Knowing

by Rosalyn McMillan

  “Yeah.”

  She reached over, massaging the length of his bare thighs. “When we’re in bed, and you turn on the soft music you know I love, why do you act like it kills you to listen to it sometimes? I don’t understand why you don’t like listening to anything other than the blues and news.”

  He pulled back the insulation, exposing the cable, and looked at her. “You know the reason why I’ve got this station on?”

  She shook her head, looping her arm through his, trying to coax him into paying her some attention and putting his toys away.

  “I took some screws off the back of the radio to see if they would match the ones missing from the speedometer bracket, and now this is the only station I can get.”

  “Sweetie, you listen to that news station all the way to work and all the way home—”

  “I like to learn something about what’s going on in the world.”

  “If you read something other than the sports section in the newspaper, you might learn something.”

  “I can’t learn nothing listening to music.”

  “You can learn sensitivity.”

  He gave her another seductive smile. “I’ve already got that.”

  “Who told you that lie?” They laughed together as he pushed aside the speedometer and guided his wife to their haven of pleasure. . . .

  He rode her as long and hard as an adventurous ride on his Kawasaki, and they lay happy, breathing heavily. “You get enough?” he whispered, stroking her buttocks as he pulled her against him.

  “I could stand a longer ride, that is, if you’re up to it, old man,” she kidded.

  He lifted up the sheet, proudly displaying his growing erection. “Must be all that V8 juice I’ve been drinking.”

  Stepping from the shower, Mae Thelma toweled herself dry, lavished her body with lotion, and strolled into the bedroom stark naked. Turning off the lights, she lighted a scented candle and placed it on the nightstand near the bed.

  She turned the dial on the bedside radio until she heard a soft, soulful tune. Swiveling her legs from beneath her, she lay back, sinking her head into the soft pillows. She cupped her large breasts, stroking the fullness with the curve of her thumbs. Her dark areolae peaked as she felt a warmth flowing through her body.

  It had been so long since she felt a man’s body lying next to hers. Felt the warmth of his love melding with hers. Her breathing became short at the thought of him. She arched her buttocks, drew up her knees, stroking the soft folds of flesh. Flickering her slender fingers across the hard jewel of her womanhood, her body writhed beneath her. She felt the moistness coating her fingers as she offered her body relief from months of celibacy.

  Opening and closing like a shell, she felt the throbbing, throbbing, throbbing of her passion, grabbing in need of male penetration. Her fingers worked fiercely, faster, frantically, until at last, with a sweet sigh of relief, she felt herself relaxing, uttering a cry of pleasure.

  As she cleaned herself with the white cloth, she felt anger slowly rising from the pit of her stomach. She knew that once a young girl became a woman, that feeling of needing a man and loving a man, sharing the intimacies that transpire between them, was meant by God to be experienced for life. Not just a temporary thing. She’d tried to be faithful in God’s eyes, prayed for strength, yet her needs were as great as ever. She was a woman, and she had a woman’s needs.

  Tears sprang into her eyes, tears of guilt and shame from knowing she desired the comfort and love of a man whose golden brown eyes seemed to visit her in the darkness.

  20

  Oooo Baby, Baby

  The double doors were pushed open wide. Dozens of hangers lay bare, pushed together in the right corner of the closet. Large brown cartons filled with clothing lined a complete wall of the modest bedroom. Smaller boxes taped and labeled with a black Magic Marker read: Shoes, Hats, Lingerie. . . .

  “Don’t touch that, Autumn,” said Ginger, taking the silver frame from her small hand. Kim and Ginger sat on the floor going through Jewel’s cedar chest. Autumn sat in front of the round dressing table, looking into the mirror.

  Kim put an arm around Autumn’s shoulder, explaining, “That’s my mommy, Autumn.” She pointed to the man standing next to her. “And that’s my father.”

  “Don’t look like Aunt Jewel or Uncle Ollie,” said Autumn.

