Free A Song Flung Up to Heaven by Maya Angelou

good china and dinner placed on my best tablecloth, I went into the living room, where he sat like a Yoruba carving.
    “Dinner is ready.”
    He looked up at me, his eyes glinting and his face in a monumental scowl.
    “Why can’t we be like them?”
    “Like whom?”
    “Those two actors in the film.”
    “Doris Day and Rock Hudson?”
    “I don’t know their names, but why can’t we be to each other the way they are?”
    “Are you serious?”
    “Do you think I am playing?”
    “Those are actors. They are not real. I mean, the roles are just roles. You know that.”
    He had graduated from England’s top university with the highest academic degree and he was one of the most educated persons I had ever known. He was being perverse.
    Perversity is contagious. I asked, “You want me to become a perky little blond woman? Is that what you want? You have little chance of getting that from me.”
    He said, “You American Negroes. I never know if you are just stupid or merely pretending.” He looked at me pityingly.
    Cursing has never been one of my strong suits, but I gathered a few sordid words and started throwing them around. The louder I became, the more scornful his look, and the louder I became.
    I picked up my car keys and my purse and went into the kitchen. I took the corners of the tablecloth and let the food and plates and silverware and glasses fall down in the center. I dragged the whole thing to the living room.
    “Here’s dinner if you want it. I’m leaving.”
    Anger and frustration rode with me all the way to Nichelle’s house.
    “Well, Maya, you’re always welcome to stay here, but you know how I feel about your marriage.”
    We weren’t married. In Ghana we had done a little homemade ritual in the presence of a few friends. There had been no public ceremony, no authority to sanction our being together, no license assuring us of society’s agreement. We had said some words, made some promises and poured schnapps on the ground.
    I called my mother in San Francisco, who said that Bailey was visiting. I spoke to my brother and told him of my predicament. He listened and said that they would both be in Los Angeles the next day. I told them that I was spending the night with Nichelle and gave them the phone number and address.
    They arrived at Nichelle’s house in the morning in a rental car and I filled them in over coffee. I mentioned the African’s cold treatment and how it drove me mad. They both understood. I said nothing about the curse words.
    Mom said, “Well, let’s go over and meet this man who wants to take you back to Africa.”
    Bailey rode in my car. He had been my closest and dearest friend all my life. “My, how is it? What do you want?”
    “I want him to go back to Africa. He brings no peace, and I can’t seem to manufacture any while he is around. He should go.”
    Bailey said, “Then he will go, and go today. Somewhere.”
    My brother was black and beauteous. He had given me my name, protected me, educated me and told me when I was twelve that I was smart. He had added that I was not as smart as he was, but I was smarter than almost everyone else. He was, at his tallest, five feet four inches tall.
    The African had showered and changed, but the soiled tablecloth remained on the floor.
    He shook hands with Bailey and embraced my mother.
    Mother looked at the litter on the floor and turned to me.
    “I left it here last night.”
    Mother said, “Aha.”
    I nodded to Bailey. He helped me carry the sour-smelling bundle back to the kitchen. Mother sat down, and as Bailey and I left the room, I heard her say, “Now, what’s going on between you and my baby?”
    Bailey asked me, “Where are his clothes? Does he have enough money to leave?” I pointed to a closet and told him that the African had plenty of money. I added, “He said he had brought a lot because he was going to carry me back to Africa.”
    Bailey said, “The hell. Did he think he had to pay a