Knowing

by Rosalyn McMillan

  “You been feeling okay, Katherine? The nurse said you’d been to see Ollie. It was raining on Sunday, is your asthma acting up again?”

  “Feeling fine, Jewel.” Holding the phone and the beer, she swayed her large buttocks back and forth as she leaned over the orchid countertops. “As a matter of fact, I’m working on finding me a husband.” She waited to hear the shocked tone in Jewel’s response.

  “Don’t surprise me none, Katherine. Can’t say I blame you much. You’ve been alone for eleven years. ’Bout time you settled down and got remarried. Who’s the lucky man you done set your sight on? Is it somebody I know? I bet it’s that old widowman Wheeler. He’s been after you for years now, even ’fore Lewis died.”

  “No. It ain’t him. It was about to be Eugene Moore, until . . .” Katherine finally succeeded in getting a shocked gasp out of Jewel.

  “Katherine, ain’t that Janetta’s husband?”

  “Yeah, and she can have his ass, too. The motherfucker can’t fuck worth shit.” Hearing Jewel gasp, yet again, she smiled to herself. “Close your mouth, Jewel, before a fly flies in it.”

  “No flies in February — if there was, I would’ve choked by now.”

  “Anyway, as I was saying, I thought that ornery old bastard still had a few good fucks left in him. I should’ve known better. He been bragging and whispering in my ear for the past few Sundays at church — that is, while his wife wasn’t looking— what he’d do to me if he ever got me alone.”

  “How could you do that to Janetta, Katherine? You know she’s one of God’s children. You oughtna mess with a born-again Christian. God don’t like ugly, Katherine.”

  Katherine sucked an invisible speck from a gap in her tooth. “If a woman can’t keep her man at home, it ain’t my problem. And that sanctimonious bitch ain’t been saved all her life. I’ve decided it was time to pay back a few of them whores who tripped the light fantastic with my husband till the wee hours of the morning.”

  “Janetta and Lewis? You knew about it?”

  “Truth is, Jewel, if Lewis hadn’t died unexpectedly, we probably would’ve been divorced by now. I’d gotten tired of his philandering. It wasn’t totally his fault, though. He was damn good-looking, the women just threw themselves at him.”

  “God rest his soul.”

  “Anyway, back to my story. After we got to the room . . .”

  Jewel and Katherine laughed hysterically as she gave her sister-in-law the play-by-play of her uneventful evening with Eugene. “Well, that motherfucker couldn’t do nothing. He ain’t have but two moves. Up and back. Up and back. And he wanted me to teach him something. I said I ain’t got time to teach an old-ass motherfucker how to fuck. I told him, ‘I know the difference between fucking and fucking around, and if you ain’t gonna fuck me, get the hell up, ’cause I know where to go to get my ass turned on.’ ”

  Jewel couldn’t help but laugh at her promiscuous sister-in-law. It made her feel younger than her seventy years. “So why didn’t you teach him a few tricks, Kate?”

  She poured the last drop of beer into her glass, gulped it down, then rinsed out the can and put it under the cabinet. “I told that stupid motherfucker school’s out. Why should I show him some new moves, so he can go home and use ’em on Janetta. She used to his sorry fucking — ain’t no use surprising her. Poor woman might have a heart attack.”

  Katherine cocked her legs open and started shaking her right knee as though she were rocking a baby to sleep. She continued making a sucking sound with her tongue. “I’m looking for me a young man. I’m tired of these old-ass men that don’t last long enough for me to get a good nut, before he’s laying over there snoring and farting like forty mules.”

  They both laughed together like two teenagers.

  A youthful fifty-eight, Katherine’s ass was as hot as her daughter’s. She needed more than a date once or twice a month to cool it off. Dating at her age wasn’t as easy as she’d thought. Older men wanted younger women these days. And finding a younger man of worth was difficult.

  Katherine wanted someone to love, someone to call her name softly at night. She hadn’t felt like a whole woman in years. She was alone — she had no one — and she needed a man. Needed a man more than she cared to admit even to herself.

  “Katherine? You still there?” asked Jewel.

