Angelou: Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Mr. Freeman

I had decided that St. Louis was a foreign country. I would never

get used to the sounds o f water going down the toilets, or the

packaged foods, or doorbells, or the noise o f cars and trains and

buses. In my mind I only stayed in St. Louis for a few weeks. As

quickly as I understood that I had not reached my home, I

returned to the storybook world o f Robin Hood, where all

reality was unreal and even that changed every day. I had the

same attitude that I had used in Stamps: “ I didn’t come to stay.”

Mother was good at providing for us. Although she was a

nurse, she never worked at her profession while we were with

her. Mr. Freeman brought in the necessities and she earned extra

money working in gambling houses. The regular eight-to-five

world didn’t have enough excitement for her, and it was twenty

years later that I first saw her in a nurse’s uniform.

Mr. Freeman was a manager in the Southern Pacific train yards


and came home late sometimes, after Mother had gone out. He

took his dinner off the stove, where she had carefully covered it

and which she had warned us not to touch. He ate quietly in the

kitchen while Bailey and I read separately and greedily our own

Street & Smith* magazine. We had spending money now and

bought magazines with colorful pictures. When Mother was

away, we were put on the honor system. We had to finish our

homework, eat dinner, and wash the dishes before we could read

or listen to the radio.

Mr. Freeman moved gracefully, like a big brown bear, and

seldom spoke to us. He just waited for Mother and put his whole

self into the waiting. He never read the paper or tapped his foot

to the radio. He waited. That was all.

If she came home before we went to bed, we saw the man

come alive. He would jump out o f the big chair, like a man

coming out o f sleep, smiling. When her key opened the door,

Mr. Freeman would have already asked his usual question, “Hey,

Bibbi, have a good time?”

His question would hang in the air while she ran over to kiss

him on the lips. Then she turned to Bailey and me with the

lipstick kisses. “Haven’t you finished your homework?” If we had

and were just reading—“OK, say your prayers and go to bed.” If

we hadn’t—“Then go to your room and finish . . . then say your

prayers and go to bed.”

Mr. Freeman’s smile never grew, it stayed the same. Sometimes

Mother would go over and sit on his lap, and the grin on his face

looked as if it would stay there for ever.

Because o f the stories we read and our lively imaginations and,

probably, memories of our brief but full lives, Bailey and I

suffered—he physically and I mentally. He stuttered, and I sweated

* Street & Smith: a company that produced very popular books and magazines,

especially fiction.


through frightening dreams. He was constantly told to slow down

and start again, and on my particularly bad nights my mother

would take me in to sleep with her, in the large bed with Mr.

Freeman. After the third time in Mother’s bed, I thought there

was nothing strange about sleeping there.

One morning she got out of bed early, and I fell back asleep

again. But I awoke to a pressure, a strange feeling on my left leg. It

was too soft to be a hand, and it wasn’t the touch of clothes.

Whatever it was, I hadn’t experienced it in all the years o f sleeping

with Momma. It didn’t move, and I was too surprised to. I turned

my head a little to the left to see if Mr. Freeman was awake and

gone, but his eyes were open and both hands were above the cover.

I knew, as if I had always known, that it was his “thing” on my leg.

He said, “Just stay right here, Ritie, I ain’t gonna* hurt you.” I

wasn’t afraid—a little uncertain, maybe, but not afraid. O f course

I knew that lots o f people did “it” and that they used their

“things” to do this deed, but no one I knew had ever done it to

anybody. Mr. Freeman pulled me to him, and put his hand

between my legs. He didn’t hurt, but Momma had always said:

“Keep your legs closed, and don’t let nobody see between them.”

“Now, I didn’t hurt you. D o n ’t get scared.” He threw back the

blankets and his “thing” stood up like a brown ear o f corn. He

took my hand and said, “Feel it.” Then he dragged me on top o f

his chest with his left arm, and his right hand was moving so fast

and his heart was beating so hard that I was afraid he would die.

Finally he was quiet, and then came the nice part. He held me

so softly that I wished he wouldn’t let me go. I felt at home. From

the way he was holding me I knew he’d never let me go or let

anything bad ever happen to me. This was probably my real

father and we had found each other at last. But then he rolled

over, leaving me in a wet place, and stood up.

* gonna: short for “going to”


“I have to talk to you, Ritie.” He pulled off his shorts, which

had fallen to his ankles, and went into the bathroom.

It was true the bed was wet, but I knew I hadn’t had an

accident. Maybe Mr. Freeman had one while he was holding me.

He came back with a glass o f water and told me in a sour voice,

“Get up. You peed in the bed.” He poured water on the wet spot,

and it did look like my bed on many mornings.

