As they turned down Jefferson into Greek Town, the restaurant district, the scent of roast lamb and saganaki filled their nostrils. They turned to each other, smiling, admiring the swarm of well-dressed people walking the streets.
“Damn, it smells good,” said Ginger, turning in a 180-degree arc trying to capture everything, recording the sights and sounds, the laughter of people having a good time. It seemed as if they had entered a different place in time. The architecture of the buildings was impressive. Some had been renovated to be more modern while others captured the romantic designs of the Greek culture.
“Can we eat first? Mama cooked steak and potatoes for dinner, but for some reason, I’m starved.” Ginger felt younger than she had in years. It was as if she were Cinderella, out for an enchanted evening. But in her case, there was no Prince Charming— Jackson. A sadness crept over her as she wished she were sharing this time with the man she loved.
“I know just the place. We’ll eat at Fishbone’s. They serve Cajun food, and it has an indoor waterfall that’s the largest in the United States,” said Kim, steering Ginger toward the building spelling out the name in red neon.
Ginger paused outside the door to admire a couple and an accompanying party of loved ones who were celebrating around what looked like an anniversary cake. The party was framed in the full-length picture window at the front of the restaurant. Jackson and Ginger’s anniversary was just three weeks away. Maybe she’d surprise him and make reservations here.
* * *
“Your résumé is impressive, Dr. Little.” He flipped the pages, pacing the floor, looking up every now and then, reading the excellent references from hospitals and head psychiatrists whom she’d worked with over the years. He could sense she was tense.
“Thank you, Dr. Harris. I hope everything meets with your satisfaction.” Sheila Little stood nervously in the middle of the room, trying to appear calm, not wanting him to know how badly she needed this job.
Bill motioned for her to have a seat. “Please excuse the mess. We’re running a little behind schedule.” Her rich, chocolate brown skin was smooth and unlined. He noticed faint creases of indentation on the bridge of her nose. Probably reading glasses, he reasoned. Her hair was fashioned in a casual pageboy, which added to her youthful appearance. Short, manicured nails were coated with clear polish. She wore a plain taupe midcalf coatdress with dark brown alligator pumps and matching purse. Everything bespoke a seasoned professional.
“You’re planning on opening by the fifteenth of May, right?” She looked around the office cubicles. Although they were renovating an existing building, there was still a lot of work to be completed, he explained. The building had been vacant for some time and had been the target of numerous vandals. All the plumbing had been ripped out. The wiring needed to be replaced in several of the rooms. The shiny green and gray unit housed at the end of the building, he told her, was a newly installed furnace. Crunched paper cups and potato-chip bags circled the barrel trash can — careless shots from workers trying to imitate Michael Jordan’s long shot.
“Even if I have to hire an additional crew, we’ll be good to go in less than eight weeks. It’s important to show people that we can and will be operating in a timely fashion. I deplore excuses.” Sheila nodded as he went on. “I want to earn the respect of the community by showing it the staff’s dedication and commitment to excellent service.”
“We want the Black dollars circulating in our city, spent in our city,” she stated, smiling. Her respect for this man was growing by the minute. He seemed truly dedicated.
“My sentiments exactly,” agreed Bill. “We also want the residents of our city to seek out the services of Blacks. Black businesses must court Black clients. Impress upon them that the programs we provide for our patients and families are equal to, if not better than, the treatments in neighboring White clinics. We have to let our patients and their parents know that money spent in Black businesses strengthens our community as a whole.”
“I agree. Black liberation doesn’t come merely from doing business. We need a collective effort, as much as cultural. A self-sufficient community can spawn its own power base, and it will gain respect from even its most hostile enemies. And we all know, ‘The only thing power respects is power.’ ”
Sheila felt a little embarrassed by her enthusiasm expressed so openly to a man she’d just met. But somehow she felt comfortable with him.
They talked for hours about their ideas. Bill was surprised that most of her goals mirrored his. After their third cup of coffee, from the small pot used daily by the workers, they had shed the formalities of Dr. Harris and Dr. Little and were calling each other Bill and Sheila.
