Knowing

by Rosalyn McMillan

  Kim finally made her entrance a few minutes later with her friend Randall in tow, to thank her aunt Katherine for all her help organizing, cooking, and setting up the food.

  Jackson kissed Kim in a brotherly manner as he offered her his condolences. After shaking Randall’s hand, he excused himself to join Ginger greeting the guests in the living room. He whispered in her ear as Ginger reached in the closet, searching for an empty hanger. “What happened to Bill? Is Kim going out with that White guy in the kitchen?”

  Ginger turned. “You mean Randall?” Jackson gave Ginger a knowing stare. “He’s a friend of hers from work.”

  From the dining room the subtle clamor of roaster lids being lifted and replaced could be heard over the polite conversation of the men and women who’d come to pay their respects. Closing the closet door, Ginger rested her back against it. She smiled warmly at the guests as they passed, carrying their plates piled high with food. “Can I fix you a plate, or did you eat already?” Ginger asked Jackson, trying to change the subject casually.

  “Nothing.” He turned to walk away, looking so bad in his black cashmere turtleneck, black denim jeans, and black lizard cowboy boots. “I’m going to call and check on the kids.” He shouldered a path through the crowd as Ginger stood, clenching her fists.

  She hated when he dismissed her like that. Ever since he’d returned home from Mississippi, he had been acting a little distant. She thought he was angry because of the time she was spending away from home, showing clients properties, working in the office. They still rode to work together every morning and evening, but their conversation wasn’t as spontaneous as it used to be. He, deep in thought, she with a million things on her mind, resenting yet also appreciating the silence.

  The kids were doing a wonderful job cleaning the house. Sierra had learned to cook a few dishes, Christian’s fried chicken was just as good as hers, and little Autumn learned to make a mean tossed salad. Jason pitched in when he could, working around his hours at the grocery store and the hours he put in serenading his girlfriend.

  “Ginger, are you feeling okay?” asked Kim, a worried look on her face.

  Ginger quickly pulled herself together. She’d tuned out the people and the conversations that were going on around her. Here she was muddling over some insignificant spat that she and Jackson had, and Kim, who was carrying the weight of losing her mother, caring for her convalescent father, and breaking up with the man she loved dearly, was trying to console her.

  Ginger smoothed the back of her cousin’s tapered haircut. “Sure, I’m just fine. But not as fine as my cousin, sporting this new hairdo.” She spun Kim around, admiring her new Halle Berry look.

  Kim forced a strained smile. Outwardly, she appeared and looked normal, lovely in fact, in her stunning taupe lace tea-length dress. However, the tears that had rained inside her body had dried, leaving permanent cracks and crevices of pain in their wake. Feeling as if her world was being turned topsy-turvy, her thoughts were caught up in a trap of mirrors and echoes.

  Bill sat quietly in the back, watching as the family entered the church. A hushed silence fell over the pews of mourners. Their faces reflected the sympathy and sorrow they felt over the untimely death of a cherished soul. Kim, tall and proud, pushed her father’s wheelchair down the aisle, pausing at the casket, allowing him a final view of his deceased wife.

  Two weeks had passed since they’d seen each other. Bill hadn’t realized the time had passed so quickly; he’d submerged himself in his clinic, working as much as twenty hours a day. The date of Jewel’s obituary brought the reality of their separation over the past two weeks into focus. He felt the pulse quickening at his temples as a whisper of Kim’s cologne floated past him. Memories of their times together flashed before him like the quick clicks of a camera. How he missed her. How he needed her. He was wrong not to answer her repeated calls. Wrong to try to find solace in another woman, whom he cared nothing about. When Kim’s calls had ceased, he had become worried, panic settling in. And then he learned of her mother’s death.

  At that moment Randall entered, and the usher directed him to be seated on the left. He squeezed between two heavy women eagerly moving purses and Bibles and fanning themselves like girls at a debutante ball. Kim saw him and seemed pleased by his arrival.

