Knowing

by Rosalyn McMillan

  When Jackson came home, Ginger was sitting in the living room, sipping Christian Brothers brandy and ginger ale, her old standby. Christian had agreed to catch the mice that the two boys had let loose in their mother’s room.

  “I’m nobody’s damn fool,” said Ginger, sipping her drink, feeling a little tipsy. She rolled her eyes at Jackson.

  “You’re overreacting as usual. I can’t fucking believe you made them get out.” He sprawled in the chair, running a hand down the back of his neck.

  “That bitch has been after you ever since she and those varmints of hers moved in here. Do you think I haven’t noticed?”

  “What you talking about, woman? Are you crazy?”

  Ginger stood before him, waving her glass in the air. “Let’s start with those perfect egg custard pies she was always making for you. You couldn’t stop bragging about ’em. And in front of me, like I was invisible. I come home, and you and she are in the kitchen, or out in that fucking garden laughing and joking like an old married couple.”

  “Ginger, you know —”

  “Just wait a damn minute. It don’t stop there. I told that bitch over and over again that I liked cooking your dinner on the weekends. Did she listen to me? Hell no. I’d get home from work, and she’d have crackling bread warming on the stove, chowder peas, gumbo, sweet potato pudding, and Lord knows whatever else those fickle-ass southern women cook. And those damn zephry —”

  “Zephyrinas,” said Jackson, correcting her. Zephyrinas were an old Charleston biscuit recipe named after Zephyr, the Greek god of the west wind, because the biscuits were so light. Jackson had begged Mae Thelma for the recipe for Ginger. But she’d torn it to shreds, hurt over Jackson’s obvious admiration for Aunt Jemima reincarnated.

  “You embarrassed me, Jackson, with those fucking biscuits. I know how to cook. If I’d wanted the recipe, I would’ve asked for it.” She walked out of the room, going straight to the liquor cabinet in the butler’s pantry. He followed her.

  “I know you’re mad, Ginger, but be reasonable, will you? I can go get them and bring ’em back tonight. Things’ll —”

  She turned, giving him the coldest look she could muster. “That bitch and her kids can’t come back in this house.”

  “They don’t have anywhere to go.”

  “I really couldn’t care less, Jackson. That’s not my problem, nor yours either, for that matter. Or have you lost sight of your priorities? I’m your wife, and I said, I don’t want them here.” She leaned back against the counter, sipping her drink, feeling really good now as the liquor spiraled through her body. He hadn’t even asked about her finger since he’d gotten home. She was hurt, but refused to show it. “You told that bitch about my hair.”

  Guilt was written all over his face, there was no need for a reply, yet he mumbled out a half-truth. “I asked her to pray for you.”

  “You had no business telling that bitch about my hair.” Her voice cracked as her eyes clouded, brimming with tears. “I don’t fucking believe it, Jackson. I don’t believe you wouldn’t know how much that would hurt me, telling her.” She brushed past him, whispering over her shoulder, “How could you?”

  Loading up the repaired Bronco with Mae Thelma’s possessions, Jackson left the house. The kids watched, saying nothing, as he backed out of the driveway. Mae Thelma had called him at work, sobbing, just after he’d returned from doing his daily exercises. She had given him her version of the incident. He assured her that he’d straighten out everything, and she and the boys would be back home by nightfall.

  Though he knew Ginger was right about Mae Thelma’s obvious attraction to him, he’d ignored it. Secretly, he’d hoped that Ginger would become jealous and think twice about spending so much time away from home.

  And he was disappointed in Ginger. Resorting to using alcohol and cussing like a mad sailor. She had obviously lost her religion in the course of a day, and had not put her problems and faith in God’s hands, taking it upon herself to solve them. What the hell was he going to say to Mae Thelma? What the hell was he going to say to his mother? Damn! He screeched down the street, stirring up puffs of dirt, sweating in the scorching heat of the afternoon sun.

  Katherine sat perched in the middle of her bed, hugging her knees, staring at the empty pillow, trying to hold back the tears. An empty Lauder’s scotch bottle and a drained glass with a quarter-inch of root-beer-colored water from melted ice cubes and whiskey sat on the nightstand beside her.

