Knowing

by Rosalyn McMillan

Sierra was getting nervous; her gift was the last one in the bag. Jumping up and down with excitement, she managed to tear open the paper. There was a deep shiny black box with large bold red letters on it. Layers of white tissue paper covered three elegant girl’s party dresses, each one prettier than the next, trimmed with tiny seed pearls and Victorian lace.

  “Jackson, they’re beautiful,” said Ginger, totally surprised at the quality of the fabric and his ability to select such exquisite clothes.

  “I know what you’re thinking.” He sat down beside her, placed his arm around her shoulder, and whispered in her ear. “My sister Shirley went shopping with me. She picked out the dresses for Sierra and Autumn.”

  “You done good . . . you done real good,” she said nodding her head, smiling at the euphoria on Sierra’s face.

  “I haven’t forgotten about you.” He walked through the discarded empty boxes and retrieved a tiny box hidden at the bottom of the plastic bag. Resting on one knee, he placed the box in her hand. He pressed his lips against hers, then gently covered her mouth with kisses. Her heart skipped a beat at his touch. A loud chorus of throats clearing interrupted their embrace.

  “Man . . . Jackson.” Jason came in, elated. “Thanks a lot for the basketball rim.” He hugged Jackson around the shoulder, then shook his hand. “I’ve got the tools out to hook it up, but I can’t find a Phillips screwdriver. Do you know where one is?”

  Ginger shook her head while opening her gift. Jackson kept tools in the garage, which also housed an impressive work station. But his tools were not stored neatly in the drawers and cabinets. Wrenches, screwdrivers, pliers, channel locks, sockets and ratchets, and hammers were strewn carelessly in kitchen drawers, under the kitchen-sink garbage disposal, in the furnace room, under the sink in their bathroom, next to the satellite unit in their bedroom, in the exercise room where the burglar alarm system was mounted, and in the west Florida room where the kids kept their bikes in the winter months. Consequently, he could never find the right one when he needed it. He walked out with Jason to look for the screwdriver.

  Ginger draped a black down coat over her shoulders and ran out into the blistering cold. Jason was busy with the snow blower, plowing away. Placing her arms around Jackson’s waist as he stood on a ladder, she hugged him, burying her face against his firm buttocks. “Thank you, sweetheart. I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

  He eased himself down the ladder, tilting her head back, planting a series of kisses around her face. “How could I forget about my baby.” He took her hand in his, admiring his purchase. “You like it?” And before she could answer, he said, “Now, if you don’t like it, the jeweler assured me that I could send it back in the mail.”

  “Sweetheart, I love it. I really do. But didn’t you spend a lot of money?”

  “Our anniversary is in two weeks. I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone. You don’t like the clothes I pick out for you anyway, so what else could I buy?” She shrugged her shoulders, extended her left hand, and admired the exquisite diamond ring.

  “You remembered our anniversary . . . that’s sweet, honey.”

  Jason, completing his task, put his arm around his mother’s shoulder and lifted her arm to appraise the gift. He nodded his head. “Nice.” He placed his balled fists in the center of Ginger’s back, guiding her back toward the house. “Now get, Jackson and me got some work to do.”

  Jackson winked at Ginger as she reentered the house. Looking back over her shoulder, she noticed the work Jackson said he planned on doing inside the garage hadn’t been touched. What had he done all day today? She’d have to remember to ask him later.

  “Who’s leading, honey?” Ginger asked, leaning her head over Jackson’s shoulder on the back of the recliner.

  “Detroit.” He stuffed a handful of popcorn in his mouth, spilling several kernels onto his lap. “They shut down Jordan; he’s hardly scored. I thought you were gonna watch the game with me.”

  “I’m almost finished washing the girls’ hair. It’s almost halftime anyway. I’ll be done in a few minutes. Want me to bring you anything back from downstairs?” she asked, walking toward the doorway.

  “Bring me up a Diet Pepsi,” he called after her.

  Later that evening, Ginger and Jackson sat sipping Christian Brothers brandy and ginger ale as the final seconds of the game ticked away. James Edwards was the high scorer with twenty-one points, one more than Michael Jordan’s paltry twenty, to lead the Pistons to another victory as they edged closer to their second championship.

