Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas - Maya Angelou [98]
The party began like any party, coolly and dryly at first, but the sounds of a good time increased in direct proportion to the absorption of food and drink. Joy sat down at the piano and Leslie Scott stood to deliver a rich “Blue Moon.” We applauded happily. Laverne Hutchinson, without being urged, sang another sentimental song, trying to outdo Leslie. Martha, who was sipping no less steadily than the rest of us, submitted to requests and honored the gathering with a song a cappella. When she finished, another singer took her place. Between songs we talked. People who had found it hard to smile for weeks were suddenly reminding each other of old stories and sharing the hilarious moments. It was a much needed festival.
Rhoda Boggs, at five foot eight inches and nearly two hundred pounds, was called “one of the big women in the company.” She wore a mink capelet to all formal affairs, hats that quivered with large silk roses and high-heeled baby-doll shoes, the straps sinking deep into her ankles. She had the lyrical voice and artistic temperament of almost every classical soprano. As the party reached a peak, Rhoda clutched her capelet to her large bosom and started across the small dance floor to share stories with friends at another table. At the same time, Billy Johnson, waspish, impish and balding, decided to traverse the small space en route to another destination. The two collided midway. Rhoda stumbled at the shock while Billy almost fell under the impact. Rhoda was the first to recover. She looked down at the associate conductor as if he were a street urchin laying obstacles in the route of her parade. She rushed to the nearest table.
“Did you see him? Did you see that?” Her indignant voice was sounded like a flute played in anger. “Did you see that he struck Rhoda Boggs?” She went quickly but gracefully to the next table. “Did you see him actually strike Rhoda Boggs? Oh, my dear.” She patted her breast and sang a little mean “Where does he live? Oh, where does he stay?” She carried her outrage from table to table, the roses on her hat nodding wildly in agreement at the affront.
Billy Johnson was still wondering in the center of the dance floor when Earl Jackson approached. Rhoda had relayed her news to the hostess and host, and although under Helen's influence Earl had mellowed, it was not safe to think he had ripened.
He caught Billy's lapels and pulled him out of the stupor. “What the hell you trying to do, hittin' that woman? You trying to be funny?” His voice carried over the room to Rhoda who was fanning her face with her hat. “This is my party, you sonna bitch!”
And then he pushed Billy away with his left hand and slapped him with the right. The loud smack pulled us all to our feet, but Billy Johnson spun and dove a full gainer onto the highly polished wood. All movement and sound were suspended for a second and we heard Billy drawl in his plain Oklahoma accent, “That's the first time a man has really ever hit me.”
The moment was so brief, there was no time to decide whether the pronouncement was a complaint or a compliment. Some people laughed out of nervousness, others because it was a funny scene, and a few began to down the last of the free drinks and collect their coats.
Behind my chair I heard a waiter say “Carabinieri.” I told Ethel to get her mother and I would find Martha, that we should leave at once because the police had been called. I found Martha in a group sympathizing with Rhoda Boggs.
“Mart, we'd better go. The waiters have called the police.”
“You're so smart, Miss Thing.” Partying and excitement had thickened her tongue.
“Here's your coat.” I helped her put it on. “Come on.”
I started toward the stairs and she followed me.
“Maya Angelou.”
I turned and looked back. Martha was on the landing and I was four steps below her.
“Maya Angelou, you're a smart-ass! Miss Fine Thing