by Maya Angelou
“The … uh … dancer?” His voice was slow and cloudy.
Dancer? Of course. I had been a cook, waitress, madam, bus girl—why not a dancer? After all, it was the only thing I had studied.
“Yes, I’m a dancer.” I looked at him boldly. “Why?”
“I’m looking for a dancer, to work with me.”
I thought he might be a talent scout for a chorus line or maybe the big stage show, featuring colored dancers, called “Change Your Luck.”
“Come in.”
We sat at the dining-room table and I offered a coffee. He looked me over, one feature at a time. My legs (long), my hips (spare), my breasts (nearly nonexistent). He drank the coffee slowly.
“I’ve studied since I was fourteen,” I said.
If the U.S. Army was going to penalize me for having gone to the California Labor School, it was just possible that someone else would find the time spent there valuable. I was right. His eyes moved from an examination of my body back to my face.
“I’m Poole. From Chicago.” His announcement held no boast, and I was sure that represented sophistication rather than false modesty. “I do rhythm tap and I want a girl partner. She doesn’t have to do much but flash. Are you agva?” (“Flash” and “A.G.V.A.” were words unknown to me.)
I sat quietly and looked at him. Let him figure it out for himself.
“I met the woman at the record shop and she told me about you. Said all you talked about was dancing. She gave me your address.
“Some cats from the Local, musicians, straightened me out with the contracts for a few gigs. Scale is twenty-two fifty, but I’ll do a few under scale to get some ends together.”
I hadn’t the slightest notion of what he was talking about. Scale. Agva. Gigs. Local. Ends.
“More coffee?” I went into the kitchen, walking like a model, chin down and sternum up, and my tail bone tucked under like white women.
I put on a fresh pot of coffee and tried desperately to decide on a role for myself. Should I be mysterious and sultry, asking nothing, answering all questions with a knowing smirk, or should I be the open, friendly, palsy every-boy’s-sister girl-next-door type? No decision came to my mind, so I went back into the dining room, my legs stuck together with fine decorum.
“What did you study?”
“Ballet. Modern Ballet and the Theory of Dance.” I made it sound like Advanced Thermonuclear Propulsion.
His face fell again.
“Any tap-dancing?”
“No.”
“Jazz?”
“No.”
“Acrobatics?”
“No.” I was losing him, so I jumped in the gap. “I used to win every jitterbug contest. I can do the Texas Hop. The Off Time. The boogie-woogie. The Camel Walk. The new Coup de Grâce. And I can do the split.”
With that I stood up, straddle-legged, and looked down into his sad face, then I began to slide down to the floor.
I was unprepared for the movement (I had on a straight skirt), but R.L. was less ready than I. As my legs slipped apart and down, I lifted my arms in the graceful ballet position number 1 and watched the impresario’s face race from mild interest to incredulous. My hem caught mid-thigh and I felt my equilibrium teeter. With a quick slight of hand I jerked up my skirt and continued my downward glide. I hummed a little snatch of song during the last part of the slither, and kept my mind on Sonja Henie in her cute little tutus.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t practiced the split in months, so my pelvic bones resisted with force. I was only two inches from the floor, and I gave a couple of little bounces. I accomplished more than I planned. My skirt seams gave before my bones surrendered. Then my left foot got caught between the legs of Mother’s heavy oak table, and the other foot jumped at the gas heater and captured the pipe that ran from the jets into the wall. Pinned down at my extremities with the tendons in my legs screaming for ease, I felt as if I were being crucified to the floor, but in true “show must go on” fashion I kept my back straight and my arms uplifted in a position that would have made Pavlova proud. Then I looked at R.L. to see what impression I was making. Pity at my predicament was drawing him up from his chair, and solicitude was written over his face with a brush wider than a kitchen mop.
My independence and privacy would not allow me to accept help. I lowered my arms and balanced my hands on the floor and jerked my right foot. It held on to the pipe, so I jerked again. I must have been in excellent shape. The pipe came away from the stove, and gas hissed out steadily like ten fat men resting on a summer’s day.
