Gather Together in My Name - Maya Angelou [16]
I hated their stupidity, but more than that I hated being underestimated. If they only knew, they could strip buck naked and do the Sassy Sue wiggle and I would continue to sit, with my legs crossed, sipping the Dubonnet.
Beatrice's laughter floated over her shoulder as she headed back to the kitchen. Johnnie Mae looked at me and by leering tried to include me in her appreciation.
“Beatrice would make a rabbit hug a hound.” She grunted like a pig.
Because laughter seemed to be the safest sport in the house, I laughed and said, “Where do you work? I mean both of you?”
“Right here. Flat on our backs.” Nothing embarrassed the women. “We both take two all-night tricks apiece once a week. Comes to two hundred dollars. We more than get by.” She indicated the sofa and chairs. “As you can see.”
Lesbian prostitutes! Did they trick with women? I ached to know. How did they pick them up? I had never heard of women hustling other women, but surely they didn't go to bed with men. I fished for a way to put my question.
Johnnie Mae looked around the room, her eyes counting and loving the many pieces of furniture. Her head finished its semicircle and I was back in her vision.
“We're going to have to move, you know?” The question was foolish. Not only did I not know, I didn't care. And if I'd had the chance to think about it, I'd have thought it was a good thing, too.
“The landlord doesn't like us. He's a church deacon, he says. But the real reason is that his son is a faggot. Goes around wearing women's clothes, so the old bastard can't stand gay people.” She was happy to grin, thinking of the man's unhappiness. “I told the old bastard so, too.” She shrugged her shoulders against the fates. “We'll find another place. I hate to move, though. I mean, we painted this place ourselves.” The walls were pea-yellow in the living room. “We called this our honeymoon cottage. Beatrice planted the roses.”
I felt there was something I was supposed to say. Something like “You have my deepest sympathy.” For some reason, at that moment I thought about Curly and did in fact feel sorry for the two women.
“Niggers make me sick. And nigger men make me sicker than that.” She might have been thinking of her landlord, but it seemed she was reading my mind and had the audacity to mean Curly. She would have lost my sympathy, anyway. I hated the word “nigger” and never believed it to be a term of endearment, no matter who used it.
“Now you tell me. We been wondering about you. How come you working as a waitress? You speak such good English, you must have a diploma.”
“Yes, I do.” Shock pushed my voice out.
“You mean you graduated from high school?”
“Yes.”
“And work as a waitress?”
“Well, I can't type or take shorthand or—”
“You remind me of Beatrice.” She shouted, “Beatrice. Come here.” I feared I was going to have to sit through the kissing again.
Beatrice stood at the door leading to the living room. “What's on your mind?”
Johnnie Mae didn't have time for fun. “Bee, Rita's just like you. She finished high school.”
Beatrice, knowing that wasn't such a grand feat said, “Really. Got your diploma, huh?”
Johnnie Mae answered for me. “Sure she got it. And works as a waitress.” I started to explain, but she stopped me. “Beatrice was a WAC. A corporal.” It was hard to believe that all that soft-looking flesh had been contained in an army uniform. “And when she got out she went to work. That's where we met. At some rich old woman's house. Bee was the cook and I was the housekeeper. I took one look at Bee and I have been keeping her ever since.”
Break for peals of laughter.
CHAPTER 13
“Let's have