Through the soles of her delicate slippers, she felt the cool brick ceramic tiles that bordered the shiny oak hardwood floor of the entrance hall. Stopping for a moment to admire her beautiful home, she was surprised by the newly fallen snow outside the windows of the music room. She headed toward the kitchen, where, reaching inside the cabinet, she selected an ornate crystal wine goblet from the impressive array of cut stemware.
Her mother, Katherine Lee, had taught her well. As poor as they were when she was a young child, her mother had refused to purchase anything but the best, even if it had to be second- or third-hand. Ginger followed the same practice, stopping at auctions and garage sales, always looking for that rare, undiscovered treasure and oftentimes finding a gem among junk, under a stack of old books or wedged in the corner of an old curio cabinet.
Turning toward the garden window, she admired the winter wonderland outside. Inside, she fingered a leaf of the carefully tended African violets nurtured by her husband, Jackson. He loved to display his natural ability as a gardener, and as a result, their home was filled with Chinese fan palms, bamboo palms, large, leafy dumbcanes, and dozens of ivy baskets.
A single snowflake stuck firmly to the leaded pane. Of the millions of white speckles falling in large clusters, growing larger each moment, the solitary flake managed to cling on, to survive. If only for a few fleeting moments, it stood out and acknowledged its own existence and resilience briefly, experiencing the splendor of freedom. She pressed an outstretched palm against the frosty window in awe of the snowflake’s courage, the courage to break away from the crowd and become a singular entity standing alone, above the rest.
Closing her eyes, Ginger repeated a prayer she’d memorized. “Come, my soul, thy spirits prepare; Jesus loves to answer prayer; he himself has bid thee pray, therefore will not say thee nay.”
Cupping her hand over her mouth, she held her breath for several moments as her eyes misted.
She flicked the light switch by the stairway off the kitchen that led to the wine cellar. When she opened the cellar door, she felt a slight chill and hurriedly selected a vintage bottle of Chardonnay.
She walked through the music room sipping the rich wine, tapping the keys on the white baby grand piano that stood proudly in the center of the pale pink wool rug, which was bordered by the plush off-white carpeting that covered the floors throughout most of the home. This was her favorite room downstairs. It was shaped in a circular design, and leaded Pella French doors surrounded three-quarters of it. The rear of the broadfront English Tudor house boasted 140 windows on three levels of its 5,000 square feet.
Placing the wine on a glass table, she slid onto a velvet chaise, kicked off her satin slippers, and tucked her feet beneath her.
The sting of the cold, wintry air whistled through a break in the velvet-draped windows, even as the wine warmed her from within. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks. Why, suddenly, did she feel so alone? Was this what being in love was supposed to feel like? Was Jackson’s and her love for each other real, or just an illusion? Something inside her knew, and didn’t want to accept, that illusions can change from time to time.
Again Ginger combed her fingers through her hair, savoring the smooth texture. More in sorrow than in anger, she felt a sinking depression on being forced to deal once again with the impending loss of her hair. Though in her heart she knew it was coming, she prayed that the problem would somehow not return.
The cycle of alopecia areata, which doctors could not explain, lasted approximately two years. She lost her hair and often suffered the added burden of migraine headaches. Her doctor prescribed Valium for the stress, but the medication left her tired. Her lethargy was an effect neither her children nor her husband could understand, since they were accustomed to her workaholic disposition.
She had been only eighteen years old when the first of the bald patches appeared in her scalp. The problem was eventually diagnosed by a local dermatologist. She’d lost her hair a total of eight times over the years. It had always grown back, but each time she noticed that the loss had become progressively worse. The small dime spots on her scalp advanced into complete baldness, and loss of her eyelashes, then all her body hair.
Ginger had the most severe type of alopecia — alopecia totalis — she was told at the University of Michigan Hospital. She’d been praying for years for someone to find a cure.
She felt numb all over. No one could possibly understand the personal anguish and pain she felt. It was like a slow death, happening over and over again.
