by Maya Angelou
I nodded to the bag I had dropped beside the door.
“Hush baby, hush baby, hush baby, hush.” She had started to croon. I handed the baby to her and right away he began to cry.
“Go on. He’ll be all right.”
He yelled louder, splitting the air with screams. She contrived a wordless song. His screams were lightning, piercing the dark cloud of her music. I closed the door.
CHAPTER 10
The night club sat on the corner, a one-story building whose purple stucco façade was sprinkled with glitter dust. Inside the dark square room, a bar dimly curved its way from the door to a small dance floor in the rear. Minuscule round tables and chairs jammed against one another, and red bulbs shone down, intensifying the gloom.
The Hi Hat Club had almost too much atmosphere.
Music blared and trembled, competing with the customers’ voices for domination of the air. Neither won, except that for a few seconds during the lull between records, the jukebox sat quiet up against the wall, its green and red and yellow lights flickering like an evil robot from a Flash Gordon film.
The customers came mostly from the underworld, though there was a scattering of young sailors among them. They all jockeyed and shifted, lifting glasses and voices in the thick air, which smelled of Lysol and perfume and bodies, and cigarettes and stale beer. The women were mistresses of decorum. They sat primly at the bar, skirts tucked in, voices quick or silent altogether. On the street they had been as ageless as their profession, but near the posturing, flattering men, they became modest girls. Kittens purring under the strokes.
I watched them and understood. I saw them and envied. They had men of their own. Of course they bought them. They laid open their bodies and threw away their dignity upon a heap of come-filled rubbers. But they had men.
In the late evenings, boosters and thieves wove their paths among the night people, trading, bartering, making contacts and taking orders.
“Got two Roos Bros. suits. Thirty-eight. Black. Pinstripe and nigger-brown. Tag says one-ninety dollars … they both yours for an ace fifty.”
“Gelman shoes. I. Magnin dresses. Your woman’ll catch if she wear these threads. For you, four dresses for a deuce.”
Depending on the evening’s take and the sweet man’s mood, the thieves were given money by the pimps which had been given them by the girls which they had saved by lying down first and getting up last.
The waitresses, in a block, were the least interesting of the club’s inhabitants. They were for the most part dull married women, who moved among the colorful patrons like slugs among butterflies. The men showed no interest in them, leading me to believe that virtue is safest in a den of iniquity.
I was younger but no more interesting than my colleagues, so the pretty men lumped me with them and ignored us all.
I had no chance to show them how clever I was because wit is communicated by language and I hadn’t yet learned theirs. I understood their lack of interest to imply that smart women were prostitutes and stupid ones were waitresses. There were no other categories.
I worked cleaning ashtrays, serving drinks and listening for over a month. My tips were good because I was fast and had a good memory.
“Scotch and milk for you, sir?”
“That’s right, little girl, you got a good memory.” Though he never saw me, he’d leave a dollar tip.
My first week in San Diego, Mother Cleo had told me she had a room for rent. “I see you a good girl coming over here to see your baby ever day and all, so my husband and me, we ready to let you live here with us. Room’ll be fifteen dollars a week. Got a new bedroom suite in it and if you put a rubber sheet on the bed, your baby can sleep with you.” So I became a roomer in the home of Mr. Henry and Mrs. Cleo Jenkins.
My life began to move at a measured tempo. I found a modern dance studio where a long-haired white woman gave classes to a motley crew of Navy wives.
I went to work at six (five-thirty to set up tables, get change, arrange my tray with napkins and matches) and was off at two. I shared a ride with a waitress whose husband picked her up every night. I slept late, woke to fix my breakfast around noon and play with my baby.
He amused me. I could not and did not consider him a person. A real person. He was my baby, rather like a pretty living doll that belonged to me. I was myself too young and unformed a human being to think of him as a human being. I loved him. He was cute. He laughed a lot and gurgled and he was mine.
