A Song Flung Up to Heaven - Maya Angelou [29]
I was indebted to the Tee Oh Bee people as well as to Seymour Lazar, a Hollywood lawyer who had been generous with his advice and who gave me a nearly new car when mine refused to run another mile.
M. J. Hewitt had returned copper-colored from her South American trip and was full of stories I longed to hear. My friend Ketty Lester, a nightclub entertainer who sang as if she had a wind chime in her mouth, had to receive a good-bye.
I asked the help of Frances, Nichelle and Beah, and together we gave me a going-away party that spilled out of my house into Beah’s, then into the big backyard where ripe figs from a huge tree made walking messy.
I looked at Los Angeles anew and saw the fun I was having. I thought that leaving the town just as I was beginning to appreciate it might not be the best idea I had ever had. Then I remembered another of Vivian Baxter’s truisms: “Take as much time as you need to make up your mind, but once it is made up, step out on your decision like it’s something you want.”
After I had survived the ugly rebellious years of “What can she possibly know that I don’t?” I had followed my mother’s advice to the letter and had not found her in error even once. I telephoned Guy to ask, “Are you going to be all right?” His tone was sincerely tender. “Mom, stop worrying. I’m your son and I’m a man.”
When I pulled together the money I had been saving, it proved enough to get me to New York and keep me for at least two months. I’d have a job by that time.
Seventeen
Rosa’s Upper West Side apartment was luxurious. The rooms were large and the ceilings so high that the place reminded me of the Victorian houses of San Francisco. The furniture was comfortable and the kitchen extraordinary, with the huge pots and outsize pans of a serious cook who was also a dedicated party giver.
People loved Rosa’s parties for the food and her ability to make each person feel that with her or his arrival, the party could begin.
We quickly agreed that I would share expenses and cooking as long as I was there but that I would be looking with focused attention for my own apartment.
I had been in New York less than a week when Rosa decided to give a party. I asked if I could invite Dolly McPherson. Since she was an elderly woman, I wanted to ask her for around seven-thirty.
“Your friends won’t be coming till around nine or ten. We’ll have a drink and then she can get home before it’s too late.”
Rosa said that was all right with her.
African friends from the United Nations kept Rosa’s liquor cabinet filled with a full complement of the most desired spirits, but she always insisted on buying her own wines. I was assisting with the cooking of banquet dishes when the doorbell rang.
I said to Rosa, “That must be Miss McPherson.”
I had only to open the door to see how wrong I was. A beautiful young dark-brown-skinned woman wearing a lime-green dress stood before me.
Maybe one of Rosa’s early guests. I said, “Good evening.”
She said, “I am here to see Miss Angelou.”
I said, “I am Miss Angelou.”
She said, “You can’t be. I mean, I am here to see the older Miss Angelou, maybe your mother.”
I said, “I am the only Miss Angelou here.”
We stared at each other for a few seconds.
I asked, “Are you Miss McPherson?”
She nodded, and we started to laugh at the same time.
She said, “The old goat.”
We were still laughing when we sat down in the living room.
She asked, “What did he tell you about me?” I told her that the African had said she was an old but very intelligent woman who had been helpful to him.
“He could rightly say that. He courted me seriously and spent quite a few nights at my apartment.”
It was my turn to say, “The old goat. And what did he tell you about me?”
“That you were very old and that you owned a house where you let rooms. He said you were one of those African-Americans who felt they had found something in Ghana, and you always had a soft