Knowing (24 page)

“What about Mae Thelma? She’s got beautiful hair. Tell me you don’t admire all that hair. I know how much Black men love long hair. Go ahead, tell me you don’t think it’s pretty.”

“Sure, it’s nice. But I’m not in love with her, or her hair. I’m in love with you — bald or otherwise. Now shut up and let’s get in the bed.”

She gave him a side glance, leaning her body against his. “I thought you said you couldn’t screw away my pain?”

He lifted her chin with his fist, kissing her as lightly and tenderly as a feather stroking her lips. “Don’t plan on screwing my way, just planting a few seeds is all.”

“Not tonight. Romeo. I’m menstruating.”

“Damn!” He snapped his fingers, then pulled her close to him while whispering in her ear, “I just want to hold you in my arms.” He kissed the top of her head. “Is that all right with you, baby?”

She nodded and held fast to his waist, pressing her head into his chest, knowing he was her heart and soul.

Bill lay in his darkened bedroom, listening to the soothing voice of Luther Vandross. The station was playing a medley of his love songs. He listened for some time until he felt the anger rising in him again at the thought of the woman he loved in the arms of another man. How could she? And a White man — she knew how he felt about the White race. He sipped his drink; the bitter taste of straight whiskey burned his throat.

As he reached across the bed to change the station, the phone began to ring. “Hello,” he said, turning on the bedside lamp.

“Bill . . . can we talk?”

The relaxing alcohol suddenly reversed its effect as he jolted up, making him feel as though he’d drunk a pot of black coffee. “What shall we talk about?” he asked cynically. “Shall we talk about your flirtation with a White man, or should we talk about your screwing me over?”

Kim swallowed her pride, stifling a nasty retort. “Bill, it wasn’t like that at all. I’ve told you repeatedly about my friendship with Randall. We went —”

“Who the fuck is Randall? He’s just a man — just like me. Would he want to see his woman in the arms of a Black man? Hell no!”

“Nothing happened, Bill. I swear it didn’t. I’ve been upset at work lately. My boss —”

“What about my problems, Kim? Don’t I deserve any respect?” he asked calmly.

“I respect you because I love you,” she said, swallowing a sob that rose in her throat.

He pulled himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Kim, I just can’t accept this so-called friendly relationship you have with Randall. We’ve discussed this before — my feelings haven’t changed.”

Kim remembered an article she’d read describing the attitudes of single men toward single women. She hadn’t believed Bill fit into that category. These men felt that women were less honest and dependable, less considerate, supportive, and sensible — and even less moral — than women saw themselves to be.

Kim had laughed when she read it, knowing the man she loved couldn’t possibly fit into these categories — after all he was a psychiatrist, he knew the spiel — and yet he couldn’t accept her innocent friendship with a White man.

“I think it’s important that you trust me, Bill. Trust me to be able to befriend a man, no matter what color or race he may be — knowing that I can and will be true to you, regardless. Allow me some freedom to be myself.”

“I need a woman I can believe in, Kim. A woman I can trust, a woman I can hold up on a pedestal, and know . . . know that she’s putting my interests first.”

“Bill, I have the same needs. I need a man who believes and trusts in me. That isn’t so selfish, to think that in today’s world that both egos need to be stroked occasionally.” She paused to let that last statement sink in. “Yes, I need my ego stroked too, Bill. I know who I am. I know what I am. I know what I can be to you. I know I have a lot to offer to a man, and I know what you are to me. I’m willing to give some of myself to you, but not all. I need to build up my own self-esteem before I can be so generous I put your interests first. I’m also guilty of being selfish as most people are, because you have to have a
self
before you esteem it.”

“Exactly . . . I feel we should see other people, Kim. I think it would be for the best.”

