Knowing

by Rosalyn McMillan

  It was almost midday when he drove up to her small bungalow on Elmhurst, but he knew she’d be home, cleaning or working in the house. She’d been gone over three weeks, setting up temporary residence at a neighbor’s house. She hadn’t even called him at his office as he’d asked her to the night he’d dropped off their belongings. He had left quickly, undeniably embarrassed by Ginger’s actions, and promised to check on her and the boys in a few days.

  He hadn’t come by or called, and he thought now that he should have. Maybe she wouldn’t want to see him. He worried that his shirt was not tucked neatly inside his jeans. Took a little more time than usual smoothing down his thick mustache, smoothed back the tight, curly strands of his short Afro, and finally, satisfied with his appearance, proceeded to the door.

  Purple and green patches of fireweeds sprang up around the yard, their seeds dangling beneath silken parachutes, floating in the air. After such a disastrous fire, there was an irony in their beauty among the charred pieces of wood and debris that hadn’t as yet been removed.

  Mae Thelma opened the door as he pressed the bell. Jackson smiled at the beautiful woman who stood before him, an angelic glow on her face. He felt almost compelled to take her in his arms and hold her — just for a moment. Yet he stood stock still as silence fell between them. The sound of gospel music coming from the living room was ignored by both. Jackson hoped the erratic beat of his heart wasn’t audible, not realizing that Mae Thelma was experiencing the same thing.

  “It’s so good to see you, Jackson.” She folded her arms, cocking her head slightly. “Now what took you so long to come and see me?” Grabbing him by the arm before he had a chance to think of a suitable answer, she pulled him inside.

  “The boys around?” he asked awkwardly. For some reason, he felt he needed someone to be around, to break the tension that was building. Or was he the only one who felt it?

  “No,” she said, guiding him into the living room. “Robert Earl’s sister sent me some money last month so they could spend the rest of the summer in Mississippi with their grandmother. They haven’t seen her in a while, and I figured I could use the time alone to get this house organized.” A proud smile beamed across her golden face. “It looks pretty good, doesn’t it.” Jackson nodded. “It’s nicer than it was before the fire.”

  He sat uncomfortably on the plush French Provincial sofa that he assumed was also new. Jackson felt a pang of guilt at the thought of her being all alone for the past month, and he hadn’t had the nerve to call and check on her, not once. A young woman with the beauty and innocence she possessed and no man around to protect her was prey for the scoundrels who lived in this lower-class neighborhood. “Have you thought about installing metal security bars, Mae Thelma?”

  So he was worried about her. She knew it. All it took was a little time for him to miss her. Just as her aunt Gitty had said he would. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t, Jackson. You think I should? These young boys ’round this neighborhood are meaner than a junkyard dog with fourteen suckling pups. Ain’t been raised right ’tall.” She untwined her beautiful hair while sitting beside him.

  “Been trying to get some of the young mens around heah to do the yard work for me.” She shook her head, ruffling her beautiful hair until it cascaded down then around her shoulders as she turned to face him.

  He sucked in his breath, feeling a warmth flow through his body — primarily his lower body — as he regarded the magnificent creature sitting beside him. He could sense the suppressed sexuality within her. “You got any Diet Pepsi, Mae Thelma?” He needed something to cool his mind and his unhealthy thoughts.

  Her almond-shaped eyes, hooded with dark lashes, lowered seductively, resting on his alluring lips. “Sure. Be right back,” she called over her shoulder, swaying her hips just enough to evoke her femininity, but no more. “Anything else you want, Jackson?” Her southern drawl was like a magnet drawing him in.

  She’d learned early on that a woman’s true desire should be to satisfy the desire of a man. Her aunt Gitty, from the deep Creole backwoods of Louisiana, taught her while she was just a teenager how to control a man. How his desire was not only for sexual satisfaction, but also for the natural passion in the stillness that follows lovemaking. As Aunt Gitty would say, pleasure makes him weak as his limp lingam. And every woman should be willing to submit to the discipline of the looking glass. She should be willing to attract a man by what she has, though knowing, in his deliberate confusion to resist the more human desires of a woman, that it is precisely this superhuman element in her that he pursues.

  As Mae Thelma passed the mirror in the dining room, she saw a vision of a seductive woman looking back at her, her lashes dark, her eyes bright, her lips subtly scarlet. Yet vanity was not the reason she stood there. She stepped closer to the looking glass, searching for the face she had before the world was made. For the temptress within her.

  By the time Jackson left, the spell had been cast. He’d volunteered to put the bars on the windows, clean the yard, haul away all the trash, and fix the cracked windshield on her car. He’d neglected to offer his assistance inside her body, inside her mind, where she felt she deserved the utmost attention. But that would come later. She could wait. Time was on her side.

  After taking her bath, she perfumed herself, sliding her nude body between the cool sheets, clutching Jackson’s picture to her bosom. Her thoughts were of Jackson as she drew her knees up, fantasizing about their lovemaking, fondling herself, with the thoughts of him touching her, loving her, until she reached a climax.