CHAPTER 11
I had begun to look forward to two women coming in every night. They were both just under thirty, and separately they would not have attracted much attention. Johnnie Mae was thin, taller than average, dark-brown-skinned. Her long jaw sagged down, giving her a look of sadness even when she laughed. She wore fuchsia lipstick and most often showed pink smudges on her long white teeth.
Beatrice was plump to ripening. A short yellow woman whose role seemed to be straight man to Johnnie Mae’s unfunny but loud humor.
The fact that the pimps and panderers didn’t harass them, bespoke the tolerance in the black community for people who chose to lead lives different from the norm. Although they were obviously not sisters, they dressed identically and never spoke to anyone except each other and me.
“Good evening, ladies. Two Tom Collins, I presume.” I was a democrat and treated every lady the same.
“Evening, Rita. That’s right.” They must have spent their free time practicing before mirrors. They sounded alike and even the looks on one face were reflected on the other.
“Got you running this evening, ain’t they?” The question did not really need answering. My tray was always filled with fresh drinks, dirty ashtrays or empty glasses.
“When you going to come over to our house?” They smiled at each other, then gave me their sly glances.
“Well, I work all the time, you know.”
“Yes, but you have a day off. You say you don’t have any friends here.”
“I’m thinking about it. That’ll be two dollars, please.”
Lesbians still interested me, but I no longer felt tenderly protective of them: when I was fifteen I had spent nearly a year concerning myself with society’s gross mistreatment of hermaphrodites. I was anxious over the plight of lesbians during the time I was consumed with fear that I might be an incipient one. Their importance to me had diminished in direct relationship to my assurance that I was not.
“Johnnie Mae got something nice for you yesterday.”
“Sure did.”
“It’s a birthday surprise.”
“But you don’t know my birthday.”
“That’s how come it’s a surprise.”
They laughed into each other’s laugh and I was forced to join them. Customers at other tables needed my attention, but the two women stayed on the fringes of my mind as I laced myself around the room. They weren’t frightening, and they were funny.
“We’ll get a bottle of Dubonnet”—Beatrice pronounced it doo bonnet—“for you and I’ll cook. You’re off on Sunday. Come over and I’ll fry a Sunday bird.”
“And we can have a ham.”
“Just the three of us? Chicken and ham?” That was a lot of food.
“Nigger ham. A watermelon.” Their laughter, crackling, met in the air above the table.
“I take my baby out on Sundays.”
They thought about that while I waited on the other customers.
“You can bring him over.”
“I’ll think about it.”
At the bar a thick-waisted waitress who had never invited me to her house curled her upper lip.
“You’d better be careful.” She sent a hostile glance to Johnnie Mae’s table.
“Why?” I wanted to hear her say it.
“Those women. You know what they are?” Her voice had taken on a sinister depth.
“What?”
“Bull daggers.” She smirked her satisfaction at saying the word.
“Oh, really?” I put no surp
rise in my voice.
“You know about bull daggers, don’t you?” Her face showed how her tongue relished the words.
“They dag bulls?” For a second she wasn’t sure if I was being smart.
“They love women.”
“Oh, is that all? That’s all right then. They don’t scare me. They can’t eat me up.” I flounced away, leaving my tray on the bar, and went directly to the table.
“Listen. I’m not a … not … not a lesbian, and I don’t want to be one. Is that all right?”
Their faces closed. Johnnie Mae asked, “Is what all right?”
Suddenly I was ashamed. “I mean, I’d like to come to your house on Sunday. But … I mean, I wanted you to know that … I don’t go that way.”
They were silent, wind-up toys whose springs had broken. I wished I could catch the words and swallow them whole.
“I’d like your address.” I held out my pencil. Johnnie Mae took it and handed it to Beatrice.
“What time on Sunday?” I had to put something into the emptiness. Beatrice was writing.
“Two o’clock. When we come from church,” said Johnnie Mae, handing me the paper.
“Okee dokee. See you then.” I wanted to be flippant, to be funny, to say something that would erase the sadness, but I could think of nothing. I got my tray and went back to work.