My World Is Empty Without You

Exactly seven days later, Kim found herself nearly in shock at Henry Ford Hospital. Unable to sleep, Kim had awakened during the night and noticed a fragmented pale blue light streaming beneath her mother’s door. It was 3:47 A.M. Jewel lay on her side facedown, wedged between the bed and the wall, semiconscious, mumbling incoherently. Her right hand curved like a bear claw. Jewel’s mouth curled into her cheekbone. Her fingers were stiff, immobile. Jewel made a valiant effort to shake some feeling into her stiffened hand as her daughter lifted her limp form. Kim quickly checked her faint pulse and called 911.

Kim’s mind was numb. Unable to deal with the shock of seeing her mother so helpless, she waited for the ambulance in a trancelike state, cradling Jewel’s body, until the paramedics whisked Kim and Jewel into the ambulance.

Katherine, Kim, and Ginger paced the waiting rooms nervously. They took shifts going downstairs to bring up fresh coffee. It didn’t look good for Jewel. She had hidden the fact that she’d been on blood-pressure pills. Along with the added stress of her husband’s deteriorating condition, it was too much pressure for a woman her age.

Jewel looked tired, defeated, as she lay in the hospital bed in the intensive care section. Katherine and Ginger did their best to console Kim. But how much could a child take? Her mother and father were both hospitalized. The prognosis for both was bleak.

Ginger called Kim’s office and explained her absence. Randall sent an exquisite floral arrangement, though he was unable to deliver it himself. Mr. Cameron had him working a double shift, picking up Kim’s workload. But Randall promised that somehow he’d be there tomorrow to give Kim and Jewel his love.

Jewel died less than forty-eight hours after being admitted. Kim was in denial. Katherine and Ginger pleaded with her to call Bill. But Kim wouldn’t hear of it— she needed time alone to think. And she didn’t want Bill to come back with feelings of pity. She couldn’t take that now. How much more could her heart bear?

“Mama, did you remember to get Uncle Ollie’s suit out of the cleaner’s?” Ginger asked.

The family had received a terrible shock. Jewel Lee’s untimely death was deeply felt by her friends and neighbors. She’d been an icon of the community. Kim was taking it hard, and couldn’t be consoled by her father, because she thought he hadn’t been able to understand what was going on, or refused to accept it. But she was wrong.

Katherine and Ginger had gone with Kim to make the arrangements for the funeral. Then Katherine had assured Kim that she and her daughter would handle everything for the wake, and told her just to take some time alone by herself.

Katherine didn’t bother to answer Ginger. She kept going to and from the kitchen, placing the dishes of food in groups of salads, vegetables, casseroles, meats, and breads. She’d set up a separate dessert section along the buffet. There were so many cakes, pies, and cobblers that there was hardly any room for the main dishes. Steam rose like a ghost, clouding the kitchen windows, as Katherine removed the domed top of the roasting pan. She placed the chicken, stuffed with cornbread and savory sage dressing, in the center of the dining table.

In the living room, Ginger’s eyes scanned the tables, making sure there were enough ashtrays and sufficient Kleenex throughout the crowded room. Unfolding the last of the chairs they’d rented, she stopped short, her eyes focusing on the family picture above the fireplace mantel. How lovely they all looked, Uncle Ollie and Aunt Jewel seated, handsomely dressed in white suits with Kim behind them, smiling, her elbows resting along the chair and her chin pressed against her steepled hands.

Ginger pulled a tissue from the box on the mantel, dabbing her eyes as they clouded with tears. The sound of her mother’s voice broke her mournful reverie. Passing through the living room into the kitchen, she shook her head distastefully, discarding the balled tissue in an empty garbage can.

At every wake Ginger had attended, she always wondered how people could work up such an appetite after someone had just died. Food was the farthest thing from her mind, no matter how tastefully it was displayed.

“Hold still, Mama, I almost got it.” Ginger pulled the two pieces of fabric together on the slacks as Katherine sucked in her breath. The older woman’s coffee brown makeup was running down her sweaty face as she wiggled into the tight garment. In the old days, one of Ginger’s three other sisters would help fasten her mother into her clothes, tugging, pulling, pushing, until finally she was dressed.