  Kim kneeled down beside her as Ginger continued removing the quilts packed neatly inside the xyloid trunk. “They were just married, sweetheart. Mama was eighteen, and Daddy was twenty-two.” She smiled at the picture, closing her hand over Autumn’s. “Don’t they look handsome?”

  Autumn nodded. She knew her great-aunt Jewel had died not long ago. That was why her mommy brought her over, to help Kim go through her mommy’s old things. She wanted to ask Kim how come Uncle Ollie wasn’t coming home to live with her now, but something told her to just be quiet. “Your nails are pretty. My mommy doesn’t have that color,” observed Autumn, studying Kim’s beautifully manicured nails.

  “Would you like to paint your nails this color?” asked Kim, smiling at Autumn. “There’s a bottle on my table in my room down the hall.” Autumn scooted off the chair and was halfway out the door before she peeked back around to look at her mother.

  “Is it okay if I paint my nails, Mommy? I won’t make any mess.”

  Ginger took her little hand, escorting her to Kim’s room. She placed old newspapers over the rectangular table, stacked two pillows on the chair, and tied an apron she’d found in the linen closet around her daughter’s neck. Then she planted Autumn in the center of the cushions and handed her the opened bottle of flamingo-pink polish.

  “Thanks, Kim. She’s getting a little bored. I was hoping she would fall asleep until we finished.”

  “The kids gone for the weekend again?”

  “Um-hum. Left yesterday. Jackson’s at home watching the Pistons and Bulls playoff game, so I didn’t want to ask him to watch her. He can’t stand being interrupted when the game is on. What time is it?”

  “Almost eight.”

  Walking over to the dresser, Ginger turned on the small radio to News Radio 95. “The game is almost on. Might as well listen to it. Haven’t listened to George Blaha over the radio in a while.” She sat down, crossing her legs in front of the mounds of quilts. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  Kim shook her head, as she focused her eyes back on the photograph. “You think I’m doing the right thing, Ginger, giving Mama’s things to the Salvation Army?”

  “Yes,” said Ginger, patting her on the back. “You’ll never wear them. It doesn’t make sense to hang on to articles of clothing when someone else who’s needy could be making good use of them. Now . . . her old costume jewelry is another matter altogether.”

  “I just don’t get it, Ginger. One day you have on a man’s suit and tie, and mannish, wide-rimmed hats, then flashy sparkly dresses, jeans and T-shirts.” She threw her hands into the air as she continued. “Then the next thing I know, you’ve changed again into flared peasant skirts and Cinderella blouses, or romantic ankle-length period dresses . . . and now you want antique jewelry. . . . I can’t figure out your style.”

  Ginger smiled and winked at her. “That’s what style is.”

  “Point taken. The jewelry’s yours.” Kim sat back, looking pleased, and said, “Got a surprise for you.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to list the house for me. I’ve decided to sell it.”

  “You did?”

  “After the attorney, Mr. Hammond, read the will, I was shocked when I found out Mama had left me quite a bit of money.”

  “You told me you knew how much money your parents had saved.”

  “I know I did. But Mama had this money in her maiden name: Jewel Kimmery Kramer. Her attorney had been paying the taxes on the principal for the past twenty-five years. She put the money my grandfather had left her in an account when she was pregnant with me. Hadn’t even told my father about it. She told Mr.
Hammond to make a high-risk, long-term investment, because she planned on giving the money to her son or daughter when they were married.” Tears welled in Kim’s eyes as she looked at her ringless fingers.

  The fans’ cheers and screams seemed inappropriate and Ginger struggled to find words of comfort to ease her cousin’s pain. Kim’s decision not to accept Bill’s proposal of marriage might not have been the correct choice in Ginger’s mind, but knowing that Kim rarely made important judgments without carefully weighing the pros and cons, she kept her opinions to herself.

  “Your father will live to see you walk down that aisle one day soon, Kim — and your mother will be seeing you through his eyes,” said Ginger seriously.

  Kim gave her an appreciative smile. “We can’t sit here all day, chatting like two old women. Let’s get busy.” She paused to regain her composure. “Thanks, Ginger.”

