Knowing (31 page)

“What about the securities business?”

“By that time, I hope to have hired three or four assistants to do the work for me. I’ll be their boss, like Mr. Cameron was mine.” Just thinking about that bastard made her ill. Randall had filled her in on his last visit. He said that Cameron and Brenda were still thick as thieves, but everyone in the office knew the relationship was purely sexual. Brenda had gotten a little better at performing her secretarial duties, and apparently at a few other duties, too.

“You’re not trying to reestablish your relationship with Bill?”

“I still love him, if that’s what you want to know. I feel he still loves me, but we agreed to take our time in trying to pick up the pieces. A lot has happened to both of us.” Kim poured herself a glass of wine. Respecting Ginger’s decision to abstain from alcohol, she offered her a chilled glass of raspberry sparkling water. “How about you? Is working two jobs hindering Jackson’s and your X-rated rendezvous?”

“Jackson’s not as attentive as he used to be. Having Mae Thelma around sort of takes the spontaneity off our lovemaking. Every time I turn, everywhere I look, she’s in our face, in our room, asking me questions, asking Jackson for a favor. Can he go down to the insurance company with her? Can he drive with her to go and see Robert Earl?” Her eyes grew dark with indignation.

“Have you talked to Jackson —”

“I’ve told him I think Mae Thelma intentionally tries to interrupt our personal time together. And I’ve told him time and time again over this past month and a half how much I resent another woman cooking day and night in my kitchen.”

“Aren’t you happy not having to cook?”

“No. Most women want to cook for their men. Sure, it was nice in the beginning. But enough is enough. I’ve explained to Mae Thelma I appreciate her helping out, but I would prefer to cook my husband’s dinner, thank you.”

“And?”

“And she went and cried to Jackson, turning the whole conversation around, so I’d look like the guilty party, and he believed her. Told me that she needed to keep herself busy. But this is the killer.” She searched Kim’s eyes before continuing. “I’ve started having dreams about another man.”

“Who?”

“Ivory Michaels —”

“The anchorman on Channel Two?”

“Yeah.” She released a bushel of air. “Seems Sierra’s given up her crush on him and set her sights on Robert Earl Jr., and I’ve picked up the fantasy.”

Ginger prayed nightly over her constant misgivings over Mae Thelma. Her heart was in a quandary. “God don’t like ugly” were the words that constantly flared up in her brain when devilish thoughts about Mae Thelma’s ulterior motives entered her mind. Ginger thought she’d be nice to Mae Thelma. After all, she hadn’t done anything wrong . . . yet.

Trying to relieve herself of the guilt she felt, Ginger invited Mae Thelma to go to the Parade of Homes in Shelby Township. It turned out to be a great idea. Mae Thelma loved it. She’d never seen homes so fine in her thirty years.

Fourteen beautiful homes priced from $250,000 to $750,000 were dramatically decorated and furnished with expensive custom furniture. There was a home to suit any lifestyle: split levels, ranches, Colonials, quads, contemporaries, Cape Cods, and even an English Tudor that rivaled Ginger’s house.

As they drove home, bubbling with lively conversation over everything they’d seen, Ginger felt at ease with Mae Thelma for the first time. Was it because she’d finally managed to get her away from her husband for half the day?

Ginger had frequented the Parade of Homes Showcase over the past ten years, and she never left the event without several new ideas she could implement in her home. She’d taken pictures of small embellishments that she could imitate herself.

When they drove up to the house, Jackson had all the kids lined up in the backyard. He held two freshly cut switches in his hand. Ginger and Mae Thelma looked at each other totally bewildered, and hurried toward the unhappy group.

Tiny tracks of mud were all over the dining room rug, ending at the opened french doors. All the smaller children had denied that they’d done it. Knowing Ginger would be livid about the dirt, Jackson took the necessary steps to insure that it wouldn’t happen again.

