The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [15]
Now my angry son was wrestling with the same knowledge. We had been apart less than a month—he had stayed an unwelcome guest in his own home, while I had gloried in every day of our separation.
He covered the hurt with a look of unconcern, but I knew his face better than my own. Each fold, every plane, the light or shadow in his eyes had been objects of my close scrutiny. He had been born to me when I was an unmarried adventurous seventeen-year-old; we had grown up together. Since he was fatherless most of his fourteen years, the flash of panic in his eyes was exchanged for scorn whenever I brought a new man into our lives. I knew the relief when he discovered the newcomer cared for me and respected him. I recognized the confusion that changed his features each time the man packed to leave. I understood the unformed question. “She made him leave. What will she do if I displease her too?” He remained standing, hands in his pockets, waiting for me to convince him of the stability of my love. Words were useless.
“Your school is three blocks away, and there's a large park almost as nice as the one on Fulton Street.”
At the mention of the San Francisco park where we picnicked and he learned to ride a bike, a tiny smile tried to cross his face, but he quickly took control and sent the smile away.
“… and you liked the Killens children. Well, they live around the corner.”
He nodded and spoke like an old man. “Lots of people are different when they're visiting than when they're at home. I'll see if they're the same in New York as they were in California.”
Youthful cynicism is sad to observe, because it indicates not so much knowledge learned from bitter experiences as insufficient trust even to attempt the future.
“Guy, you know I love you, and I try to be a good mother. I try to do the right thing, but I'm not perfect”—his silence agreed—“I hope you'll remember whenever I've done something that hurts you that I do love you and it's not my intention …”
He was studying my face, listening to the tone of my voice.
“Mom …” I relaxed a little. “Mother” was formal, cold, disapproving. “Mom” meant closeness, forgiveness.
“Mom, I know. I know you do the best you can. And I'm not really angry. It's just that Los Angeles …”
“Did Ray do anything … mistreat you?”
“Oh no, Mom. He moved about a week after you left.”
“You mean you lived alone?”
Shock set my body into furious action. Every normal function accelerated. Tears surfaced and clouded my vision. Guy lost half his age and suddenly he again was a little boy of seven who slept with a butcher's knife under his pillow one summer at camp. What did he slip under his pillow in Los Angeles while I partied safely in New York?
“My baby. Oh honey, why didn't you tell me when I phoned? I would have come back.”
Now his was the soothing voice. “You were trying to find a job and a house. I wasn't afraid.”
“But Guy, you're only fourteen. Suppose something had happened to you?”
He stood silent and looked at me, evaluating my distress. Suddenly, he crossed the room and stopped beside my chair. “Mom, I'm a man. I can look after myself. Don't worry. I'm young, but I'm a man.” He stood, bent and kissed me on the forehead. “I'm going to change the furniture around. I want my desk facing the window.” He walked down the hall.
The black mother perceives destruction at every door, ruination at each window, and even she herself is not beyond her own suspicion. She questions whether she loves her children enough—or more terribly, does she love them too much? Do her looks cause embarrassment—or even more terrifying, is she so attractive her sons begin to desire her and her daughters begin to hate her. If she is unmarried, the challenges are increased. Her singleness indicates she has rejected, or has been rejected by her mate. Yet she is raising children who will become mates. Beyond her door, all authority is in the hands of people who do not look or think or act like her and her children. Teachers, doctors, sales clerks, librarians, policemen, welfare workers