Knowing (33 page)

The smile again. “So your goal is to make it in the real estate market?”

“Hopefully, I’ll have built up my clientele enough by next year through word-of-mouth and networking that I can quit. It’s difficult working two jobs when you have four children.” And a lazy husband, she wanted to add, but didn’t.

“Next year I’ll be in the market for a new home. Do you have any business cards on you?”

“Are you kidding?” She handed him three Century 21 business cards with her picture on them. She knew that most of his associates had six-figure salaries and could afford to purchase very nice homes.

Sure, she flirted a little with him. But it was harmless. They chatted like children out for recess. The girls ignored them, venturing over to the neighboring exhibit. As Ginger and Ivory became better acquainted, they realized they had much in common. The same tastes in homes, clothes, food, entertainment, and, most important, similar ambitions to own their own businesses.

Ginger felt giddy with excitement as Ivory bought her an ice cream cone. She studied his relaxed smile as he walked toward her. She knew by the ease of his walk, the sway of his lean hips, that he would give a woman enormous pleasure. She imagined herself in his arms, her face tilted skyward inviting his luscious lips to caress hers.

But she knew her thoughts about the famous Ivory Michaels were nothing more than a harmless fantasy.

There was a voice-over advertisement on the radio pitching a Caribbean cruise. Exactly what he and Ginger needed. But when would they find the time? She was so busy, and happy in her new career. Jackson felt a small pang of jealousy.

Jackson leaned back in his chair, loosening his tie as he studied the revised blueprints of a new sewing unit being set up in the west end of the plant that he and a group of young engineers had just completed. Same old routine. He was bored. Looking around his office, he viewed the bleak surroundings and sighed.

He couldn’t stand the prejudice he’d experienced in this job, the promotions he should have gotten but didn’t, because he was Black. He couldn’t even confide that information to his beloved wife. Someone had to keep things in perspective, and it was his job as a man to provide for his family. So he ignored the bullshit and sucked in his pride, bowing to the reality that he had another six years before retirement. And then he was out of here.

Checking his watch, he saw he had roughly fifty minutes before he could break the monotony of the day and exercise for an hour in the Nautilus facility the company provided for the workers. They figured the employees would be healthier if they had the opportunity to exercise and stay fit. But in most cases, the workers who frequented the health room went to break up the boredom, as Jackson did. He’d do just about anything to get a few hours away from the cement hole, and mocking faces, where he was forced to make a living.

The thud of the door slamming shut behind his visitor sounded like a stack of lumber falling. Bill went back into the bedroom. The thought of the acts that had just transpired left him disgusted with himself.

He had submitted yet again to his weakness. Angrily, he snatched the soiled sheets from the bed, then forced them down the overstuffed hamper in the small bathroom. After remaking the bed, he poured himself a stiff double shot of scotch.

Tonight he’d found solace in a paid whore. His sexual relationship with Sheila had ended days before Jewel’s funeral. He had known all along that he still loved Kim, and trying to drown out that love in the arms of another woman hadn’t worked. Sheila had been diplomatic about the breakup, and they resumed their professional relationship at the clinic.

He desperately wanted marriage. A wife and child. Bill’s own son had died without his knowing he’d been a father. He blamed his misfortune on God then, and still did today. The good Lord, the just Lord, the all-knowing Lord in his greatness had failed to shed any light or blessings on his life. Sure, he’d made it, climbed the ladder of success, but not by the grace of God, rather by the anger in his heart, and a desperate determination to prove to himself that he was worthy, even though the good Lord had seen fit to rob him of everything that was important and necessary in his life.

Though he was a psychiatrist, and understood the human mind in its many functions and facets, the ability to diagnose and cure himself of his guilt and remorse still eluded him.

*    *    *

“Yes, Mama, she’s still saved.”

“Thank the Lord. And how about you, son? Don’t you think it’s about time that you came on in?”

“I know, Mama.”

“God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in Him shall have everlasting life. You believe you can be saved, and filled with the Holy Ghost, don’t you, son?” Hattie B. Montgomery asked, her tone serious yet loving.

“You know I do, Mama. Men are happier knowing God,” Jackson said, and waited for the answer it would bring.

His mother’s relentless quest to bring him back home into the Church, following in the footsteps of his older brothers and sisters, was always part of their conversation. He rocked and listened intently as his mother talked on.

Shuffling through the mound of mail that had just been delivered, he stacked the envelopes, and elected to open a small brown box. “Yes, Mama,” he said respectfully, as she continued her spiel.

Opening the box, he was shocked to find a perfumed pair of women’s pink lacy underwear with a note attached to the crotch.
Miss Lilly would like to invite Bronco Billy to dine with her tonight, at the O.K. Corral. Be saddled up and ready by eight.

What on earth was that woman going to do next? She was saved all right — went to church every Sunday, read the Bible stories when she could to the kids, and hadn’t touched an ounce of alcohol in over four months. But she wasn’t so busy “trying to be a lady” that she’d forgotten how to be a woman . . . his woman.

He smiled to himself, snickering under his breath at the thought of his sexy, saintly wife. There couldn’t be another woman like her anywhere. The good Lord had surely broken the mold when he crafted her. She was his lover, and his best friend. He prayed that their love would last forever.

But Mae Thelma thought otherwise as she stood before the mirror in Ginger and Jackson’s bedroom, admiring her perfectly proportioned body, clad only in bra and panties. Lying back on the bed, she placed another red velvet pouch beneath Jackson’s pillow, sinking her face into the softness, inhaling his scent. The pouch was filled with herbs and potions, blessed by the high priestess in New Orleans, guaranteed to make the intended man or woman fall in love with the holder of the love potion. Mae Thelma was sure it wouldn’t be long before Jackson’s thoughts and desires were for her only.