R.L. stepped over me and looked down into the gas jet. “Goddam.” He swiveled over to the window and opened it as wide as it would go, then back down to the stove. Near the wall at the end of the pipe, he found a tap and turned it. The hissing died and the thick sweetish odor diluted.
I had still to extricate my other leg from the avaricious table.
R.L. lifted an edge of the table, and my ankle was miraculously free. I could have gotten up, but my feelings were so hurt by the stupid clumsiness that I just rolled over on my stomach, beat my hands on the floor and cried like a baby.
There was no doubt that R.L. Poole had just witnessed his strangest audition. He could have walked down the hall and out the door, leaving me breathing in the dust of the ancient rug, but he didn’t. I heard the chair creak, announcing that he had sat back down.
I was sure he was doing his best to hold in his laughter. I tried for more tears, to irritate him and force him to leave, but the tear ducts had closed and the sound I made was as false as a show girl’s eyelashes. Nothing for it but to get up.
I dried my face with dusty hands and lifted my head. R.L. was sitting at the table in the same chair, his head propped up with his hand. The dark-brown face was somber and he said quietly, “Well, anyway, you’ve got nice legs.”
When we went to a nearby rehearsal hall I was amazed to see R.L. Poole move. The wind seemed to make him dance. I pictured his lean bony legs as being attached directly to his sharp shoulders with skeletal pins. For he would hunch his shoulders and glide across the rehearsal-hall floor, his heels and toes tapping below him in a fusillade of small explosions, his arms dangling at his side, his face a pockmarked oval.
He tried to simplify the intricate tap rhythms by singing them to me in a rough, low voice. “Boom, boom, boo rah, boo rah, boo rah, boo rah, brah, brah.” Sharp slaps on the floor, dust rising from the old wood.
With the polish of a professional, R.L. made it all appear easy. I telescoped my energy on the gliding steps of the flash, with no less purpose than a ballet student mastering a tour jeté. I would raise my arms shoulder-high, then open them out slowly, take two sliding steps, bend one knee and hold the position. An accomplished flash partner frames and highlights the principal dancer when he is tapping out complex rhythms. To be able to let my body swing free over the floor and the crushing failures in my past was freedom. I thanked R.L. for my liberation and fell promptly in love with him.
CHAPTER 22
I committed myself to a show-business career, and dancing and studying dance swallowed me. Charlie Parker’s “Cool Breeze” was my practice piece. Flash, slide through the opening riff, then stash during Bird’s solo; keeping soft-shoe time by dusting the boards with the soles of my feet, then break during Bud Powell’s piano wizardry. Break, cross step. Chicago. Fall. Fall. Break, crossover. Apple. Break. Time step. Slap crossover. Then break and Fall off the Log, going out on the closing riff.
I practiced until my ankles ached, without complaint, and was more than rewarded when R.L. told me one day, “After we break in our act out here, I think we’ll go East. Big Time. Join Duke’s or Basie’s road show.”
My concern was not how I’d manage with my son on the Big-time Circuit, but how I could perfect my flash so that R.L. wouldn’t go looking for a prettier partner. I used my time at the Chicken Shack to strengthen my ankles. When I was behind the counter I stood on tiptoe, letting one heel down, then raising it, and pre
ssing the other to the floor.
When R.L. decided we were ready to try out our act, I sprang my homemade costume on him. I had gone to a theatrical store and bought a wig, coke feathers, a padded bra and a G-string. I sewed the shiny black feathers on the scanty outfit, then added a few sequins and a little sparkle for show. My costume could be held in one balled fist, and the G-string barely covered my pubic hair and the cleavage of my buttocks.
“Er … no.” He lowered his head and searched painfully for the words he wanted. “Uh … Rita … no. That won’t … uh … get it … That’s … wh … a shake dancer’s rig … I mean, I’ll show you … Something like a bathing suit … with spangles …”
I stood before him, my oiled skin gleaming, the fluffy wig trembling with ringlets on my head, withering with disappointment. My costume was a faithful copy of L’Tanya’s, the popular interpretive dancer who was a current favorite at the Champagne Supper Club.