It began to rain, so Jackson hauled the kids to the downstairs family room. No one had uttered a word, each protecting the other, until Autumn finally spoke up. “Robert Earl and David Earl did it, Daddy.” She felt the tears sting her eyes as she thought of the chastising she’d get from Sierra later that evening when they were alone. She’d promised Sierra she wouldn’t tell on her boyfriend. But Daddy had said he’d beat all of them until one of them told whose muddy footprints were all over Mama’s white carpeting.

Ginger stood in the doorway of the dining room, hands on hips, shaking her head at the mess that lay before her. She stormed upstairs, clenching her fists, as Mae Thelma stood mute.

The sweltering heat of July passed with no further misbehavior on the part of the unruly boys, especially after Jackson had given them the whipping that everyone agreed they needed. They’d acted almost like little angels ever since.

“I’m so glad to see you,” said Ginger, hugging her mother, who had surprised them with a visit. She extended her hand as she gave her mother’s lover a perfunctory once-over. “And you must be James? It’s nice to finally meet you.” She thought she’d choke on those words as she smiled falsely. He barely looked thirty, he was so skinny. And to think he was almost twenty years younger than her mother.

He clamped a callused, bony hand over Ginger’s. “Just call me Cotton. Everybody else does.” He gave her what he seemed to think was an award-winning smile. Ginger thought he looked like an oversized rat smiling with beaver teeth.

After the introductions, Jackson and James carried their bags into Jason’s room. Jason had tried to hide his disappointment at having to give up his room for the weekend, but Ginger overheard him complaining to Jackson. He figured since he was the oldest, Christian should have had to give up his sleeping quarters. Jackson agreed and popped him a twenty-dollar bill for his troubles. Jason didn’t voice another gripe.

“But Mama, he’s so skinny,” said Ginger as they mixed a large tossed salad.

“Haven’t you heard? Skinny men have long dicks.” They giggled like two college girls until Mae Thelma interrupted their musings.

“Need any help, Mizz Lee?” Mae Thelma asked, her words pouring out slowly, like warmed caramel.

“No thank you, honey.” Katherine kicked Ginger’s leg and took a sip of her Lauder’s scotch on the rocks. “We can handle it just fine,” Katherine said, imitating Mae Thelma’s southern drawl.

Mae Thelma did a quick turn, her hair swinging behind her like a whip, and pounded up the stairs. Ginger felt so good she almost wanted to take a sip from her mother’s tumbler. From the expression on Katherine’s face, it was evident that she was not fooled by the other woman’s manners. The duel was on.

Mae Thelma sat down on her bed, shed her shoes, and stretched out her legs. She mulled over the snide looks and sharp retorts Katherine had given her throughout the day. So that’s how it is. May the best woman win, she thought.

She recalled her encounter with Jackson last night, while Ginger was away showing a home. Timing it perfectly, having figured out his daily schedule and habits by the sounds outside his door, she had gone up to ask a question.

Reaching for his robe, Jackson had stood before her, clad only in his white cotton briefs. Their eyes met and held. Neither moved. Her eyes spoke the secret of secrets. She couldn’t take them off him. Then and there, she knew that he knew she wanted him. Cooler than the quickly passing dusk when the heat of the day is silenced, she left him to ponder the encounter.

She’d lain awake all night, listening. Waiting. Hoping. Praying he’d climb those stairs and profess his need. Her heart pounded at the thought of him lying beside her. Loving her passionately. Desperately. Releasing the desires she’d seen in his eyes. Knowing it had to come.

While she waited, she opened an old book and read a song by Genevieve Tobin and William Gaxton, which inspired her to write him a letter, explaining her feelings.

Folding the letter carefully, she tucked it beneath her pillow, until the right time when she could share her feelings openly with Jackson. Together, they’d figure out what to do about Ginger and Robert Earl.

“Up to no good, that bitch is, Ginger. I don’t care how sweet and mannerly she is. She’s full of shit,” said Katherine, wagging her hips, her tight pants pressing her buttocks together like two kidney beans.

A few months ago, Ginger wouldn’t have believed Katherine’s accusations. But lately her cousin-in-law had been a little too bold in her attentions toward Jackson. It was downright disrespectful. Every time Jackson farted, Mae Thelma didn’t have to know what he ate!

