The Collected Autobiographies of Maya Angelou

by Maya Angelou

  —

  Big Mary was a large-boned, rough woman from Oklahoma whose husband had died in the tomato fields surrounding Stockton. She was the neighborhood’s surrogate mother. She tended children on a daily basis, but when I explained that I needed a weekly arrangement because of my hours, she agreed to let my son live in her house; I could pick him up on my day off. The blood of Indian ancestors pushed her cheekbones up so high that her eyes appeared to be closed, and her skin was the black brown of old polished wood. Mary drank once a month and other arrangements had to be made for all children on that one day. She would dress herself in a clean, loose-fitting cotton dress, and her dead husband’s shoes cut out to ease the strain. Sitting at the bar, she’d pull a coffee cup from her purse and order the bartender, “Fill it up!” After drinking the contents, she’d ask the bartender to wash the cup and fill it up again. She would sit, sipping, staring straight ahead, until she had drunk three cups of bourbon. Then she would pay, and without having passed the time of day with anyone, leave the bar as straight as she had entered it.

  Her way with children was to feed them well and coddle them. She fell into baby talk whenever children were mentioned, even if none were present.

  Her thick Oklahoma accent slurred and her tongue protruded through the evenly shaped, full black lips. I figured that such a display of affection couldn’t hurt my son, so I worked without great concern, and devoted myself to the serious business of accumulating a wardrobe.

  Boys seem to think that girls hold the keys to all happiness, because the female is supposed to have the right of consent and/or dissent. I’ve heard older men reflect on their youth, and an edge of hostile envy drags across their voices as they conjure up the girls who whetted but didn’t satisfy their sexual appetites. It’s interesting that they didn’t realize in those yearning days past, nor even in the present days of understanding, that if the female had the right to decide, she suffered from her inability to instigate. That is, she could only say yes or no if she was asked.

  She spends half her time making herself attractive to men, and the other half trying to divine which of the attracted are serious enough to marry her, and which wish to ram her against the nearest wall and jab into her recklessly, then leave her leaning, legs trembling, cold wet evidence running down her inner thigh. Which one will come to her again, proud to take her to his friends, and which will have friends who only know of her as the easy girl with good (or even bad) poontang?

  The crushing insecurity of youth, and the built-in suspicion between the sexes, militate against the survival of the species, and yet, men do legalize their poking, and women do get revenge their whole lives through for the desperate days of insecurity and bear children so that the whole process remains in process.

  Alas.

  The Poole-Rita partnership, with a little romance on the side, had left me yearning more for the stage and music and bravos of audiences than for a lover’s arms.

  But as fry cook in a small restaurant in the farm community, my fantasies were little different from any other girl of my age. He would come. He would. Just walk into my life, see me and fall everlastingly in love. I had the affliction suffered by most young women. The sexual excitement of my teens had abated, and I looked forward to a husband who would love me ethereally, spiritually, and on rare (but beautiful) occasions, physically.

  He would be a little younger than my father, and handsome in that casual way. His conservative clothes would fit well, and he’d talk to me softly and look at me penetratingly. He’d often pat me and tell me how proud he was of me and I’d strain to make him even prouder. We would live quietly in a pretty little house and I’d have another child, a girl, and the two children (whom he’d love equally) would climb over his knees and I would make three-layer caramel cakes in my electric kitchen until they went off to college.

  L.D. Tolbrook was my father’s age, my father’s color, and was as conservative as a black Episcopalian preacher. He wore tailor-made clothes and his rare smile showed teeth so anxious they clambered over each other. His hands were dainty and his long brown fingers ended with natural-polish manicured nails.

  One night he was with a party who had come to the restaurant for a midnight breakfast. I had changed into evening clothes but my replacement hadn’t yet come. When the waitress explained the situation to L.D.’s party, he came to the door of the kitchen and said, “Excuse me. I wanted a word with the chef.” His voice was soft.

  “I’m the swing-shift cook, but I’m off now.” I didn’t really look at him.

  “Well, I understand that.” His smile came from a deep well of understanding. “But my party is especially hungry. And we’d take anything you’d give us.” He looked at my dress. “I’d make it worth your while to be late to your party.”

  “I’m not going to a—” Before my mouth could close.

  He peeled a ten-dollar bill off his money roll. “Give us bacon and eggs, or ham and eggs. Or anything and any way you fix them. We’ll be happy.”

  I needed the money, so I took it and turned to go back to the dressing room and change my clothes.

  “What’s your name?” “Rita.”

  “All right, Miss Rita. Thank you. We all thank you.” He pushed his way through the door.

  Though I prided myself on tender sensitivity, I have never known when a great love affair was beginning. Some barricade lies midway my mind, and I’m usually on my back scrutinizing a ceiling before it is borne in on me that this is the man I fantasized in my late-night fingering.

  L.D. (Louis David) came the next night a half-hour before midnight, had breakfast and asked for me by name. The waitress brought the message and I went out uniformed and shining with sweat.

  He stood. “Miss Rita.” He pulled out a chair. “Can you have a seat with me?”

