A Song Flung Up to Heaven

  He looked up into the intruder’s face. “You’ve been looking after her for me, haven’t you?”

  Before Buck could answer, Jimmy said, “Thank you, you son of a bitch. Now you are dismissed.”

  Jimmy’s ferocity shocked me, and my jaw dropped. It dropped farther when the man turned, unspeaking, and walked away.

  Jimmy sipped his drink. “Well, baby, I’m going to California. I’ve decided that I should help Eldridge Cleaver.”

  Hearing his plans kept me speechless.

  “I know you say you hate him, but he is a thinking black man, and he is in trouble because he is thinking and is talking about what he thinks. He needs our help.”

  I said, “Well, I thought about it, and what he wrote about your homosexuality in his stupid book was so vulgar that I’d rather hang him than help him.”

  “Soul on Ice is a very important book, and you have to remember, the son always kills the father.”

  The statement was intriguing. I mulled it over as Jimmy gathered his thoughts.

  “I met Richard Wright in Paris and got to know him sufficiently,” he said. “Everything about Wright that I disliked I wrote about in my essay ‘Alas, Poor Richard.’ Many Wright devotees were as angry with me then as you are now with Eldridge.”

  “I’m not a devotee.” I hastened to put myself in a clearer light. “I love you, true, but I’m not a damned devotee. I am a careful reader, and I know the difference between your critical evaluation of Wright’s post–Black Boy work and the hatchet job Cleaver did on you. Not on your work but on you, on your character.”

  “Maybe he couldn’t find enough about my work to attack. Sometimes people assail the homosexual because they think that by flailing the gay boy, they can reduce that same tendency they suspect in themselves. It’s difficult being different.”

  “Well, do you suppose if I know that, it will make it easier for me to see you go to California to help Cleaver?”

  “Baby, understand when I say I am going to help Eldridge, and I hope I do, that I am really going for myself. Because it is the right thing for me to do. Understand?”

  My own obstinacy would not allow me to concede quickly and admit that I did understand, and that I even hoped that if I found myself in the same or a similar circumstance, I would behave as wisely.

  “Understand?”

  More at that moment than ever before, he reminded me of Bailey. They were two small black men who were my big brothers.

  I said, “I’m just afraid for you out there with those roughnecks.”

  “I am a roughneck, too. Grow up. Being black and my size on the streets of Harlem will make a choirboy a roughneck. But do you understand why I’m going?”

  I said, “Yes.”

  Twenty-five

  Jerry Purcell’s East Side apartment was the epitome of elegance. I was invited to dinner, and I took Rosa with me. She marveled at the luxury and whispered, “And he’s a bachelor?”

  I told her, “Yes.” Years earlier he had fallen for and married a movie starlet, but the marriage didn’t last.

  Jerry’s partner, Paul Robinson, who was always at his side, was great company and could have been a professional comedian. Because he reproduced so accurately any accents relevant to his hilarious stories, he was irresistible.

  I was pleased that Jerry was there to meet my friend and even more pleased that they seemed to like each other.

  Jerry had sent out for food, and his housekeeper served us in the dining room.

  Rosa came back from a trip to the bathroom. She whispered to me, “Girl, the faucets are gold.”

  I said, “Probably gold plate.”

  She lifted her shoulders and asked, “So?”

  I saw her point. Anybody wealthy enough to have gold-plated bathroom fixtures was wealthy.

  Jerry had asked me to bring some poems.

  After I read them and received compliments, we played backgammon with much merriment. Jerry nodded at me. “Let me speak to you.”

  I followed him into a small sitting room.

  “You’re a good poet, and you might become great. You could become bigger than you imagine. Don’t sell out, if I ever hear of you selling out...”

  “How could I sell out? To whom would I sell out and what would I sell?”

  “I mean, don’t be stupid and use drugs.”

  I was flabbergasted. The night, which had been one of laughter and teasing, had turned into a drug-counseling session.