  “Yeah, I’m here,” said Katherine, swallowing the tears of loneliness that stuck in her throat. She shook her head back. She refused to give in to self-pity, yet. “As I said earlier, Jewel, I’m looking for a husband. A young one. A friend of mine hooked me up with someone for next weekend.”

  “How old is he?” asked Jewel, almost too scared to ask.

  Katherine rose from her seat, to turn on the radio. Peabo Bryson’s “Feel the Fire” floated melodiously around the sunlit room. “Probably around fortyish.”

  “You joshing me, Katherine.”

  “You think I’m worried about these young women out here? Hell, I’m just getting started, Jewel. My pussy’s got more snap, crackle, and pop than a bowl of Kellogg’s Rice Krispies. These drug-popping, free-fucking young whores ain’t got nothing on me. Shhhhit!”

  “Katherine, these young men are only interested in old women for their money. I know you know that.”

  “Yeah, I know that. I don’t have any money. I’m on Social Security. I don’t have anything valuable around my house that a young man would want. So I’m taking my chances. What could he possibly take from me?”

  “I think you know the answer to that already, Katherine.”

  10

  Never Can Say Good-bye

  “I love it!” said Ginger. Her eyes glittered like emeralds. Folding her napkin across her lap, she paused, taking in the beauty of their surroundings. “The Summit Restaurant on top of the Renaissance. Isn’t this nice. The Whitney — what a pretty name.”

  Kim signaled the waiter to take their wine order. “It’s all right if you have a glass of white wine, isn’t it?”

  Ginger nodded. “The doctor said I’m fine. It was the new medication he had prescribed that made me faint. Apparently, I didn’t follow his instructions carefully.” She handed the waiter the wine list, admiring the plum pink walls. “I’ll have a glass of white zinfandel, please.” She paused for the waiter to leave before continuing. “How’d you find this place? I’ve never heard of it.”

  The scent of fresh-cut flowers honeycombed the place. Sprays of purple, pink, and white dendrobiums in a clear glass bowl decorated their white linen tablecloth, and an underskirt of deep burgundy caressed their ankles. “Working downtown, you find out all the in spots. This is one of the nicest. Randall brought me here four years ago when they first opened, and I’ve been coming ever since. Remember I told you about my friend Randall —”

  “That you went to college with?”

  “Yes. Well, we’re pretty good friends. One of these days, I’ll take you by his apartment. It’s beautiful. He’s got one of those new loft apartments near Belle Isle.” Kim smiled, remembering how she’d helped him pick out all the kitchen utensils. He hadn’t needed any help with anything else; his taste was excellent. “You should see the paintings he has. Beautiful. He paints, too. I’ll show you . . .”

  Ginger sipped her water, swirling the cubes, staring into the center of her glass, avoiding Kim’s eyes. “You sure you and Randall aren’t more than friends?” She sensed her cousin’s nervousness and chastised herself for being so nosy. “I didn’t mean that, Kim.” She touched her hand, offering an apology. “Let’s order lunch. I’m starved!”

  While she studied the menu, Ginger breathed in the rich aromas of espresso coffee, sautéed onions, and the sweet bouquet of fresh strawberries.

  “This mansion was custom built in eighteen ninety-four for a rich lumber baron— whose name happens to be David Whitney.” Leaning forward in her chair, Kim nodded to the large Tiffany clock built into the wall in the hallway. “See that clock? His initials are engraved in it.” Ginger swiveled around slowly,
admiring the exquisite timepiece. “The mosaic tiles were laid down individually. See how tiny they are, but it’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Ginger could only stare in amazement.

  “It cost over four hundred thousand dollars to build back then, and it’s estimated to be worth at least forty million or more today.” Ginger’s jaw dropped.

  “There are a total of forty-two rooms in the house, and twenty-two fireplaces.” Ginger nodded. There were three fireplaces in her own home, which they very seldom lit. Yet she had a passion for them. They were so romantic.

  “There’s a hand-painted ceiling with cherubs playing musical instruments in the music room. You’ve got to see it before we leave.”

  Prisms of sunlight danced through the iridescent Tiffany glass of the windows. The pianist began playing a classical rendition of “All My Tomorrows,” and guests acknowledged his appearance with light applause.

  Ginger and Kim ate their appetizers of chilled shrimp cocktail, and had a second glass of wine each. Kim ordered a savory chicken strudel. Ginger selected pheasant glazed with a raspberry sauce. She offered Kim a sample of her entrée, saying it was so tender she could have cut it with her breath.

  Satisfied after splitting a slice of white chocolate and macadamia cheesecake, they paid the bill, left a generous tip, and headed upstairs to the bathroom.

  Walking up the stairs, Ginger paused to admire the splendor. An enormous tapestry re-creating Bottocelli’s Birth of Venus hung on the landing. Priceless crystal sconces lighted the walls where several antique clocks and smaller but equally breathtaking paintings hung in gilded frames.

  Twin fountains of flowers exploding from huge oriental vases languished on pedestals on each side of the archway. Antique mahogany furniture was tastefully arranged throughout the second floor of the Whitney Mansion.

  Peeking into every room and admiring the treasures within, Kim and Ginger explored. The third floor was a massive bar that spanned the width of the room. As in the rest of the home, antique treasures filled every corner.

  After visiting the elegant powder room, they headed back downstairs. The female maître d’ whisked out their coats, draping them over her arms, like matadors before a bull fight. “Ohhh, shit!” said Ginger. “I forgot to get some matches. I always save at least two packs from every restaurant I go to.”

  Kim touched Ginger’s shoulder as she eased into her coat. “I’ll get them,” she said.

  Kim walked back to their table, but her pace slowed as she saw the back of a familiar head. She looked around the room for an empty table with the matches on it and, grabbing a handful from the glass bowl, turned to exit the room quickly.

  “Kim. Just a moment!” a raspy voice called after her.

  She turned in a semicircle, stiff as a German soldier, clenching her fists. “Yes, Mr. Cameron?”

  She smelled the familiar aroma of stale cigars as she faced him with a challenging glare. She acknowledged his guest with a polite nod of her head. His robust little body reared back in his seat. “Won’t you sit down and join us?” He made a gesture toward the vacant seat on his right.

  “No, thank you. I was just about to —”

  “Oh, but I insist.” George Cameron gave her a knowing look as he pulled out a chair.

  “My cousin is waiting for me. I can’t stay.”

  “This won’t take long.” He turned his attention to his lunch date. “This is Brenda, my new assistant. She’ll be taking over Sherry’s job.” Kim eyed the young Black woman, who couldn’t have been more than twenty. The long, blond weaved hair and overdone makeup hadn’t managed to disguise her youth.

  “Nice to meet you, Brenda. I’m Kim Lee.” She extended her hand. “Welcome to Pierce-Walker. Sorry to cut this short, but as I said, I have someone waiting.” Kim started to leave.

  George Cameron cleared his throat before he spoke in a stern tone. “Kim, I’d like to see you in my office after lunch. We have a few things to discuss. Namely, training Brenda.”

  “Mr. Cameron, I’m not — Why can’t Sherry —”

  “Sherry is gone.”

  “I see.” So it’s out with the old, and in with the new. She’d heard the other analyst whispering about something in the office this morning, but she hadn’t paid any attention. She was praying desperately that the gossip wasn’t about her. Kim had rid herself of associating with the other female brokers a long time ago. They were just a bunch of toxic-ass bitches. If they weren’t bringing a problem, they were causing a problem. Had anyone seen them yesterday? she wondered. He’d been in her office all of eight minutes. That was all it took for him to . . .

  “Kim? I asked you if three-thirty was a good time.”

  “What? Yes. Fine.” She turned to see the questioning look on Ginger’s face as she stood in the doorway to the parlor. Clutching her purse under her arm, Kim excused herself with a curt nod of her head.

  “Who was that?” Ginger asked when she saw the angry look on Kim’s face.

  Through gritted teeth, she spat out, “My boss. Let’s go.”

  “Something wrong, Kim?”

  “What could possibly be wrong? I’m the hardest-working employee he’s got. He’s crazy about me.”