  I told him I was still working.

  “If you’re not busy after, I’d like to invite you for a ride … er, I guess you wouldn’t want breakfast.” His lips pulled back a little to let me know he’d made a joke.

  “No thanks, no breakfast.” And, I thought, no ride either. This dry little man couldn’t compete with the bar on Center Street.

  “I’ll tell you how I happened to be here.”

  He was still standing. My eyes looked straight into his forehead where curly black hair retreated from the advance of scalp.

  “After I dropped those people off last night, I went to the gambling shack. Something happened to me. I couldn’t keep my mind on the game. Kept forgetting what I was doing. I kept on thinking how sweet it was of you to get out of your nice clothes and fix us something to eat.”

  His head dropped and his eyes lifted shyly. “I knew it wasn’t for the tenner. Something about you told me that.” It was time for my eyes to drop.

  “So I sat around awhile, then I went on home. This afternoon I got up and went back and cleaned the house out. I won six hundred playing Koch. Then I thought I might pick up that nice lady and spend some of this money on her.”

  Here he pulled out a roll of money that looked the same as the one he had stripped the night before, but this time I noticed the big diamond ring and his manicured nails. I looked down and was certain the glistening pointed shoes were expensive Florsheims, and the hat lying in the next chair was a Dobbs. Here was the real thing. No loud-talking, door-popping shucker from the Center Street bar, but an established gambler who had Southern manners and city class.

  “I thought we might drop in on some of my friends in Sacramento.”

  The glorious feeling of having caught the big one gently massaged me and diffused in my mind and body. I was lovely when I changed into something sleek and appealing, and said good night to the waitress and the relief cook.

  The silver-blue Lincoln struck me as perfect for L.D. It wasn’t large or brand-new, but it was rubbing-clean and shining with polish. When we drove away from the lights of Stockton, he found music on the radio and turned it down to a touching purr.

  “I want a Sunday kind of
love

  A love to last past Saturday night

  I want to know it’s more than

  love at first sight …”

  He asked if I was married. Law or common-law? I said no, neither. (I pronounced it ’n eye ther.) He said almost to himself, “I must have got my lucky break. At last.”

  I leaned back into the real leather seat and grinned for my own enjoyment.

  “I have to take care of some business. And I wanted you to come with me. I have to see a lady friend named Clara.”

  His words never rushed but were selected, chewed over, released into the air as if the best choice possible had been made.

  For once being young was fortunate. Everyone had heard the stories about young girls and older men. How older men were good to and generous to and crazy about young girls. I thought to myself, I’d rather be an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave.

  “Clara is a real square shooter. Four square, Rita, like I think you are. Yes sir, honest as the day is long.”

  Even his idiom was old.

  When we drove up to the three-shaded house, he started to get out of the car. “Come on. I’d like you to meet Clara. She’s sure to like you …”

  I followed him.

  The heavy odor of disinfectant in the house was as telltale as a red light over the door. Although memories of my San Diego experience rushed me, I kept my face straight, giving no hint that I knew where we were.

  Clara was a small, well-built woman in her thirties. Her heavy make-up mask cracked into seams at her delight.

  “Lou!” She backed away from the door and we were right-handed into a dully furnished living room.

  L.D. said he had some business to talk over with Clara and excused himself. He offered me a drink but I explained that I didn’t drink and received an approving smile for my information.

  No sounds reached me from the back of the house. I began wondering: Suppose L.D. was renting a room and instead of coming back himself sent Clara to get me. If she said, “Rita, Lou wants to see you in the back,” I wouldn’t know how to answer. I wasn’t stupid enough to say, “Please tell him that I never go to bed with a man on the first date.” She’d laugh me out of the place. There was nothing for it but to submit. But submit in such a way that he’d feel badly and I’d feel nothing. That was my plan.

  They were laughing as they came back into the room.

  “Clara, you’re still ace-high in my book,” said L.D. “But we have to get a move-on.”

  “Aw, Lou, let’s sit down for a while. Let me and Rita get acquainted.” Her smile wrinkled her whole face and she looked like a rubber doll won at playland.

  “This lady worked hard all night and I know she’d like to get home and rest.” He looked at me. “I’m sorry. Maybe the next time I’ll let you sit around talking women’s talk with her. Come on, Rita, we’d better head back to Stockton.”

  I shook hands with Clara and said, “Thank you, I’m sure … See you again … I had a very nice time … ’Bye.”

  In the car I hastily discarded my unnecessary defense plans and tried to figure what to expect next. He probably wanted to take me to his place. But as soon as we reached the outskirts of Stockton I was going to ask to be taken home because I had a fearful headache. If he was a real gentleman, he would acquiesce.

  We were as quiet on the return drive as the black trees outside the windows. The lights of the town flashed faintly and I prepared my spiel.

  “Rita, I’ve sure appreciated you making this ride with me. I have to go to Sacramento twice a week and it’s lonely at night by yourself. I knew you were tired when I asked you, but just like the other night, you showed what a big heart you had. I really appreciate it.”

  He swung the car into the black area.

