Stopping to assess his progress, Jackson scratched his head. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed it himself earlier. They
were
too close
together. “Damn,” he said, taking the hoe and digging up the delicate plants.
“Kids up yet?” he asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Leaning against the hoe, he stopped to sip his frosted can of V8 juice, which sat on the windowsill of the garage. A pair of beige cotton gloves hung from the back pocket of his stone-washed jeans.
“I’m giving them another half an hour.” She looked at her watch, squinting her eyes against the glare of the sun. It was just twenty-five past eight. “Why don’t you ever wear these?” She touched the cotton fingers flapping against his buttocks in the brisk wind. He shrugged, finished his drink, and offered an expressive belch.
“Talked to Mama last night,” he said, smiling.
Ginger stiffened as that old feeling of competition returned. She said a quick prayer, asking God to take these selfish feelings from her heart. “What about?”
He rested the garden tool against the brick siding. As his strong arms encircled her waist, he brushed a gentle kiss across her forehead. “I’m proud of you, baby. I told Mama about you getting saved yesterday. She’s praying for you. I told her about—”
Ginger stiffened, “You didn’t tell her about my hair, did you?”
“Baby, don’t be so sensitive.”
She withdrew from his embrace, nervously fingering the curls in her wig. “I just don’t feel like I have to explain why I’m wearing a wig when we go down there in July.”
He went back to making furrows in the ground, setting the bell pepper plants along the two outside rows. “Baby, you can’t tell you’ve got on a wig. Anybody would think that it was your own hair. And Mama isn’t going to mention it to anybody.”
She knew how much faith Jackson put in his mother’s prayers — knew his mother wouldn’t tell anyone. Secretly, she’d thought of calling Mother Montgomery herself to ask that she and the saints of the church pray for her, yet each time she picked up the phone to dial the number her insides turned queasy. Would she ever get over this jealousy and competitiveness with his mother? Had she actually been saved yesterday to prove to Jackson that she was just as good as his mother was?
Ginger hadn’t expected that being saved would be so easy, but it had been. Acts 16:30 to 31 of the Bible said that if you believed in the Lord Jesus Christ, you would be saved, and she had, and was reborn.
White petals from the trio of blossoming apple trees bordering the bricked patio blew softly in the wind, scattering across the yard, sprinkling the garden as a choir of robins fluttered through the branches.
Ginger brushed the petals from Jackson’s hair, kissing him on the back of his neck. “I know she won’t, honey. Thanks for asking her.” She cupped his derriere, removed the gloves from his pocket, and pulled the large mitts over her manicured nails. They worked together, planting the remaining trays of vegetables, hosing them down afterwards, standing back to admire their handiwork.
Sitting on the stone bench of the patio, Ginger leaned her back against the brick wall to soak in the morning sun. “Jackson?” asked Ginger, hating to broach the subject, but knowing it had to be said.
“Yeah,” said Jackson, straddling the lower wall of the patio, tilting his head to study the back of the fountain. “Damn. I can’t figure out why the water won’t come out.” He scratched his head, holding a socket wrench.
“I have to go in the office for a few hours today.” She saw his stern expression, and tensed.
“I thought we agreed right after your aunt died, you’d take this weekend off.”
“It’s just for a few hours, Jackson. I’m showing a house in Indian Village Monday to a client. I’ve got some paperwork to do for the homeowners. I won’t have time to prepare all the documents after work Monday, and check the figures, before the appointment is scheduled.”
Jackson’s temper flared. She was hardly at home anymore. Spent very little time with the kids, and their time together consisted of quick romps in the sack late in the evening, and she had to wake him up from his sleep to get that. “Do what you have to do, Ginger.”
“Sweetheart, I know I haven’t been home as much as I’d planned. But I’ve worked out a solution.”
“I’m listening.” He’d taken off the fountain handle and was coating the inner threads with lubricating grease.
A broad smile beamed across her face as she spoke. “I figure if I drove my van to work, I could come home early and put in the hours at the office, be finished by two or three, and have dinner started by the time you sit down in front of your Westerns.”
“You’re going to be able to do all that? Drive to work, work at the office, cook dinner, and take care of me?” He shook his head, sighing deeply, as she eagerly nodded yes to all four questions. “Is selling real estate that important to you?”
