The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [12]
Mother walked toward him holding money in her hand.
“Who did you expect? Queen Victoria?”
“No. No, ma'am. I mean … Our people … in here … It's kinda new seeing us … and everything.”
“This is for you.” She gave him the tip. “We are just ordinary guests in the hotel. Thank you and good night.” She opened the door and waited. When he walked out mumbling good night, she closed the door with finality.
“Mom, you were almost rude.”
“Well, baby, I figure like this. He's colored and I'm colored, but we are not cousins. Let's have a drink.” She smiled.
During the next two days, Mother showed me off to some old card-playing friends she had known twenty years earlier.
“This is my baby. She's been to Egypt, all around Milan, Italy, and Spain and Yugoslavia. She's a singer and dancer, you know.” When her friends were satisfactorily impressed with my accomplishments, Mother made certain of their won der by adding, “Of course, I'll be shipping out myself in a few days.”
We hugged in the empty lobby of the Desert Hotel; the convention had ended the day before our departure.
“Take care of yourself. Take care of your son, and remember New York City is just like Fresno. Just more of the same people in bigger buildings. Black folks can't change because white folks won't change. Ask for what you want and be prepared to pay for what you get.” She kissed me and her voice softened to a whisper. “Let me leave first, baby. I hate to see the back of someone I love.”
We embraced again and I watched her walk, hips swaying, into the bright street.
Back at home I collected myself and called Guy, who responded by coming into the living room and then walking back to lean against the doorjamb.
“Guy, I want to talk to you. Please sit down.” At this stage, he never sat if he could stand, towering above the boredom of life. He sat, obviously to pacify me.
“Guy, we're going to move.” Aha, a flicker of interest in his eyes, which he quickly controlled.
“Again? Okay. I can pack in twenty minutes. I've timed myself.” I held on to the natural wince that struggled to surface.
In his nine years of schooling, we had lived in five areas of San Francisco, three townships in Los Angeles, New York City, Hawaii and Cleveland, Ohio. I followed the jobs, and against the advice of a pompous school psychologist, I had taken Guy along. The psychologist had been white, obviously educated and with those assets I knew he was well-to-do. How could he know what a young Negro boy needed in a racist world?
When the money was plentiful, we lived in swank hotels and called room service. At other times we stayed in boardinghouses. I strung sheets as room dividers, and cooked our favorite food illegally on a two-burner hot plate. Because we moved so often, Guy had little chance to make or keep friends, but we were together and generally we had laughed a lot. Now that post-puberty had laid claim to him, our friendly badinage was gone and I was menacing him with one more move.
“This is the last time. Last time, I think.”
His face said he didn't believe me.
“We're going to New York City.” His eyes lit up again and just as quickly dulled.
“I want to leave Saturday. John and Grace Killens are looking for an apartment for us. I'll stay with them and in two weeks you'll join me. Is that all right?” Parent power becomes so natural, only children notice it. I wasn't really asking his permission. He knew it and didn't answer.
“I thought I'd ask Ray if he'd like to stay in the house with you for two weeks. Just to be company for you. That O.K. with you?”
“That's perfectly all right, Mother.” He stood up. He was so long, his legs seemed to start just at his arm sockets. “If you'll excuse me.”
Thus he ended our unsatisfactory family chat. I still had to speak to my gentleman friend.
As we sat close in the morning's sunshine, Ray's handsome yellow face was as usual in benign repose.
“I'm leaving Saturday for New York.”
“Oh? Got a contract?”
“No. Not yet.”
“I don't think that I'd like to face New York without a contract …”
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