CHAPTER 12
On the blocks where Saturday-night revelers rambled, Sunday afternoons were given over to the godly. They filled the streets with a mighty thronging, vestiges of a recent contact with God, the Father, lying brightly on a few faces. Most gossiped, shared confidences, checked others’ Sunday go-to-meeting clothes, and then spun from the crowd to head homeward.
Growing up, becoming responsible, having to think ahead and assuming the postures of adulthood had certain compensations for me. One that I weekly appreciated was the freedom to sleep late on Sundays. (Somehow the bed was more sensual on that morning than weekdays.) I loved the soul-stirring songs and heartily approved of the minister’s passions, but being penned shoulder to shoulder with a rocking crowd of strangers for three hours or more did nothing for my soul.
I maneuvered through the churchgoers, listening for and hearing:
“The Reverend sure spoke today.”
“That’s the truth, child. He did it today.”
“Reverend was talking to my soul this morning.”
“Bless your heart. Mine too.”
“It’s a wonderful thing to go into the house of the Lord.”
“That’s the truth.”
The sounds waved like pretty ribbons and belonged to me.
I understood them all. I was a part of that crowd. The fact of my Southern upbringing, the fact of my born blackness meant that I was for the rest of my life a member of that righteous band, and would be whether or not I ever went to church again.
—
The small white house sat squarely in a dirt yard. A few roses tried vainly to grow along a wire fence.
Johnnie Mae opened the door and from her taut smile I knew my blunt words of the other night might have been forgiven, but they were not forgotten.
Beatrice came from the rear of the house and stood beside Johnnie Mae. Both of them talked at once.
“You made it. We didn’t think you were going to. We just got back from church. Just changed our clothes.” They had changed into matching white T-shirts and pedal pushers.
In Southern towns, the people my grandmother called “worldly” socialized on Saturday night, while the “godly” entertained and were entertained in cool parlors on Sunday. The black people brought that custom north along with their soft speech and remembered recipes. Since my hostesses and I were Southern, I expected to sit at an overloaded table giving fulsome compliments while they plied me with “just one more helping.”
“Come in. Take the weight off. Hope you’re not starving. I’m just starting to cook.” They were as nervous as I. I moved into the tiny room and immediately felt too big for it.
“Thought you were going to bring the baby.”
“He was asleep. I’ll go back early and take him for a walk.” That was going to be my excuse to get away.
“Well, what do you think of our house?” I hadn’t had a chance to look around before. I noticed that the walls were bare and there were no books, but furniture they had plenty. A fat, overstuffed rust sofa pressed its matching chair into a corner. Two large chairs, more accidental than incidental, stood pompous against the other wall. Little clear glass lamps, topped with white frilly shades, sat on two end tables. Things took up all the air.
“Come on, see the rest before you sit down.” Johnnie Mae’s pride carried us into a bedroom while Beatrice went back to the kitchen.
“Have you ever slept in a round bed before?” I hadn’t and I hadn’t seen one either. It didn’t seem appealing, although it was covered with a blue satin spread which matched its curves.
“When Beatrice has her flowers she sleeps in here.” I followed her into a monastic cell. A small cot and an old dresser were the room’s only furnishings. No lamps, no doilies.
“Her flowers?” I wasn’t really so curious as I was uncomfortable.
Johnnie Mae said, “Her monthlies. I don’t get them any more. I had an operation. If she wasn’t so scared of hospitals, she’d have one too.”
“An operation?” I was young, but I was also stupid.
“Had my ovaries and all that mess taken out; Bee ought to get it done too. After all, I’m not about to give her any babies, am I?” She hunched me and winked. I must have returned the wink. I don’t know. But I was thinking of the stupidity which got me in the predicament. The big generous unprejudiced spirit which had got me hooked up with two lesbians of heavy humor.