Sheila smiled easily, slightly embarrassed. “I don’t usually talk so much.” He had been so easy to talk to. They had so many ideas in common. He hadn’t discussed anything personal, but there was no hint that he was married, or engaged. So she assumed he was single.
Bill was sure they would work well together. His warm smile mirrored hers as they put on their coats to leave.
“Ginger, you look gorgeous in that dress.” Kim stepped back and appraised her as they handed their coats to the attendant. “And a mini — mmmmmmm — what’s gotten into you, girlfriend? You going through the change?” She chided Ginger.
“As a matter of fact, Sierra picked out this dress for me,” said Ginger proudly. “She told me it was about time I kept up with the new fashion trends.” Out of habit, she smoothed her hair, feeling for the strategically placed barrette.
They chose a table near the dance floor. A few couples slow-danced on the lighted platform. Strobe lights of red, blue, and green flashed radial patterns along the walls, ceiling, and floor.
Kim was whisked off to the dance floor a few minutes after their drinks arrived. Ginger looked around the room, checking the ratio of women to men. The women outnumbered the men at least four to one. Probably no one would ask her to dance under the circumstances, but panic began to set in. What if someone did ask her to dance? Would she look stupid refusing them? Oh, Lord, she thought. Why did I agree to go to a club, knowing I don’t dance? I can’t expect Kim to baby-sit me all evening. Maybe I should just —
“Excuse me, miss. Would you care to dance?” A devilishly attractive man approached her table, his hand extended to take hers. Instead, she shook her head, issuing a polite no thank you. Kim was watching, hoping Ginger would take a chance and go for it. The gentleman was gracious, and when he turned to ask another woman to dance, she quickly accepted him. They were all dancing to Oleta Adams’s “Get Here.”
Damn, I love that record, thought Ginger. It wasn’t as if she had to fast-dance, hoping that she wouldn’t mess up. It was a slow record — and slow dancing was easy. Even though Jackson hadn’t taken her dancing in years, they would slow-drag to an oldie in their bedroom sometimes. And when the feeling hit them, they’d slow-dance nude, beginning their foreplay standing, instead of lying down.
“Ginger!” said Kim, almost out of breath. “Why didn’t you dance?” She filled her lungs with smoke, blowing it out between pants.
“You know what, Kim?” said Ginger, leaning across the table. “You need to give up those cigarettes. Hardly anyone smokes anymore. Haven’t you heard? They’re going out of style.”
Kim tapped her cigarette against the rim of the ashtray. “Touché, my dear. Maybe someday I will. You know how many suits I could’ve bought instead of paying for these expensive-ass sticks of tobacco?”
“A lot. I nagged Jackson to death until he quit. Almost two packs a day — Marlboros. Everywhere in the house, red, black, and white crumpled packages. Filled ashtrays stinking in our room. The ceiling above his recliner had turned yellow. I made him smoke outside.”
“Mama makes me do the same thing. Sometimes, I sneak in my room, if I’m desperate. But she’s got a nose like a beagle, and since Daddy’s been sick I kinda feel guilty upsetting her any more than necessary.”
“How’s Uncle Oll
ie doing?”
Behind the veil of smoke, Kim’s eyes darkened. “Mama called me at work today. The nurse said he’s stopped talking.”
So that was why she was so upset earlier. “I’m sorry, Kim. Mama told me that she and Aunt Jewel talked the other day. She’s worried about Aunt Jewel, too. She said she didn’t sound like herself.”
Kim brushed off a young man rocking to the beat of Janet Jackson who wouldn’t leave until she agreed to dance before the evening was out. “Ginger, I don’t know what I’d do if both of them got sick. How can I take care of them and work? I have to work, somebody’s got to pay the bills. Sure, they’ve got some savings, but not much.”
Ginger thought she had problems. She’d heard the horror stories about how they treated the elderly in those homes. It was terrible. The nursing homes that had good reputations were so expensive the average working person couldn’t afford them. Kim made an excellent salary, but Ginger knew that would put a strain on her.