Having lived in Southern strictness, I knew when to keep

quiet around adults, but I did want to ask him why he said I peed

when I was sure he didn’t believe that. If he thought I was

naughty, would that mean that he would never hold me again?

Or admit that he was my father? I had made him ashamed o f me.

“Ritie, you love Bailey?” He sat down on the bed and I came

close, hoping. “Yes.” He was bending down, pulling on his socks,

and his back was so large and friendly I wanted to rest my head

on it.

“If you ever tell anybody what we did, I’ll have to kill Bailey.”

What had we done? We? Obviously he didn’t mean my peeing

in the bed. I didn’t understand and didn’t dare ask him. There was

no chance to ask Bailey either, because that would be telling what

we had done. The thought that he might kill Bailey shocked me.

After he left the room I thought about telling Mother that I hadn’t

peed in the bed. But then if she asked me what happened I’d have

to tell her about Mr. Freeman holding me, and I couldn’t do that.

For weeks after that he said nothing to me, except brief hellos

which were given without ever looking in my direction.

This was the first secret I had ever kept from Bailey and

sometimes I thought he should be able to read it on my face, but

he noticed nothing.

I began to feel lonely for Mr. Freeman and being wrapped in

his big arms. Before, my world had been Bailey, food, Momma,

the Store, reading books, and Uncle Willie. Now, for the first

time, it included physical contact.


I began to wait for Mr. Freeman to come in from the yards,

but when he did he never noticed me, although I put a lot of

feeling into “Good evening, Mr. Freeman.”

One evening, when I couldn’t concentrate on anything, I

went over to him and sat quickly on his lap. Fie had been waiting

for Mother again. Bailey was listening to the radio and didn’t

miss me. At first Mr. Freeman sat still, not holding me or

anything, then I felt a soft lump under my thigh begin to move. It

hit against me and started to harden. Then he pulled me to his

chest. He smelled o f coal dust and grease, and he was so close I

buried my face in his shirt and listened to his heart. It was beating

just for me. Only I could hear it, only I could feel the jumping

on my face. He said, “Sit still, stop moving around.” But all the

time, he pushed me around on his lap, then suddenly he stood up

and I slipped to the floor. He ran to the bathroom.

For months he stopped speaking to me again. I was hurt and

for a time felt lonelier than ever, but then I forgot about him.

I read more than ever, and wished in my soul that I had been

born a boy. Horatio Alger was the greatest writer in the world.

His heroes were always good, always won, and were always boys. I

could have developed the first two qualities, but becoming a boy

was sure to be difficult, if not impossible.

When spring came to St. Louis, I took out my first library

card, and since Bailey and I seemed to be growing apart, I spent

most of my Saturdays at the library. The little princesses who

were mistaken for servants became more real to me than our

house, our mother, our school, or Mr. Freeman.

During those months we saw our grandparents and our

uncles, but they usually asked the same question, “Have you been

good children?” for which there was only one answer. Even

Bailey wouldn’t have dared to answer “No.”


On a late spring Saturday, after our chores (nothing like those in

Stamps) were done, Bailey and I were going out, he to play

baseball and I to the library Mr. Freeman said to me, after Bailey

had gone downstairs, “Ritie, go get some milk for the house.”

He gave me money and I rushed to the store and back to the

house. After putting the milk in the refrigerator, I turned and had

just reached the front door when I heard, “Ritie.” He was sitting

in the big chair by the radio. “Ritie, come here.” I didn’t think

about the holding time until I got close to him. His pants were

open and his “thing” was standing out of them by itself.

“No, sir, Mr. Freeman.” I started to back away. I didn’t want to

touch that thing again, and I didn’t need him to hold me

anymore. He grabbed my arm and pulled me between his legs.

His face was still and looked kind, but he didn’t smile. He did

nothing, except reach his left hand around to turn on the radio

without even looking at it. Over the noise o f the music, he said,

“Now, this ain’t gonna hurt you much. You liked it before,

didn’t you?”

I didn’t want to admit that I had in fact liked him holding me

or that I had liked his smell or the hard heart-beating, so I said

nothing. And his face became mean.

His legs were squeezing my waist. “Pull down your underpants.”

I hesitated for two reasons: he was holding me too tight to move,

and I was sure that any minute my mother or Bailey would run in

the door and save me.

“We were just playing before.” He released me enough to pull

down my underpants, and then dragged me closer to him. Turning

the radio up loud, too loud, he said, “If you scream, I’m gonna kill

you. And if you tell, I’m gonna kill Bailey.” I could tell he meant

what he said. I couldn’t understand why he wanted to kill my

brother. Neither of us had done anything to him. And then.


