The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [38]
“Yeah. Sure I saw the guys this morning. I walked to school with some of the members. We talked.” He started toward his room, protecting his masculine secrecy.
“Excuse me, but please tell me what you talked about. I'd really like to know.”
“Aw, Mom.” He was embarrassed. “Aw, I just made up something. I said my gang in California always fought to the death, but never on hearsay. And I said I'd meet him and one other person on neutral ground. With knives or fire or anything. I said I wasn't about to run. I told you, Mom, that I'd handle it.” He grinned. “What's for dinner?”
I had to laugh. He was definitely my son, and following my footsteps, bluffing all the way.
I had only threatened the young vultures hovering over my son; Guy had offered to literally fight fire with fire. Fortunately we were believed—because maybe neither of us was bluffing.
Revolución had accepted my short story. That it would appear only in Cuba, and probably in Spanish, did not dilute the fact that I was joining the elite group of published writers. The Harlem Writers Guild celebrated. Rosa Guy, a founding member, who had been in Trinidad when I joined the group, had returned and offered her house for the week's reading and a party in my honor.
Rosa was tall, beautiful, dark-brown and fiery. She danced, argued, shouted, laughed with an exciting singleness of mind. We were alike in boldness and fell quickly into a close friendship. She had been born in Trinidad, and although she had lived in New York City since she was seven years old, her speech retained a soft Caribbean slur.
CHAPTER 6
I made my way through the busy streets of Harlem, dressed in my best and wearing just enough makeup. Along the way I received approval from lounging men or passersby.
“Hey baby. Let me go with you.”
“Oowee, sugar. You look good to me.”
“Let me be your little dog, till your big dog come.”
I smiled and kept walking. The compliments helped to straighten my back and put a little swing to my hips, and I needed the approval.
I was en route to the SCLC to meet Bayard Rustin. I had seen him a few times at fund-raising parties since the closing of Cabaret for Freedom, but we had not had a private meeting since the first time in the organizational offices, and I imagined a thousand reasons why I had been asked to return.
The receptionist told me Mr. Rustin was waiting. He stood up and leaned over the crowded desk, offering me his hand.
“Maya, thank you for coming. Have a seat. I'll call Stan and Jack.”
I sat and ran through my mind all the possibilities. There was a discrepancy in the figures from Cabaret of Freedom. They wanted me to produce another revue. They wanted me to write a play about Martin Luther King and the struggle. They didn't know I couldn't type, so they were going to offer me a job as secretary. They needed volunteers and …
Stan and Jack came in smiling (that could mean that the receipts had been O.K., but I wasn't sure).
We all shook hands, exchanged the expected small greetings and sat down.
Bayard said, “You speak first, Stanley.”
Stan Levison cleared nonexistent phlegm from his throat. “Uh, Maya, you know we're proud and pleased at the way you handled Cabaret for Freedom.”
Jack interrupted. “The content was brilliant. Just brilliant. The performers …”
Stanley harrumphed and continued, “We think you've got administrative talent.” He looked at Bayard.
Just as I thought. I was going to be offered a typing job.
Bayard spoke. “We are going to have a shift in the organization and we're going to need someone, a trustworthy person, reliable, and someone who knows how to get along with people.” He looked over at Jack.
It was Jack's turn. “We watched how you dealt with that cast. You kept order; and if anybody knows, I know the egos of actors. You never raised your voice, but when you did speak everyone respected what you had to say.”
He nodded to Stanley, who began to speak immediately.
“You understand what the struggle is about. You did say you grew up in the South, didn't you?”
I nodded. Stamps, Arkansas,