He was eight years old again and trusting. His big wet black eyes looked at me wanting to believe I could do something for his grief. I knew I had no magic, when he most needed me.
“Let’s go home, Bail.” I could hide the shame of my inadequacy in a skillet, and drown out his sobs in the rattle of pans.
We hugged Mother and they cried together for a moment, but he freed himself without my prodding and came with me to the old high-ceilinged house as obedient as a penitent child.
Grief works its way on people differently. Some sulk, or become morose, or weep and scream a vengeance at the gods. Bailey cried for two hours, unintelligible human sounds growled and gurgled from his throat. Then his face was dry. All tears wasted. And he began to talk.
He ate the food I gave him, automatically, greedily, never stopping or slowing the string of chatter that ran from his mouth.
He told me about Eunice’s illness, double pneumonia and tuberculosis, the details of her treatment. The small talk of their sickroom visits. His voice didn’t lower and become dramatic when he related how she began to fail. He spoke of the nurse, new on the floor, who barred his way to Eunice’s room. “Mrs. Johnson? Mrs. Johnson? Oh, she died this morning. They’ve taken her away.”
He rattled about his new tennis rackets and the better courts in San Francisco. The Southern Pacific dining cars and how hot Arizona was.
I let him talk and didn’t try to answer. By morning he began to run down and finally noticed that he was repeating himself. “Oh, My, I told you about that, didn’t I?” He drew words around as protection against his news. I gave him a sleeping pill.
“My, you’re not leaving me, are you?”
“No.”
He balled himself up in Mother’s bed and was asleep in minutes.
I awakened to the splash of water and the sound of Bailey singing in the bathroom.
“Jelly, Jelly, Jelly, Jelly stays on my mi-i-nd.” He could imitate the bass baritone of Billy Eckstine.
“Jelly Roll killed my pappy, and ran my mammy stone blind.”
His voice rolled over joyously in waves. My instant response of elation lasted seconds. He couldn’t have made such a quick adjustment. I joined Papa at the kitchen table and waited.
“Hey, Maya. Fresh coffee? Good morning, Papa Ford.” His face was no wider than my outstretched hand, and the usual rich brown color was dusty like an old chocolate bar exposed to the light. A smile struggled free and limped across his lips.
“Boy, I sure was upset last night. I hope I didn’t worry you too much. And Mom. Goddam, that was inconsiderate of me to go to her hospital room screaming and crying.”
“It wasn’t inconsiderate, Bail, you were upset. You went to your mother. Where else could you go?”
“Yes, but she’s sick herself. And, after all, I’m a man. A man. A man takes his knocks. He doesn’t go running to his mother.”
He poured coffee and drank standing, refusing the chair I pulled out for him.
“Shall I make breakfast for you?” His grin was a little scary, something more than impish, and not yet satanic. “I’ve learned how to make Eggs Benedict.” He turned to Papa.
“Papa, can you make Eggs Benedict? That’s what rich white people eat.”
Papa growled, “I never cooked for white folks, rich or not.”
Bailey poked in the refrigerator, and took out eggs and bacon. He nearly ran to the kitchen closet and was back in a flash with pots, pans, skillets.
“I’ll cook for you, Bailey.” Not knowing how to console him. “I think you need turkey and ham for Eggs Benedict.”
He turned on me in red anger. “Will you please leave me alone? I’m no fucking invalid. I wasn’t the one who died, you know.”
I liked it better when he cried. I could pet him and talk softly and feel as if I were effectively coping with his grief.
“I’m Cuban Pete.” He started singing in a bad Latin accent, “Oh, I’m Cuban Pete.” He Cesar Romeroed around the table, to the sink, over to the stove, his grin awful. In a few minutes he placed burned bacon, scrambled eggs and lopsided stacks of hot cakes on the table.
“Get your own silverware. I’m the chef, I’m not the waiter.” He straightened up the pancakes with his hands and broke off the ragged edges, trying desperately to make them uniform.