“You’ll look … I mean, tap shoes are gonna look … I mean, they don’t go together …”
I remembered. L’Tanya danced barefoot, with a string of little bells around her ankles and rings on her toes. I reluctantly agreed that my creation didn’t fit a rhythm tap routine but put it away for future use.
R.L. rented a red, white and blue costume for me that was cut like a one-piece bathing suit. I added a top hat and cane, and we were ready for our first gig in a small night club down the peninsula. Ah, the smell of grease paint!
Our routine was honed to a fine point, our flashes and stashes and hand movements coordinated in machinelike precision. My costume fit passably well, my hair was done beautifully, and I had on enough make-up to stave off a winter cold.
The orchestra struck up our music and I led “Poole and Rita” out on the dance floor.
Dum dum te dum dum dum.
“And now, breaking in their new act, from way out Chicago way—Poole and Rita!”
I was miraculously in the center of an empty floor, with lights blazing down and I felt nearly naked. Just out of the glare I saw what appeared like a thousand knees and legs around small tables. I couldn’t make out faces in the gloom, but I was sure they were there and probably all staring at me.
R.L. glided onto the floor, tap-tap-tapping away, flashed by me and I wanted to grab his hand. He pulled away to anywhere, but I was frozen in the spotlight.
Boom boom boom rah boom rah, boom rah brah, brah.
I realized that I was frightened and I nearly panicked. My God, what was going to happen? I’d never be able to leave this place. A stake had been driven down through my head and body, rooting me forever to this spot.
R.L. flashed by again.
Boom rah boom rah.
If he would only stop that silly tap-dancing and take my hand, we could leave.
He marched up and spoke to me under the music.
“Come on, Rita. Break. Break!”
Break what? I looked at him as if I had never seen him before.
He put his arm around my shoulder like Astaire did Rogers in one of their military parodies.
He looked at me and gave me a push that almost sent me into one of the tables, and hissed, “Break, goddammit, break!”
I broke.
I started dancing all over the place. Tapping, flashing, stashing up and down the floor. I threw in a little Huckle Buck, Suzie Q and trucking. Our routine had completely disappeared, but I was the world’s dancing fool. Boogie-woogie, the Charleston. When the band was moving into the last chorus, I was just getting warmed up.
R.L. pursued me across the floor. He finally put his arm around my shoulder again, and by brute force led me off the floor, flashing to the end.
The audience clapped and I pulled away and raced back, booming and boom-rahing. R.L. joined me and again pulled me back to the wings.
I loved it. I was a hungry person invited to a welcome table for the first time in her life.
The costume rental and transportation had diminished our take to fifteen dollars apiece, I was exhausted and had the long bus ride ahead back to the city. But all was better than well. It was supercolossal. I had broken in. I was in show business. The only way up was up.
CHAPTER 23
As I scrambled around the foot of the success ladder, Mother’s life flowed radiant. Fluorescent-tipped waves on incoming tides. Men with exotic names, slick hair and attitudes of bored wisdom came into Vivian Baxter’s large dark house, stayed awhile and went, making room for their successors.
Good-Doing David, with his silky black skin (Mother always preferred very black men, saying they were the cleanest folks in the world) and silk foulard tie, sat around the kitchen table for a few months. His eyes monitored her movements carefully, and when it was nearly too late she repaid him with a sultry look, thrown over her shoulder, and a smile that promised secret delight. Good-Doing forfeited his tenancy because of a misjudgment in logic. He thought since he was her man, it followed that she was his woman. He shouldn’t have been so wrong.
One afternoon a seaman friend called her from the dock, and she invited him over. They maintained a brother/sister relationship.
“John Thomas is coming,” she said to me. “Please go get a couple of chickens from the kosher poultry store. Tell them to cut them up.” She had pulled out the wooden bowl, and laid her diamond rings in an ashtray. “I’ll whip up a few biscuits and give him some fried chicken.”