Lifting her half-filled glass in the direction of their bedroom, she saluted yet another exemplary performance by her husband. Slowly, she lowered her glass as sadness enveloped her like an old friend, and she became acutely aware of her fears. Did he truly love her? Or did he only lust after her body? Was there that much of a difference?
She’d read an article in the newspaper during Black History Month about how Black women should treat their men. We should treat them with the utmost respect, love, kindness, and recognition, which they rarely experience in the world. We should be enthusiastic about their aspirations and triumphs. We should encourage them to seek brighter horizons beyond merely being athletes, to strive to become scientists, attorneys, and congressmen, so that they can help to write the laws that govern them and our country, the article had told her. But what of
our
hopes and dreams? Ginger wondered. Were they insignificant? Who would help the women deal with pain and suffering?
She had four healthy children, a beautiful home, with lots of beautiful things: expensive paintings, precious antique furnishings, and a closet of designer clothes to die for. Why, then, did she feel such emptiness, such shallowness? Something was missing, something she couldn’t bring herself to think about.
Despite their best intentions, Ginger and Jackson’s eight years of marriage were often an emotional ordeal of cautious speeches and angry silences during the day. But as evening approached they surrendered to the volcanic passion that couldn’t be ignored. Their silent obsession. Reality disappeared in the zest of their union. It was the one aspect of their marriage they never argued over.
But at this stage in her life it wasn’t enough. She had played this scene before with her first husband, Michael Carter, who also claimed to love her to distraction. She had grown up believing in Cinderella, but after eleven years of her first troubled marriage, she found that her husband wasn’t Prince Charming. He was just a man. Still, she wanted desperately to believe in the fairy tale of finding the man of her dreams. So without hesitation she had married Jackson Montgomery.
She knew her intelligence was above average — something her high school transcripts verified — and she was as proud of her intellect as she was of the combined African, European, and Native American features blended in her face. It was a struggle, however, to change Jackson into a man who wasn’t just interested in the shape of her body but also the shape of her mind. She respected him for who and what he was, and expected him, in turn, to respect her for who and what she was, and the person she strove to become.
She chastised herself for spoiling him, making him believe that sex was the priority. She had already sold him on the idea that their bedroom turned into “The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas” when the lights went off. She sighed, inhaled, and took another long sip of her drink.
Yes, she’d gone to bed with him on their first date. But how was she supposed to know what to do? She’d never been on a date before, even though she was nearly thirty years old at the time. She’d been married at seventeen. Still in the process of divorcing her husband, she hadn’t had sex for nine months and was horny as hell. It was ridiculous the way attorneys expected a woman to stay celibate during divorce proceedings, so she wouldn’t be considered a slut during the custody hearings, while a man could go out and screw anyone anytime, and was rarely questioned about his dalliances.
So it was only natural that she wound up in Jackson’s bed, feeling like a teenager. Carefree and happy. A few dates later, they decided to drive his brand-new black Bronco to Port Huron, where she lived. They’d just come from the Masonic temple and she had on a sexy antique white lace dress with iridescent sequins sprinkled around the bodice. His olive green silk suit flattered his sleek, muscular frame. He was totally appetizing. Utterly inviting.
Desire overwhelmed them, before they’d even reached her house. She couldn’t wait. Neither could he. She ended up straddling him, having sex down the freeway at eighty miles an hour. She’d never forget it. Neither would he. Two weeks later he asked her to marry him. A few years later they had a baby daughter, Autumn. She was his spitting image. Jackson was happier than he ever would have believed. You’d think he’d had her all by himself, the way he carried on about his little girl.
Jackson Montgomery could charm the rattle off a rattlesnake. He was intelligent, articulate, suave, and charismatic without even trying to be. When he walked into the room, you couldn’t help but stop and stare at his tall, slender, poised body. Ginger had been mesmerized the first time those seductive hazel eyes gazed into hers and seemed to look straight through to her heart. She was helpless, and who wouldn’t be?