“Sit down, I’ll get your plate, Bailey.”
“I’m not going to eat right now. But you all enjoy yourself. Bon appétit.” He walked out of the kitchen. “I want to hear some music.”
In moments, the sound of water splashing in the bathtub mixed with Lester Young’s mellow sax reached the kitchen.
Papa Ford frowned. “He’s had one bath today, ain’t he? He ain’t dirty enough for two baths.”
“There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s just nervous.” I slammed the sentence out, a barrier against further conversation.
In two days Bailey lost pounds from his already skinny frame and gained in degrees of deception.
Only once did we speak of Eunice.
“If I could have afforded it, I’d have taken her out of San Francisco General and put her in St. Joseph’s. People lie who say you die when it’s your time to die.” He quoted Robert Benton, his favorite at the time. “Hate can be legislated too.”
He opened his face by dint of will. “My, I want a favor.”
“Anything.”
“Eunice’s funeral is tomorrow. After that, I never want to hear her name again.” He waited.
“All right, Bailey.”
“Thank you, My.” He closed in upon himself and smiled the new grimace. I lost part of my brother forever.
I didn’t report to Mother that the next morning he put on fresh white tennis shorts and shirt, thick white socks and tennis shoes, and walked into the church carrying his new tennis racket.
Papa Ford frowned his disapproval. “Your brother sounds crazy to me. He said he’s going to quit his job. This ain’t no time to leave the road. Get his meals free. Tips. He can bring home butter and stuff, can’t he? Nigger men ain’t got but two outs now, as I see it. Keep on sleeping with Old Lady Southern Pacific, or start sleeping in the streets.” He smirked. “And he crazy, but he ain’t crazy enough for the streets. Shit. He remind me of them Jew boys. He’s smart like them. But them Jew boys git some backing to open up some kind of little business. That’s how they get their start. Any kind of business he try to start going to be against the law, and he have to be sharper than mosquito shit, too. Keep out of jail. He better stay on the road.”
Bailey started staying out all night long, and when he came in, his eyelids were puffy and his movements slow. He walked in pushing before him an odor of unwashed clothes. His eyes were half shut on his secrets. In the afternoons Bobby Wentworth, a former schoolmate now unrecognizable in his thinness and color change, came to the house. He went into Bailey’s bedroom walking like a defeated old man and closed the door.
One morning I stood in his empty room over the unmade bed and wondered how I could save my brother. If L.D. and I married soon, he would get us a house large enough for Bailey to have a room. I would nurse him back to health and buy him books and records. Maybe he’d like to go back to school and study law. With his quick brain and silver tongue, he’d be an ace criminal lawyer.
I thought of Grandmother Henderson, who prayed every tribulation into manageable size. I prayed.
Around noon Bailey came home, the unslept night dragging his shoulders down.
I faced him in the hall. “Bailey, what’s the matter with Little Bobby?”
His tired face tried to shut me out. “Nothing’s the matter with him. Why?”
“He’s about the color of mustard and he’s got so thin.”
“He’s just getting down to his fighting weight. Anyway, when are you going back to Stockton? How long can you take off from your job?”
I wasn’t sure how much I should tell him. “I’ll stay till Mother comes out of the hospital.”
“Why?”
&n
bsp; “Well, you … I mean, I want to be with you.”
“I don’t need anything. I have told you I’m not an invalid. You’d better get back to Stockton and take care of your own business.” It was an order.
I wanted to be sure about his future before I left. “Papa Ford says you’re going to quit your job.”
“Not going to. I did.”
“But what will you do? To live?”
“I’ll live.” He wasn’t bragging, just making a statement.
“But, Bailey, it pays well, doesn’t it? I mean, pretty well.”
“You’re not the one to talk to me about slinging hash. You might be a fry cook the rest of your life, if you’re that stupid, but not me.”
I refused to bear the insult. “I’m not cooking now, if you want to know. I’m working in a house on the outskirts of Sacramento.”
“A what?” He sat up and leaned over to me. “Doing what?”
