Gather Together in My Name - Maya Angelou [15]
In Southern towns, the people my grandmother called “wordly” socialized on Saturday night, while the “godly” entertained and were entertained in cool parlors on Sunday. The black people brought that custom north along with their soft speech and remembered recipes. Since my hostesses and I were Southern, I expected to sit at an overloaded table giving fulsome compliments while they plied me with “just one more helping.”
“Come in. Take the weight off. Hope you're not starving. I'm just starting to cook.” They were as nervous as I. I moved into the tiny room and immediately felt too big for it.
“Thought you were going to bring the baby.”
“He was asleep. I'll go back early and take him for a walk.” That was going to be my excuse to get away.
“Well, what do you think of our house?” I hadn't had a chance to look around before. I noticed that the walls were bare and there were no books, but furniture they had plenty. A fat, overstuffed rust sofa pressed its matching chair into a corner. Two large chairs, more accidental than incidental, stood pompous against the other wall. Little clear glass lamps, topped with white frilly shades, sat on two end tables. Things took up all the air.
“Come on, see the rest before you sit down.” Johnnie Mae's pride carried us into a bedroom while Beatrice went back to the kitchen.
“Have you ever slept in a round bed before?” I hadn't and I hadn't seen one either. It didn't seem appealing, although it was covered with a blue satin spread which matched its curves.
“When Beatrice has her flowers she sleeps in here.” I followed her into a monastic cell. A small cot and an old dresser were the room's only furnishings. No lamps, no doilies.
“Her flowers?” I wasn't really so curious as I was uncomfortable.
Johnnie Mae said, “Her monthlies. I don't get them any more. I had an operation. If she wasn't so scared of hospitals, she'd have one too.”
“An operation?” I was young, but I was also stupid.
“Had my ovaries and all that mess taken out; Bee ought to get it done too. After all, I'm not about to give her any babies, am I? She hunched me and winked. I must have returned the wink. I don't know. But I was thinking of the stupidity which got me in the predicament. The big generous unprejudiced spirit which had got me hooked up with two lesbians of heavy humor.
“It's nice. Your house is really very nice. I mean, it reflects your taste and your personalities. I always say if you want to know a woman, I mean a person, go to their house. It will tell you …” I knew that words, despite the old saying, never fail. And my reading had given me words to spare. I could, and often did to myself or my baby, recite whole passages of Shakespeare, Paul Lawrence Dunbar poems, Kipling's “If,” Countee Cullen, Langston Hughes, Longfellow's Hiawatha, Arna Bontemps. Surely I had enough words to cover a moment's discomfort. I had enough for hours if need be.
Back on the prickly sofa, Johnnie Mae offered me Dubonnet. I held the glass of thick sweet wine as protection. Thinking she would hesitate to pounce on me if there was a chance I would spill the wine on her furniture, I kept it in front of me like a shield.
“Beatrice, come out here. You're not chained to the stove.” She looked at me and raised thick eyebrows. Johnnie Mae had the infuriating habit of making anyone she spoke to into a fellow conspirator. I raised my eyebrows back at her as if I understood her meaning. Beatrice came into the room, a sprinkling of perspiration dotting her face.
“Now, baby, you don't want no black chicken do you?” Beatrice was teasing. Flirting.
“If that chicken gets any darker than you, I'll have to whip your rusty dusty.” They were a comedy team. If I had heard that exchange at the club I would have joined their laughter, but perched guarded in the cluttered room, I couldn't find anything funny I laughed.
“Come here, you sweet thing.” Beatrice obeyed and stood like a little chubby girl in front of Johnnie Mae.
“Bend down.” Johnnie Mae raised