  “Thank you for giving me the privilege of listing my first home.”

  “I figure . . .” began Kim, and launched into the details. There was a vacant loft apartment being remodeled in the building that Randall lived in downtown. She’d given them a deposit, and planned on moving by the first of July, when the renovations would be completed. The apartment was in the right location for her in-home business, and close to the nursing home she was moving her father to. The new senior center had a new treatment program that had just been introduced by a resident physician.

  “Oh my goodness!” Ginger was surprised to hear the crowd cheering the Pistons’ victory over the Chicago Bulls.

  “Are you that excited over the Pistons winning?”

  Ginger jumped to her feet, heading for the door, then spun back around. “Yes, but we’ve been talking for hours. I haven’t heard a peep from Autumn.”

  Kim followed her down the hall, peering over Ginger’s shoulder as they observed Autumn sleeping peacefully at the dressing table. Two bottles of opened polish lay before her. She’d found Kim’s box of press-on nails — and pressed all ten over her tiny fingers. Slivers of pink were visible around the edges, and the generous coat of shocking red polish made them resemble vampire claws.

  Ginger and Kim could only laugh.

  Ginger felt the picture of success and supreme satisfaction painted inside her head, like God’s paintbrush when he created the earth and stars. She couldn’t have been more pleased at this moment of her life; she was in heaven. She knew that there were better things still to come.

  Jackson had suggested that they go out and celebrate after she’d closed on the home in Indian Village. It hadn’t been a large commission because someone else had listed the home, but it was a start.

  Admiring Ginger’s buttocks bouncing provocatively in the supple silk jersey fabric of her form-fitting dress, Jackson opened the glass door of Fishbone’s of Greek Town, at 400 Monroe Street, as Ginger passed before him. He gave the maître d’ the name for their reservations, and a short time later they were seated next to a beautiful waterfall.

  Sitting down, Ginger felt as though their table were situated in the open air of a veranda. The atmosphere was naturally so romantic, just like a picture-postcard she’d seen of a warm scene of two lovers at Niagara Falls on their honeymoon. The fresh zest of approximately six thousand gallons of water per hour rushing down variegated columns of Mediterranean marble over a hundred feet high was entrancing.

  “Come on sweetheart, let’s make a wish,” said Ginger, rising from the table and raising her voice above the thundering force of the multitiered waterfall.

  The lighted pool was filled with glittering waves of copper and silver from other well-wishers hoping their dreams would also come true. Closing her eyes, Ginger felt a cool breeze brushing her face, and threw several copper coins over her shoulder. She wished for a successful career in the real estate business that would allow her to quit her job next year.

  Jackson wished for good health, and the opportunity to get the transfer to Mississippi and move his family back home. Several engineers in Mississippi were retiring in two and a half to three years, and the company planned on replacing them with a transfer from another facility. Jackson hoped that engineer would be him. He had all the qualifications the job required, and the seniority that would almost guarantee the lateral move.

  “Here’s to you, baby, and to many more closings,” said Jackson, lifting his glass to hers. Clinking their glasses together in a salute, he with a flute of whiskey and water and she with sparkling cider. As he drank, he eyed her appraisingly. So this is where you and Kim went while I was away? he thought but did not say. Instead he asked Ginger, “Who’d you say told you about this place?” An innocent smile came across his face.

  It was a small world. One of Jackson’s cycle checkers, who worked for him at the plant, had clued him in the moment he returned to work that he’d seen Ginger and some fine chick in Greek Town. He’d noticed them from the window of Fishbone’s as he was on his way up to the nightclub, and saw the two of them later that evening upstairs, mingling with the older set. Jackson was mildly perturbed that Ginger hadn’t mentioned she’d gone out. What bothered him was the fact that the cycle checker had told him how good Ginger looked in her minidress.

  A minidress! Ginger knew his views on appropriate attire, and apparently while he was away, she’d chosen to ignore them. No respectable woman, married and with children, wore minidresses unless she was looking for something, he insisted. Women who stood on the street corners at night, the kind of women who wore clumps of makeup at night, stockings with unsightly runs — they wore those short skirts.