I knew I had gone too far. I was a boulder rolling down a steep hill and couldn’t stop myself.
“What do women do in houses?” The best defense was to be uppity.
“You goddam silly ass. You silly little ass. Turning tricks, huh? My baby goddam sister.”
His new temper was cold and sneering. His rages used to be full of fire and crackling; now his diction sharpened and his neck was stiff and he looked down his nose at me. “Who is the nigger?”
“Bailey, it’s not like you think.”
“Who is the smartass nigger who turned you out?”
“Bailey, he’s in trouble and I’m just helping him for a month.”
“What’s his name?” Although he continued sneering he seemed to thaw a little. “Tell me his name.”
“L.D. Tolbrook. And he’s old.”
“How old?”
“About forty-five.”
“What kind of drugs has he given you?”
“You don’t understand. He’s even stopped me from smoking pot. He’s straight and—”
“No pot? Then it’s a matter of time before he gives you a noseful of cocaine.”
“Bailey.” I couldn’t bear Bailey’s thinking evil about L.D. “He’s a … He’s a gambler and he’s in trouble with the big boys. So I offered to help him for a month, then we’re going to be married.”
He leaned into me and spoke gray steel, “You’re not going to get married.”
“Yes, I am. Yes …”
“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You are going to go to Stockton and get your baby. Then you’re going to find L.D. You’re going to tell him he’s not to worry about the big boys any more. That he can start worrying about one little boy. Just one. And tell him how little I am. Also tell him that you are my baby goddam sister. Then you’re going to get back on the bus and come home. Is that clear, Marguerite?”
I knew the old Bailey could be as violent as Mother, and this new one seemed even more lethal.
“Clear?”
“Yes.” That was all I could say. When I arrived in Stockton, I could explain to L.D. that Bailey had misunderstood everything, so for a while I’d go back to San Francisco. When Bailey cooled down, I’d return to him. My absence would make him fonder and I’d have more chance to help my brother pull himself together.
Bailey gave me money for the round trip, and to pay the baby-sitter. I took the afternoon bus to Stockton.
CHAPTER 29
Big Mary’s house was near the corner of a typical small-town block, and in the late-afternoon sun the clapboard cottages seemed to be dreaming. I concluded that I must have passed the house when I reached the farthest intersection. My mind was busy with other things, so when I turned and didn’t see the house, I decided I was on the wrong street. Another glance at the street names on a sign post assured me that this was the street. Then where was the house? I started back. Here was the little white railroad house. Here was the house with a fenced yard. Here was … but it couldn’t be Mary’s house. The windows were boarded up and large planks had been nailed in an X across the door.
The two houses flanking Big Mary’s were empty. I might have stopped breathing as I walked up and down the creaking steps and tried to peer into windows. The world had suddenly spun off its familiar axis and the rhythm of life slowed to quarter time. The streets and houses, broken toys that lay in overgrown weeds, were monotone in color like objects in an old sepia photograph.
“Who you looking for?”
I turned to face a woman on a porch across the street. Time was in such strange process that I had the opportunity to examine her in minute point. She was fat and white and wore a flowery loose housecoat. From a distance I made out her friendly countenance and the sweat that already dampened semicircles under her arms.
“My baby.” But the words wouldn’t come. I tried again and the words refused again. I had become paralyzed, literally struck dumb. I stared at the woman in horror.
“Come over here, lady.”
She ordered and I had no resistance.
“I know you’re looking for Big Mary, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“She moved three days ago. A big truck pulled up and took everything away.”
She must have waited for me to question her. After seconds, she continued, “You’re the mother, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“There was a big coming and going of the other parents, but I noticed you didn’t come for your little boy. Mary and I haven’t spoken since she called me a meddling bitch three years ago—she used foul language. But I broke the silence and asked where she was taking the boy. She said you had given him to her. Said you were too busy. I asked where she was going and she told me none of my business. But I know she’s got a brother in Bakersfield.”
It was a rattling tale told on a radio and I couldn’t make it have to do with my life.