  “There is no chance that I will ever use anything. I’ve learned a painful lesson from my brother.”

  “Okay. I had to say that. I’ve made a decision. I’m going to give you a monthly allowance. Continue working on your play and writing poetry.”

  He patted me on the back, and we returned to the living room. Amazement showed on my face.

  Rosa asked, “Are you all right?”

  I nodded. “It’s probably time for us to go home.”

  Jerry turned to Paul. “Paul, will you drop Maya off when you go? Rosa’s going to stay here a while. That’s all right, Maya? If Paul takes you home?”

  I looked at Rosa, who looked at Jerry, then back at me. She said, “I’ll go with Maya,” but the regret in her voice was palpable.

  I couldn’t get out of the apartment soon enough.

  Paul Robinson said to Rosa, “He really fell for you. And you seemed to find him interesting.”

  Rosa said, “He’s a nice man. I like him.”

  I asked, “But when did you know you liked him? I hardly heard you say two words to each other.”

  Rosa said, “I could be wrong, but I think I like him. No, I know I do.”

  There is a language learned in the womb that never needs interpreters. It is a frictional electricity that runs between people. It carries the pertinent information without words.

  Its meanings are “I find you are incredibly attractive. I can hardly keep my hands off your body.

  “And I am crazy to touch you, to kiss your mouth, your eyes.”

  The couple may have been introduced in a cathedral or a temple, but these are among the luscious thoughts each body sends to the other.

  Some folks are born with more of that idiom than others. My body has always been slow-witted when it comes to that language. It neither speaks it fluently nor comprehends it clearly.

  Twenty-six

  The African was back. He telephoned from Ghana.

  “I am not coming for you this time. You had your chances. Many chances. Now I am convinced that you do not love Africa. You do not love Ghana. I am not coming for you. I am coming to teach at one of your important universities. But I will bring you something. You are so American now. Would you like a car?”

  His voice was so loud, he hardly needed a telephone.

  I asked, “Why would you bring a car from Ghana? I’m living in New York. That is just down the street from Detroit. That’s where they make cars.”

  “Maya, your tongue is too sharp, I’ve told you time and time again. You must watch out for your tongue.”

  But my tongue was all I had, all I had ever had. He had the stature, the money, his country, his sex, and now he was coming to my country to teach in an “important university” where I had never been. When it came to parrying, he had his armament, but I also had my weapon.

  “I shall stay with the second secretary, who has a place near the United Nations, but I’d like to see you. Just for two hours. I’d like to invite some people I’ve not seen since my last visit.” (I doubted that Dolly would be among the group.)

  “How many should I prepare for?”

  “Few. I think about ten.”

  That meant at least twenty.

  “I’d be pleased to have them in my place.”

  “Then it’s done. My host will bring me, so I suppose that makes us twelve. You can accommodate twelve?”

  “Well, of course, when are you planning to come?” I expected to hear him say within the next month or so.

  He said, “I’m tr
aveling tomorrow. I’ll spend a day in the U.K. and I’ll be in New York on Friday. Can you see me then?”

  “Um, yes. Yes. Of course.” There would be time.

  “Around three?”

  “Three is fine.”

  A smile slowly moved across my face. I hugged myself with delight and telephoned Dolly.

  We splurged on a bottle of good Spanish sherry and sat in her living room.

  She said, “Of course he would never imagine that we’d meet.”

  I told her, “He’s coming with some diplomats. We shall have to be careful.”

  She said, “I know you don’t want to embarrass him.”

  “I certainly do want to embarrass him, but to himself, not to others.”

  Dolly grinned. I said, “I don’t want to put his whole business in the street, but I have to get him back for ‘She is an old American Negro who lets rooms...’”

  Dolly said, “What about ‘She is very, very old but very intelligent,’ after whispering in my ear that I was very beautiful and that I had the skin of a young country girl?”

  “He said that?”