Then there was the pain. A breaking and entering when even

the senses are torn apart. The act of rape on an eight-year-old

body is a matter o f the child’s body breaking open, because the

body can, and the mind of the rapist cannot stop.

I thought I had died—I woke up in a white-walled world, and

it had to be heaven. But Mr. Freeman was there and he was

washing me. His hands shook, but he held me upright in the tub

and washed my legs. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Ritie. I didn’t

mean it. But don’t you te ll. . . Remember, don’t you tell anyone.”

I felt cool and very clean and just a little tired. “No, sir, Mr.

Freeman, I won’t tell.” I was somewhere above everything.

“But I’m so tired I’ll just go and lay down a while, please,” I

whispered to him. I thought if I spoke out loud, he might

become frightened and hurt me again. He dried me and handed

me my underpants. “Put these on and go to the library. Your

mother ought to be coming home soon. You just act normal.”

Walking down the street, I felt the wet on my underpants and

my body hurt between my legs. I couldn’t sit long on the hard

seats in the library, so I walked by the empty lot where Bailey

played ball, but he wasn’t there. I stood for a while and watched

the older boys playing and then headed home.

After two blocks, I knew I’d never make it. Not unless I

counted every step. I had started to burn between my legs. The

insides o f my thighs shook. I went up the stairs one step at a time.

No one was in the living room, so I went straight to bed, after

hiding my red-and-yellow stained underpants under the sheets.

When Mother came in she said, “Well, young lady, I believe

this is the first time I’ve seen you go to bed without being told.

You must be sick.”

I wasn’t sick, but the pit o f my stomach was on fire—how

could I tell her that? Bailey came in later and asked me what the

matter was. There was nothing to tell him. When Mother called

us to eat and I said I wasn’t hungry, she laid her cool hand on my


forehead and cheeks. After she took my temperature, she said,

“You have a little fever.”

Mr. Freeman took up the whole doorway. “Then Bailey ought

not to be in there with her. Unless you want a whole house full

o f sick children.” She walked by Mr. Freeman. “Come on, Junior.

Get some cool towels and wipe your sisters face.”

As Bailey left the room, Mr. Freeman advanced to the bed. He

leaned over, his whole face a threat. “If you te ll. . . ” And again so

softly, I almost didn’t hear it—“If you tell.” I didn’t have the

energy to answer him. He had to know that I wasn’t going to tell

anything. Bailey came in with the towels and Mr. Freeman

walked out.

That night I kept waking to hear Mother and Mr. Freeman

arguing. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I did hope

that she wouldn’t make him so mad that he’d hurt her too. I

knew he could do it, with his cold face and empty eyes.

Maybe I slept, but soon morning was there and Mother was

pretty over my bed. “How’re you feeling, baby?”

“Fine, Mother.” An automatic answer. “Where’s Bailey?”

She said he was still asleep but that she hadn’t slept all night.

She had been in and out o f my room, checking on me. I asked

her where Mr. Freeman was, and her face filled with remembered

anger. “He’s gone. Moved this morning.”

Could I tell her now? The terrible pain assured me that I

couldn’t. What he did to me, and what I allowed, must have been

very bad if already God let me hurt so much. If Mr. Freeman was

gone, did that mean Bailey was out o f danger? And if so, if I told

him, would he still love me?

That Sunday goes and comes in my memory. Once Bailey was

reading to me, and then Mother was looking closely at my face.

Then there was a doctor who took my temperature and held my


“Bailey!” I supposed I had screamed—he appeared suddenly,


and I asked him to help me and we’d run away to California or

France or Chicago. I knew that I was dying. In fact, I longed for

death, but I didn’t want to die anywhere near Mr. Freeman. I

knew that even now he wouldn’t have allowed death to take me

unless he wished it to.

Mother said I should be bathed and the sheets had to be

changed since I had sweat so much. But when they tried to move

me I fought, and even Bailey couldn’t hold me. Then she picked

me up in her arms and the terror lessened for a while. Bailey

began to change the bed. As he pulled off the wet sheets he

found the underpants I had hidden. They fell at Mother’s feet.

In the hospital, Bailey told me that I had to tell who did that

to me, or the man would hurt another little girl. When I

explained that I couldn’t tell because the man would kill him,

Bailey said knowingly, “He can’t kill me. I won’t let him.” And of

course I believed him. Bailey didn’t lie to me. So I told him.

Bailey cried at the side o f my bed until I started to cry too.

Almost fifteen years passed before I saw my brother cry like that


Using the brain he was born with (those were his words later

that day), he gave his information to Grandmother Baxter.