  “Where do you live?”

  Again I had girded myself for no reason. “I have a room at Kathryn’s.”

  “Cooking privileges?” He knew the place.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, sometimes maybe you’ll cook me a meal. If you’re not too tired.”

  We were in front of my door and he made no attempt to even kiss me good night.

  “Good night, L.D.”

  “Good night, Rita. I’ll see you soon.”

  The blue car eased down the street and I wondered if in my ignorance I had lost my chance for a life of tender loving being cared for.

  The next evening when I left work he was parked outside. He flashed the lights.

  “Rita. Good evening. I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to see you again.”

  Glorious day.

  I sat back in the already familiar seat and breathed in his perfume.

  “You’re so young and fresh. And I sure like the way you talk. So young.” He laughed a little. I couldn’t remember what I’d talked about the night before, and felt the terrible burden of trying to think up something useful to entertain him.

  Young talk to me was silly vacant chatter. I couldn’t imagine the drivel of young girls coming out of my head and mouth, but I wanted to amuse, so I decided to tell him one story of my life.

  “You know, I love to dance. I’ve studied since I was fourteen and I’ve been in show business. I was part of the Poole and Rita dance team.”

  We had left Stockton streetlights and were on the highway before I noticed.

  “We’re going down to Tulare; it’s not far. Go on, tell me about your dancing. I knew you weren’t all that graceful for nothing.”

  I unreeled imaginary stories of the night clubs I had worked in and the steps I learned and my glamorous costumes. As I talked my career sparkled with success and I was a star of the brightest magnitude, bowing and smiling to a vast audience which would never be satisfied.

  In Tulare we visited Minnie, whose house was identical with Clara’s, down to the disinfectant and artificial flowers. Minnie lacked Clara’s pixie charm and regarded me with the hard eyes of a buyer at a horse auction.

  L.D. and Minnie went into a side bedroom and stayed only a few minutes. “Okay, Minnie, see you soon. Let’s go, Rita.” He had no smile for her and no small talk. I was glad. It was obvious that she wasn’t a very nice person. (Nice persons meaning people who tried to draw me out and who found my stolid face and ungiving attitude charming.)

  He was either running a lottery or selling the whores dope, and the fact that he never mentioned what his “business” was told me that he thought I was square. It never occurred to me that he might have liked that, so I decided at just the proper time I would tell him that once I had a house in San Diego employing two whores.

  That night, I told him about my baby and that he was three years old and how pretty and smart he was. L.D. said nothing until we parked in front of my house.

  He twisted in the dark and pulled his roll of money from a side pocket.

  “Rita, I don’t want you to get me wrong. I’m not trying to buy your affections. But you are alone and have a baby to raise. I’d be less than a man if I didn’t try to help you.” He folded a bill and pressed it into my hand. “Now, don’t say anything. Just use it for yourself and the baby.

  “All right, get out now. I won’t be able to see you for a few days. There’s a big game down in the city. I’ll come to the restaurant as soon as I get back.”

  I wanted to lean over and kiss him, but his aloofness didn’t encourage me.

  “Good night, L.D., and good luck.”

  “Thank you, Rita.”

  I turned the lamp on in my room and looked down at the fifty-dollar bill crumpled in my palm.

  It was the first time any man other than Bailey had given me money.

  I bought an outfit worthy of a Hollywood siren and toys for my son.

  CHAPTER 26

  For the next three weeks I rode the California highways with L.D. I met Dimples in Fresno and Helen in Merced and Jackie and Lil in Mendota and Firebaugh, and a few women who had cabins along the road with access to the transient field workers. L.D. continued making generous gifts, sayin
g business was good. I never asked him what business it was and he never offered any information. I didn’t have to fend off his advances, since he didn’t make any.

  Desire for him grew in direct proportion to his indifference. I experimented with every ploy I could dream up. He had revealed to me that he didn’t read books, so I tried to impress him with my great love of learning. He liked straight shooters, so one night I told him how much I cared. He had pity for me, an unmarried mother. I cried out my aching loneliness. Nothing fazed him or prodded him into taking me in his arms.

  The restaurant had become a larger bore than a lifetime in the Gobi Desert, and I found no enjoyment in my books or playing with my son. All life funneled down to one smile, one man’s soft, quiet “Good evening, Rita. How you doing tonight?”

  —

  “Here’s a hundred dollars.” The bills fanned out from his fingers.

  “Oh, I couldn’t take that much.”

  “I want you to go shopping and buy some different clothes. You dress too old. You ought to dress your age. You’re young. Buy some low shoes and anklets. Some blouses and pretty colored skirts. And put a bow ribbon in your hair.”

  I hadn’t worn socks in years and had hated them then. They made my already long legs look longer. But L.D. asked.

  When he saw me in the schoolgirl outfit he said I was his “Bobby Sock Baby” and he was going to give me a special gift. On my next day off he took me to the city.

  “This is not business this time. It’s just for you. I’m going to give you what you’ve been wanting.”

  He smiled and patted my cheek and I would have thought it a privilege to die for him.