Mom & Me & Mom Read online

  Mother called one of the nurses and said that I was already shaved, and then she washed me again. My mother got up on the delivery table with me and knelt. She put one of my legs against her shoulder and took both my hands. Then she told me filthy stories, jokes. She timed the punch lines with the contractions and I would laugh. She encouraged me: “That’s right, bear down, bear down.” I bore down and as the baby was coming out she said, “Here he comes, and he has black hair.”

  I wondered, What color hair did you think he would have?

  The nurse washed him and my mother said, “Look at this: We have a wonderful handsome boy. Okay baby, it’s all right now. You can go to sleep.”

  She kissed me and left. My stepdad later told me she was so wrung out when she got home, she looked like she had had twins.

  I thought about my mother and knew she was amazing. She never made me feel as if I brought scandal to the family. The baby had not been planned and I would have to rethink plans about education, but to Vivian Baxter that was life being life. Having a baby while I was unmarried had not been wrong. It was simply slightly inconvenient.

  I found a job when my son was two months old. I went to Mother and told her, “Mother, I am going to move.”

  “You are going to leave my house?” She was shocked that I would leave her fine home, with all its amenities.

  I said, “Yes, I have found a job, and a room with cooking privileges down the hall, and the landlady will be the babysitter.”

  She looked at me half pityingly and half proud. She said, “All right, you go, but remember this: When you cross my doorstep, you have already been raised. With what you have learned from your Grandmother Henderson in Arkansas and what you have learned from me, you know the difference between right and wrong. Do right. Don’t let anybody raise you from the way you have been raised. Know you will always have to make adaptations, in love relationships, in friends, in society, in work, but don’t let anybody change your mind. And then remember this: You can always come home.”

  I walked away and was back in my bedroom before I heard my own words echoing in my mind. I had called Lady “Mother.” I knew she had noticed but we never ever mentioned the incident. I was aware that after the birth of my son and the decision to move and get a place for just the two of us, I thought of Vivian Baxter as my mother. On the odd occasion and out of habit, sometimes I called her Lady, but her treatment of me and her love for my baby earned her the right to be called Mother. On the day we moved from her house, Mother liberated me by letting me know she was on my side. I realized that I had grown close to her and that she had liberated me. She liberated me from a society that would have had me think of myself as the lower of the low. She liberated me to life. And from that time to this time, I have taken life by the lapels and I have said, “I’m with you, kid.”

  “I will look after you and I will look after anybody you say needs to be looked after, any way you say. I am here. I brought my whole self to you. I am your mother.”

  (1986)

  14

  Independence is a heady draft, and if you drink it in your youth, it can have the same effect on the brain as young wine does. It does not matter that its taste is not always appealing. It is addictive and with each drink you want more.

  By the time I was twenty-two I was living in San Francisco. I had a five-year-old son, two jobs, and two rented rooms, with cooking privileges down the hall. My landlady, Mrs. Jefferson, was kind and grandmotherly. She was a ready babysitter and insisted on providing dinner for her tenants. Her ways were so tender and her personality so sweet that no one was mean enough to discourage her disastrous culinary exploits. Spaghetti at her table, which was offered at least three times a week, was a mysterious red, white, and brown concoction. We would occasionally encounter an unidentifiable piece of meat hidden among the pasta.

  There was no money in my budget for restaurant food, so I and my son, Guy, were always loyal, if often unhappy, diners at Chez Jefferson.

  My mother had moved into another large Victorian house, on Fulton Street, which she again filled with Gothic, heavily carved furniture. The upholstery on the sofa and occasional chairs was red-wine-colored mohair. Oriental rugs were placed throughout the house. She had a live-in employee, Poppa, who cleaned the house and sometimes filled in as cook helper.

  Mother picked up Guy twice a week and took him to her house, where she fed him peaches and cream and hot dogs, but I only went to Fulton Street once a month and at an agreed-upon time.