Mr. Freeman was arrested, avoiding the awful anger o f my uncles.

I would have liked to stay in the hospital the rest o f my life.

Mother brought flowers and candy. Grandmother came with

fruit and my uncles walked around my bed, guarding me. When

they were able to bring Bailey in, he read to me for hours.

The court was filled. Some people even stood behind the benches

at the back. Grandmother Bailey’s clients were there. The gamblers

and their women whispered to me that I now knew as much as

they did. I was eight, and grown. I sat with my family (Bailey

couldn’t come) and they rested still on their seats. Unmoving.


Poor Mr. Freeman turned in his chair to look empty threats

over to me. He didn’t know that he couldn’t kill Bailey.. . and

Bailey didn’t lie .. . to me.

“Was that the first time the accused touched you?” Mr.

Freeman’s lawyer asked. The question stopped me. Mr. Freeman

had surely done something very wrong, but I was certain that I

had helped him to do it. I didn’t want to lie, but the lawyer

wouldn’t let me think, so I remained silent.

“Did the accused try to touch you before the time you say he

raped you?”

I couldn’t say yes and tell them how he had loved me once for

a few minutes and how he had held me close before he thought I

had peed in the bed. My uncles would kill me and Grandmother

Baxter would stop speaking, as she often did when she was angry.

And Mother, who thought I was such a good girl, would be so

disappointed. But most important, there was Bailey. I had kept a

big secret from him.

“Marguerite, answer the question. Did the accused touch you

before the occasion on which you claim he raped you?”

Everyone in the court knew that the answer had to be “No.”

Everyone except Mr. Freeman and me. I looked at his face, and I

said “No.”

The lie lumped in my throat and I couldn’t get air. How I

hated the man for making me lie. The tears didn’t comfort my

heart as they usually did. I screamed, “Old, mean, dirty thing,

you. Dirty old thing.” Our lawyer brought me off the stand and

into my mother’s arms.

Mr. Freeman was given one year and one day, but he never got

a chance to go to prison. His lawyer (or someone) got him

released that very afternoon.

In the living room, Bailey and I played a board game on the

floor. I played badly because I was thinking how I would be able

to tell Bailey that I had lied and, even worse for our relationship,


kept a secret from him. Bailey answered the doorbell, because

Grandmother was in the kitchen. A tall white policeman asked

for Mrs. Baxter. Had they found out about the lie? Maybe the

policeman was coming to put me in jail because I had sworn on

the Bible that everything I said would be the truth, the whole

truth. The man in our living room was taller than the sky and

whiter than my image o f God.

“Mrs. Baxter, I thought you ought to know. Freemans been

found dead on the lot behind the meat factory.”

Softly, she said, “Poor man.” She wiped her hands on the

dishtowel and just as softly asked, “Do they know who did it?”

The policeman said, “Seems like he was dropped there. Some

say he was kicked to death.”

Grandmothers face turned a little red.“Tom, thanks for telling

  1. Poor man. Well, maybe it’s better this way.”

And he was gone, and a man was dead because I lied. Where

was the balance in that? One lie surely wouldn’t be worth a man’s

life. Bailey could have explained it all to me, but I didn’t care to

ask him. Obviously I had given up my place in heaven for ever

and I had no courage. I could feel the evil flowing through my

body and waiting to rush off my tongue if I tried to open my

mouth. I held my teeth tightly shut. If it escaped, wouldn’t it

flood the world and all the innocent people?

Grandmother Baxter said, “Ritie and Junior, you didn’t hear a

thing. I never want this situation nor that man’s evil name

mentioned in this house again. I mean that.” She went back into

the kitchen to make apple pie for my celebration.

Even Bailey looked frightened. He sat alone, looking at a

man’s death. Not quite understanding it but frightened anyway.

In those moments I decided that although Bailey loved me, he

couldn’t help. I had sold myself to the Devil and there could be

no escape. The only thing I could do was to stop talking to

everyone except Bailey. Somehow I knew that because I loved


him so much I’d never hurt him, but if I talked to anyone else

that person might die too.

I had to stop talking.

In the first weeks my family accepted my behavior as a postrape,

post-hospital problem. (Neither the word “rape” nor the

experience was mentioned in Grandmothers house, where

Bailey and I were again staying.) They understood that I could

talk to Bailey, but to no one else.

Then came the last visit from the visiting nurse, and the

doctor said I was healed. That meant that I should be back on the

sidewalks playing ball or enjoying the games I had been given

when I was sick. When I refused to be the child they knew, I was

called impudent.

For a while I was punished for not speaking; and then came

the whippings, given by any relative who felt himself offended.

Angelou, M. (1969). I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. []. Retrieved from