  Katherine, Ginger, Jackson, and their four children sat beside Kim and her father in the front pew. Directly behind them were several rows of elderly women dressed and gloved in white, wearing vibrant purple sashes diagonally across their chests with the words EASTERN STAR etched on them in gold lettering. Since the age of eighteen, Jewel Lee had been a member of the Eastern Star women’s organization, the women’s auxiliary of the Masons, to which Ollie was pledged.

  There were no other family members, Kim being an only child and her mother having outlived her own small family.

  Beautiful floral arrangements were everywhere, sent by Ollie’s friends in the Masons, by people at the newspaper office he’d retired from eight years earlier, by the Eastern Star, and by several friends and neighbors. Kim had gone to the flower shop to order a spray of white and red roses with radiating patterns of exotic green foliage that spiraled into a subtle bouquet. A white band with To my loving wife embossed in gold lay across the floral arrangement, which covered the entire expanse of the casket.

  Tears ran down Ollie’s cheeks as, closing his eyes shut, he drifted on the memory of their love and life together. He loved her. Jewel was his heart. He knew when you’ve been wildly and deeply in love with someone, you don’t stop loving them just because they’ve died — you keep on loving them, until you join them in the floating Avalon above, where the love of God and the love of a loved one prevail for eternity.

  Kim reached over to take her father’s hand in hers. Though he was still unable to speak, she read his thoughts in his eyes, shared his pain, understood his loss. She held her tears in check as the pastor read the eulogy and while the choir sang; softly in the background, Mae Thelma led them in her spiritual soprano.

  A beautiful, inspired church song always moved Ginger. She listened carefully to the words, and something stirred inside her. Unconsciously touching the wig she wore, she thought about her hair loss, and her eyelids released the pain. Ginger felt the tears brushing her cheeks. Felt the words soothing her body like a breath of fresh air. She rocked from side to side with the rhythm of the music, the comfort of the words that she was certain could heal.

  Katherine, also moved by the song, felt the tears trembling at the corners of her eyes. Reaching inside her purse for a tissue, she looked up as Mae Thelma completed her song. The dreamy look Mae Thelma had given Jackson might have gone unnoticed by most of the mourners, but not Katherine Lee. She hadn’t missed a beat. She’d read the woman’s intentions months ago, during dinner over at Ginger’s.

  Raising her hands in the air, Ginger broke down crying, surrendering to a power stronger than she’d ever felt before. Joy . . . she felt the joy from God manifesting and internalizing within her. She felt Jackson’s arm around her shoulder, comforting her. Looking up through tear-stained eyes, she inhaled the clean air flowing through the church windows.

  Jackson stroked Ginger’s shoulders, pulling her closer toward him. He felt something stir within him as he watched Ginger’s outpouring of emotion. He’d never seen her act that way before, he thought, looking into her eyes, which were glazed and dreamy, as if she’d experienced a metamorphosis of sorts. She was still crying softly, clutching the handkerchief he’d given her over her mouth.

  But when he overheard Ginger asking the Lord for forgiveness of her sins, his eyes became misty as the realization hit him full force; he knew that Ginger was grieving over the loss of her aunt, yet he also knew he had just witnessed his wife surrendering to the spirit of the Holy Ghost.

  “Kim, please, let me try and explain.”

  Opening the door for Bill, she paused to listen to the soft, refreshing May shower that sounded almost polite as it began to fall. She
felt an aura around her, the presence of her mother’s spirit surrounding her, moving through her, warming her from within.

  Kim smiled warmly at Bill as she sat in her mother’s chair, rocking gently to the comforting words that echoed in her mind and heart: “Create in me a clean heart, renew the right spirit within me. . . .”

  Bill was amazed at the peace and serenity glowing in her eyes. A vision of beauty by anyone’s standards, she sat before him without any makeup, her hair brushed casually in an asymmetrical bob. She wore a chenille nightgown that hid her feminine curves, yet never had she looked so beautiful to him.

  Flickers of flames danced around the logs in the fireplace. With a swoosh a white-ashen log broke in half, disrupting the peace, kicking up puffs of white flakes just as a split, knotted stump fell forward.

  “Kim,” said Bill, turning away from the fire, “I been thinking a lot about us lately.”

