Gather Together in My Name - Maya Angelou [44]
CHAPTER 24
Poole and Rita were booked into the Champagne Supper Club. Pride made me go beserk. I quit my job. How could I exchange the glittering sequined bathing suit and purple satin tap shoes for a waitress apron and old-lady comforts? I wouldn't insult my muse, Terpsichore, by letting even the idea of the Chicken Shack enter into my thoughts.
A two-week engagement in Big Time, and I was ready.
My lights in stars, my name in lights, my name in stars.
For a few months before the opening we worked for whatever money was offered and practiced daily. R.L. showed me increasingly complicated steps. As soon as I learned, he laced them into our routines. When I had no cash, I asked Mother for a loan. I explained that I was investing my time in career preparation, and when the investment paid off she would be with me, holding hands and laughing and reaping the returns.
With characteristic talent, she enlarged my skit into a full-length revue. And she was the star. She reminded me that during the war years, when she had had lots of money and could have afforded to sit back idle, she had studied barbering, cosmetology, ship-fitting, welding, tool-and-dye making, and that the diplomas attesting to her perseverance hung on the walls of her den. She said she had no intention of ever going to work in an airplane factory or barber shop, but if push came to shove (she snapped her fingers), she was qualified. She approved of sticking to an idea until it was definitely proven bad or good.
She lent me the money, without further preachments, and Poole and Rita continued to practice.
Although I lived and ate at home, the small savings I kept in a jar under my bed diminished. My son always seemed to need new clothes; on Sundays I traditionally bought fresh flowers for the house; and then there were the tap shoes. Rehearsing wore out more taps than dancing three times a night in a cabaret.
I approached Bailey for a small advance. He sat, stubble-jawed, on his corduroy sofa, and looked at the adjacent wall.
“I've put Eunice in the hospital. She's very sick.”
“What's wrong with her?” I made my voice soft.
“She just had a cold. That's all.” But he didn't believe that was all.
“Well, come on. She's young. Nobody dies from a cold.” If only I could get him to look at me. I went on making a joke. “They only wish they could.”
“Yeah.” He put his feet on the cluttered coffee table, leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes.
“Good-bye, Maya.”
“Bailey, it's not that serious.” He didn't try to hear me and I could not intrude further by repeating myself.
The apartment stank of dead flowers and dirty dishes. His voice blurred but didn't rise or fall. “I've cut out all the runs except Los Angeles so I can be with her.”
The room was oppressive as if a large hand had squeezed the gaiety out of it drop by drop and then released it to resume its former shape.
• • •
I was getting so I could fairly fly through the routine. My romance with R.L. was danced out in the rehearsal hall, because he made few sexual demands. I gave no arguments to his monthly requests for lovemaking. After all, he was my teacher and my transportation to Broadway. But I was grateful that they didn't come with greater frequency. An artist, I was certain, protected and preserved his instrument. Pianists, drummers, horn players, saxists all look after their instruments. As a dancer, my instrument was my body. I couldn't just allow a person, anyone, to screw my instrument.
Opening night arrived. Mother had taken a large table for her friends, and Bailey miraculously didn't have to be on the road or at the hospital. The night club, which was large and bedizened with glittering spinning lights, was full.
Excitement made me glow and the lights backstage rubbed away R.L.'s pockmarks. We looked at ourselves in the large mirror. He was absolutely dashing in his powder-blue tuxedo, and I was as glamorous as Esther Williams in my swimsuit. And could dance better, too.
The M.C. called our names, and the band swung