Over the past seventeen years, Ginger had begun work daily at five in the morning. She usually finished by ten-thirty or eleven in the morning, and would pick up a book and read, or talk on the phone until it was time for Jackson to get off work at two-thirty.
“Yes, Jackson it is. I’m good at it, too. You’ll see.” It was her ticket out of that plant. She felt it in her heart, could see herself successful, and prayed nightly for the victory. A ticket to salvation. God only knew how much she needed to be free to live a normal life like other people did. Like her clients did. Getting up at seven or eight in the morning, watching the eleven o’clock news at night. Simple pleasures people normally took for granted.
“Do what you gotta do,” he said, still straddling the short wall. He didn’t like it, but he knew that Ginger needed to keep her mind off her hair. Even though she tried to shrug it off, like it wasn’t bothering her this time, he knew she was hurting. He saw the pain each morning as she put her wig over her smooth head, and every night when she put it back on the Styrofoam stand.
Studying Jackson as he sat on the wall, Ginger decided he looked like a cowboy on his rearing horse. His jeans and shirt were grimy with the dirt of the garden and splotches of grease from the fountain, his hair was matted and speckled with white petals, and salt-and-pepper whiskers shadowed his unshaven face. And yet the musky sweat coming from his body smelled like a whiff of provocative perfume. The power of his hazel eyes drew her in like magnets. Her cowboy. Tonight they’d ride into the sunset together.
“What you daydreaming about, Ginger? You look —”
The sound of motorcycles from more than three blocks away caught Jackson’s attention. He listened intently to clamor of the approaching machines. “That’s Mr. B,” said Jackson, leaning toward the blaring sound.
“How can you tell?”
“By the sound — Mr. B’s riding a Yamaha. Sounds like a little car with a small engine in it, like a Fiat.” Hearing the tone of the next bike, he said, “That’s Ramsey’s Honda.” He saw her questioning look, and explained, “Sounds like a Yugo.” Next, a louder sound. “That’s Ves driving his Honda. His bike is older than Ramsey’s, pipes are almost burned out . . . louder.” A smooth, even sound hummed behind the trio. “That’s Little Bubba.” Still the questioning look from Ginger. “He’s driving his new Harley. A Harley has a two-stroke engine.”
“That’s different from your Kawasaki?”
“Yeah, all the other bikes, Hondas, Yamahas, Suzukis, have four strokes. Try to listen to the sound of the exhaust pipes. Mine is a two in a two . . . two cylinders going into the left side and two cylinders going into the right side of the exhaust pipes. Some bikes are four in one . . . all four cylinders going into one pipe out the back of the bike . . . see . . . listen. . . . My Kaw sounds heavier.”
He smiled to himself as he thought about the Harley. He wanted to trade in his Kaw and buy a Harley, but he didn’t want to broach the subject to Ginger. She’d bought his Kawasaki as a surprise after his special-edition Kawasaki LTD had been stolen from the ethnic festival downtown.
He went on explaining to Ginger as the bikes rounded the corner. “A Harley has a unique sound. It can be distinguished as far off as it can be heard. The wind carries the sound.”
An “oh” was all Ginger could manage to answer as the male members of Jackson’s Production 10 Motorcycle Club approached their driveway in single file. “Hi Mr. B., Ramsey. Hi Ves, Bubba . . .” greeted Ginger, still amazed that Jackson had guessed the order of the bikes correctly.
Ginger walked toward the house, knowing without being asked that five cold ones would be more than welcomed. Minutes later, she sat a six-pack of beer on the patio table. They each thanked Ginger for the cold brew. Jackson had turned on the stereo system he’d installed in the garage, tuning it to 1400 FM, the blues station. He’d backed his black-and-gold Kawasaki from the garage stall as his friends stood around appraisingly. It was their ritual to check out the condition of each member’s bike at the beginning of bike-riding season.
Ginger went back into the house unnoticed. She knew they’d be out there for hours, talking, laughing, reminiscing about the Kentucky Derby they attended each year, the first weekend of May. Jackson and Ginger were unable to attend this year with the other members and their wives. Jackson’s boss had put in a request for Jackson to be put on a special team that was being formed to help eliminate millions of dollars of waste in the plant. Jackson was elated that he’d been chosen. Though the timing was bad, he’d happily agreed to join the pilot project.