Songs in the Key of Life

Randall stood outside his lover’s apartment door, banging on it. He’d spotted the familiar foreign sports car in the allocated parking spot, so he knew he was at home. He continued to knock until he heard someone swearing on the other side of the door.

“What the hell —”

“Can I come in? I’d like to talk to you.”

The short smoking jacket barely covered his lover’s nudity. Cracking the door and speaking in hushed tones, he said, “Can’t you see I’m busy? I’ve got company. Right now just isn’t a good time.”

Randall put his foot through the small opening just as the door was being pushed shut. “If not now, then when?” His piercing blue eyes narrowed like slits, and his mouth twisted up as though he were sipping vinegar. He repeated the question, but received only silence and a drop-dead look from his annoyed lover.

“Call me tonight. Around eleven.” His eyes begged for understanding as he lowered his gaze down toward Randall’s intrusive foot.

Because he loved the man, Randall decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “
You
call me at eleven. I’ll be waiting.” Pointedly consulting his Rolex for effect, Randall turned and walked away.

“You’re trying to be like Alice in Wonderland, even though one world — the normal one — is obstinately blind to what lies beyond the looking glass,” said Randall as he continued working on his painting later that night.

The voice over the phone sounded defensive. “I understand how you feel. I can even empathize with you. But during all the years of our relationship, I’ve tried unsuccessfully to get you to understand my situation. I don’t have the luxury of coming out. Perhaps being gay won’t affect your job, but it will affect mine!”

“That’s something you’ve conjured up in your mind. It’s the nineties. Society is no longer concerned with your sexual preferences.”

“Most of my friends and co-workers have no idea that I’m gay, and I prefer to keep it that way. There are men in my business that everyone assumes are gay, but once that person says it out loud and admits his sexual preference, he confirms a reality that people cannot accept.”

“Let me —”

“I haven’t been totally honest with you lately. You seem to be comfortable knowing who you are and having society and America accept you for what you are. But, as yet, I haven’t come to terms with myself. Every day it’s a struggle.”

At the beginning of their relationship, he’d told Randall that every now and then he desired the intimacy of women. Though the level of lovemaking and satisfaction didn’t compare with how he felt when he was with Randall, he still pursued his quest for the one woman who might convert him.

“You’re still seeing women?” asked Randall, hoping he’d deny it but knowing that he wouldn’t believe him if he did. Randall knew that a woman’s love couldn’t possibly compete with the more powerful love they felt for each other. He would have to be patient, and in time his lover would come to realize that his sexuality was nothing to be ashamed of. You had to learn and accept it first within your own heart and mind.

As his lover talked on, Randall began covering up the painting that he knew he’d never complete.

“I told her I’d cook it, Jackson,” said Mae Thelma, hoeing the weeds in the garden. Jackson worked the soil on the other end. He’d just finished picking the first batch of turnip greens, and was about to put six more packages of turnip seeds in the ground for a second mess that would be ready to pick by late September.

Sprinkling the seeds, he smiled at Mae Thelma, saying, “Ginger don’t burn things too often. I managed to eat it anyway, even though it was a little tough.”

“It was tougher than puttin’ socks on a rooster. That’s how tough it was. And I refuse to eat food that ain’t prepared right.”

Ginger had insisted that she would cook dinner Friday evening. One of Jackson’s favorites. Liver and rice, smothered with onions, and broccoli and fluffy Bisquick biscuits. But problems had arisen at the office, and she was unable to leave as early as she’d planned. Scurrying around the kitchen, frantic about the lateness of the hour, Ginger had thrown pots on the stove as Mae Thelma watched, biding her time, knowing that dinner would be a disaster.

Jackson smiled as he raked the dark earth smooth. He loved gardening. One thumb hooked in the loop of his jeans, he stood back to admire his handiwork. Then panic set in as his eyes scanned to the other half of the garden. “Mae, you moved my collards?” he asked incredulously.