The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [64]
It seemed to me that I washed, scrubbed, mopped, dusted and waxed thoroughly every other day. Vus was particular. He checked on my progress. Sometimes he would pull the sofa away from the wall to see if possibly I had missed a layer of dust. If he found his suspicions confirmed, his response could wither me. He would drop his eyes and shake his head, his face saddened with disappointment. I wiped down the walls, because dirty fingerprints could spoil his day, and ironed his starched shirts (he had his shoes polished professionally).
Each meal at home was a culinary creation. Chicken Kiev and feijoda, eggs Benedict, and turkey tetrazzini.
A good woman put ironed sheets on the bed and matched the toilet paper to the color of the bathroom tile.
I was unemployed but I had never worked so hard in all my life. Monday nights at the Harlem Writers Guild challenged my control. Heavy lids closed my eyes and the best reading of the best writing could not hold my exhausted attention.
“A bride, you know.” Everyone would laugh, except Rosa, who knew how hard I was trying to be a good housewife.
“That African's got her jumping.” Hands clapped at the humor of it all. But they were speaking more truth than they knew. When I wasn't home tired I was as tight as a fist balled up in anger. My nerves were like soldiers on dress parade, sharp, erect and at attention.
We were living luxuriously but I didn't know how much cash we had, nor could I be sure that the bills were paid. Since I was sixteen, except for three married years between, I had made and spent my own money.
Now I was given a liberal food and house allowance and a little cash for personal expenditure (taxis and Tampax). Vus collected and paid the bills. The novelty was not amusing and my heart was not at peace.
Members of the South Africa United Front were invited to India to meet Krishna Menon. When Vus left I fumbled around the house for a few days, seeing no one but Guy, trying to accommodate an uncomfortable sense of useless-ness. When every window was polished and every closet as orderly as department-store racks, I decided to go to Abbey's house. The most called-upon prerequisite of a friend is an accessible ear.
“He doesn't want me to work, but I don't know what's going on and it's making me feel crazy.”
Abbey brushed the nap of her long-haired sofa. “You wanted a man, Maya Angelou. You've got one.” She just didn't know how seriously upset I was.
“But, Ab, I didn't give over my entire life. You know that's not right.”
She locked her jaws and stared at me for a long time. When she spoke, her voice was hard and angry. “A man's supposed to be in charge. That's the order of nature.” She was raising an argument which we had debated for years.
My position had always been that no one was responsible for my life except me. I was responsible for Guy only until he reached maturity, and then he had to take control of his own existence. Of course, no man had ever tried to persuade me differently by offering the security of his protection. “Well, then, I must be outside of nature. 'Cause I can't stand not knowing where my air is coming from.”
Abbey made a clucking sound with her tongue, and said, “The worst injury of slavery was that the white man took away the black man's chance to be in charge of himself, his wife and his family. Vus is teaching you that you're not a man, no matter how strong you are. He's going to make you into an African woman. Just watch it.” She dismissed the discussion and me. But she didn't know the African women I had met in London or the legendary women in the African stories. I wanted to be a wife and to create a beautiful home to make my man happy, but there was more to life than being a diligent maid with a permanent pussy.
CHAPTER 11
The Cultural Association for Women of African Heritage had its second meeting at Abbey's luxury penthouse apartment on Columbus Avenue. Several weeks before, we