  Suddenly, her heart crumbled like a broken eggshell, hot tears streaked her face. Her lips trembled as she prayed to God that he wouldn’t punish her for what she was doing. Was it wrong to love a man so much? It was wrong to love another woman’s husband. Her conscience was talking to her, but she refused to listen. Was it God speaking to her? If God was everything, and knew, saw, and heard all, was he telling her she was wrong?

  Walking around to the other side of his compact car, Bill opened the door and took Kim’s hand, supporting a packed picnic basket with the other. He was glad that she’d finally agreed to meet with him. It had been too long. He knew she still wouldn’t be ready to renew their relationship, but he felt that it was necessary for them not to lose touch.

  A gust of wind ballooned the blanket on the bank near the water while Bill and Kim quickly spread the contents of the basket on each of the corners. The cool breezes from the Detroit River tickled their faces, teasing a smile from each. Belle Isle was beautiful, the weather a pleasant eighty degrees at the approach of August’s acme. Near day’s end, before sunset, the setting was perfect.

  Over the riverbank, oak trees dripped Spanish moss, which floated through the air from tree to tree like restless souls. The spiked flowers of the cattails huddled in clusters lining the shore, swaying in the breeze. The trees on the island, cottonwoods, maples, spruces, and wavering elms, opened their limbs skyward in a sultry stretch.

  As they ate cold cuts with hot peppered cheese and crackers, Bill studied the beauty of Kim’s face, remembering their lovemaking. When the meal was over, they continued nibbling on grapes, sipping wine from a chilled bottle of 1965 Cabernet Sauvignon.

  Bill felt a rush of desire as their eyes locked. He wanted her passionately, wanted to feel the pleasure of him giving her pleasure, but knew that it would have to be her call. When she was ready, she’d make the first move. That was how it had to be, and he accepted it.

  Pouring them both a second glass of wine, he waited patiently, taking pleasure in the artful display of Kim’s tongue moistening her lips. “How’s the wine?” asked Bill. Sunrays boomeranged from his black-rimmed tinted glasses as he turned toward her, then looked away. They were both lying on their sides, looking out into the water. “I’d almost forgotten if you still drank.”

  “Perfect.” I haven’t forgotten a thing about you, she wanted to say— the smell of your skin, the texture of your hair, the glaze on your eyes when
you take off your glasses. Yet something made her hold back. Folding her arms beneath her head, she lay back, her eyes closed, mulling over pleasant memories.

  Flashes of the last time they made love reeled through her mind as if in slow motion. That had been several months ago, and it was wonderful. How she missed touching him, loving him, the ruddy hue of his raw skin after they were done. Tingles prickled along her taut belly, and the tips of her fingers itched to touch, to feel.

  As much as she loved him — and she couldn’t deny that — she wasn’t ready to forgive him for not returning her calls, her pleas begging for understanding. Many a night Kim had parked outside his apartment building trying to build up the nerve to go in and plead yet again, to try to make him understand. And on each of those occasions she’d found Sheila’s car either parked or approaching Bill’s apartment complex. After nights of spying, Kim felt ashamed, and didn’t return again. It was over.

  Leaning his upper torso over Kim, he kissed her tenderly, saying, “I love you. Forever. I’ll love you forever, Kim, until the end of time.” He stroked her cheeks as she opened her eyes, searching his, her mouth agape wanting to respond.

  She closed her lips. Closed her eyes. Enraptured by his profession of love, a soft hope blended with apprehension. Her instincts and intelligence told her to hold back a little bit of herself for safekeeping — even as the pulsing of her heart sought another.

  Jason started his senior year at the end of August six credits short of the forty-four he needed to graduate by next June. Two weeks into September, Jason discussed his dilemma with his home-boy Mick, with whom he’d played basketball daily over the summer. They both were in the same situation. Together, they made up jokes on the basketball court about school, how stupid it was.

  Eventually Jason started cutting classes. On the days he graced the school with his presence, he interrupted the class by continuously letting out gas or laughing with the other students. His Spanish teacher dropped her coffee at seeing fake spiders floating on top. Wads of chewing gum held tacks in place at the edge of his economics teacher’s seat. Ultimately, he was caught and sent to detention.

  He never studied, and began taking a lackadaisical attitude toward school. And by October boredom had set in. He was out of pranks, and running out of time, which led him to his final act: bringing a toy gun to school. Jason was caught taking the gun from his locker by his science teacher. Thirty minutes later, he left the principal’s office, suspended from the Detroit public school system.

  Letters were sent home detailing the incident and Jason’s suspension. With no response from Jason’s parents, the letters kept coming, and Jason found ingenious ways to intercept them.

  During the day he played basketball at an out-of-the-way court that most of the other dropouts frequented daily. His girlfriend, Tiara, stopped by during the school lunch hour to try to talk some sense into him.

  “I’ll tutor you, Jason. We can bring up your grades, together.” Tiara was eager to help Jason, buying into the lies he’d told her, saying he was flunking his senior year because of low grades. He was too ashamed to admit that he’d been expelled for something as stupid as bringing a toy gun to school.