  She understood and encouraged my self-reliance and I looked forward eagerly to our standing appointment. On the occasion, she would cook one of my favorite dishes. One lunch date stands out in my mind. I call it Vivian’s Red Rice Day.

  When I arrived at the Fulton Street house my mother was dressed beautifully. Her makeup was perfect and she wore good jewelry.

  After we embraced, I washed my hands and we walked through her formal, dark dining room and into the large, bright kitchen.

  Much of lunch was already on the kitchen table. Vivian Baxter was very serious about her delicious meals.

  On that long-ago Red Rice Day, my mother had offered me a crispy, dry-roasted capon, no dressing or gravy, and a simple lettuce salad, no tomatoes or cucumbers. A wide-mouthed bowl covered with a platter sat next to her plate.

  She fervently blessed the food with a brief prayer and put her left hand on the platter and her right on the bowl. She turned the dishes over and gently loosened the bowl from its contents and revealed a tall mound of glistening red rice (my favorite food in the entire world) decorated with finely minced parsley and green stalks of scallions.

  The chicken and salad do not feature so prominently in my taste buds’ memory, but each grain of red rice is emblazoned on the surface of my tongue forever.

  Gluttonous and greedy negatively describe the hearty eater offered the seduction of her favorite food.

  Two large portions of rice sated my appetite, but the deliciousness of the dish made me long for a larger stomach so that I could eat two more helpings.

  My mother had plans for the rest of her afternoon, so she gathered her wraps and we left the house together.

  We reached the middle of the block and were enveloped in the stinging acid aroma of vinegar from the pickle factory on the corner of Fillmore and Fulton streets. I had walked ahead. My mother stopped me and said, “Baby.”

  I walked back to her.

  “Baby, I’ve been thinking and now I am sure. You are the greatest woman I’ve ever met.”

  I looked down at the pretty little woman, with her perfect makeup and diamond earrings, and a silver fox scarf. She was admired by most people in San Francisco’s black community and even some whites liked and respected her.

  She continued. “You are very kind and very intelligent and those elements are not always found together. Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt, Dr. Mary McLeod Bethune, and my mother—yes, you belong in that category. Here, give me a kiss.”

  She kissed me on the lips and turned and jaywalked across the street to her beige and brown Pontiac. I pulled myself together and walked down to Fillmore Street. I crossed there and waited for the number 22 streetcar.

  My policy of independence would not allow me to accept money or even a ride from my mother, but I welcomed her and her wisdom. Now I thought of what she had said. I thought, Suppose she is right? She’s very intelligent and often said she didn’t fear anyone enough to lie. Suppose I really am going to become somebody. Imagine.

  At that moment, when I could still taste the red rice, I decided the time had come to stop my dangerous habits like smoking, drinking, and cursing. I did stop cursing but some years would pass before I came to grips with drinking and smoking.

  Imagine I might really become somebody. Someday.

  “Mother picked up Guy twice a week and took him to her house, where she fed him peaches and cream and hot dogs.”

  (Vivian Baxter, Guy Johnson, and Maya Angelou)

  15

  It is a
story indelibly seared into my mind, and I’ve told part of it before.

  His name was Mark. He was tall, black, and well built. If good looks were horses, he could seat the entire Royal Canadian Mounties. He wanted to become a boxer and was inspired by Joe Louis. He left his native Texas and found work in Detroit. There he intended to make enough money to find a trainer who would help him become a professional boxer.

  A machine in the automotive plant cut three fingers off his right hand and his dream died when they severed. I met him in San Francisco, where he had moved, and he told me the story explaining why he was known as Two Fingers Mark. He did not show any rancor about the death of his dreams. He spoke softly and often paid for a babysitter so I could visit him in his rented room. He was an ideal suitor, a lover with a slow hand. I felt absolutely safe and secure.

  After a few months of his tender attention, he picked me up one night from my job and said he was taking me out to Half Moon Bay.

  He parked on a cliff, and through the windows I saw the moonlight silver on the rippling water.

