Gather Together in My Name - Maya Angelou [49]
L.D. (Louis David) came the next night a half-hour before midnight, had breakfast and asked for me by name. The waitress brought the message and I went out uniformed and shining with sweat.
He stood. “Miss Rita.” He pulled out a chair. “Can you have a seat with me?”
I told him I was still working.
“If you're not busy after, I'd like to invite you for a ride … er, I guess you wouldn't want breakfast.” His lips pulled back a little to let me know he'd made a joke.
“No thanks, no breakfast.” And, I thought, no ride either. This dry little man couldn't compete with the bar on Center Street.
“I'll tell you how I happened to be here.”
He was still standing. My eyes looked straight into his forehead where curly black hair retreated from the advance of scalp.
“After I dropped those people off last night, I went to the gambling shack. Something happened to me. I couldn't keep my mind on the game. Kept forgetting what I was doing. I kept on thinking how sweet it was of you to get out of your nice clothes and fix us something to eat.”
His head dropped and his eyes lifted shyly. “I knew it wasn't for the tenner. Something about you told me that.” It was time for my eyes to drop.
“So I sat around awhile, then I went on home. This afternoon I got up and went back and cleaned the house out. I won six hundred playing Koch. Then I thought I might pick up that nice lady and spend some of this money on her.”
Here he pulled out a roll of money that looked the same as the one he had stripped the night before, but this time I noticed the big diamond ring and his manicured nails. I looked down and was certain the glistening pointed shoes were expensive Florsheims, and the hat lying in the next chair was a Dobbs. Here was the real thing. No loud-talking, door-popping shucker from the Center Street bar, but an established gambler who had Southern manners and city class.
“I thought we might drop in on some of my friends in Sacramento.”
The glorious feeling of having caught the big one gently massaged me and diffused in my mind and body. I was lovely when I changed into something sleek and appealing and said good night to the waitress and the relief cook.
The silver-blue Lincoln struck me as perfect for L.D. It wasn't large or brand-new, but it was rubbing-clean and shining with polish. When we drove away from the lights of Stockton, he found music on the radio and turned it down to a touching purr.
“I want a Sunday kind of love
A love to last past Saturday night
I want to know it's more than
love at first sight …”
He asked if I was married. Law or common-law? I said no, neither. (I pronounced it 'n eye ther). He said almost to himself, “I must have got my lucky break. At last.”
I leaned back into the real leather seat and grinned for my own enjoyment.
“I have to take care of some business. And I wanted you to come with me. I have to see a lady friend named Clara.”
His words never rushed but were selected, chewed over, released into the air as if the best choice possible had been made.
For once being young was fortunate. Everyone had heard the stories about young girls and older men. How older men were good to and generous to and crazy about young girls. I thought to myself, I'd rather be an old man's darling than a young man's slave.
“Clara is a real square shooter. Four square, Rita, like I think you are. Yes sir, honest as the day is long.”
Even his idiom was old.
When we drove up to the tree-shaded house, he started to get out of the car. “Come on. I'd like you to meet Clara. She's sure to like you …”
I followed him.
The heavy odor of disinfectant in the house was as telltale as a red light over the door. Although memories of my San Diego experience rushed me, I kept my face straight, giving no hint that I knew where we were.
Clara was a small, well-built woman in her thirties. Her