  “Sweetheart, I meant to tell you something before you —”

  Jackson placed his drink on the coffee table in front of him and turned toward his wife. Placing his hand on her shoulder, he removed the gold barrette, easing the bobby pins from her french twist, freeing her hair. “See . . . I’ve known for a while, Ginger.” He ran his fingers through her thinned hair and cupped the back of her head, bringing her face close to his. “I just wasn’t ready to see you get upset again. I know how much it hurts you to lose your hair.”

  Ginger’s eyes filled with tears. “You know . . . and you didn’t say anything?”

  “Ginger, try to understand. This is something that happens to you that I’m powerless to help you with. I can’t blame anyone for your pain. I can’t go out and buy you something to replace something that’s broken. I can’t fix it with tools. I can’t beat the shit out of somebody that’s hurting you . . . and I can’t screw away the pain.”

  “Jackson . . . I’m going to be all right this time. I’m not going to feel sorry for myself, I just want to be sure that it doesn’t bother you. I know you keep telling me it doesn’t, but for some reason, I feel like I’m letting you down again every time it happens.”

  He stroked her hair lovingly. “Ginger, I know it’s not your fault. Stop blaming yourself for something you can’t control. Hell, I know it won’t be easy. But try to remember, I’d feel the same way about you even if your hair never grew back. I’m in love with what’s in here,” he pointed to her heart. “Hair doesn’t make a person or a woman attractive.”

  “What about Mae Thelma? She’s got beautiful hair. Tell me you don’t admire all that hair. I know how much Black men love long hair. Go ahead, tell me you don’t think it’s pretty.”

  “Sure, it’s nice. But I’m not in love with her, or her hair. I’m in love with you — bald or otherwise. Now shut up and let’s get in the bed.”

  She gave him a side glance, leaning her body against his. “I thought you said you couldn’t screw away my pain?”

  He lifted her chin with his fist, kissing her as lightly and tenderly as a feather stroking her lips. “Don’t plan on screwing my way, just planting a few seeds is all.”

  “Not tonight. Romeo. I’m menstruating.”

  “Damn!” He snapped his fingers, then pulled her close to him while whispering in her ear, “I just want to hold you in my arms.” He kissed the top of her head. “Is that all right with you, baby?”

  She nodded and held fast to his waist, pressing her head into his chest, knowing he was her heart and soul.

  Bill lay in his darkened bedroom, listening to the soothing voice of Luther Vandross. The station was playing a medley of his love songs. He listened for some time until he felt the anger rising in him again at the thought of the woman he loved in the arms of another man. How could she? And a White man — she knew how he felt about the White race. He sipped his drink; the bitter taste of straight whiskey burned his throat.

  As he reached across the bed to change the station, the phone began to ring. “Hello,” he said, turning on the bedside lamp.

  “Bill . . . can we talk?”

  The relaxing alcohol suddenly reversed its effect as he jolted up, making him feel as though he’d drunk a pot of black coffee. “What shall we talk about?” he asked cynically. “Shall we talk about your flirtation with a White man, or should we talk about your screwing me over?”

  Kim swallowed her pride, stifling a nas
ty retort. “Bill, it wasn’t like that at all. I’ve told you repeatedly about my friendship with Randall. We went —”

  “Who the fuck is Randall? He’s just a man — just like me. Would he want to see his woman in the arms of a Black man? Hell no!”

  “Nothing happened, Bill. I swear it didn’t. I’ve been upset at work lately. My boss —”

  “What about my problems, Kim? Don’t I deserve any respect?” he asked calmly.

  “I respect you because I love you,” she said, swallowing a sob that rose in her throat.

  He pulled himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Kim, I just can’t accept this so-called friendly relationship you have with Randall. We’ve discussed this before — my feelings haven’t changed.”

  Kim remembered an article she’d read describing the attitudes of single men toward single women. She hadn’t believed Bill fit into that category. These men felt that women were less honest and dependable, less considerate, supportive, and sensible — and even less moral — than women saw themselves to be.

