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THE HEART OF A WOMAN |
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CHAPTER 1 For the next year and a half, save for my short out-of-town singing engagements, we lived in the area. Guy became a part of a group of teenagers whose antics were rambunctious enough to satisfy their need to rebel, yet were acceptable to the tolerant neighborhood. I began to write. At first I limited myself to short sketches, then to song lyrics, then I dared short stories. When I met John Killens he had just come to Hollywood to write the screenplay for his novel Youngblood, and he agreed to read some of what he called my "work in progress." I had written and recorded six songs for Liberty Records, but I didn't seriously think of writing until John gave me his critique. After that I thought of little else. John was the first published black author I had really talked with. (I'd met James Baldwin in Paris in the early fifties, but I didn't really know him.) John said, "Most of your work needs polishing. In fact, most of everybody's work could stand rewriting. But you have undeniable talent." He added, "You ought to come to New York. You need to be in the Harlem Writers Guild." The invitation was oblique but definitely alluring. I had met singer Abbey Lincoln. Wernet years earlier and we became friends during the time I stayed in the Westlake district. But she had moved to New York City. Whenever I spoke to her on the telephone, after she stopped praising Max Roach, her love and romantic ideal, she lauded New York City. It was the hub, the absolute middle of the world. The only place for an intelligent person to be, and to grow. Just possibly if I went to New York, I thought, I could find my own niche, settle down in it and become a success. There was another reason for wanting to leave Los Angeles. Guy, once so amusing, was growing into a tall aloof stranger. Our warm evenings of Scrabble and charades were, for him, a part of the long ago. He said the childhood games simply did not hold his attention. When he obeyed my house rules, he did so with the attitude that he was just too bored to contest them. I didn't understand, at the time, that adolescence had invaded him and deposited its usual hefty burden of insecurity and apprehension. My wispy sometimes-lover, who lived nearby, was too tediously pious to help me comprehend what was happening to my son. Indeed, his reverence for Eastern religions, a vegetarian diet and sexual abstinence rendered him almost, but not quite, incapable of everything except deep conversations on the meaning of life. I called my mother and she answered after the first ring. "Hello?" "Lady!" "Oh hello, baby." She spoke as crisply as a white woman. I said, ''I'd like to see you. I'm going to move to New York and I don't know when I'll come back to California. Maybe we could meet somewhere and spend a couple of days together. I could drive north, part of the way-" She didn't pause. "Of course, we can meet, of course, I want to see you, baby." Six feet tall, with a fourteen-year-old son, and I was still called baby. "How about Fresno? That's halfway. We could stay at that hotel. I know you read about it." "Yes. But not if there's going to be trouble. I just want to be with you." "Trouble? Trouble?" The familiar knife edge had slipped into her voice. "But, baby, you know that's my middle name. Anyway, the law says that hotel has to accept Negro guests. I'll swear before God and five other responsible men that my daughter and I are Negroes. After that, if they refuse us, well ..."-she laughed hopefully and high-pitched-"well, we'll have a board to fit their butts." That part of the conversation was finished. Vivian Baxter sensed the possibility of confrontation and there would be no chance of talking her out of it. I realized too late that I should simply have taken the Southern Pacific train from Los Angeles to San Francisco and spent the two days in her Fulton Street house, then returned to pack for my continental move. Her voice softened again as she relayed family gossip and set a date for our meeting in the middle of the state. *** In 1959, Fresno was a middling town with palm trees and a decidedly Southern accent. Most of its white inhabitants seemed to be descendants of Steinbeck's Joads, and its black citizens were farm hands who had simply exchanged the dirt roads of Arkansas and Mississippi for the dusty streets of central California. I parked my old Chrysler on a side street, and taking my overnight case, walked around the corner to the Desert Hotel. My mother had suggested that we meet at three, which meant that she planned to arrive at two. The hotel lobby had been decorated with welcome banners for a visiting sales convention. Large florid men mingled and laughed with portly women under low-hanging chandeliers. My entrance stopped all action. Every head turned to see, every eye blazed, first with doubt, then fury. I wanted to run back to my car, race to Los Angeles, back to the postered walls of my house. I straightened my back and forced my face into indifference and walked to the registration desk. The clock above said two forty-five. "Good afternoon. Where is the bar?" A round-faced young man dropped his eyes and pointed behind me. "Thank you." The crowd made an aisle and I walked through the silence, knowing that before I reached the lounge door, a knife could be slipped in my back or a rope lassoed around my neck. My mother sat at the bar wearing her Dobbs hat and tan suede suit. I set my case down inside the door and joined her. "Hi, baby," her smile was a crescent of white. "You're a little early." She knew I would be. "Jim?" And