The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [51]
The dance auditorium was filled with black women made up and coiffed and beautiful in Dior and Balenciaga gowns or in dresses run up by local seamstresses. African women floated, serene-faced in their colorful national dress, and a few whites mingled with black men in tuxedos or outfits like that worn by Rosa's friend. I left my friends to check in at the table reserved for the SCLC. The Greys were watching the dancing couples, and when I greeted them, Hazel jumped.
“Oh, there you are. So you met him after all.” I knew who she meant. “He was over here a few minutes ago, asking for you.”
I saw him coming across the dance floor, like an ocean liner plying through tugboats toward a pier. He asked me to dance.
He moved surprisingly well for his bulk, and his enjoyment of the dance made him seem less serious. He pulled me to him, and I felt the hardness under the layers of surrounding fat. He laughed.
“You're afraid of me, aren't you? A big girl like you, an American sophisticate, frightened by a little black man from The Dark Continent.”
“Why should I be afraid of you?”
He was still laughing. “Maybe you think I'll think you are a missionary and I'll eat you.”
“I don't think that. Anyway, if more Africans had eaten more missionaries, the Continent would be in better shape.”
He stopped dancing and looked at me with approval. “Miss Angelou, you have every reason to be alarmed. I intend to change your life. I am going to take you to Africa.”
I drew my body straight and made my face uninviting. “Mr. Make, I am going to be married in two months. So your plan is impossible.”
“I have heard that, but where is the elusive groom? I've seen you three times and, except for your son, you've been without male companionship.”
I defended Thomas. “My fiancé is working.”
“And what does this diligent man do?”
He was smirking. He knew the answer to his question.
“He's a bail bondsman. And I'm going to see him after the dance tonight.”
Make grabbed my hand and led me back to my table. He pulled out my chair and after I sat, he leaned to me and whispered, “I owe it to our people to save you. When you see your bloody fiancé, tell him that I'm after you and that with me every day is Saturday Night and I'm black and I'm dangerous.”
He left and my heart threatened to stop.
I went home early and alone. Guy was asleep and the house was cavernous.
Thomas answered the telephone. Had I enjoyed the fancy-dress ball? No, he was too tired to come and pick me up. No, I shouldn't call a taxi. After all, we'd see each other the next day. He was taking me to the movies.
Sleep didn't come to me willingly. Thoughts raced, chasing each other like lively children in a game of tag. Marry a man I hadn't even slept with and go to Africa. Leave Martin King and my own struggle. But all the black struggles were one, with one enemy and one goal. Thomas would shoot me with his service pistol. Why did Make want me? He didn't know me or my background. But then, I didn't know him either. What about Guy? Surely Make didn't expect me to leave my son. A chance for Guy to finish growing up in Africa. Suppose the man was too fat to make love. I knew of black women who had maimed husbands who refused them sex. I wouldn't go to that extreme; on the other hand, I didn't think I would stay with a man who couldn't satisfy me. Speculation was a waste of time. I was going to marry Thomas, and we'd live a nice complacent life in Brooklyn.
The next night the movie was deadly boring. I got up on the pretext of wanting a soft drink and I sat in the lobby smoking and wondering what Make was doing.