  I got out of the car, and when he said, “Come over here,” I went immediately.

  He said, “You’ve got another man, and you’ve been lying to me.” I started to laugh. I was still laughing when he hit me. Before I could breathe he hit me in the face with both fists. I did see stars before I fell.

  When I came to, he had removed most of my clothes and leaned me against an outcropping of rock. He had a large wooden slat in his hand and he was crying.

  “I treated you so well, you lousy cheating, low-down bitch.” I tried to walk to him but my legs would not support me. He turned me around. Then he hit the back of my head with the board. I passed out, but when I came to, I saw that he continued to cry. He continued to beat me and I continued to pass out.

  I must depend on hearsay for the events of the next few hours.

  Mark put me into the backseat of his car and drove to the African American area in San Francisco. He parked in front of Betty Lou’s Chicken Shack and called some hangers-around and showed me to them.

  “This is what you do with a lying, cheating broad.”

  They recognized me and returned to the restaurant. They told Miss Betty Lou that Mark had Vivian’s daughter in the backseat of his car and she looked dead.

  Miss Betty Lou and my mother were close friends. Miss Betty Lou phoned my mother.

  No one knew where he lived or worked or even his last name.

  Because of the pool halls and gambling clubs my mother owned, and the police contacts Betty Lou had, they expected to find Mark quickly.

  My mother was close with the leading bail bondsman in San Francisco. So she telephoned him. Boyd Puccinelli had no Mark or Two Fingers Mark in his files.

  He promised Vivian he would continue to search.

  I awakened to find I was in a bed and I was sore all over. It hurt to breathe, to try to speak. Mark said that was because I had broken ribs. My lips had been speared by my teeth.

  He started to cry, saying he loved me. He brought a double-edged razor blade and put it to his throat.

  “I’m not worth living. I should kill myself.”

  I had no voice to discourage him. He quickly put the razor blade on my throat.

  “I can’t leave you here for some other Negro to have you.” Speaking was impossible and breathing was painful.

  Suddenly he changed his mind.

  “You haven’t eaten for three days. I’ve got to get you some juice. Do you like pineapple juice or orange juice? Just nod your head.”

  I didn’t know what to do. What would send him off?

  “I’m going to the corner store to get you some juice. I’m sorry I hurt you. When I come back, I’m going to nurse you back to health, full health, I promise.”

  I watched him leave.

  Only then did I recognize that I was in his room, where I had been often. I knew his landlady lived on the same floor, and I thought that if I could get her attention, she would help me. I inhaled as much air as I could take and tried to shout, but no sounds would come. The pain of trying to sit up was so extreme that I tried only once.

  I knew where he had put the razor blade. If I could get it, at least I could take my own life and he would be prevented from gloating that he killed me.

  I began to pray.

  I passed in and out of prayer, in and out of consciousness, and then I heard shouting down the hall. I heard my mother’s voice.

  “Break it down. Break the son of a bitch down. My baby’s in there.” Wood groaned, then splintered, and the door gave way. My little mother walked through the opening. She saw me and fainted. Later she told me that was the only time in her life she had done so.

  The sight of my face swollen to twice its size and my teeth stuck into my lips was more than she could stand. So she fell. Three huge men followed her into the room. Two picked her up and she came to in their arms groggily. They brought her to my bed.

  “Baby, baby, I’m so sorry.” Each time she touched me, I flinched. “Call for an ambulance. I’ll kill the bastard. I’m sorry.”

  She felt guilty like all mothers who blame themselves when terrible events happen to their children.

  I could not speak or even touch her but I have never loved her more than at that moment, in that suffocating, stinking room.

  She patted my face and stroked my arm.

  “Baby, somebody’s prayers were answered. No one knew how to find Mark, even Boyd Puccinelli. But Mark went to a mom-and-pop store to buy juice and two kids robbed a tobacco vendor’s truck.” She continued telling her story.