  “Many times.”

  “Oh, we must make him sweat, if only for a minute. He’s got to sweat.”

  Our plans were concluded among peals of laughter and squeals of satisfaction, and for the next few days we had broad smirks on our faces.

  Jimmy and Sam Floyd came for drinks.

  Jimmy asked, “What’s going on? You are the veritable cat who has lured the canary into its gullet.”

  “All I can tell you is it’s not an innocent, hopeless, defenseless canary. If anything, I may be the house cat who plans to swallow down the lion.”

  “Be careful, baby. Learn from nature. How many times have you seen or heard of a tabby bearding a lion in its den?”

  “I have not heard that, but I have heard of a pussy that dared to look at a queen.”

  My answer caught him, and he laughed loudly. “Okay. Okay. I still say be careful, baby, and let me know how it turns out.”

  Sam Floyd enjoyed the repartee with Jimmy. He laughed his little-boy coughing laugh and lit another Gauloise.

  “That was quick and good, but I’m with Jim. Be careful. A big cat isn’t swallowed down easily, and it can turn awfully fast. It’s known for that.”

  I advised Dolly to put her clock in her purse (she never wore a watch) because we had to time her entrance to the minute. Drinks and groceries had to be bought and food had to be prepared.

  In African homes and most African-American homes, the host expects, and is expected, to offer food and beverage to guests. The provisions may be as meager as a piece of fruit and a glass of water, but they must be offered.

  The sight of him at my door made me lean against the jamb. He was as beautiful as ever and as black as ever. His skin shone as if it had just been polished, and his teeth were as white as long-grain rice.

  Seeing me had some effect on him, too, for he rocked back and forth a few times before he entered the apartment.

  We embraced but held ourselves in check. There were too many hard words like shields across our chests, and his escort entered close behind him and stood silent as we greeted each other.

  I brought out schnapps, and although I expected it, I flinched when the African poured a few drops for the elders onto my Karastan rug.

  We spoke of old friends and new woes. He had not gone to Guinea, where President Nkrumah lived in exile. He said lies and gossip and rumors filled the papers and radio reports. There had been an intimation that he supported the rebels who overthrew President Nkrumah.

  “Maya, you yourself know that to be a lie. I was in Mexico with Kwesi Brew when the coup took place. And even so, I was always a Nkrumaist. They called me a verandah boy, meaning one who stood on the verandah talking about independence and then worked to kick the colonials out of our country. We were among the group who brought him to power.”

  I couldn’t imagine anyone ever calling him a boy, even when he was twelve years old.

  The doorbell rang, and in minutes my living room was furnished with people in rich robes and colorful caftans. Different languages sang in the air. I poured drinks, and although I had a pot of chili and rice, the company was satisfied with the fruit and cheese spread on the buffet next to the silver.

  At exactly five minutes to four, while the company was engrossed in the African’s conversation, I quietly went to the door and unlocked it. I picked up a glass of wine and went back to my seat.

  At one minute to four, I interrupted the African. “Excuse me, but I and the other women here have a burning question I have been meaning to ask. I know you can answer.”

  He obligingly turned to me.

  “Will you speak of fidelity? Is the African man more faithful than the European man? And what makes him so?”

  He cleared his throat and spoke. “Yes, that is a lady’s question, but having said that, it still deserves being answered.” I might have kicked him had I not tasted the promised revenge on my tongue.

  “The African man is more faithful than the European, not because he loves his woman more than the European loves his woman but because he loves himself more than the European man loves himself.”

  Dolly walked in the door. Only a few heads turned.

  “You see, the African man is supposed to know where he is at all times. If he is in the wrong place, he knows that, and he has to leave...”

  Dolly walked up to his chair and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Hello there.”

  He turned and looked up. It took him a second to register her face and another to remember where he was. He looked at me. The first question was, Did I see her, too? The second was, Did I know who she was? Really? The third was, How did she get here?