  She’d been drinking all night. Straight liquor, on the rocks. James hadn’t come home all night. They’d had a terrible argument. It had started when she’d finished her shower earlier, and she’d slipped downstairs wrapped in a towel, dripping beads of water on the carpeting to surprise him with a thought she’d had while bathing. She was going to propose that they take the poles and spend the night on Black River, fishing, listening to the radio, and making love.

  Only she’d been the one surprised. She caught him going through her wallet, apparently in search of money, and they argued. He left, and hadn’t returned. Starring blankly in the mirror, she saw the image of an old woman reflected in the looking glass.

  Ordinarily after she’d consumed almost a fifth of scotch, she’d be a little tight. However, under the circumstances, her loneliness flowing through her like the river of purgatory, she felt sober as a judge.

  The rhythm of her heart beat like a tom-tom, a tear trickled down her face; she lifted her heavy body and stood before the mirror. Was it too late for love? For a last chance at capturing the essence of youth? The youth of her lover had kindled the embers of a flickering flame still burning bright inside her — still?

  “It’s so good to see you,” said Kim, hugging her cousin. “I’ve missed you.”

  Tossing her briefcase on the ottoman, Ginger plopped down on the leather sofa, exhausted. “I’m bushed. You got any wine?”

  Intrigued by this sudden change of character, Kim poured them each a drink and joined her. Sitting across from Ginger, she urged her cousin, “Okay. Come on. Out with it. Something’s wrong between you and Jackson.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I know you,” said Kim, turning on the stereo. The melodic voice of Mariah Carey floated through the room.

  “You know I’ve got to get one of those CD players. The sound is better —”

  “Cut the crap, Ginger. I said, what’s the problem?”

  Emptying her glass, she blurted out the ugly scene with Mae Thelma and her kids. She began crying as she confided that the relationship hadn’t been the same since she’d thrown them out six days ago. Jackson and she argued almost daily. He complained about everything. The house wasn’t clean enough. Dinner wasn’t done on time. The kids were being left at home alone too much. The bottom line: He was trying to make her life miserable as he could because of what she’d done.

  Kim refilled their glasses. “Girlfriend, I’da done the same thing. Bitch didn’t deserve to be in your home in the first place. Aunt Katherine was right about her. I noticed it too, but I didn’t say anything to you about it. She wants Jackson all right. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”

  “I figure if anybody’s gonna do any fucking in my own house, it damn well better be me and my man, and not some bitch sneaking behind my back screwing my husband in my home.” Kim and Ginger did a high-five in the air. “Hypocritical, sanctified bitch.”

  Kim understood Ginger’s situation and totally agreed with her actions. What she didn’t like was the fact that the battle with Mae Thelma had caused Ginger to backslide in the church. Kim certainly wasn’t a saint, but she admired and respected Ginger’s dedication and love of the Lord. She hadn’t told anyone except her father that she, too, wanted to give her life to God. She prayed and had started going to church when she could, praying for her mother and her father’s recovery.

  Ginger checked her watch, frowning. Dinner would be late again tonight. What the hell? Things couldn’t get too much worse between her and Jackson. She’d ea
t dirt before she’d kiss his ass and give in, knowing she was right about what she’d done.

  The phone in Kim’s office rang, and she excused herself to consult with a client. Ginger looked around. Kim had done wonders with her apartment. It was tastefully decorated. Beautiful paintings hung on the walls. Randall, thought Ginger. Kim had a casual style that bespoke sophistication. Her apartment reflected her own personality, something Ginger hadn’t noticed until now. Having seen her most times in her mother’s home, she hadn’t expected Kim to be so different from her mother. A framed picture of Kim, Jewel, and Ollie hung in the center of the brick wall, surrounded by other mementos of her mother and father. The apartment seemed filled with love and affection.

  As Kim made her excuses for the lengthy call, the grumbling sound of rock music roared above them. “What in the world —”

  “That’s Randall. He’s gearing up for his party tonight.”

