my dressing room.
Jimmy Truitt of the Lester Horton Dance Troupe was in costume for their first number.
“Hey”—Jimmy was grinning like a child—“Billie Holiday is out front. And you can't believe what's happening.”
The other dancers gathered around.
“The great Billie Holiday is sitting in the front row, and a little dog is drinking out of her glass.” I had gotten so used to Pepe I had forgotten that Billie hardly made a move without him.
The dancers took over the stage, sliding, burning brightly in a Latin routine. When they finished, I was introduced.