  Dolly said coyly, “Won’t you stand for me?”

  He bounded out of his chair like a man half his age.

  “Miss McPherson? Of course it’s Miss McPherson.”

  Dolly said, “You can still call me Dolly.”

  “Of course, Dolly.” Although her appearance benumbed him, he was able to operate in the familiar. He made small, small talk until he could recover.

  “How have you been? Of course you’ve heard about what is going on in my country.”

  The joke had gone on long enough. From Dolly’s face, I learned that she, too, had lost her taste for it.

  I said, “Dolly, come to the kitchen, please.” To the African, I said, “If you will rejoin the guests, we’ll be right back.”

  In the kitchen, Dolly laughed and said, “He didn’t know what to do.”

  I said, “Or who to do it to.” We both laughed.

  She asked, “Do you think anyone had any idea?”

  “Certainly not. You were a pretty woman greeting a handsome man you had known somewhere else.” I added, “Known in the biblical sense.”

  She laughed. “Girl, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  We had given the African at least five moments of unease, which satisfied our appetites, and no one but he had been the wiser.

  “He’s lucky you’re not mean,” Dolly said.

  “I think I’m lucky he found you and not some easy lady in the local bucket of blood.”

  She asked, “Who’s to say he didn’t find her, too?”

  “Girl, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  Back in the living room, the African had finished regaling his subjects with stories of current goings-on in Africa. He was standing.

  “Maya, I must be going. My host needs to go to an appointment, and I shall accompany him. Tomorrow I shall continue my journey to Connecticut. Thank you for this brief respite at your place. Miss McPherson, oh, Dolly, you must tell me how you met. I’ll come back to New York if Miss Angelou invites me.”

  He pointed to my bedroom and said to me, “I shall need just a second of your time. May we go in here?”

  We walked in and I closed the door.

  “Maya, you are in danger.”

  “What?”
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  “You have become someone else in New York. Someone I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did I ever try to make you a laughingstock in my country?”

  “No, but most of the time you treated me as if I were an empty-headed flunky.”

  “I may have been wrong, but at least I was being myself. This setup here is beneath you. You have tried to belittle me. That is beneath the Maya I know and still love.”

  He turned and walked back into the living room, saying, just loud enough for me to hear, “Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar.”

  I had told him once that if I ever became so angry with him that I wouldn’t speak, he could whisper that line of poetry written by Laurence Hope and I would melt into the palm of his hand.

  In the living room he spoke in Fanti to the people: “Let us leave these ladies and go attend to our business.”

  He turned to me and said in English, “I am going now, Maya, God bless you.”

  I saw hurt and embarrassment in his face. I had meant to prick him, not to pierce him.

  I responded with the Fanti departure phrase, “Ko ne bra,” which means “Go and come,” but I knew he would never come back again.

  I looked at Dolly, who was looking as crestfallen as I felt.

  “Well, sister, we couldn’t swallow the big cat easily. He seems to have stuck in our throats.”

  She said, “Yes, I know.”

  Twenty-seven

  It was 1968, and the site was Carnegie Hall. Ossie Davis was to be master of ceremonies, Pete Seeger would sing, James Baldwin would spear up the audience and Martin Luther King, Jr., would conclude the evening. The concert was planned to recognize the hundredth anniversary of the birth of W. E. B. DuBois. The historian had died in Ghana five years earlier at the age of ninety-five.

  Jimmy had taken a box for family and friends, so Sam Floyd and Dolly and I joined the Baldwins and the baritone Brock Peters and his wife, Deedee.

  The occasion was serious, but the people were lighthearted as they glittered in the lobby of Carnegie Hall.

  When Ossie Davis appeared onstage in a sleek tuxedo that fitted him everywhere, the audience was eager for him. Ossie glowed with grace and pleased the patrons with his easy wit. Next, Pete Seeger, the well-known folk-singer, arched his long, lean body around his guitar and sang: