The smell of sautéed onions and buttered mushrooms hung in the air over the tiny table in Bill’s small apartment. As Bill continued sharing the day’s events, Kim cleared the table and placed a mouthwatering strawberry cream puff before him. His wide boyish smile signaled that he was pleased. He thanked Kim for surprising him with a home-cooked meal. They rarely had time for such luxuries these days, both of their schedules were so hectic. Kim kissed him on his forehead. She knew his weakness for sweets, and had picked up one of his favorites at the bakery when she shopped for their evening meal.
“A few students even volunteered to help with the refreshments, and clean up during the open house of the clinic and workshop.”
His own clinic was to open in May, less than three months away, and he was taking great pains to assure that it would be a success. By mailing out flyers to other professional organizations and making personal appeals to neighborhood YMCAs, he’d reached out to the community and explained the long-term effect his clinic would have on the numerous gifted young children who needed a little extra help and guidance. He believed their knowing they had somewhere to go, someone they could talk to, someone who genuinely cared about them, would help the youths who had gone astray, and he wanted to make some changes in their lives.
Bill admitted that he had gotten somewhat emotional when he had explained to Dr. Ingram’s students the vow he made to a dying youth, killed senselessly by a stray bullet in his apartment building.
Kim was familiar with Bill’s story of how, while holding a dying nine-year-old in his arms, he’d vowed to dedicate his life to saving Black children. But she never ceased to be moved when he finished.
Both sat in silence for several moments. Then Kim, who knew she needed love and tenderness tonight from the man she adored, especially after the horrendous afternoon at the nursing home, decided it was time to change the tempo of the evening. Time to talk about the two of them, their love, their need for each other.
Picking up their after-dinner cocktails, she led Bill to the sofa. Then she casually removed his glasses, his stiffly starched white shirt, and loosened the buckle of his trousers. Kim massaged Bill’s tense shoulders until he relaxed a little. Kissing his shoulder, she whispered that she’d be back in a moment, and went to get her purse. She took out a small vial of aromatic oil that she’d had the foresight to bring with her.
In the kitchen, as the oil warmed in a small pot on the stove, she stripped down to her underwear. Next, she slipped a classic George Benson cassette tape in the stereo and dimmed the lights.
Moments later, the evening began to happen just as she’d planned it. She loved taking the lead, rendering her man helpless with her ardent seduction. Yes . . .
7
I Can’t Get Next to You
After completing her daily production allotment, Ginger cleaned her sewing table and stacked the leather cushions neatly for the next day’s workload. Waving adiós to her sewing partner, Veto, she left her work area and headed toward Jackson’s office.
She walked down the center aisle past sewing units similar to hers. Each unit was equipped with seventy or more power sewing machines by Singer, Juki, and Adler. The machines were attached to the top of green Formica tables roughly eight feet long, with half-moon cutouts for the sewing operators. To her right were several multineedle machines used for stitching continuous lines on single-cushion pleats. Beyond that was a small embroidery unit that created intricate designs on leather and cloth with computerized needlework for the luxury model cars.
Looking around, Ginger thought, as she did almost every day, How in the world did I end up here?
As she entered Jackson’s office, he glanced up from the phone, signaling her with a lifted finger to wait a minute. His thick black mustache parted like two birds above his lips as he spoke into the receiver, his lips expanding to a flat, thin line. Leaning forward, Ginger eyeballed him, trying to decipher his conversation. She decided he must be talking to his mother, and rose to leave. She knew he’d be a while.
“Wait a minute, baby. I need to talk to you.” The day’s news wailed from the small radio on top of the file cabinets as she stood waiting. Jackson said a few more words and hung up the phone. “My mother’s sick,” he said, lowering his head. “She’s scheduled for an operation Wednesday. I need to catch a flight out in the morning. I called for reservations for a layover in Chicago, so I could pick up my sister Annie.”
“Oh . . . I see. You’ve already made reservations.”
“Yeah, for me, you, and Autumn.”
“So I’m supposed to leave Jason, Christian, and Sierra home alone, is that it?” She leaned over the desk, her head thrust forward.
“Sweetie, let’s not argue. Jason is old enough to watch the kids. Or we could ask Mrs. Johnson to come over for a few days.” As he picked up the phone, Ginger clamped her hand on top of his, silencing the dial tone.
“Perhaps, but my boss will be mad at me if I tell her at the last minute. She has to have time to get someone to cover my job, and I don’t feel like being hassled right now.” She looked around his office, staring at the numerous photographs of Autumn covering the beige canvas walls. Potted aloe vera and ivy plants covered the tops of bookshelves and file cabinets. She should be working in an office, she thought, not at a noisy machine that was ruining her hearing.
Taking a deep breath, she walked toward the open door. “No, you go. You and your sister.” Shaking her head, she said, “Besides, I really don’t want to take Autumn out of school — she’s doing so well.” A proud smile spread across her face. “Every day she comes home with something new that she’s learned. She loves doing her homework every day like the rest of the kids. Carrying her little notebook around with her.” Looking away, Ginger tried to mask the disappointment in her face. This would be the first time in their eight years of marriage they’d be away from each other overnight.
Jackson walked around his desk, lifted up her chin, and kissed her. “Okay. Anyway, I kinda figured you wouldn’t want to go. And we both know the kids hate Mississippi. Just getting them down there every summer for the reunion is punishment enough. You know I didn’t mean any harm.”
He sat on the edge of his desk, pulling her toward him. “I probably wouldn’t be very good company. I’m really worried about my mother getting through this operation. She’s going to be seventy in a few months, and the odds of her healing correctly or at all aren’t great.”
Ginger felt the familiar jealousy about Jackson’s mother spreading throughout her body. The anger she felt as she constantly tried to compete with the perfection of his mother’s legacy surfaced again now. She tried to be the woman he wanted, a woman close to his mother’s image. But it seemed an impossible task.
After dinner she would talk to Jackson. He would know how to handle the kids, and when to tell them. One of the many things Ginger loved about Jackson was that he had an easygoing way of handling serious situations. Her hair was so thin on top, she knew he was aware of what was happening.
Ginger dreaded the thought of explaining to the kids that yes, Mama was fine. Yes, she would get through this just like all the other times. She knew Autumn would ask so many questions. “Why, Mommy? Can’t the doctor fix it, Mommy?” Tears formed in her eyes at the thought of the hurtful look. . . .
Jackson gave Ginger a firm pat on the buttocks as he kissed her on the neck. “Dinner almost ready, baby?”
Pulling away from the steaming pot of spaghetti, she felt the fine texture of her hair with her fingertips, and said, “Jackson, I need to talk to you. Can we talk after dinner?” She began adding oregano to the bubbling tomato sauce.
Slicing a chunk of sharp cheese, then grabbing a roll of Krispy crackers, along with a hunk of garlic ring bologna, Jackson pinched Ginger on the behind and said he’d see her upstairs later.
“Daddy, telephone. It’s Mae Thelma,” said Autumn, taking a bite of his cheese.
“I’ll get it upstairs, thanks baby.” He kissed her cheek
before he dashed up the stairs by twos.
Ginger concentrated on dinner, not on what might happen tomorrow. Feeding the kids their favorite meal always made the conversation lively at dinnertime. At times Jason could put away three plates of steaming Italian spaghetti smothered with parmesan cheese.
Her son’s physique was that of a bodybuilder. With broad chest, muscular shoulders and thighs, and a perfectly flat stomach that would make a quarter bounce and spin around, he caught the eye of many an amorous teenage girl. Ginger thought his buttocks a tad too big for a young, mature male — a burden he’d inherited from his mother, and his gyrating grandmother, Katherine — but Jason insisted the girls loved it. That the girls couldn’t wait until summertime so they could watch him play basketball in a pair of Lycra biker shorts. Still, Ginger hoped he would stop eating so much.
Later, while the girls stacked the dishwasher, Sierra told her mother that she was worried about a math test she was taking the next day. “Mama, could you ask Christian to help me?” said Sierra apprehensively. “I asked him already, and he said no.”
Christian had been hiding on the back stairs, listening. He knew Sierra was going to tell on him. Sucking on his bottom lip, he made a casual entrance to tell his side of the story. “That’s not quite all the truth, Ma.” He glared at Sierra.
Sierra’s petite little body seemed to droop. She looked from Christian to her mother helplessly. Her gray-blue eyes filled with tears because she knew that Christian would be calling her stupid as soon as they were out of their mother’s sight. Sierra wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist, and began crying. “I can’t help it if I’m not as smart as they are, Mama.”
“She daydreams, Ma.”
“I don’t!”
“You do too!”
Sierra buried her head in her mother’s bosom. “I just don’t understand him, Mama. He goes too fast.”
“ ’Cause you don’t pay attention,” said Christian, sounding like a little professor.
“He calls me stupid if I forget something, Mama.”
“I don’t,” yelled Christian.
“You do.” Sierra’s bottom lip quivered. Tears tumbled down her golden cheeks. “I’m stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!”
“Baby,” said Ginger, swaying Sierra in her arms. “It’s just going to take a little longer for you to understand things, that’s all. You’re not stupid.” Ginger bent down and tugged at her chin, smiling. “Ain’t none of my babies stupid.”
Sierra forced a weak smile. She hugged her mother’s neck.
Ginger glared at Christian. A silent “See what you’ve done” was written all over her face.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. Christian’s going to help you with your science and math homework every weeknight for the rest of this marking period. Aren’t you, Christian?”
Christian pushed both fists into his jeans pockets. “Yeah.” He turned to leave before adding, “No radio, Sierra, while we’re studying. That’s why she can’t remember nothin’, she’s too busy straining to listen to EnVogue.”
Ginger smoothed Sierra’s sandy brown hair, saying, “Are you gonna pay attention, and listen to everything Christian’s trying to teach you, Sierra?”
Sierra eagerly nodded her head yes as she wiped away remnants of tears.
Ginger swatted her on the butt. “Now you to go on upstairs and see what Autumn is doing.” Ginger shook her head, smiling to herself as she filled the teapot with fresh water.
After wiping off the kitchen counters, she prepared a cup of lemon tea, then tiptoed up the back stairs to look in on Jackson, who was watching Hondo. She hated Hondo. Couldn’t stand that dog. Where on earth did they find such an ugly dog? Strolling in to give her husband a quick peck on the cheek, she told him she’d be out after her shower for their talk. Glancing at the set, she noticed it was the scene where Hondo’s dog had gotten in a fight with a wolf, and they thought he had rabies and were going to shoot him. She sighed, thinking, I’ve seen this at least five times. Lord knows how many times Jackson has seen it.
Pausing by the girls’ door, she checked to see if Christian was tutoring Sierra. He was. The girl’s reddish brown ponytails swayed as she nodded to his questions. Autumn sat on the floor, reciting verbatim the same lessons to Suzy Scribbles.
Slipping a shower cap on, Ginger stepped into the steaming hot shower stall and lathered her body with a lavish amount of bath gel. As she reached for a fluffy lavender towel, she glanced in the steamed mirror, and gazed momentarily at the silhouette of herself — she did not admire the misty reflection that stared back.
Cupping her hands, she splashed cold water on her face. She was determined not to feel sorry for herself about a problem over which she had no control. But she needed Jackson’s support — needed him to tell her yet again that it didn’t matter about her hair. Maybe this time she would finally believe him.
When she walked into the sitting area of their bedroom, Ginger was mildly disappointed to find Jackson asleep, his bottom lip gaping open slightly. She touched his arm to wake him. Jackson was still clutching the remote control, and it took him a few seconds to get his bearings. She snatched the remote from his hand and kneeled down in front of him. “Can we talk now, sweetheart? What did Mae Thelma want?”
“Nothing. Nothing important. Baby, let’s go to bed. We can talk in the morning. Besides, I saved you the trouble and I already gave myself a lecture about how to conduct myself in Mississippi while I’m not at the hospital.” He gave her a devilish smile. “I’ll be too busy to see any of my old friends, I’m planning on paint —”
“Jackson. I’m not worried about you and your old friends down South. I wanted to talk about . . . something more personal.” Placing her hands on his thighs, she rested her head on his chest. His arms encircled her waist. He stroked her hair, and kissed her neck, his lips brushing past her as he spoke, “I know you’re gonna miss me, baby. I miss you already.”
“Jackson, wait —”
“Come on, baby. I know just what you need.” She held her tears in check as he gathered her into his arms and moved her onto the bed, kissing her passionately. He peeled off his clothes quickly, and lifted the hem of her gown above her waist, massaging her buttocks, which felt as soft and sweet as cotton candy to him.
Acquiescing to his charms, she knew the moment had passed for a serious discussion. She needed him now, but would have to wait for any words of reassurance.
“Hey, girlfriend. What’s up?” said Kim, hanging her coat in the front hall closet. “Damn, it’s cold out there.”
Ginger looked at her cousin. “If that suit had a few more yards of fabric on it, I doubt if you’d feel a chill.” Decked out in an Aztec gold three-quarter-length wool-crepe collarless tapered jacket and matching miniskirt, Kim looked all the part of a young executive. “I got to give it to you, girl. The suit is bad. I wish Jackson would let me wear miniskirts. He says my knees are too big.”
As they walked toward the blaring music in the family room, Kim moved slowly, her hips swaying to the beat. She played with the strands of gold chains above her breasts. “You give that man too much power. No man is ever gonna tell me what I can and can’t wear. Just like the guns of Will Sonnett, ‘no brag, just fact.’ ”
As soon as the girls saw Kim they steered her downstairs to watch the new dance routine they’d worked out. Kim watched patiently and then gave them a few new pointers she’d learned from Detroit’s daily televised New Dance Show, which she sometimes frequented.
Ginger envied Kim’s natural talent for dancing, and treasured her cousin’s patience with her overzealous daughters. Ginger hadn’t danced in years, though in her teens she’d won plenty of dance contests — something her girls never quite believed.
Kim and Ginger finally managed to break from the girls for a steaming cup of orange spice tea. “Those outfits the girls have on are tough, girlfriend,” Kim said, blowing into her cup. “I just don’t know how you find the time to sew at home, and sew at work. Do
n’t you ever get sick of sitting in front of a machine?”
Ginger smiled as she spoke. “That’s the reason I asked you to come over. I’m hoping to change that soon.” She leaned back and pulled a briefcase from beside the buffet. “Look,” she said, opening the brown leather case. “I’m going to start selling real estate.”
Setting down her cup, Kim gave her a feline smile. “I’m impressed, Ginger. I think it’s a wise decision. An excellent choice, considering how much you love houses.” She looked around the tastefully decorated breakfast room, done in lavender and peach. “Anyone seeing this house for the first time would think you’d hired an interior decorator.”
“Thanks, Kim.” Ginger leaned across the table and patted her on the shoulder. “You’re more than a cousin. You’re the best friend I’ve got. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’re right, what would you do without me?” They saluted each other with their teacups, exchanging mischievous grins.
Kim gave Ginger a lecture on how to become a successful businesswoman, pointing out the ways she could develop her particular strengths. She encouraged Ginger to learn not only the administrative duties the job entailed, but to learn the logistical and technical aspects of marketing, too. She advised Ginger to read the marketing textbooks from Jackson’s college days she’d seen on their library bookshelves.
She advised Ginger to make a long-range plan of where she wanted to be and when, to remain focused on the job at hand, but to be aware of the next job on the ladder — managing the agency. “Create a goal in your mind and stay on that course, and you’ll find the wind behind the sails of your career,” she told her.
“Remember,” she concluded, “as some famous person once said, ‘Boldness . . . is the first, second, and third thing.’ ” Kim tapped a sculptured fingernail on her arm. “Don’t forget it.”
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