Knowing

by Rosalyn McMillan

  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.

  Easing off the counter, swiftly untying her pink chenille bathrobe, he pulled her into his arms, forcing hers to drop at her sides. His large, nut-brown hands cupped her buttocks, pulling her up on her tiptoes to feel the bulge in his crotch. Her gown molded between her thighs as he thrust his knee to spread open her legs. Closing his mouth over hers, he kissed her. Ginger felt the velvety smoothness of his skin that stretched over his muscular shoulders as she struggled to disengage their bodies.

  “Come on, baby,” he whispered in her ear, licking the lobe. “We can go upstairs for a quickie before the kids wake up.”

  “I don’t feel like screwing, Jackson. I’ve got a lot on my mind,” said Ginger, finally freeing herself from his embrace.

  Jackson glanced in the breakfast room, and then looked at her. “We’re not going through this again, are we?” His muscles flexed, his breathing quickening.

  As he followed her, Ginger nervously stacked the magazines neatly in a pile, and gathered them up against her bosom. Turning to look him in the eye, she said, “I don’t care to discuss this with you this morning. We’ll talk about it this evening. I’m going to take a shower.” She stormed up the stairs. He followed her, swearing under his breath.

  “What did you say?” she fired. She turned at the landing before the flight of stairs leading to their bedroom, and looked down into eyes staring up at her from three steps below.

  Jackson propped himself against the wood railing. “You got a one-track mind —”

  “So do you. It’s your way or no wa —”

  “That’s why it don’t do no good to tell you nothin’.”

  “What!”

  “ ’Cause you got your mind made up already. That’s why I can’t help you with nothin’.”

  “That’s not true, Jackson, and you know it.”

  “I can’t give you no suggestions because you got a one-track mind. I try to help, and tell you how I feel about things. Ain’t that important?” His eyes begged understanding.

  “Not when they differ from mine. Which is all the time. Are my feelings important to you?”

  He expelled a few exasperated breaths. He was getting nowhere fast. “Ginger, it’s always your way or no way. If you would just take time to listen to me once in a while, you’d save yourself a lot of time. You know I want to help.”

  As Ginger took a step down, her eyes grew wide in fury. Her right hand made a half-arc above his head. “How dare you! When’s the last time you offered to help me at anything?”

  “I don’t waste a lot of good advice on you because you don’t take it.” Jackson’s knuckles gripped the banister as he pushed himself up a step closer to Ginger.

  Her tone became angrier. “Because you’re manipulative, Jackson —”

  “No. No. You can’t recognize good advice. What you’re looking for is someone to support your thinking. Your imagination runs away —”

  It’s too bad you don’t have a little imagination outside the bedroom! Ginger thought to herself before shouting, “There isn’t a damned thing wrong with my mind.” She stepped back, gripping the rail.

  “Can’t you step outside yourself for a moment, look at the situation and be objective?”

  “I can’t. Suppose you try stepping inside yourself and being a little objective? I’d like you to tell me your shortcomings. You’re so quick to pinpoint mine. Lord have mercy, I can’t believe how well you know me. We should get along like two peas in a pod.”

  “Knowing you is one thing, being able to speak the truth to you about you is another thing altogether, Ginger.”

  “Are you willing to sit down for a few hours and listen to me tell you about yourself, like I’m supposed to be willing to let you tell me about me?”

  “I’m not going out trying to open a business, Ginger.”

  “Oh! So you don’t think Oprah had any personal problems when she started out?”

  Jackson crisscrossed his wrists on his knee and spat out the words “You ain’t Oprah.”

  Jackson had long since tired of hearing Ginger brag about Oprah’s success. Oprah was a goddess in Ginger’s eyes. Her mentor. She could do no wrong. If he happened to be in the room when her show came on, Jackson would get up and walk out, saying “I don’t want to hear this shit today.” That always pissed Ginger off, and he knew it. She liked him to watch the show with her. Every now and then he would. Whenever he thought Ginger was on the brink of coming up with another big idea, he knew where it came from. Oprah was causing problems in his home she wasn’t even aware of. There were probably a lot of other husbands out there who felt the same way he did: Leave my woman the way she was, I liked her better that way.

  “And you ain’t Michael Jordan either, but do you hear me complaining?” She knew that would piss him off, because he knew how she felt about Michael.

  He ignored that retort, and continued honing in on his point. “Listen to me for just a minute, baby. You have a good head on your shoulders. We both know that. But sometimes you get too far ahead of yourself — move too fast. If I don’t support your first thought then I’m accused of being unsupportive. Sometimes your ideas are so farfetched I can’t believe it. And I just go along with you —”

  “What!”