  “Us?” said Kim timidly. “We haven’t been an ‘us’ for quite some time.”

  “I’m sorry for not returning your phone calls. I should have —”

  “It’s not necessary to explain. I totally understand. I saw you with your friend at the restaurant — remember?”

  “She works for me at the clinic, Kim. It’s purely a platonic relationship. Nothing more,” he lied.

  Kim stared into the warm, tranquil fire, a peace filling her as she picked up the pace of her rocking. “As I said, it isn’t necessary for you to explain. I wouldn’t compromise my right to choose my friends — or become your convenient whore anytime you felt you had a few hours to spare. No — I won’t fall prey to that kind of relationship. I’ve accepted our breakup.”

  “Kim. I was wrong,” he said, his eyes pleading. “It isn’t about compromise, it isn’t about convenience, it isn’t about sex. It’s love.” He moved to face her on his knees, taking her warm hands in his. “I love you, Kim. Will you marry me?”

  Funny. Those were the words she had longed to hear only a short while ago. Yet today they provided little comfort. Yes, she loved him, wanted him. In her heart wanted to marry him, still. But this was not the time. Since her mother’s death, she’d made some important decisions, definite plans, and he wasn’t part of any of them.

  “I can’t.” She withdrew her hands quickly, as if he had tried to steal something from her.

  “And I can’t accept that, Kim. We both know we love each other. I’m sorry for the things I said. I’m sorry for trying to control who you talk to, who you befriend — I’m sorry, and guilty as hell for not spending enough time alone with you,” he apologized. “What more can I say?”

  “That you’ll understand when I say I need to make some changes in my life. In me.” She looked into his eyes, searching for understanding. “I need to be alone with myself, to find out what I’m all about.” She felt an energy, a strange power guiding her forward, toward the light. Turning her head slightly, she looked up above the fireplace at the image of her mother.

  Ollie moved his left arm from beneath the covers. He fingered the back of his gold wedding band, feeling the scratches imbedded in the smooth surface. Time. Worn. A reminder of their union, of their love. Through the open window, he could see the stars twinkling in the purple darkness. Closing his eyes, he said a prayer for his beloved: “Though the world may try its best to keep us apart, our love will transcend time, sweetheart. It was written long ago in the stars that our love would be born; just as night leaves the sea, it was fated to be. In the heavens high above, where dreams flourish and flower, it was written that our love would grow stronger each and every hour. So always remember, Jewel Kimmery Lee, as Venus is mated to Mars, so are you to me. It was written in the stars that you and I will always be.”

  19

  Just My Imagination (Running Away with Me)

  The morning sun streamed through the bathroom windows. Ginger poured the powdered milk into the gushing water and caressed the opalescent pool with her fingers. Before the tub filled, she reached into the linen closet for the box of brown bottles left over from her Body Shop business. Jackson had voiced his displeasure over and over again about the abundance of soaps and oils she kept in their bathroom. She knew he didn’t care about the space; it was just his way of reminding her of yet another failed business attempt.

  Truth was, when she’d closed the booth in the trade center, she had no idea how long all the bubble bath, shampoos, lotions, and oils would last. Unbeknownst to Jackson, she had given her mother, Kim, and a few friends at work bags of the leftover stock. She’d kept what she figured their family of six could consume in a year’s time.

  She added rose oil, the oil of rose geranium, and a few drops of peppermint to the milky water, then turned off the tap. Walking into the sitting room, she selected a single red rose from those she’d taken after her Aunt Jewel’s funeral. She placed the red bloom along the rim of the tub. She pulled the two remaining roses from their stems, one white, one red, and placed them inside her Bible, pressing the covers tightly together.

  Moments later she stood naked before the opaque pool. Removing the petals of the red rose, she dropped them one by one onto the surface of the tranquil water. She slipped off her wig and eased into the center of the petals. Her head back, she took a deep breath, inhaling the cool, minty scent of peppermint, the heady fragrance of the rose petals.