  The tone of Kim’s voice warned Ginger that something was terribly wrong. But she couldn’t imagine what it could be. Kim never missed a day of work. Three months ago when Kim received a bonus commission for securing the hefty portfolio of an affluent client, they had celebrated. Each time they talked, there was always a note of pride in Kim’s voice about an interesting client she’d just taken on. Her colorful stories about other professional women working downtown had motivated Ginger’s decision to become one herself. If there was a problem Kim would tell her, she thought. After all, they weren’t just cousins, they were best friends. And best friends told each other everything, didn’t they?

  “He did? Did he say what time he’d call back?” Ginger kicked off her black leather pumps and slid back on the chaise in the living room.

  Katherine followed suit, propping her socked feet on the pink velvet sofa. “Didn’t say. Just said he’d call back.”

  Ginger rested her head on the back of the chaise, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Jason’s not home from school yet?”

  “You don’t remember him telling you last night that they changed his schedule?” Katherine knew it wasn’t like Ginger to forget Jason’s schedule.

  “I forgot, Mama. I’m glad you’re here. Did I tell you that already?” Trying to shake off her temporary loss of memory, she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath.

  Sinking her Fred Flintstone size nines into the thick white carpeting, Katherine sat up abruptly. “You haven’t mentioned what the doctor said was wrong with you.”

  “Ohhh.” Folding her hands under her breasts, Ginger cocked her head to the side, trying to break the tension in the stiffened artery that sent blood to her brain. “It was the minoxidil that made me faint. I forgot” — she looked guiltily at her mother — “I forgot that he mentioned that this particular medication would lower my blood pressure.”

  “What kind of shit is this? He gives you medication that will lower your blood pressure, when your blood is already low now?”

  “Mama. All the tests showed when they gave their patients with high blood pressure this particular medication it made their hair grow. But he warned me that there were side effects. Anyway, don’t worry. I can’t take the medicine anymore.” Her voice dropped to almost a whisper.

  Katherine studied her for several beats of silence, seeing the defeated look on her daughter’s face. “So that’s it — that’s all those educated motherfuckers could do is send you home without . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Ginger rushed to fill the silence.

  “Mama, I’m gonna light that damned fireplace if it kills me. Will you see if there’s any white zinfandel in the wine cellar for me, please?” Not wanting her mother to see her crying again, she made an effort to appear her usual self.

  One day ten y
ears ago, when Ginger was married to Michael Carter, Ginger went to sit in the living room and stared at the blank television screen. Then, feeling the onset of a headache, she went to the mirrored cabinet in her cheery yellow bathroom for her medication. The reflection that looked back at her was that same anxious face she recognized from two years earlier. Turning her back, she tried to shake the self-pity that was speedily targeting her heart strings. She went back to her recliner and waited for the medication to stop the pounding in her head.

  She could smell the strong scent of Glover’s Mane that she’d applied to her scalp when she returned home after working the afternoon shift. Her mother told her that rubbing this medication on every day would stimulate her scalp and help reverse the process of her hair loss. What did she have to lose? She was ready to try anything. The doctors couldn’t help her. Maybe one of the old folks’ remedies would.

  In her bathroom there were numerous other so-called remedies, including some from her mother’s old hairdressers. Ginger had spent thousands of dollars over the years running to every reputable dermatologist she could find who said they could help her.

  She had even spent a week at Saint Joseph’s Hospital in Canada, taking every test imaginable. And she’d left disappointed.

  She’d been given cortisone injections in her head that started her hair growing. But it would only work for a period of two or three months, then the hair would fall out again if her body hadn’t completed what they described as its cycle of “hormonal imbalance.”

  Finally, one day after leaving the doctor’s office in considerable pain, bleeding from roughly forty to fifty injections into her bald scalp, she had decided the brief improvements from that treatment were no longer worth it.

  Later, a friend suggested a new method offered at a health-food store. They had a powerful machine that looked into your eyes and was supposedly able to ascertain every impurity in your body. So Ginger walked into the Honeybee Health Food Store and deposited her ninety dollars on the counter.