The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [6]
After my first song, I spoke directly to the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen. It is against the policy of the club to mention any celebrity who might be in the audience, for fear that an unseen person might be missed. But tonight I am violating that custom. I think every one will be excited to know that Miss Billie Holiday is present.”
The crowd responded to my announcement with an approving roar. People stood cheering, looking around the room for Billie. She looked straight at me, then, picking up Pepe, stood up, turned to the audience and bowed her head two or three times as if she was agreeing with them. She sat down without smiling.
My next song was an old blues, which I began singing with only a bass accompaniment. The music was a dirge and the lyrics tragic. I had my eyes closed when suddenly like a large glass shattering, Billie's voice penetrated the song.
“Stop that bitch. Stop her, goddamit. Stop that bitch. She sounds just like my goddam mamma.”
I stopped and opened my eyes and saw Billie pick up Pepe and head through the crowd toward the women's toilet. I thanked the audience, asked the orchestra leader to continue playing and headed for the women's lavatory. Twice in one night the woman had upset me. Well, she wasn't going to get away with it. She was going to learn that a “goddam square” could defend herself.
I had my hand on the knob when the door burst open and a very pale middle-aged white woman tore past me.
I entered and found Billie examining herself in the mirror. I began, “Billie, let me tell you something …”
She was still looking at her reflection but she said, “Aw, that's all right about the song. You can't help how you sound. Most colored women sound alike. Less they trying to sound white.” She started laughing. “Did you see that old bitch hit it out of here?”
“I bumped into a woman just now.”
“That was her. She was sitting on the toilet and when I opened the door, she screamed at me, ‘Shut that door’ I screamed right back, ‘Bitch, if you wanted it shut, you should have locked the goddam thing.’ Then she comes out of there and asked me, ‘Ain't you Billie Holiday?’ I told her, ‘Bitch, I didn't ask you your name.’ You should have seen her fly.” She laughed again, grinning into the mirror.
I said, “Billie, you know that woman might have been an old-time fan of yours.”
She turned, holding on to Pepe and her purse and her jacket. “You know when you introduced me, you know how all those crackers stood up? You know why they were standing up?”
I said they were honoring her.
She said, “Shit. You don't know a damn thing. They were all standing up, looking around. They wanted to see a nigger who had been in jail for dope. I'm going to tell you one more thing. You want to be famous, don't you?”
I admitted I did.
“You're going to be famous. But it won't be for singing. Now, wait, you already know you can't sing all that good. But you're going to be real famous. Well, you better start asking yourself right now, ‘When I get famous, who can I trust?’ All crackers is bad and niggers ain't much better. Just take care of your son. Keep him with you and keep on telling him he's the smartest thing God made. Maybe he'll grow up without hating you. Remember Billie Holiday told you, ‘You can't get too high for somebody to bring you down.’”
Outside, I found a taxi for her. A few months later, she died in a New York hospital. All the jazz and rhythm-and-blues stations had oily-voiced commentators extolling the virtues of the great artist whose like would not be seen or heard again. Jazz buffs with glorious vocabularies wrote long and often boring tributes to the pulchritudinous Lady Day, her phrasing and incredibly intricate harmonics. I would remember forever the advice of a lonely sick woman, with a waterfront mouth, who sang pretty songs to a twelve-year-old boy.
For weeks after Billie's visit, Guy treated me coolly. Neither of us mentioned the shouting scene, but he acted as if I had betrayed him. I had allowed a stranger to shout and curse at him and had not come