  “Oh?” said Ginger, tapping her foot by the door as the thought of not going home and having a carefree evening at a party crossed her mind.

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Why not?” argued Ginger, defensively.

  “Because it’s a gay party.” Kim waited for the horrified expression to leave Ginger’s face before continuing. “Randall’s gay. I’ve known it since we’ve met, but I didn’t tell anyone.” She changed the carousel on the CD player as Ginger stood beside her, shaking her head in total disbelief.

  “I would’ve never guessed. He doesn’t even look like it. Usually I can spot a gay guy in a minute. Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “I’m worried about him. He’s come out. He’s letting people know he’s gay.”

  “That’s supposed to be healthy, isn’t it. Kinda therapeutic?”

  “Not in his case. He’s doing it for entirely different reasons.” She glanced upwards toward the uninvited music. “His boyfriend refuses to make a commitment. He’d hoped they could move in together. He loves the guy.” Kim shrugged, then sat back leisurely on the sofa.

  “And the guy doesn’t feel the same way about him?”

  “He does — but — he’s not willing to admit publicly that he’s gay. Randall’s gone off the deep end and is dating all kinds of weirdos. Totally unlike himself. Before, he was so selective about who he went out with. Now it’s like he’s advertising. Anyone who wants some can have some.” She mouthed the word sex, just in case Ginger didn’t get it.

  Ginger called home. Jason answered. Ginger was so stressed about Mae Thelma she’d completely forgotten about Jason’s incident at work. She explained to Jason that she needed him to order pizza for dinner, and to order Jackson a quart of Diet Pepsi, and regular Pepsi for them. She told him to pay for it, and she’d reimburse him when she got home.

  Ginger missed the relief in Jason’s voice.

  There, that would do it. If Jackson didn’t like that, he could go to hell. Maybe she’d bring home a bottle of V8 juice. A subtle hint. After all, the old saying was “If you don’t use it, you’ll lose it,” and she’d couldn’t afford to lose anything else.

  Smoothing the back of her wig, she thought of Randall, loving someone, as she did, and feeling the brunt of his lover’s inability to commit himself totally. Sure they loved you, but only on their terms. She understood why this was unacceptable to Randall, just as it was unacceptable to her. Deep in her heart, Ginger knew she couldn’t tolerate Jackson’s indifference, lack of understanding, and selfishness much longer.

  As Kim walked Ginger to the elevator, she came face to face with Mr. Cameron. She hadn’t seen him in months. He said nothing. She said nothing. They each looked at each other with utter contempt.

  “That Black bitch!” George Cameron said as he entered Randall’s apartment.

  “Who is it that you’re referring to, Cameron — your indispensable secretary, Brenda? Or the whore you picked up last night?”

  Cameron ignored that last remark as he walked around his nephew’s apartment. He wiped his nose and seated his stout little body by the bar, pouring himself a drink. “Why wasn’t I invited to the party?” he asked between gulps of Crown Royal.

  Randall gave him a slight bow. He was dressed impeccably in an off-white silk linen walking suit. Soft caramel leather sandals covered his feet. “Forgive me, Uncle. You might very well enjoy this sort of entertainment.”

  Cameron poured himself another hefty round. “I’m no fucking faggot. I came here to talk to you before your sissy friends got here.”

  Randall consulted his platinum watch. “You’ve got twenty minutes. Say what you’ve got to say and get the hell out.”

  Cameron steepled his fingers. He took his time before answering, cracking the joints of each finger as he watched Randall become increasingly uncomfortable. “I’m thinking about sending you to our London office — pronto.”

  Randall pinched the crease of his tailored slacks, casually relaxing back into one of the raspberry suede chairs. His voice was hard. “We discussed this before. I told you then and I’m telling you now, the answer is no.”

  A sly smile grew on Cameron’s face as he crossed his chubby legs, clasping his hands over his knee. “You see, as of this moment, you have no choice. The papers have been signed, and the ink is dry. You’re outta here next week.” He rocked back, enjoying the ugly look on Randall’s handsome face. How satisfying.