  She trained her mind to allow her body to become weightless, letting her arms float to the surface as her fingers relaxed and opened. Lifting her head, she massaged both temples with the tips of her fingers, then rested her bald head against the cool porcelain. It had taken only two short months for her entire head of hair to shed. Willing herself to be strong, she’d endured clumps of hair falling from her scalp, filling the comb with strands of dark auburn.

  Lifting a velvety petal to her nose, she breathed the scent, allowing her thoughts to drift to the peacefulness she had felt in her heart yesterday at church. She was sure her patience and faith in God would enable her to endure any and all afflictions that lay before her.

  “There you go again,” said Ginger, sneaking up behind Jackson.

  “What?”

  “Planting those collards too close together.” She stood at the edge of the tilled garden. Each year he planted a small patch of vegetables behind the garage. Although their yard was three-quarters of an acre, he refused to cut up a piece of his precious yard. He took pride in the well-manicured lawn, which resembled lush, green carpeting. Wouldn’t let the kids have a dog because it would dig holes and patches around the doghouse. They’d begged him for years, until finally they gave up, and settled for a pet turtle.

  Stopping to assess his progress, Jackson scratched his head. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed it himself earlier. They were too close together. “Damn,” he said, taking the hoe and digging up the delicate plants.

  “Kids up yet?” he asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Leaning against the hoe, he stopped to sip his frosted can of V8 juice, which sat on the windowsill of the garage. A pair of beige cotton gloves hung from the back pocket of his stone-washed jeans.

  “I’m giving them another half an hour.” She looked at her watch, squinting her eyes against the glare of the sun. It was just twenty-five past eight. “Why don’t you ever wear these?” She touched the cotton fingers flapping against his buttocks in the brisk wind. He shrugged, finished his drink, and offered an expressive belch.

  “Talked to Mama last night,” he said, smiling.

  Ginger stiffened as that old feeling of competition returned. She said a quick prayer, asking God to take these selfish feelings from her heart. “What about?”

  He rested the garden tool against the brick siding. As his strong arms encircled her waist, he brushed a gentle kiss across her forehead. “I’m proud of you, baby. I told Mama about you getting saved yesterday. She’s praying for you. I told her about—”

  Ginger stiffened, “You didn’t tell her about my hair, did you?”

  “Baby, don’t be so sensitive.�
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  She withdrew from his embrace, nervously fingering the curls in her wig. “I just don’t feel like I have to explain why I’m wearing a wig when we go down there in July.”

  He went back to making furrows in the ground, setting the bell pepper plants along the two outside rows. “Baby, you can’t tell you’ve got on a wig. Anybody would think that it was your own hair. And Mama isn’t going to mention it to anybody.”

  She knew how much faith Jackson put in his mother’s prayers — knew his mother wouldn’t tell anyone. Secretly, she’d thought of calling Mother Montgomery herself to ask that she and the saints of the church pray for her, yet each time she picked up the phone to dial the number her insides turned queasy. Would she ever get over this jealousy and competitiveness with his mother? Had she actually been saved yesterday to prove to Jackson that she was just as good as his mother was?

  Ginger hadn’t expected that being saved would be so easy, but it had been. Acts 16:30 to 31 of the Bible said that if you believed in the Lord Jesus Christ, you would be saved, and she had, and was reborn.

  White petals from the trio of blossoming apple trees bordering the bricked patio blew softly in the wind, scattering across the yard, sprinkling the garden as a choir of robins fluttered through the branches.

  Ginger brushed the petals from Jackson’s hair, kissing him on the back of his neck. “I know she won’t, honey. Thanks for asking her.” She cupped his derriere, removed the gloves from his pocket, and pulled the large mitts over her manicured nails. They worked together, planting the remaining trays of vegetables, hosing them down afterwards, standing back to admire their handiwork.

  Sitting on the stone bench of the patio, Ginger leaned her back against the brick wall to soak in the morning sun. “Jackson?” asked Ginger, hating to broach the subject, but knowing it had to be said.

  “Yeah,” said Jackson, straddling the lower wall of the patio, tilting his head to study the back of the fountain. “Damn. I can’t figure out why the water won’t come out.” He scratched his head, holding a socket wrench.