“Kim, I think we’re jumping to conclusions here. Uncle Ollie is going to get better, and Aunt Jewel is —”
“Kim. I didn’t expect to see you here tonight,” came a voice from behind her.
As she turned around, the familiar scent of Calvin Klein’s Eternity for Men was in the air. She looked into a pair of beautiful turquoise eyes, and grinned. “Randall. Have a seat. I’d like you to meet my cousin, Ginger.”
“The one you talk so much about?” He bent down to shake Ginger’s hand and smiled. “Hi. I’m Randall Pierce.” He pulled out a chair and sat next to Ginger.
And I thought Paul Newman had the prettiest blue eyes I’d ever seen on a man. Lord have mercy, Ginger thought. “Hi, nice to meet you.”
“You’re planning to sell real estate, right?” She nodded, still staring. “Kim said you’ll be working at the Century Twenty-one office downtown.”
Her voice, normally deep and husky, sounded more so as she answered him. “Yes, but only part time.”
“In the beginning,” said Kim. “I’d bet money she’ll be on full time by the end of the year.”
Ginger shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe by next year if the housing market stays steady like it has been.”
“It’s like a lady’s dress,” said Randall, glancing down at her silken, golden thighs, “it can only go down so low, it can only go up so high.” He returned his gaze to Kim, as she gave him a sultry smile.
Ginger dropped her eyes, not wishing him to read her thoughts. How could she be thinking these kinds of thoughts? And about a White man too. If Jackson ever thought she was looking at a White man he’d —
“Do you sing?” asked Randall, breaking her musings.
“No. No I don’t.”
“Your voice is so deep.”
Kim and Ginger exchanged smiles. “Trust me. I can’t sing a note.”
Kim asked Randall to tell Ginger about his apartment as Kim excused herself to dance with the young man who’d been by their table earlier. Studying them from the dance floor, Kim saw that Ginger was smiling, sipping on her second spicy fuzzy-navel cocktail. She had guessed that when Ginger and Randall finally met they would instantly like each other. She was pleased that she’d been right.
Bill didn’t understand her friendship with Randall. Kim assumed it was because Bill had little patience with White people. He couldn’t think that there was anything sexual between them, could he?
Later, as they walked to Kim’s car, Ginger was bubbling over with excitement. “I had a great time. Thanks for remembering I had an early class. I guess that last drink clouded my memory.”
It was just past midnight; the icy stars glittered outside. Ginger glanced up at the starry sky, wondering what Jackson was doing at this exact hour. Was he sleeping, or out on the town as she was? She couldn’t bear to think of him smiling into some woman’s face, dancing cheek to cheek, feeling the warmth of another’s body pressing against his.
“I guess Bill couldn’t make it.” Kim buckled her seat belt and started the ignition.
Ginger heard the sadness in her cousin’s voice. They both sat quietly, thinking their own thoughts, as Kim entered the freeway and drove toward home. Ginger had really enjoyed her evening with Kim. But now, feeling the chill of the weather and knowing a cold, empty bed awaited her at home — she began to have worrisome fantasies about Jackson’s evening.
“Kim?”
“Hmmmmm?”
“You think Jackson’s out with someone else?”
“Ginger, that alcohol must be kicking in real strong about now.” Kim took a quick glance away from the road, to study the solemn face and glazed eyes of her cousin. Trouble was, she was feeling a bit melancholy tonight herself — wondering what Bill was doing. Funny, she’d never worried about him before. “Listen to me, Ginger. You’re everything that Jackson needs in a woman. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
“I know it, and you know it. What worries me is, does he know it?”
13
Reach Out and Touch (Somebody’s Hand)
Tears flowed down her bronzed cheeks as she sat next to her husband seated in his wheelchair. Jewel was crying because Ollie had responded once, and she, Katherine, and Kim had been there for an hour. “Honey . . . please. Can you say my name, Ollie?” asked Jewel. Her voice was soft and soothing.