  “My aunt —”

  Cameron raised an eyebrow as he reached inside his pocket to take out a Tiparillo. “Is gone. Won’t be back for four months. Left word not to be disturbed unless it was an emergency.” He blew out the match, aiming the smoke at his intended victim. “Guess this doesn’t constitute an emergency, does it?”

  Randall knew Cameron had timed his underhanded dealings perfectly. He’d gotten Randall first. Randall had hired a private detective to try to get something tangible on his uncle. Sure, his aunt knew he had his whore working right in the office. That didn’t matter. The company was making money. She’d left the country, as she did every year, on screwing excursions of her own, either to meet, or accompanied by, one of her paid gigolos.

  Randall had hoped that one of these days his aunt would meet a man with a code of ethics and get rid of this egotistical bastard. The irony was that Cameron was fairly well endowed, but he couldn’t get it up for his wife. Seemed he only desired Black women. His aunt tolerated their relationship because he’d made her rich in the twenty years they’d been married. Cameron possessed the intellect and the killer instincts that had built their financial corporation to its Fortune 500 status.

  Cameron puffed leisurely on his cigar, blowing circles above him, as he watched Randall squirm in his seat. “I read recently that a renowned doctor is on the verge of discovering a gene in gays. He says that you people look for the masculinity in other men that you lack with yourself.”

  “I don’t care to discuss my sexuality with you. It’s none of your damned business.”

  “Oh, but that’s where you made your mistake when you openly admitted your sexual preference.” Leaning forward, he tapped the silver ashes into a beautifully sculpted vase he knew wasn’t an ashtray. As he spoke, he whispered as though other people were in the room and listening in.

  “You see, I called an emergency meeting with the board of directors, and they agreed that under the circumstances, we’d send you over to London, where sexual freedom might be more acceptable.”

  “Believe me, Cameron, you’re not going to get away with this.”

  “I already have. You leave next week.” He stood up, checking his watch. “Oh, yeah, you’ve gotten a promotion. My treat. And you’ll be staying at the Regency Hotel in London, in our company suite, until you find a place. There. Only took twelve minutes. That leaves you eight to get all prettied up and smelling fresh for your queer boyfriends.” Moving toward the door, he looked around nosily, searching for the bathroom. “I’d like to take a piss, but I wouldn’t want to catch anything.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

 
; Cameron pointed a finger at Randall, who lunged out of his chair. “Don’t you ever steal another client from my firm and think I’m not going to find out about it. Kim thinks she’s gotten away? She’s got a surprise coming too. Nobody fucks me and gets away with it.”

  Randall’s party mood had disappeared. Looking around his apartment at his beautiful paintings and furnishings, his eyes filled with tears. How could he leave? This was home. Yet, he knew his uncle had covered his tracks, which left him little choice unless he planned on quitting. He wouldn’t give that bastard the satisfaction. He’d fight back. Hard. And when he came up with enough evidence, he’d bury the bastard.

  Randall couldn’t let Cameron harm Kim. They were best friends. Even from the beginning, when they’d first met, Kim had guessed that he was gay. Yet she never stood in judgment. They’d spend time together viewing paintings at the Detroit Institute of Arts. He’d taught her all about literature, given her a crash course in dining in elegant restaurants and networking, how to get ahead in the financial world.

  In turn, Kim had taught him to laugh, mostly at himself. Taught him to dance, to express himself in his painting, helped him to free the voice within, taught him street talk. But mostly she’d helped him understand himself, his guilt, and the feelings that no one else, even his mother before she died, bothered to acknowledge.

  He picked up the phone to call Kim and warn her of Cameron’s plans. He also told her that he planned to give her the key to his apartment, so she could care for his plants while he was away. He wouldn’t give up his home, since he knew he’d be back sooner than anyone thought.

  Turning down the lights, he sat in the comfort of his lounge chair, basking in the serenity of his home. Looking up into the ceiling, he let his head fall back as he thought about fate. He let the doorbell ring and ring as he meditated on his revenge.

  25

  What Becomes of the Brokenhearted