Gather Together in My Name - Maya Angelou [46]
Then Cotton Candy Adams came to town.
“Let me be your little dog
till your big dog come
Let me be your little dog
till your big dog come
And when your big dog come,
tell him what your little dog done.”
R.L.'s words stumbled when he started to tell me about his ex-girl friend and former dancer. “Oh, Rita … she—Candy and I—I mean, she was my old lady … and she, uh, left me. That is, we used to dance together. She came out here—I mean, she said if … When she left me … uh, if I … if she … ever changed her mind, she'd, uh, find me.”
“Okay, R.L. She came. Are you all going back together?” I was as snappy as I thought a chorus dancer would be.
“See, Rita, she's a, uh, dancer. I mean, she's great. She used to dance with Parker and Johnson. And she's worked the Orpheum Circuit.” He had stopped stuttering. “She brought her costumes. Really flash. Feather fans with rhinestones. See, most of what I taught you—I mean …” Shyness tripped his tongue and he began to stutter again. “Wait till you meet her. She's … You're going to … I think you'll like each other.”
“Sure thing, Bozo.” I had never called a living soul Bozo. “I'd be delighted to meet her.”
Cotton Candy was the picture of every “Daddy's little girl.” Her real hair hung down in black waves and dimples punctured her light-brown cheeks. She had a cute walk, which wavered between a wanton strut and a little-girl mince. And then she opened her mouth. “Hi, Rita. R.L. told me about you. You're a dancer.”
I didn't know how to hold the shock. Her teeth were rotten and her lips refused to help mold her words. I looked at her eyes and understood. They shone feverishly, yet seemed lifeless. Cotton Candy was a user.
Certainly R.L. knew. After all, he was from Chicago. I couldn't grasp why he would want to get reconciled with her, and I knew from the enchanted way he watched her that that was exactly what he wanted.
“Yes, I'm a dancer. Are you planning to dance in San Francisco?” Might as well have it out in the open.
“Oh yes.” Although R.L. was feet from her, she cuddled in his direction. “R.L. and I are going to brush up our old act and get started again.” She closed her mouth and dimpled. Her eyes slowly moved to R.L. “Isn't that what you said, Boogie?”
“Yeah. Uh-huh. Yeah. We'll do all the stuff we used to do.”
I had to get away immediately. “Well, good luck to you both. Break a leg.” I walked away from the lovers before they could see the life leaking out of me.
At home, I paced the floors. Mother had taken my son out and Papa Ford snored in the small back bedroom. I cursed Cotton Candy for coming to San Francisco and consigned R.L. to hell for being stupid enough to take her back. My career was over before it began. My tears came hot and angry. I had dared so many things and failed. There was to be nothing left to do. I had given Curly my young love; he had gone away to marry another woman. The self-defense tactics with the lesbians had gained me a whorehouse, which I had neither the skill nor the courage to keep. I had fled to the home of my youth and had been sent away. The Army and now my dance career, the one thing I wanted beyond all others (needed, in fact) for my son but mostly for myself, had been plucked right out of my fingers. All the doors had slammed shut, and I was locked into a too-tall body, with an unpretty face, and a mind that bounced around like a ping-pong ball. I gave in to sadness because I had no choice.
A few days passed and R.L. didn't come to the house. I telephoned him. He was distracted but promised to drop by and talk about it. I waited past the afternoon hour he mentioned, and long into the night. He never came; he didn't call.
If we had had the opportunity to talk about it, laboriously and painfully I might have been forever lost in the romance of romance lost. But with no sounding board except my own ears and honest thoughts, I had to stop weeping (it was too exhausting) and admit that Cotton Candy had dibs on him and maybe R.L. felt more loyal to her because she was a user and needed him.
There was