Pausing to take a final look at her Black cowboy, his long body leaning against his metal horse, Ginger smiled to see him enjoying himself.
Looking outside her patio window, Katherine watched the man cutting her lawn. He wore a tank top and she could see his muscles glistening with sweat. She had only spoken to him over the phone, when he’d agreed to come by Saturday after he finished his mother’s yard.
Katherine glanced up at the clock above the refrigerator. The sound of the mower had awakened her; it was early. Stretching her arms above her head, she sank her fingers into her thick head of hair, feeling the coarse edges.
Shit!
Her scalp was still wet; her head had gotten sweaty last night, dreaming about Jewel.
Moving to the refrigerator, she poured herself a generous glass of beer. As she turned on the radio, she thought of her sister-in-law. Jewel, just seventy years old, had been thirteen years her senior. Though Jewel hadn’t looked old, she’d aged since Ollie had got sick. Little by little, her vivaciousness had been drained from her. She’d given up. Katherine had felt months ago that Jewel was the one who needed medical attention. Ollie would make it. Even though he’d had a temporary setback and lost his power of speech, Katherine still saw the fight in his eyes. He hadn’t given up, as Jewel had. She knew that sooner or later, Ollie would garner the strength and find the courage to free himself from the cocoon that sheltered him from life.
Kim had been a pillar of strength throughout the whole ordeal. Katherine was proud of the stamina and tenacity shown by her niece. Kim had inherited Ollie’s stamina, Katherine’s intelligence, and Jewel’s looks. A helluva combination. She was going to be fine, just fine.
Katherine consumed her second glass of golden spirits and looked again through the patio windows at the handsome man, sweating profusely now, as he filled the tank with gasoline. She contemplated her next move. Figuring she had at least a good hour and half before he’d be finished, she rushed upstairs to put her plan into action.
“Whhhhhew. Thank you, ma’am,” said the young man. He drank the cold lemonade in three gulps. The sweat from the glass ran down his neck, along his Adam’s apple, as he tipped his head back.
Katherine watched in awe. Up close, his muscles were even more impressive. He was taller than she expected. Probably six-one, six-two, she figured, lowering her gaze from his uplifted arm, hesitating at the bulge nestled against his thigh.
“Why don’t you stop and rest a minute? You’re not in any hurry, are you?” said Katherine, holding down the brim of her straw hat against a quick gust of wind.
Intrigued by his stories of Vietnam, she listened intently as he filled her in on the last fifteen years of his life after he returned home from the Service. His name was James Cotton, but all his friends called him Cotton. He’d contracted a severe case of quartan malaria and was sent back home to the veterans’ hospital. There, he was diagnosed as also having a disease that affected the nervous system.
The government had sprayed this orange
mixture
— Agent Orange — over the area where the soldiers were fighting. It was used as a defoliant, to kill leafy plants and trees that provided cover for the Vietcong. But the plan had backfired, and the government knew it. Thousands of American soldiers were affected by the spraying and were subsequently sent back home.
Cotton was involved in a lawsuit against the government because it turned out that the military knew about the side effects all the time, and chose to ignore them. He was bitter about risking his life, fighting in a war he didn’t believe in, and coming home to spend twelve years cooped up in a facility that made him feel more like a prisoner than a war hero. Not being able to hold down a full-time job, he’d started mowing lawns in the summer and shoveling snow in the winter. It was just pocket change, but his lawsuit would be coming up in court soon, and he could purchase the truck and tools he needed to really make some money.
Katherine immediately felt a kinship. He sounded mature, was moderately handsome, and, if she’d read correctly between the lines, was looking for a woman. Katherine shimmied the bodice of her sundress down, with the finesse of an old pro at work, to show the fullness of her caramel breasts, and ran her hand over her long, thick head of red hair, which men seemed to love to touch.
Near dark, she and Cotton had moved from the backyard to Katherine’s living room. After consuming two quarts of beer, they were laughing like two old friends. She showed him around the house. He was impressed with its large basement. It was done in knotty pine, had a bar similar to the one he’d seen in the Red Shingles, a spot everyone in Port Huron frequented on the weekends. He stopped short to stare at the huge workroom. There were drawers, compartments, and pegboard sheets of paneling for hanging tools, and tables bearing impressions from the weight of table, hand, and power saws. A carpenter’s paradise.