The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [84]
“Why? Why do you come back?”
“Well”—she drew herself up—“well, we support you. I mean, we understand what you are saying.”
The blur of noise drifted around us, but we were an isolated inset, a picture of American society. White and black talking at each other.
“How many blacks live in your building?”
“Why, none. But that doesn't mean …”
“How many black friends do you have? I mean, not counting your maid?”
“Oh,” she took a couple of steps backward. “You're trying to insult me.”
I followed her. “You can accept the insults if I am a character on stage, but not in person, is that it?”
She looked at me with enough hate to shrivel my heart. I put my hand out.
“Don't touch me.” Her voice was so sharp it caught the attention of some bystanders. Roscoe appeared abruptly. Still in character, giving me a little bow, “Hello, Queen.”
The woman turned to leave, but I caught her sleeve. “Would you take me home with you? Would you become my friend?”
She snatched her arm away, and spat out, “You people. You people.” And walked away.
Roscoe asked, “And pray, what was that?”
“She's one of our fans. She comes to the theater and allows us to curse and berate her, and that's her contribution to our struggle.”
Roscoe shook his head slowly. “Oh dear. One of those.”
The subject was closed.
CHAPTER 13
The lipstick smudge was not mine, nor did the perfume come from my bottles. I laid Vus's shirt across the chair and hung his suit from the doorknob. Then I sat down to wait for him to come from the shower.
We had not discussed infidelity; I had simply never thought of it. But the third time Vus's clothes were stained with the evidence of other women's make-up I had to face the possibility.
He came into the bedroom, tying the belt of his silk paisley dressing gown.
“Dear, shall we go out to breakfast? I have a meeting downtown. We could go to Broadway and then—”
“Vus, who is the woman? Or rather, who are the women?”
He turned to me and dropped his hands to his side. His face as blank as a wooden slat.
“Women? What women?” The round eyes which I loved were glazed over, shutting me out. “What stupidness are you talking about?”
I kept my voice low. I was asking because I was my mother's daughter and I was supposed to be courageous and honest. I didn't want an honest answer. I wished for him to deny everything, or to hand me any contrived explanation.
“The lipstick. It's fuchsia. It's not mine. This time the perfume is Tweed. I have never worn that scent.”
“Ah,” he smiled, stretching and opening his fine lips, allowing me a flash of even teeth. “Ah, my darling, you're jealous.” He walked over and took my hands and pulled me up from the chair. He held me close and his belly shook against mine. He was laughing at me.
“My darling wife is a little jealous.” His voice and body rumbled. He released me and looked into my eyes.
“My dear, there are no other women. You are the only love in my world. You are the only woman I've ever wanted and all that I have.”
That was what I wanted to hear, but as a black American woman, I had a history to respect and a duty to discharge. I looked at him directly.
“Vus, if you fell in love with Abbey, or Rosa or Paule, I could understand. I would be hurt but not insulted. They are women who would not intend to hurt me, but love is like a virus. It can happen to anybody at any time. But if you chippie on me, you could get hurt, and I mean seriously.”
Vus pulled away. We were face to face, but he had withdrawn into his privacy.
“Don't you ever threaten me. I am an African. I do not scare easily and I do not run at all. Do not question me again. You are my wife. That is all you need to know.”
He dressed and left without repeating his breakfast invitation.
I walked around the house thinking of my alternatives. Separation was not possible. Too many friends had advised me against the marriage, and my pride would not allow me to prove them right.