The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [94]
I could borrow money from the Killenses or my mother or Rosa, but according to the eviction notice it was too late to pay back rent. We had no recourse save to vacate the premises.
I went to the local supermarket and collected cartons. When I returned, the eviction notice seemed to have become enlarged. It covered the door from ceiling to floor. After rereading it, I went inside and began packing. I put all our clothes in suitcases and the steamer trunk I had brought from California. I culled the best pots and skillets from kitchen cupboards and placed them in cardboard boxes. The furniture, the expensive sofa, good beds and chairs had been Vus's selection, so their disposal or arrangement could wait.
There was a frantic sound of the scraping of the key and the jerking open of the door. Guy and Vus arrived together. They crowded each other in the foyer.
Guy spoke first. “Mom, did you see this door? Did you see the … ?” I sat on the sofa watching them untangle themselves. Vus came into the living room followed by Guy. “Have you spoken to anyone?”
It was a strange question. I didn't know what he meant, so I shook my head. When Guy asked me, not Vus, what we were going to do, I knew that although I had relinquished my responsibility, and although Guy had seemed to accept Vus as head of our family, in a critical moment he turned back to me.
Vus asked Guy to please go to his room. For the first time in months, Guy studied my face. I nodded and he went into his room reluctantly and left his door ajar.
Vus sat down with a heaviness which could not be credited to his bulk alone.
His first statement struck me as being as strange as his first question. “I have a lot of money so there's nothing to worry about.”
In a few hours, we would be on the street. It was enough that we would have no place to sleep, but our address and telephone number would cease to belong to us. In fact, we were soon to lose everything which identified us to our community except our names, and Vusumzi Make sat facing me, saying, “There's nothing to worry about.”
The tiny lines around his eyes deepened and he began to pull viciously at the hairs on his chin. He didn't hear me offer to make a drink or a fresh pot of coffee, so I didn't repeat the offer.
After a few minutes he hauled himself out of the chair and picked up his briefcase. He turned at the door and looking in my direction, but without actually looking in my eyes, spoke. “As I say, there is nothing to worry about.” He opened the door, walked out, and eased it closed, quietly.
Guy came out of his room, agog with worry.
“Mom, what's going to happen? The thing said twenty-four hours. Where are we going? How did this happen? What did you do?”
The sight of my long tall beautiful boy brought back the memory of an ancient incident.
My then husband, Tosh, Guy, who was seven, and I were riding in our truck one lovely Sunday morning. We had just finished our weekly outing at the San Francisco city dump where Tosh and Guy threw office trash and home garbage onto the acrid evergoing burning heap of refuse. We had been in a high mood on the return home. Guy made puns and Tosh laughed at them. I felt secure. I had a loving husband and my husband had a job. My son, who was healthy and bright, received love and the necessary, to me, amount of chastisement. What more could I, a young uneducated black girl, expect? I was living in my earthly paradise.
We waited at the intersection of Fulton and Gough for the lights to change. Suddenly, a car lurched into the passenger side of the truck. I was thrown forward, my forehead struck the windshield and my teeth crunched against the top of the cab's dashboard. When I regained consciousness, Tosh was blowing his breath in my face and murmuring. I asked about Guy and Tosh said that as the car hit, I grabbed for Guy and folded him in my arms. Now he was standing on the corner unhurt.
I got out of the truck and walked over to my son, who was being consoled by strangers.