Getting up, she went into the kitchen and washed the delicate goblet and placed it back inside the cabinet. She’d finished the entire bottle of wine, but inner tranquillity still eluded her, and the desperate yearning she felt for Jackson had only been heightened. As she walked toward the circular staircase, she felt as light as the feather flakes that blanketed the ground outside. As quickly as it had begun, the snow had ceased.
When she opened the door to their master suite, barely making a sound, a familiar husky voiced called from the bed, “Baby, come back to bed, baby.”
She stood in the center of the room, letting her flimsy garment fall to a fluffy puddle around her ankles.
Sliding beneath the cool sheets, Ginger snuggled close to Jackson’s heat, two animals, bodies melded.
Gliding his palms against the round of her hips, he whispered in her ear, “I love you, baby.”
The pungent aroma of dirty gym shoes greeted Ginger before Jason did. Turning toward the open doorway, her teacup in hand, she grimaced. “Mornin’, Jason.”
“I’m gonna put these in to soak, Ma. Is anything in the machine?” asked Jason, dropping one of the size-twelve sneakers.
She called over her shoulder as he walked toward the rear staircase, “No. But add a little Pine Sol to that water. Those shoes need some disinfectant.”
She turned back to the magazine article she was reading on new businesses with low start-up costs. Ginger knew one day she’d be working in a professional field. As her eyes traveled down the page, she couldn’t help but notice the protruding blue-green veins on both her hands, a result of the hard work they’d done.
Years of healed scars covered her hands. Though some were barely visible, she knew the location of each knick and mark. Lumps on either side of her fingers, the size of thumbtacks, were more prominent, calling attention to the fact that she worked in a factory. Ginger knew that, in order to be a professional, she had to look the part. Acrylic nails would do for a start.
The sun raised its sleepy head, streaming light through the room. Jason had been up for nearly two hours, and Ginger sat drinking her fourth cup of tea when Jackson decided to make his grand entrance.
After looking over her shoulder to see what she was reading, Jackson kissed Ginger fondly on the cheek. He tensed, quickly assessing the situation and Ginger’s mood. Several issues of
Entrepreneur
and
Women’s Entrepreneur
magazines were folded back, signifying that something had piqued her interest. Not this again, he thought to himself. Walking into the kitchen, he opened the cabinet door, reached for the coffee, opened yet another cabinet for a coffee mug, pulled out the silverware drawer, . . . and again, left it sticking out like a red flag.
“Can’t you ever close a door?” asked Ginger, walking behind him and slamming the doors and drawer. She knew she should be used to it by now. Jackson never shut a cabinet door or pushed a kitchen drawer to its original position no matter how many he’d opened. Boy, did that get on her nerves. Their kitchen also had a spacious butler’s pantry with its own sink, storing trays, and serving counters, with a total of fifty upper and lower cabinets. Fortunately, his meanderings this morning hadn’t taken him that far.
Often, she would come home from grocery shopping, tired and angry, only to find almost every cabinet door in the kitchen wide open. Did she think maybe it was the kids trying to help out, making it easier to put up the groceries? Oh, no. The culprit was none other than Mr. Montgomery looking for crackers to snack on, cheese spread, or a plate — he could never seem to remember where they were stacked.
Ginger had asked Jackson on numerous occasions to have the kitchen remodeled, so at least the hinges would swing back on the cabinet doors and the needless arguments would cease. But no, he’d always refused, saying it would mess up the architecture of the house if they installed a modern kitchen.
Their home, built in 1923, was the epitome of old-money extravagance. The third floor held two bedrooms for the maid and butler with a large full bathroom — they didn’t employ either. A spacious cedar closet completed the arc of rooms, which were circled around a massive skylight. They rarely used the third floor. They had plenty of other rooms as well as the twin sofa sleepers in the basement to use whenever relatives decided to stay over.
Dressed in a pair of tight, worn jeans, Jackson curled his fingers around the handle of the mug, and braced himself against the counter. The strong aroma of rich, black coffee filled the air. He took a long sip. “Did you enjoy last night?” He looked her in the eye as a slow, devilish smile eased across his face.
“Don’t I always?” said Ginger, resting her hands on her hips.