I knew she'd already have the bartender's name and his attention. The man grinned for her. "Jim, this is my baby. She's pretty, isn't she?" Jim nodded, never taking his eyes away from Mother. She leaned over and kissed me on the lips. "Give her a Scotch and water and another little taste for yourself." She caught him as he started to hesitate. "Don't refuse, Jim. No man can walk on one leg." She smiled, and he turned to prepare the drinks. "Baby, you're looking good. How was the drive? Still got that old Chrysler? Did you see those people in the lobby? They're so ugly they make you stop and think. How's Guy? Why are you going to New York? Is he happy about the move? Jim set my drink down and lifted his in a toast. Mother picked up her drink. "Here's looking at you, Jim." And to me. "Here's a go, baby." She smiled and I saw again that she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. "Thanks, Mother." She took my hands, put them together and rubbed them. "You are cold. Hot as it is, your hands are freezing. Are you all right!" Nothing frightened my mother except thunder and lightning. I couldn't tell her that at thirty-one years old, the whites in the lobby had scared me silly. "Just fine, Mother. I guess it's the air conditioning." She accepted the lie. "Well, let's drink up and go to our room. I've got some talk for you." She picked up the bills from the bar, counted them and pulled out two singles. "What time do you come on, Jim!" The bartender turned and grinned. "I open up. At eleven every morning." "Then, I'll break your luck for you. Scotch and water, remember. At eleven. This is for you." "Oh, you don't have to do that." Mother was off the stool. "I know. That's why it's easy. See you in the morning." I picked up my suitcase, followed her out of the dark bar into the noisy lobby. Again, the buzz of conversation diminished, but Mother never noticed. She switched through the crowd, up to the desk. "Mrs. Vivian Baxter Johnson and daughter. You have our reservation." My mother had married a few times, but she loved her maiden name. Married or not, she often identified herself as Vivian Baxter. It was a statement. "And please call the bellboy. My bag is in my car. Here are the keys. Set your bag down here, baby." 8aek to the registration clerk. "And tell him to bring my daughter's case to our room." The clerk slowly pushed a form across the counter. Mother opened her purse, took out her gold Sheaffer and signed us in. "The key, please." Again using slow motion, the clerk slid the key to Mother. "Two ten. Second floor. Thank you. Come on, baby." The hotel's color bar had been lifted only a month earlier, yet she acted as if she had been a guest there for years. There was a winding staircase to the right of the desk and a small group of open- mouthed conventioneers standing by the elevator. I said, "Let's take the stairs, Mother." She said, "We're taking the elevator," and pushed the "up" button. The waiting people looked at us as if our very presence had stripped everything of value from their lives. When we got out of the elevator, Mother took a moment, then turned and walked left to 210. She unlocked the door and when we entered, she threw her purse on the bed and walked to the window. "Sit down, baby. I'm going to tell you something you must never forget." I sat on the first chair as she opened the drapes. The sunlight framed her figure, and her face was indistinct. "Animals can sense fear. They feel it. Well, you know that human beings are animals, too. Never, never let a person know you're frightened. And a group of them ... absolutely never. Fear brings out the worst thing in everybody. Now, in that lobby you were as scared as a rabbit. I knew it and all those white folks knew it. If I hadn't been there, they might have turned into a mob. But something about me told them, if they mess with either of us, they'd better start looking for some new asses, 'cause I'd blow away what their mammas gave them." She laughed like a young girl. "Look in my purse." I opened her purse. "The Desert Hotel better be ready for integration, 'cause if it's not, I'm ready for the Desert Hotel." Under her wallet, half hidden by her cosmetic case, lay a dark-blue German Luger. "Room service? This is two ten. I'd like a pitcher of ice, two glasses, and a bottle of Teachers Scotch. Thank you." The bellboy had brought our bags, and we had showered and changed. "We'll have a cocktail and go down for dinner. But now, let's talk. Why New York? You were there in '52 and had to be sent home. What makes you think it has changed?" "I met a writer, John Killens. I told him I wanted to write and he invited me to New York." "He's colored, isn't he?" Since my first marriage to a Greek had dissolved, Mother had been hoping for a black son-in-law. "He's married, Mother. It's not like that." "That's terrible. First ninety-nine married men out of a hundred never divorce their wives for their girl friends, and the one that does will probably divorce the new wife for a newer girl friend." "But really, it's not that way. I've met his wife and children. I'll go to New York, stay with them for a couple of weeks, get an apartment and send for Guy." "And where will he stay for two weeks? Not alone in that big house. He's only fourteen." She would explode if I told her I planned for him to stay with the man I was leaving. Vivian Baxter had survived by being healthily suspicious. She would never trust a rejected lover to treat her grandson fairly. "I've made arrangements with a friend. And after all, it's only two weeks." We both knew that she had left me and my brother for ten years to be raised by our paternal grandmother. We looked at