The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [10]
I parked my old Chrysler on a side street, and taking my overnight case, walked around the corner to the Desert Hotel. My mother had suggested that we meet at three, which meant that she planned to arrive at two.
The hotel lobby had been decorated with welcome banners for a visiting sales convention. Large florid men mingled and laughed with portly women under low-hanging chandeliers.
My entrance stopped all action. Every head turned to see, every eye blazed, first with doubt, then fury. I wanted to run back to my car, race to Los Angeles, back to the postered walls of my house. I straightened my back and forced my face into indifference and walked to the registration desk. The clock above said two forty-five. “Good afternoon. Where is the bar?” A round-faced young man dropped his eyes and pointed behind me.
“Thank you.”
The crowd made an aisle and I walked through the silence, knowing that before I reached the lounge door, a knife could be slipped in my back or a rope lassoed around my neck.
My mother sat at the bar wearing her Dobbs hat and tan suede suit. I set my case down inside the door and joined her.
“Hi, baby,” her smile was a crescent of white. “You're a little early.” She knew I would be. “Jim?” And I knew she'd already have the bartender's name and his attention. The man grinned for her.
“Jim, this is my baby. She's pretty, isn't she?”
Jim nodded, never taking his eyes away from Mother. She leaned over and kissed me on the lips.
“Give her a Scotch and water and another little taste for yourself.”
She caught him as he started to hesitate. “Don't refuse, Jim. No man can walk on one leg.” She smiled, and he turned to prepare the drinks.
“Baby, you're looking good. How was the drive? Still got that old Chrysler? Did you see those people in the lobby? They're so ugly they make you stop and think. How's Guy? Why are you going to New York? Is he happy about the move?”
Jim set my drink down and lifted his in a toast.
Mother picked up her drink. “Here's looking at you, Jim.” And to me. “Here's a go, baby.” She smiled and I saw again that she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
“Thanks, Mother.”
She took my hands, put them together and rubbed them.
“You are cold. Hot as it is, your hands are freezing. Are you all right?”
Nothing frightened my mother except thunder and lightning. I couldn't tell her that at thirty-one years old, the whites in the lobby had scared me silly.
“Just fine, Mother. I guess it's the air conditioning.”
She accepted the lie.
“Well, let's drink up and go to our room. I've got some talk for you.”
She picked up the bills from the bar, counted them and pulled out two singles.
“What time do you come on, Jim?”
The bartender turned and grinned. “I open up. At eleven every morning.”
“Then, I'll break your luck for you. Scotch and water, remember. At eleven. This is for you.”
“Oh, you don't have to do that.”
Mother was off the stool. “I know. That's why it's easy. See you in the morning.”
I picked up my suitcase, followed her out of the dark bar into the noisy lobby. Again, the buzz of conversation diminished, but Mother never noticed. She switched through the crowd, up to the desk.
“Mrs. Vivian Baxter Johnson and daughter. You have our reservation.” My mother had married a few times, but she loved her maiden name. Married or not, she often identified herself as Vivian Baxter.
It was a statement. “And please call the bellboy. My bag is in my car. Here are the keys. Set your bag down here, baby.” Back to the registration clerk. “And tell him to bring my daughter's case to our room.” The clerk slowly pushed a form across the counter. Mother opened her purse, took out her gold Sheaffer and signed us in.
“The key, please.” Again using slow motion, the clerk slid the key to Mother.
“Two ten. Second floor. Thank you. Come on, baby.” The hotel's color bar had been lifted only a month earlier, yet she acted as if she