“It’s nice. Your house is really very nice. I mean, it reflects your taste and your personalities. I always say, if you want to know a woman, I mean a person, go to their house. It will tell you …” I knew that words, despite the old saying, never fail. And my reading had given me words to spare. I could, and often did to myself or my baby, recite whole passages of Shakespeare, Paul Lawrence Dunbar poems, Kipling’s “If,” Countee Cullen, Langston Hughes, Longfellow’s Hiawatha, Arna Bontemps. Surely I had enough words to cover a moment’s discomfort. I had enough for hours if need be.
Back on the prickly sofa, Johnnie Mae offered me Dubonnet. I held the glass of thick sweet wine as protection. Thinking she would hesitate to pounce on me if there was a chance I would spill the wine on her furniture, I kept it in front of me like a shield.
“Beatrice, come out here. You’re not chained to the stove.” She looked at me and raised thick eyebrows. Johnnie Mae had the infuriating habit of making anyone she spoke to into a fellow conspirator. I raised my eyebrows back at her as if I understood her meaning. Beatrice came into the room, a sprinkling of perspiration dotting her face.
“Now, baby, you don’t want no black chicken do you?” Beatrice was teasing. Flirting.
“If that chicken gets any darker than you, I’ll have to whip your rusty dusty.” They were a comedy team. If I had heard that exchange at the club I would have joined their laughter, but perched guarded in the cluttered room, I couldn’t find anything funny. I laughed.
“Come here, you sweet thing.” Beatrice obeyed and stood like a little chubby girl in front of Johnnie Mae.
“Bend down.” Johnnie Mae raised her face and the two women’s lips met. I watched and saw their tongues snaking in and out. Except in movies I had never even seen men and women kiss passionately. They pulled apart and looked at me in a practiced gesture. For a second I was too embarrassed to have been caught watching, and in the next second I knew they had wanted me to see. Even after I told them I had no interest in lesbianism, they thought the sight of women kissing would excite me.
I hated their stupidity, but more than that I hated being underestimated. If they only knew, they could strip buck naked and do the Sassy Sue wiggle and I would continue to sit, with my legs
crossed, sipping the Dubonnet.
Beatrice’s laughter floated over her shoulder as she headed back to the kitchen. Johnnie Mae looked at me and by leering tried to include me in her appreciation.
“Beatrice would make a rabbit hug a hound.” She grunted like a pig.
Because laughter seemed to be the safest sport in the house, I laughed and said, “Where do you work? I mean both of you?”
“Right here. Flat on our backs.” Nothing embarrassed the woman. “We both take two all-night tricks apiece once a week. Comes to two hundred dollars. We more than get by.” She indicated the sofa and chairs. “As you can see.”
Lesbian prostitutes! Did they trick with women? I ached to know. How did they pick them up? I had never heard of women hustling other women, but surely they didn’t go to bed with men. I fished for a way to put my question.
Johnnie Mae looked around the room, her eyes counting and loving the many pieces of furniture. Her head finished its semicircle and I was back in her vision.
“We’re going to have to move, you know?” The question was foolish. Not only did I not know, I didn’t care. And if I’d had the chance to think about it, I’d have thought it was a good thing, too.
“The landlord doesn’t like us. He’s a church deacon, he says. But the real reason is that his son is a faggot. Goes around wearing women’s clothes, so the old bastard can’t stand gay people.” She was happy to grin, thinking of the man’s unhappiness. “I told the old bastard so, too.” She shrugged her shoulders against the fates. “We’ll find another place. I hate to move, though. I mean, we painted this place ourselves.” The walls were pea-yellow in the living room. “We called this our honeymoon cottage. Beatrice planted the roses.”
I felt there was something I was supposed to say. Something like “You have my deepest sympathy.” For some reason, at that moment I thought about Curly and did in fact feel sorry for the two women.
“Niggers make me sick. And nigger men make me sicker than that.” She might have been thinking of her landlord, but it seemed she was reading my mind and had the audacity to mean Curly. She would have lost my sympathy, anyway. I hated the word “nigger” and never believed it to be a term of endearment, no matter who used it.