What’s Going On?

Everything that could have gone wrong that day had. The motor on Ginger’s power sewing machine at work decided this would be the day for its demise. It had taken the mechanics nearly three hours to replace it. Three days earlier she’d pulled a hangnail from her right ring finger, and it had gotten infected, though she hadn’t realized it — until today.

She’d gone to the medical office early that morning to get a pain pill. By eleven, despite a second pill, the pain had worsened and was almost unbearable. Her temperature topped a hundred, and the doctor sent her home. She’d barely driven three miles when she fainted at a stop light, waking from the blaring sound of a motorist’s horn. Afraid she couldn’t drive the additional thirty-five miles home, she went to the emergency room of Saint Joseph Hospital, which luckily was less than two blocks away.

“But how is Jackson going to get home?” asked Mae Thelma, uninterested in Ginger’s condition.

Before Ginger had left the plant, Jackson called the Ford dealership. They assured him that the cooling system on the air-conditioning unit would be fixed by two-thirty. Jackson told Ginger not to worry and to go home and get some rest; he would hitch a ride home with one of his employees.

“Don’t worry, Mae Thelma, he can catch a ride.” I don’t believe this woman, she thought. Jackson’s Bronco was in the shop being worked on. It was the first time in months they’d ridden together.

Ginger climbed the stairs to her bedroom, carrying a freshly brewed cup of hot Lipton tea. The bitch didn’t even bother to ask me how my hand was, she railed silently.

The infection was worse than she’d thought. Her finger had to be opened, drained, and stitched. The doctor had told her that most people weren’t aware of how severe a hangnail could be if it got infected, hers was one of the worst he’d seen in a while.

After a few questions about what Ginger did for a living, the doctor explained that the chemicals on the body-cloth fabric at work were the primary culprit in such an infection. He gave her a slip for work that said she would be unable to use her right hand for three days. He also told her to return in two days so he could change the bandages and check on the stitches.

If the infection wasn’t cleared up by then, they might have to cut off the tip of her finger, the doctor had cautioned. Ginger was given oral medication along with a piercing shot from a needle that felt as though it was five inches long. She would be able to drive home safely, the doctor assured her, in half an hour.

Her nerves were so frayed by the time she got home that she planned on going straight to bed, fearful she would explode at even a well-meaning family member.

The door to Jason’s room was shut, but Ginger could hear the creaking sound of mattress springs. To her surprise, after opening the door, she found Jason speaking into the phone. He turned abruptly. The shock of seeing his mother home before twelve in the afternoon was written all over his face.

“What are you doing home?” Ginger fired, checking her watch, although she was acutely aware of the exact time of day. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

Jason mumbled a few words into the receiver and hung up. “Me and the two other guys were drinking sodas we’d opened during our break in the stock room, and the manager came in and caught us. Everybody drinks the stuff, Ma, and he sent us home, just ’cause we’re Black.”

“What!” Ginger used her left hand to massage her throbbing temples. “What have I told you about following the crowd. Being Black has nothing to do with it. You got caught stealing sodas from the store’s warehouse, and now you want to blame it on color. You’re wrong, Jason, and you know it.” This was altogether too much to take in one day. She decided to deal with it later. Right now the pain in her head and right finger seemed to be competing against each other. “Don’t you step out of this house today. I’ll speak to you this evening,” Ginger hollered as she slammed the door of Jason’s room.

“What the hell?” said Ginger abruptly sitting up in her bed after a long nap. Sierra and Autumn ran into the room, announcing that Robert Earl Jr. and David Earl were up to something. Something bad. Mae Thelma was nowhere to be found.

Pounding up the back stairs to the third floor, Ginger cupped the back of her head, feeling an oncoming headache. She wanted to get rid of the pressure of the wig against her temples, but ever since her unwanted company had moved in, she never took it off until she went to bed for the night and could lock her door.

“Robert Earl!” Ginger called out, “What y’all doing up here, making all this noise!” As she opened the door to their room, she noticed that most of their toys and furnishings had been turned over, topsy-turvy. The room was a mess. But it was empty. She heard a faint scuffling from Mae Thelma’s room and backtracked to it. She opened the door, hearing muffled snickering sounds from behind it. Something scurrying fast and dark greeted her at the door. All she could do was scream as she felt the tiny feet of two mice run across her stockinged feet.

Her clothes stuck to her damp skin, her head pounded wildly, her heart beat at an alarming rate, and she felt sick to her stomach. She lifted her hand to her mouth, and fainted.

“Oooooooooh,” said David Earl, “your mama ain’t got no hair.”

“Shut up,” said Sierra, frantically trying to pull the curly cap back over her mother’s head. She’d sent Autumn downstairs for some water as she valiantly tried to wake her mother.

“I already knew,” said Robert Earl Jr. “My Mama told me.”

As Ginger awoke, she caught the tail end of his statement. Taking a few deep breaths, she planted her hands on the floor, muttering incoherently to herself. She looked around desperately, then she stood up, screaming. “Get out! You little bastards get out of my house! Now!”

Mae Thelma rounded the staircase, rushing past Autumn, who was trying to balance the overflowing cup of water. “I declare to goodness! What’s goin’ on in heah?” Her usually immaculate room was in total disarray.

Ginger stood, her arms crossed tightly over her middle, her wig plopped haphazardly atop her head. “You. I want you and your kids out of my house, this minute.”

It was getting crowded in the small room. The August heat, along with the heated bodies and tempers, rendered the tiny room unbearable. As Ginger cranked open the window behind the bed, she noticed a small picture of Mae Thelma and Jackson on her dresser.