He began to cry too, tears overflowing his red-rimmed eyes. He willed his mind to move his lips. If she only knew how hard he was trying to speak. But he could only stare, his mouth barely open, slightly curved upwards on the left, creasing his smooth face.
The back of Ollie’s wheelchair rested against the window. He shifted his eyes from his wife’s lowered head, her wrinkled hand cupping her mouth, and focused on the shuffling elderly man being escorted by the nurse down the hall. He pitied him. He pitied himself. He pitied all the old-timers who could only look back . . . look back. . . .
A wisp of wintry air seeped through the green canvas curtains onto the back of his neck. Kim wiped her father’s damp face and kissed his moist cheek as she pulled up the collar of his striped terry-cloth robe.
Kim swallowed hard, and willed back the tears that threatened to fall. She put her arm around her mother’s shoulder, shaking her gently. When she glanced into her aunt Katherine’s face, Kim could see that she, too, was crying. Jewel composed herself, then asked Kim and Katherine to give her and Ollie a few moments alone together. There was something important she needed to tell him.
Ollie glanced down at his lower body, silently praying for some kind of evidence that he was still a man. That all of his body hadn’t withered away with age and time. But his penis was nowhere to be found. His manhood had recoiled like a snail. That’s how it will look when I die, he thought.
Jewel formed Ollie’s hands into a steeple, and she held on tight, bowing her head and closing her eyes. “Lord, I need you to bless my husband. He’s a good man, Lord. You asked for commitment of our lives to you; we’ve been faithful Christians. You’ve been generous to us over the years, Lord. And I know this life that we claim as our own belongs to you and is only loaned to us to manage for a while. But please, Lord— grant us a few more years together. Heal him. I know only you can.” She kissed the tips of his fingers, placing them back on his lap.
She saw the hopeful look in his eyes, and a soothing calmness flowed through her body. “Listen to God with your mind; listen to God with your heart. Listen to God speaking to you, and God will be with you. See God in all those you love. Touch God in them and let them touch you.” She smoothed his moist cheeks lovingly. Rising, she bent down to kiss him on the mouth.
“Sweetheart, you’re going to get better, I know it. I love you, honey. I love you so much.” Her voice drifted off as she met his eyes. She began to think what their years of marriage had been like. Looking into his eyes, still youthful and clear, she felt the rapid beating of his heart, then put her arms around him.
“Is everything all right in here, Mrs. Lee?” called a nurse from the doorway.
/> Jewel looked into her husband’s eyes and smiled. She turned, tears of pleasure streaming down her face. Her heart was so full of love for him. “We’re fine . . . just fine.”
The celery-green floor in the nursing-home waiting room shone like new money, its layers of wax buffed to perfection. Worn beige sofas lined the walls. A black metal magazine rack rested against the receptionist’s counter. Unlike the bland drapes in the patients’ rooms, cheery green, beige, and peach floral drapes graced the windows. The morning’s sunlight poured in through the off-white sheers. A triangular coffee table wedged in the corner was covered with paper cups, plastic spoons, a basket filled with packets of sugar and Cremora, and a commercial-size aluminum coffeepot.
Katherine and Kim headed for the freshly brewed tank, mixed their cups to suit their taste, and sat hands apart on the sofa. “At least the coffee’s good,” said Kim, resting her head back against the wall. “Aunt Katherine, I just don’t know what to say to Mama anymore. Daddy’s getting worse and worse.”
Katherine rocked back and forth, smoothing her knees with her large hands. “Sometimes it’s better to say nothing.”
As Kim rose to refill her cup, Katherine handed her hers. “I could use a cold beer, but since there seems to be none available, I’ll settle for a second cup. Puts lots of cream in mine,” Katherine added.
Kim turned to face her aunt, a worried expression on her face. “Aunt Katherine,” she heaved, her large breasts rising and falling slowly, “I’m worried about Mama, too.”
“Why on earth —”
“Wait ’til I tell you what she was doing when I got home last night. She . . .”
Knowing Page 13