“If you want to call the police, come in. I’ll give you some lemonade … while you’re waiting for them.”
The word “police” shook me awake. My brain moved sluggishly. Big Mary had left with my baby and lied as well. Then she kidnapped him. If the police came, they’d question me about my job. A whore (well, I had to admit it) wasn’t a fit mother and they’d take him from me and put me in jail.
“I’ll call them for you.” The woman turned and an oblong of perspiration was dripping down the back of her dress.
Before she reached the door, I forced my voice out. “No thank you. I know where he is, everything’s all right.”
“Where is he?” The woman’s suspicion was nasty.
“I’m going there now. It’s over on the south side. By the sloughs.” I waved at her. “Thanks anyway,” I said and marched down the street.
—
L.D.’s car was parked in front of his house. My scheme was to ring his bell and if his wife answered, tell her I was an old friend and had a message for him from a friend. I’d quickly tell him about Big Mary and the baby and he’d decide what to do. I was proud that I hadn’t cried and that I wasn’t afraid of his naggish wife.
A pretty, thirtyish, light-brown-skinned woman opened the door. Her long black hair curled around her shoulders, reminding me of a beige Hedy Lamarr.
“You want to see L.D.? What’s your name?”
She had the same soft slur that made me love to hear L.D. talk.
“My name is Rita.”
“Oh.” Her lips firmed on the edges. “So you’re Rita. Well, just wait a minute, I’ll get Lou.”
She closed the door and I waited on the landing, wondering how we’d find my baby.
“Rita.” L.D. had opened the door and held it just wide enough for me to see half of his body. “What put it in your head to come to my house?”
I whispered, “I told her I was a friend, L.D. My baby’s—”
“Don’t you have better sense than to come to my house?”
“I need some help, L.D. I have to talk to you.”
He stepped out on the porch and pulled the door closed behind him. His face was i
nches from me and he spoke through uneven teeth.
“Let me pull your coat, you silly little bitch. This is my house. No ’ho goes to a man’s house. You talked to my wife. No ’ho opens her mouth to speak to a man’s wife.” He curled his mouth and snarled, “Clara’s never even met my wife and Clara’s been my woman three years. You’ve been gone a week and you got the nerve … Go to your place. I’ll be there when I get time.”
He walked back in the house and slammed the door.
I wanted desperately to cry.
I had been stupid, again. And stupidity had led me into a trap where I had lost my baby. I tried to erase L.D. Tolbrook from my mind. Obviously he wasn’t very bright. He had had a good woman who would have done anything to help him. And he was too dumb to even have the courtesy to listen to my troubles. And he had lied to me by not telling me that Clara was his woman.
Pity. That he thought outsmarting a young girl, living off the wages of women was honorable. He obviously had been doing it for years. He probably started in the South with white women, thinking that by taking their bodies and their money, he was getting revenge on the white men, who were free to insult him, ignore him and keep him at the bottom of the heap.
Clara must have wriggled her nose off in laughing at my stupidity with her “daddy.” And L.D.’s wife probably bought the white piqué dress she wore with money I had made. I detested him for being a liar and a pimp, but more, I hated him for being such an idiot that he couldn’t value my sterling attributes enough to keep me for himself alone.
There was no thought of the greed which coerced me to agree with L.D.’s plans in the hope that I’d win, in the end, a life of ease and romance. Like most young women, I wanted a man, any man, to give me a June Allyson screen-role life with sunken living room, and cashmere-sweater sets, and I, for one, obviously would have done anything to get that life.
I couldn’t telephone Bailey or Mother. Even if they had been in the best of shape, I couldn’t admit to them that out of ignorance I’d lost the baby.
As I walked, my rage at L.D. diminished and I regained some steadying peripheral vision. Had I melted down on the pavement in tears of frustration, the action would not have changed the fact that my baby was still missing. Or the fact that with this latest loss, I was shatteringly lonely for my baby and his arms hugging my neck. The weight was on me.