  Kim had laughed when she read it, knowing the man she loved couldn’t possibly fit into these categories — after all he was a psychiatrist, he knew the spiel — and yet he couldn’t accept her innocent friendship with a White man.

  “I think it’s important that you trust me, Bill. Trust me to be able to befriend a man, no matter what color or race he may be — knowing that I can and will be true to you, regardless. Allow me some freedom to be myself.”

  “I need a woman I can believe in, Kim. A woman I can trust, a woman I can hold up on a pedestal, and know . . . know that she’s putting my interests first.”

  “Bill, I have the same needs. I need a man who believes and trusts in me. That isn’t so selfish, to think that in today’s world that both egos need to be stroked occasionally.” She paused to let that last statement sink in. “Yes, I need my ego stroked too, Bill. I know who I am. I know what I am. I know what I can be to you. I know I have a lot to offer to a man, and I know what you are to me. I’m willing to give some of myself to you, but not all. I need to build up my own self-esteem before I can be so generous I put your interests first. I’m also guilty of being selfish as most people are, because you have to have a self before you esteem it.”

  “Exactly . . . I feel we should see other people, Kim. I think it would be for the best.”

  18

  My World Is Empty Without You

  Exactly seven days later, Kim found herself nearly in shock at Henry Ford Hospital. Unable to sleep, Kim had awakened during the night and noticed a fragmented pale blue light streaming beneath her mother’s door. It was 3:47 A.M. Jewel lay on her side facedown, wedged between the bed and the wall, semiconscious, mumbling incoherently. Her right hand curved like a bear claw. Jewel’s mouth curled into her cheekbone. Her fingers were stiff, immobile. Jewel made a valiant effort to shake some feeling into her stiffened hand as her daughter lifted her limp form. Kim quickly checked her faint pulse and called 911.

  Kim’s mind was numb. Unable to deal with the shock of seeing her mother so helpless, she waited for the ambulance in a trancelike state, cradling Jewel’s body, until the paramedics whisked Kim and Jewel into the ambulance.

  Katherine, Kim, and Ginger paced the waiting rooms nervously. They took shifts going downstairs to bring up fresh coffee. It didn’t look good for Jewel. She had hidden the fact that she’d been on blood-pressure pills. Along with the added stress of her husband’s deteriorating condition, it was too much pressure for a woman her age.

  Jewel looked tired, defeated, as she lay in the hospital bed in the intensive care section. Katherine and Ginger did their best to console Kim. But how much could a child take? Her mother and father were both hospitalized. The prognosis for both was bleak.

  Ginger called Kim’s office and explained her absence. Randall sent an exquisite floral arrangement, though he was unable to deliver it himself. Mr. Cameron had him working a double shift, picking up Kim’s workload. But Randall promised that somehow he’d be there tomorrow to give Kim and Jewel his love.

  Jewel died less than forty-eight hours after being admitted. Kim was in denial. Katherine and Ginger pleaded with her to call Bill. But Kim wouldn’t hear of it— she needed time alone to think. And she didn’t want Bill to come back with feelings of pity. She couldn’t take that now. How much more could her heart bear?

  “Mama, did you remember to get Uncle Ollie’s suit out of the cleaner’s?” Ginger asked.

  The family had received a terrible shock. Jewel Lee’s untimely death was deeply felt by her friends and neighbors. She’d been an icon of the community. Kim was taking it hard, and couldn’t be consoled by her father, because she thought he hadn’t been able to understand what was going on, or refused to accept it. But she was wrong.

  Katherine and Ginger had gone with Kim to make the arrangements for the funeral. Then Katherine had assured Kim that she and her daughter would handle everything for the wake, and told her just to take some time alone by herself.

  Katherine didn’t bother to answer Ginger. She kept going to and from the kitchen, placing the dishes of food in groups of salads, vegetables, casseroles, meats, and breads. She’d set up a separate dessert section along the buffet. There were so many cakes, pies, and cobblers that there was hardly any room for the main dishes. Steam rose like a ghost, clouding the kitchen windows, as Katherine removed the domed top of the roasting pan. She placed the chicken, stuffed with cornbread and savory sage dressing, in the center of the dining table.