each other and she spoke first. "You're right. It is only two weeks. Well, let me tell you about me. I'm going to sea." "To see. See what?" "I'm going to become a merchant marine." I had never heard of a female merchant seaman. "A member of the Marine Cooks and Stewards Union." "Why?" Disbelief raised my voice. "Why?" She was a surgical nurse, a realtor, had a barber's license and owned a hotel. Why did she want to go to sea and live the rough unglamorous life of a seaman? "Because they told me Negro women couldn't get in the union. You know what I told them?" I shook my head, although I nearly knew. "I told them, 'You want to bet?' I'll put my foot in that door up to my hip until women of every color can walk over my foot, get in that union, get aboard a ship and go to sea." There was a knock at the door. "Come in." A uniformed black man opened the door and halted in surprise at seeing us. "Good evening. Just put the tray over there. Thank you." The bellboy deposited the tray and turned. "Good evening, you all surprised me. Sure did. Didn't expect to see you. Sure didn't." Mother walked toward him holding money in her hand. "Who did you expect? Queen Victoria?" "No. No, ma'am. I mean ... Our people ... in here ... It's kinda new seeing us ... and everything." "This is for you." She gave him the tip. "We are just ordinary guests in the hotel. Thank you and good night." She opened the door and waited. When he walked out mumbling good night, she closed the door with finality. "Mom, you were almost rude." "Well, baby, I figure like this. He's colored and I'm colored, but we are not cousins. Let's have a drink." She smiled. During the next two days, Mother showed me off to some old card-playing friends she had known twenty years earlier. "This is my baby. She's been to Egypt, all around Milan, Italy, and Spain and Yugoslavia. She's a singer and dancer, you know." When her friends were satisfactorily impressed with my accomplishments, Mother made certain of their wonder by adding, "Of course, I'll be shipping out myself in a few days." We hugged in the empty lobby of the Desert Hotel; the convention had ended the day before our departure. "Take care of yourself. Take care of your son, and remember New York City is just like Fresno. Just more of the same people in bigger buildings. Black folks can't change because white folks won't change. Ask for what you want and be prepared to pay for what you get." She kissed me and her voice softened to a whisper. "Let me leave first, baby. I hate to see the back of someone I love." We embraced again and I watched her walk, hips swaying, into the bright street. *** Back at home I collected myself and called Guy, who responded by coming into the living room and then walking back to lean against the doorjamb. "Guy, I want to talk to you. Please sit down." At this stage, he never sat if he could stand, towering above the boredom of life. He sat, obviously to pacify me. "Guy, we're going to move." Aha, a flicker of interest in his eyes, which he quickly controlled. "Again? Okay. I can pack in twenty minutes. I've timed myself" I held on to the natural wince that struggled to surface. In his nine years of schooling, we had lived in five areas of San Francisco, three townships in Los Angeles, New York City, Hawaii and Cleveland, Ohio. I followed the jobs, and against the advice ofa pompous school psychologist, I had taken Guy along. The psychologist had been white, obviously educated and with those assets I knew he was well-to-do. How could he know what a young Negro boy needed in a racist world? When the money was plentiful, we lived in swank hotels and called room service. At other times we stayed in boardinghouses. I strung sheets as room dividers, and cooked our favorite food illegally on a two-burner hot plate. Because we moved so often, Guy had little chance to make or keep friends, but we were together and generally we had laughed a lot. Now that post- uberty had laid claim to him, our friendly badinage was gone and I was menacing him with one more move. "This is the last time. Last time, I think." His face said he didn't believe me. "We're going to New York City." His eyes lit up again and just as quickly dulled. "I want to leave Saturday. John and Grace Killens are looking for an apartment for us. I'll stay with them and in two weeks you'll join me. Is that all right?" Parent power becomes so natural, only children notice it. I wasn't really asking his permission. He knew it and didn't answer. "I thought I'd ask Ray if he'd like to stay in the house with you for two weeks. Just to be company for you. That O.K. with you?" "That's perfectly all right, Mother." He stood up. He was so long, his legs seemed to start just at his arm sockets. "If you'll excuse me." Thus he ended our unsatisfactory family chat. I still had to speak to my gentleman friend. As we sat close in the morning's sunshine, Ray's handsome yellow face was as usual in benign repose. "I'm leaving Saturday for New York." "Oh? Got a contract?" "No. Not yet." "I don't think that I'd like to face New York without a contract ..." Here it was. "Just Guy and I are going. We're going to stay." His whole body jumped, the muscles began to skitter around his face. For the first time I thought that maybe he cared for me. I watched him command his body. After long minutes his fists fell open, the long fingers relaxed and his lips lost their hardened ridges. "Is there anything I can do to help you?" He consented to stay in the house and send Guy to me in two weeks. After, he might take the house himself, otherwise he would close it. Of course, we would remain friends.
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