  Jackson snapped his fingers. “And sometimes I just go on along with you knowing you’re wrong. But knowing if I go along it’ll make you happy as can be. Just to go along with your wrong idea . . .”

  Ginger felt the veins popping out on her forehead. You bastard! She thought for a second, regaining her composure. A slow smile eased across her face. Lifting her gown, she turned back to Jackson. She wiggled her hips as she climbed the stairs. “It’s been quite a while since you had a good thought worth pondering over. The single revelation you ever had was when you decided to marry me, and I gave you that one!”

  Jackson disregarded that remark, electing to make his point quickly. “I got sense enough not to leave over twenty years of seniority. A company that made it possible for you to live like you do.” Jackson’s gangly arms lifted to praise their beautiful surroundings. “Or have you suddenly forgotten where you live? Don’t you feel your seniority at the company deserves more respect than a fast money-induced advertisement for suckers like you?”

  Ginger turned and marched silently up the stairs.

  2

  Ain’t Too Proud to Beg

  Leaning over to fill the tub, Ginger replied through stiff lips, “No, I haven’t forgotten about my seventeen years at the plant.” Turning around to face Jackson, she sat on the edge of the tub and crossed her arms. “We’ve discussed my job at the plant and my endless jobs at home,” she huffed, “and you know exactly how I feel about both.” The sound of gushing water cut their conversation short.

  As he walked toward her, Jackson inhaled deeply, then put an arm around her shoulder. Ginger stiffened, continuing to pour generous capfuls of jasmine bubble bath into the tub. Running his fingers through her hair, he turned her head toward him. His lips brushed against her neck as he spoke “Baby, let’s not argue today,” while kissing an exposed shoulder.

  The warmth of her breath bounced off his face as she uttered softly, “I don’t enjoy arguing with you, Jackson. I would just appreciate a little understanding.” She stared innocently into his face. “Is that too much to ask?”

  Knowing where the conversation was leading, he folded his hands together in a nonhostile gesture. “What is it this time, Ginger?” he asked in a civil tone. “You promised me the last time you spent thousands of dollars on that . . . that . . .”

  Her head lowering, she whispered, “Body Shop.” Ginger knew every angle from which he would come at her. They’d had this same argument so many times that she’d memorized his speech. He’d bring up the kids. Her job. Her responsibilities at home. Finally end with “You must be losing your mind.”

  “Yeah,” he continued. “That lotion and perfume business that you were so sure would be a success here in Detroit.” He stood and w
alked toward the window. “Isn’t that what you said!”

  “Yes, but —”

  “But nothing. I can’t take this constant juggling in our home life every time you come up with a new business idea. It hasn’t been so easy on the kids, either. How many times do we have to go through this? Every year?” He paused. “Are you that selfish? Can’t you think about anybody but yourself? Are you losing your —”

  “If I don’t get out of that plant soon, I will lose my mind. It’s always going to be the kids. You. Champion Motors. This damned house. What about what’s important to me?” Her voice broke. She walked into their sitting room and flopped down on the couch. Every Saturday the set in this room was turned to the Westerns on TNT. Plush, pale pink carpeting stretched the forty-foot expanse of their bedroom suite. White walls complemented the pink-and-green floral café curtains covering the numerous windows. Ginger turned her head to focus on the fairyland the night’s snow had made of the park a few yards away.

  “Listen, Ginger. You knew what kind of woman I expected you to be when I married you. I can only take so much —”

  “And you knew what kind of woman I was when I married you.” She eased forward on the sofa, flicking the remote, cutting off the noise. Then, silence. “Jackson, why did you lie about helping me with my career? You knew from the beginning of our relationship how much it meant to me. I was upfront about getting into a business.”

  “I would’ve said anything to get you, Ginger.”

  “So you lied?”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “What about my needs?” Ginger asked.

  “Nobody knows better than me what you need,” he said seductively.

  She raised her voice. “I need a career. I can’t take working at that factory too much longer. When I look at that place at four forty-five every morning, I cringe. When I walk to the door, I dread opening it. It’s getting harder and harder not to turn around and walk back out. If I hear another person tell me ‘Ginger, you’re so pretty . . . so talented . . . you’re so intelligent, I can’t understand what you’re doing here,’ I’ll scream.” Her fingers trembled as she massaged the veins in her forehead.