I knew that although the store was only two blocks away, she would have the bread in the oven and the oil heating for the chicken before I returned.
When they said cooking, they called Vivian Baxter’s middle name.
When I rushed back into the house, the smell of hot grease met me, and the mixing bowl was washed and draining on the sink. Mother was setting the table for two.
“You have to pick up the baby? Make me a little drink, honey. And see if there’s bourbon. John Thomas drinks bourbon. I’ll put your chicken on the back of the stove.” Her smile was partly for me, partly for the coming visitor and partly for the chicken seasoned, floured and dropping into the boiling skillet.
“You know there’s always some in the kitchen for ‘grandma ’n de chillun’.” Her favorite old-folks line slid into whitefolks vulgarity of the black accent.
I answered the door for Mr. Thomas, and took his herringbone raglan coat and hat.
“Hey, baby, still growing, huh? Where your old ugly mama?” He walked down the hall laughing.
“Let him in, he may be a gambler.” Mother’s voice clinked like good glass from the kitchen.
Their welcoming laughter mixed as I left the house.
—
The ambulance screamed as it two-wheel-turned the corner from our block. I picked Guy up, not noticing his weight, and ran to our house, where two police cars sat empty, their red eyes turning faintly in the afternoon sunlight.
For the passionate, joy and anger are experienced in equal proportions and possibly with equal anticipation. My mother’s capacity to enjoy herself was vast and her rages were legendary. Mother never instigated violence, but she was known not to edge an inch out of the way of its progress. The sound of police and ambulance sirens whine through my childhood memory with dateless frequency. The red lights whirring on top of official cars and the heavy disrespectful footsteps of strange authority in our houses can be brought back clearly in my mind at a beckon.
Inside, Mother was slipping into her suede coat, a quiet smile on her face. She saw me and turned to the brace of policemen who waited for her.
“This is my daughter, Officers. That’s who I was waiting for. Baby …” Now for the instructions that I already knew well. “Call the bail bondsman, Boyd Puccinelli. Tell him to meet me at Central Station.”
I knew better than to ask what happened. I held the baby tighter.
“It’s just a little business with David. Now, don’t you worry. I’ll be back in an hour.”
She checked her make-up in her compact mirror, gave me and the baby a peck on our lips and walked
down the steps with the police. Separate and dignified.
Then from the bottom: “Your dinner’s in the oven. On low. Oh, and baby, clean up in the bedroom before that stuff dries, please.”
There was no sign of Mr. John Thomas in the kitchen. After my son and I had eaten, and I put him down for an afternoon nap, I opened her bedroom door. One chair was on its side, but elsewhere things were in order. As I walked in, the weak winter sunshine paled over dark rust blotches on the rug and showed the lighter red splashes down the sides of the mantel.
Lukewarm soap suds are best to remove bloodstains from furniture. I had nearly finished cleaning up when Mother returned.
“Hi, baby. Any phone calls?”
“No.”
“Here, leave that, I’ll do the rest. Come on in the kitchen and let me tell you what happened.”
Over a fresh drink she gave me what she called a “blow by blow” description.
“John Thomas and I were up to our elbows in fried chicken (I made a gravy longer than I been away from St. Louis for the biscuits) when Good-Doing rang the bell. I let him in and brought him back to the kitchen. He saw John Thomas and stopped shorter than a show horse. Said no, he didn’t want to eat. Didn’t want a drink, didn’t want a chair, so I sat back down and started tending to business. Every time I looked up, I saw he was getting fuller than I was. Finally he said he wanted a few words with me and would I come to the bedroom. I told him to go on, I’d be there. I excused myself from John Thomas and went up the hall.
“ ‘What’s that nigger doing here?’ He got ugly in the face and jumped around like a tail on a kite.
“I said, ‘You know John Thomas. He’s my friend. He’s like a brother to me.’
“ ‘Well, I don’t like him eating here. Get him out of the house.’
“I said, ‘Good-Doing, don’t get it twisted. This is my house and my chicken, and he’s my friend.’