Gather Together in My Name - Maya Angelou [14]
“We'll get a bottle of Dubonnet”—Beatrice pronounced it doo bonnet—“for you and I'll cook. You're off on Sunday. Come over and I'll fry a Sunday bird.”
“And we can have a ham.”
“Just the three of us? Chicken and ham?” That was a lot of food.
“Nigger ham. A watermelon.” Their laughter, crackling, met in the air above the table.
“I take my baby out on Sundays.”
They thought about that while I waited on the other customers.
“You can bring him over.”
“I'll think about it.”
At the bar a thick-waisted waitress who had never invited me to her house curled her upper lip.
“You'd better be careful.” She sent a hostile glance to Johnnie Mae's table.
“Why?” I wanted to hear her say it.
“Those women. You know what they are?” Her voice had taken on a sinister depth.
“What?”
“Bull daggers.” She smirked her satisfaction at saying the word.
“Oh, really?” I put no surprise in my voice.
“You know about bull daggers, don't you?” Her face showed how her tongue relished the words.
“They dag bulls?” For a second she wasn't sure if I was being smart.
“They love women.”
“Oh, is that all? That's all right then. They don't scare me. They can't eat me up.” I flounced away, leaving my tray on the bar, and went directly to the table.
“Listen. I'm not a … not … not a lesbian, and I don't want to be one. Is that all right?”
Their faces closed. Johnnie Mae asked, “Is what all right?”
Suddenly I was ashamed. “I mean, I'd like to come to your house on Sunday. But … I mean, I wanted you to know that … I don't go that way.”
They were silent, wind-up toys whose springs had broken. I wished I could catch the words and swallow them whole.
“I'd like your address.” I held out my pencil. Johnnie Mae took it and handed it to Beatrice.
“What time on Sunday?” I had to put something into the emptiness. Beatrice was writing.
“Two o'clock. When we come from church,” said Johnnie Mae, handing me the paper.
“Okee dokee. See you then.” I wanted to be flippant, to be funny, to say something that would erase the sadness, but I could think of nothing. I got my tray and went back to work.
CHAPTER 12
On the blocks where Saturday-night revelers rambled, Sunday afternoons were given over to the godly. They filled the streets with a mighty thronging, vestiges of a recent contact with God, the Father, lying brightly on a few faces. Most gossiped, shared confidences, checked others' Sunday go-to-meeting clothes, and then spun from the crowd to head homeward.
Growing up, becoming responsible, having to think ahead and assuming the postures of adulthood had certain compensations for me. One that I weekly appreciated was the freedom to sleep late on Sundays. (Somehow the bed was more sensual on that morning then weekdays.) I loved the soul-stirring songs and heartily approved of the minister's passions, but being penned shoulder to shoulder with a rocking crowd of strangers for three hours or more did nothing for my soul.
I maneuvered through the churchgoers, listening for and hearing:
“The Reverend sure spoke today.”
“That's the truth, child. He did it today.”
“Reverend was talking to my soul this morning.”
“Bless your heart. Mine too.”
“It's a wonderful thing to go into the house of the Lord.”
“That's the truth.”
The sounds waved like pretty ribbons and belonged to me.
I understood them all. I was a part of that crowd. The fact of my Southern upbringing, the fact of my born blackness meant that I was for the rest of my life a member of that righteous band, and would be whether or not I ever went to church again.
The small white house sat squarely in a dirt yard. A few roses tried vainly to grow along a wire fence.
Johnnie Mae opened the door and from her taut smile I knew my blunt words of the other night might have been forgiven, but they were not forgotten.
Beatrice came from the rear of the house and stood beside Johnnie Mae. Both of them talked at once.
“You made it. We didn't think you were going to. We just got back from church. Just