The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [58]
At the dining table he spread before me the lights and shadows of Africa. Glories stood in thrilling array. Warrior queens, in necklaces of blue and white beads, led armies against marauding Europeans. Nubile girls danced in celebrations of the victories of Shaka, the Zulu king. The actual earth of Africa was “black and strong like the girls back home” and glinted with gold and diamonds. African men covered their betrothed with precious stones and specially woven cloth. He asked me to forgive the paucity of the gift he had for me and to understand that when we returned to Mother Africa he would adorn me with riches the likes of which I had never imagined. When he led me into the darkened guest room and placed a string of beads around my neck, all my senses were tantalized. I would have found the prospect of a waterless month in the Sahara not only exciting, acceptable. The amber beads on my nut-brown skin caught fire. I looked into the mirror and saw exactly what I wanted to see, and more importantly what I wanted him to see: a young African virgin, made beautiful for her chief.
The next afternoon I told Guy that the South African we had met at the Killenses' house was coming around for dinner. He took the news so casually I thought that perhaps he had forgotten who Make was. He went to his room and began playing records as I fumbled setting the table.
When the doorbell rang, Guy popped out of the back room like a bottle cork and spun through the kitchen.
“I'll get it.”
Before I could set the stove burners to safe levels, I heard the rumble of voices, speaking indistinguishable words.
I reached the living room just as Vus was beginning to lower himself into Guy's favorite chair. He stood again and we shook hands. I offered him the so much more comfortable sofa. Guy shook his head and smiled wanly. “This is comfortable, too, Mom.”
Since early childhood, Guy had made certain pieces of furniture his private property. In preschool years and until he was eight or so, each night he would lasso chairs or tables with toy ropes before going to bed, and he would warn his “horses” to stay in the corral. Although he grew out of the fantasy, his sense of property possession remained and everyone respected it.
Vus sat down in Guy's chair, and I thought he was getting off to a miserable start.
Guy offered to bring drinks, and the second he left the room Vus said, “There is no reason to be nervous. We are both men. Guy will understand.” I nodded. Vus thought he understood, but I wondered how much of my son's temperament would really escape him.
I sat primly on the sofa across the room. Guy walked in carrying a napkin-covered tray, ice, glasses and a bottle of Scotch.
“Mom, something smells like it's sticking.” He walked to Vus. “How do you like your drink?”
Vus stood and mixed his own drink from the tray in Guy's hands. The two of them seemed absorbed in an atavistic ritual. I had ceased to be the center of attention.
“Well, I'll go tend to the dinner.”
Vus looked up over his drink. “Yes. Guy and I must talk.” Guy nodded as if he already knew something.
“Guy, will you please come to the kitchen for a moment?”
He hesitated, reluctant to leave our guest.
“Now, Mom?”
“Yes. Please.”
We stood beside the warm stove and I opened my arms to embrace him. He stepped back, wary.
“Please come. I just want to hug you.”
His eyes darted and he looked young and defenseless. Unwilling, he walked into my embrace.
“I love you. Please know that.” I hadn't meant to whisper.
He extricated himself and went to the door. His face suddenly sad and old.
“You know, Mom. That sounds like goodbye.”
The sensuality between parents and children often is so intense that only the age-old control by society prevents the rise of sexuality. When a single parent is of the opposite sex the situation is more strained. How to feel love and demonstrate affection without stirring