  “When a police car turned the corner, the young boys threw the cartons of cigarettes into Mark’s car. When he tried to get into his car, the police arrested him. They didn’t believe his cries of innocence, so they took him to jail. He used his one phone call to telephone Boyd Puccinelli. Boyd answered the phone.”

  Mark said, “My name is Mark Jones. I live on Oak Street. I don’t have any money with me now, but my landlady is holding a lot of my money. If you call her she will come down and bring whatever you charge.”

  Boyd asked, “What is your street name?”

  Mark said, “I’m called Two Fingers Mark.”

  Boyd hung up and called my mother, giving her Mark’s address. He asked if she would call the police. She said, “No, I’m going to call my pool hall and get some roughnecks, then I’m going to get my daughter.”

  She said that when she arrived at Mark’s house, his landlady said she didn’t know any Mark and anyway the guy hadn’t been home for days.

  Mother said maybe not, but she was looking for her daughter and she was in that house in Mark’s room. Mother asked for Mark’s room. The landlady said he kept his door locked. My mother said, “It will open today.” The landlady threatened to call the police, and my mother said, “You can call for the cook, call for the baker, you may as well call for the undertaker.”

  When the woman pointed out Mark’s room, my mother said to her helpers, “Break it down. Break the son of a bitch down.”

  In the hospital room I thought about the two young criminals who threw stolen cigarette cartons into a stranger’s car.

  How when he was arrested he called Boyd Puccinelli, who called my mother, who gathered three of the most daring men from her pool hall.

  How they broke down the door of the room where I was being held. My life was saved. Was that event incident, coincident, accident, or answered prayer?

  I believe my prayers were answered.

  I recovered in Mother’s house. Her friend Trumpet was bartending at the Sutter Street Bar. Mother said, “Trumpet just telephoned me. He knows I have a wanted out on Mark’s ass, and Mark is drinking down there. Here is a piece.” She offered me her .38 Special and I took it.

  “Go to C. Kinds Hotel across the street from Sutter’s. Telephone Mark from the lobby. Trumpet said he can keep Mark there for at least an hour. Telephone him and use a southern accent. Say you met him a few nights ag
o and you are at C. Kinds Hotel and would like to see him again. When he walks out of the bar, you step out of the hotel lobby. Walk to the corner and shoot him. Kill the bastard. I promise you will not do a day. He tried to kill you. Shoot him.”

  I telephoned from the hotel lobby. Mark did not recognize my voice. He flirted, asking me, “What’s your name?”

  I said, “Bernice. I’m in the lobby. Come over.”

  He laughed and said, “Right away.”

  In seconds he was on the corner and starting to cross the street.

  I walked out of the lobby holding the gun. I saw him before he saw me. I had enough time to shoot, but I didn’t want to do it. He was a few steps into the street before he saw me and the pistol in my hand.

  “Maya, please don’t kill me. God, please don’t. I’m sorry. I love you.”

  I didn’t feel sorry for him. I felt disgust. I said, “Go back in the bar, Mark. And go to the toilet. Go on. I won’t shoot you.”

  He turned and ran.

  My mother shook her head. “You didn’t get that from me. That came from your Grandmother Henderson. I’d have shot him like a dog in the street. You are good, honey. You’re a better woman than I am.”

  She wrapped me in her arms. “You never have to worry about him again. I put the news in the street. He knows if he ever walks the street in San Francisco, his ass is mine, and I won’t hesitate.”

  My two jobs barely paid my bills. I began in a dinette at 5 A.M. as a fry cook and worked there until 11 A.M. The second job, in a Creole diner, went from 4 P.M. until 9 P.M.

  In the hours between the breakfast job and the afternoon job, I would pick up Guy from school and take him to the allergist, where I was given a list of foods to buy to which he was not allergic. Guy was allergic to tomatoes, bread, milk, corn, and greens. When we left the allergist, we would stop at the Melrose Record Shop. He would head for the children’s records and I would take the blues and bebop sides. Each of us would select a cubicle and listen to the music we had chosen.