After years of guzzling Colt 45s, Katherine had developed a beer belly. Therefore it had become extremely difficult for her to get into anything other than sweats without the support of whichever daughter was available at the time.

Katherine’s ritual consisted of ten minutes of struggling into two girdles, first one, then another on top. Next she slid into her hosiery, fastening them with the straining hooks. Then she’d sit and rest for five minutes, catching her breath, wiping the perspiration beneath her arms, around her forehead; the sweat between her legs wouldn’t dare fall under double layers of rigid rubber.

Rested, she’d ease into her blouse or sweater. Next, ten to fifteen minutes of fluffing her thick, chili-pepper coiffure. Rest again. Then, after retouching her makeup, she would slide into her slacks. That was where the girls came in. They’d strap her in with two diaper pins to keep her pants up, and a shoestring attached on each end of the waistband, tying it into a bow. Rest again.

Sometimes they’d get up enough nerve to ask her how she was going to pee with all that stuff on. She’d tell them she wasn’t going to drink any beer, just take teeny-weeny eyedrops full of whiskey.

“So after all these years you managed to get on the girdles by yourself, but you still need help with the diaper pins and the shoestrings?” Ginger asked, kneeling beside her mother.

“Shut the frig up,” said Katherine, puffing away.

“Mama, have you ever thought of just buying bigger pants?”

Katherine rolled her eyes at Ginger, ignoring what she considered a stupid question. “Where on earth is Kim? She should’ve been here by now.” Katherine glanced at her wristwatch, sucking in her stomach as Ginger worked old magic with the strings.

“You think she’s all right, Mama? It was so sudden, Aunt Jewel dying like that. I’m worried about Kim. They’d just started getting along so well. This just wasn’t fair.” Her voice was light and soft as it trailed off. Just then the doorbell started to ring. “I’ll get it, Mama. You finish up here,” said Ginger, hesitating a moment to swat her mother’s sweat-beaded forehead with a tissue.

“Hi sweetheart.” Ginger hung Jackson’s jacket in the front hall closet as he trudged into the kitchen carrying a brown grocery bag of noisily clinking bottles.

“Hi Granny,” he called out to his mother-in-law as she entered the room. Placing fifths of whiskey, gin, rum, and vodka along the kitchen counter, he scoured the cabinets for an ice bucket, leaving each door wide open as he moved to the next.

Reaching underneath a cabinet next to the sink, Katherine took out the insulated bucket and put it beside the soda. “Pour me a quick one, will you Jackson?” Turning toward the cabinets again, Katherine caught him with her eyes, gesturing at the double row of plastic cups.

She’d known from the beginning that Jackson loved her daughter, and wholeheartedly approved of their marriage. It hadn’t taken her long to figure out he was a bit selfish. But no man was perfect. Ginger had yet to find that out, and though she would never admit it, she was a bit selfish herself.

Kim finally made her entrance a few minutes later with her friend Randall in tow, to thank her aunt Katherine for all her help organizing, cooking, and setting up the food.

Jackson kissed Kim in a brotherly manner as he offered her his condolences. After shaking Randall’s hand, he excused himself to join Ginger greeting the guests in the living room. He whispered in her ear as Ginger reached in the closet, searching for an empty hanger. “What happened to Bill? Is Kim going out with that White guy in the kitchen?”

Ginger turned. “You mean Randall?” Jackson gave Ginger a knowing stare. “He’s a friend of hers from work.”

From the dining room the subtle clamor of roaster lids being lifted and replaced could be heard over the polite conversation of the men and women who’d come to pay their respects. Closing the closet door, Ginger rested her back against it. She smiled warmly at the guests as they passed, carrying their plates piled high with food. “Can I fix you a plate, or did you eat already?” Ginger asked Jackson, trying to change the subject casually.

“Nothing.” He turned to walk away, looking so
bad
in his black cashmere turtleneck, black denim jeans, and black lizard cowboy boots. “I’m going to call and check on the kids.” He shouldered a path through the crowd as Ginger stood, clenching her fists.