  In the living room, Ginger’s eyes scanned the tables, making sure there were enough ashtrays and sufficient Kleenex throughout the crowded room. Unfolding the last of the chairs they’d rented, she stopped short, her eyes focusing on the family picture above the fireplace mantel. How lovely they all looked, Uncle Ollie and Aunt Jewel seated, handsomely dressed in white suits with Kim behind them, smiling, her elbows resting along the chair and her chin pressed against her steepled hands.

  Ginger pulled a tissue from the box on the mantel, dabbing her eyes as they clouded with tears. The sound of her mother’s voice broke her mournful reverie. Passing through the living room into the kitchen, she shook her head distastefully, discarding the balled tissue in an empty garbage can.

  At every wake Ginger had attended, she always wondered how people could work up such an appetite after someone had just died. Food was the farthest thing from her mind, no matter how tastefully it was displayed.

  “Hold still, Mama, I almost got it.” Ginger pulled the two pieces of fabric together on the slacks as Katherine sucked in her breath. The older woman’s coffee brown makeup was running down her sweaty face as she wiggled into the tight garment. In the old days, one of Ginger’s three other sisters would help fasten her mother into her clothes, tugging, pulling, pushing, until finally she was dressed.

  After years of guzzling Colt 45s, Katherine had developed a beer belly. Therefore it had become extremely difficult for her to get into anything other than sweats without the support of whichever daughter was available at the time.

  Katherine’s ritual consisted of ten minutes of struggling into two girdles, first one, then another on top. Next she slid into her hosiery, fastening them with the straining hooks. Then she’d sit and rest for five minutes, catching her breath, wiping the perspiration beneath her arms, around her forehead; the sweat between her legs wouldn’t dare fall under double layers of rigid rubber.

  Rested, she’d ease into her blouse or sweater. Next, ten to fifteen minutes of fluffing her thick, chili-pepper coiffure. Rest again. Then, after retouching her makeup, she would slide into her slacks. That was where the girls came in. They’d strap her in with two diaper pins to keep her pants up, and a shoestring attached on each end of the waistband, tying it into a bow. Rest again.

  Sometimes they’d get up enough nerve to ask her how she was going to pee with all that stuff on. She’d tell them she wasn’t going to drink any beer, just take teeny-weeny eyedro
ps full of whiskey.

  “So after all these years you managed to get on the girdles by yourself, but you still need help with the diaper pins and the shoestrings?” Ginger asked, kneeling beside her mother.

  “Shut the frig up,” said Katherine, puffing away.

  “Mama, have you ever thought of just buying bigger pants?”

  Katherine rolled her eyes at Ginger, ignoring what she considered a stupid question. “Where on earth is Kim? She should’ve been here by now.” Katherine glanced at her wristwatch, sucking in her stomach as Ginger worked old magic with the strings.

  “You think she’s all right, Mama? It was so sudden, Aunt Jewel dying like that. I’m worried about Kim. They’d just started getting along so well. This just wasn’t fair.” Her voice was light and soft as it trailed off. Just then the doorbell started to ring. “I’ll get it, Mama. You finish up here,” said Ginger, hesitating a moment to swat her mother’s sweat-beaded forehead with a tissue.

  “Hi sweetheart.” Ginger hung Jackson’s jacket in the front hall closet as he trudged into the kitchen carrying a brown grocery bag of noisily clinking bottles.

  “Hi Granny,” he called out to his mother-in-law as she entered the room. Placing fifths of whiskey, gin, rum, and vodka along the kitchen counter, he scoured the cabinets for an ice bucket, leaving each door wide open as he moved to the next.

  Reaching underneath a cabinet next to the sink, Katherine took out the insulated bucket and put it beside the soda. “Pour me a quick one, will you Jackson?” Turning toward the cabinets again, Katherine caught him with her eyes, gesturing at the double row of plastic cups.

  She’d known from the beginning that Jackson loved her daughter, and wholeheartedly approved of their marriage. It hadn’t taken her long to figure out he was a bit selfish. But no man was perfect. Ginger had yet to find that out, and though she would never admit it, she was a bit selfish herself.