  The young man had assured Jackson that Ginger hadn’t danced with anyone. And that he saw them leave by twelve, alone. Jackson wouldn’t trust Kim alone with his ninety-year-old grandfather. He’d bide his time, catch Ginger off-guard, and find out how the rest of the evening went. And he knew just how to get her to talk.

  Ginger stiffened. All her jubilation of the evening disappeared as she tortured herself with the idea that he knew she’d gone out but was keeping it to himself. He couldn’t possibly know, could he?

  “Kim,” she said nervously. “Kim told me about this place.” She looked around the room of people seated at other tables, trying to avoid his piercing stare. “Don’t you” — she stopped as her eyes rested on a familiar face— “like it?” Ivory Michaels. The newscaster. Before she could bring her head back around, their eyes met, and he smiled casually.

  Jackson leaned back in his chair, missing nothing. “Yes, it’s nice.” He raised an eyebrow, then picked up the menu to study the spicy Cajun entrées.

  Ginger already knew what she wanted to order and closed the plastic-covered folder, scanning the restaurant a second time. At seven-thirty on a Saturday evening, the popular bistro was filled to capacity. The constant shuffling of feet moving to and from the waterfall sounded like the hoofbeats of cattle stampeding over a prairie.

  “Jambalaya . . . mmm,” said Jackson amusingly. “Pecan trout, alligator, smoked whiskey ribs, crawfish étouffée and cat —”

  “You should try the catfish, honey. It —” She caught herself. “Kim said it tastes like butter.”

  Ginger still felt a little uneasy having to keep something from Jackson, but she knew he’d take it the wrong way if she confided in him that she had been lonely and upset about losing her hair.

  She knew that Jackson’s desire for her was still as strong as ever. When they were in bed together, he made her feel as if he worshiped her body and couldn’t get enough of seducing her, but that wasn’t enough to make her feel attractive. His approval in the bedroom was no measure of her self-worth, but apparently he seemed to think otherwise.

  She wagged her bare foot over her crossed leg under the table, until it touched the leg of his pants. Arching her foot, she traced a path along his thighs, ending at his crotch, grazing the bulge in his pants with probing toes.

  Judging by the slow seductive smile forming across his face, she knew that later, no matter what the evening entailed, they’d surrender
to their silent obsession.

  Ginger continually scanned the room. She noticed Ivory Michaels’s ominous stare once again since their eyes met earlier. Ivory continued his lynx-like gaze until Ginger turned away. He reminded her of one of those poor little rich boys who was bored with his toys and needed something new to play with.

  Though internally Ginger felt somewhat inhibited, outwardly she projected her best. Sexy and confident, she emanated warmth and vitality.

  Ginger noticed the impatience in Ivory’s date’s attitude as his gaze shifted from her to the other woman. Ginger was a woman who offered a challenge, something Ivory’s date was undeniably lacking.

  “Ivory?” said the woman, trying to break into his thoughts.

  Pulling his attention back to her, he turned to address the business at hand. “You were saying, Elizabeth?”

  “Has something or someone else caught your attention?” asked Elizabeth Guest.

  He touched her jet black hair across the table, looking into her violet eyes, “Away from you, my dear?” There was music in the question.

  Jackson licked his lips, tasting the last of his Bourbon Street bread pudding, just as Ginger popped the last crumbs of her Key lime pie into her mouth. “Mmmmmmm. Good, isn’t it?”

  “Next time I’ll have the pecan pie for dessert.”

  “Next time. You mean you want to come back?”

  “This is just like home. I gotta bring Mama here next summer when she comes up.”

  Why did he have to spoil the evening by bringing up his mother? Everything was going too well. Couldn’t they have a moment together without his mother’s name being brought into the conversation? Didn’t he realize how upsetting it was to have him constantly mentioning his mother, even during their private moments, which she felt should be shared by just the two of them? God knew her mother-in-law had done nothing to warrant such feelings, yet Ginger was powerless to control the resentment she felt in her heart.