  Jason kept silent. Getting A’s was the least of his problems. When he barely studied he got a B. When he did absolutely nothing he could make a C. But he wasn’t ready to tell this young girl with her puppy-love emotions how difficult life could be. Jason leaned against her car, bouncing the basketball as he listened to Tiara, his mind light-years away. Nobody could understand how he felt. Nobody could. . . .

  Eventually the school called the Montgomery home directly, and Ginger found out that her son had been suspended from school for an entire month and had lied about it.

  Hanging up the phone, she was stunned by her son’s deception. Hadn’t any of the kids noticed him being home? Why hadn’t Christian mentioned anything being odd about Jason’s attitude? How could her household be falling apart right before her eyes and she not be aware of it? Had she taken on too much responsibility, thinking she could manipulate two jobs?

  Earlier that evening, having confined Jason to his room, after vowing to half-kill him if he left for any reason other than to go to the bathroom or have dinner, Ginger left his room fuming. He would not give her an explanation as to why he’d started a nonstop campaign to fail school. He said nothing. Wouldn’t even look at her, just stared noncommittally out his bedroom window.

  Ginger spoke to each of the kids individually, and they swore they hadn’t known anything about Jason being suspended. After the girls said their prayers, Ginger kissed them on their cheeks, tucking them in bed. She caught Christian closing the door to Jason’s room with an “I tried to talk to him, Mom, but he wouldn’t listen” expression on his face. But he shrugged his pajamaed shoulders, padding barefoot toward his room.

  Ginger, nervously chewing away on a Milky Way, found Jackson downstairs in the family room. “I’m worried about Jason, Jackson. He’s never been this rebellious before. He’s not exactly setting a good role model for the rest of the kids. And I don’t know how to reach him.”

  “If you were at home more, maybe you would have seen this coming.”

  The bitterness in his tone stung Ginger as the truth of his words hit home. She didn’t try to defend herself, momentarily silenced by the sharp pain of an oncoming headache convulsing from the base of her neck, searing its way up to her throbbing temples.

  Sitting next to Jackson on the sofa, she winced as he watched The War Wagon, another John Wayne classic. Though she’d seen this Western at least three times— and Jackson had seen it twenty times or so — she enjoyed watching Kirk Douglas. The cleft he’d had put in his chin always intrigued her. Made him sexy, somehow.

  During commercials, Jackson constantly changed channels — which got on Ginger’s nerves. She elected to go upstairs for two Tylenol and another candy bar while he flicked back and forth. Back and forth. It didn’t make any sense. Couldn’t he keep his mind focused on one station for more than five minutes? The only activity that seemed to hold his attention for long was sex. And lately they both seemed to be vying for the prize, see who could hold off the longest. It was a Mexican standoff.

  The big-screen television Ginger had purchased from her latest commission check was supposed to be a special gift for the kids. However, Jackson had taken it over, much to their heartfelt objections. Why couldn’t he watch television upstairs, like he used to?

  Mesmerized by the violent action on the set, Jackson uttered a statement that left Ginger reeling. “Let him flunk. Teach him a lesson. You baby that boy too much, Ginger. You’ve spoiled him rotten.”

  How could he say such a thing? Who could have been more spoiled by his mother than Jackson was? Let her son flunk, not graduate with his class? Never! He must be crazy. Or think that she was.

  Briefly, she ignored his selfish comment, massaging her forehead, and responded, “He’s going to have to go to night school, Jackson. I don’t know where these schools on the list are.”

  His eyes hadn’t left the television for a millisecond. “I told you. Teach him a lesson. Let him know that his unappreciative attitude won’t be tolerated. Who’s going to take him to night school every night? It don’t let out until ten P.M. You gonna go pick him up, and get back in the bed maybe by eleven, and get back up to go to work at three-thirty A.M.? You’re being punished instead of him. Let him flunk.”

  Ginger was furious, but she held her emotions in check. She merely said, “I’ll handle it myself. You don’t have to worry about my missing time at work, I can make it.” I always have, she thought to herself — and felt the pain of being alone. A part of her refused to accept just how alone she felt, even though she shared most of her adult life with a man. Her heart made her speak the familiar words, “Jackson, I don’t want to argue. Let’s not argue tonight.” Ginger’s head suddenly felt numb. The pain subsided, in its place an ache in the core of her bosom. She secretly wished there was a pill in the
medicine cabinet full of her prescription drugs that could cure an ailing heart.

  After all the preachings Jackson had given her about how much his mother had done for him, his sisters and brothers, how much he loved his mother and respected her, how much she’d sacrificed, didn’t he think she wanted her kids to feel the same way about her? After all, she was a mother too. And just because his mother was saved and sanctified, she didn’t love her kids any more than Ginger loved hers. When you truly loved your child, she thought, religion didn’t have anything to do with it. Being saved didn’t make you a better parent, didn’t make you love your child more than the next-door neighbor loved hers. How could he expect her to give up on her son, who was only a child at seventeen, when Jackson, as a man, at forty-three, had yet to relinquish the apron strings of his mother?

  Ginger stared at the clump of clothes in front of the laundry chute through the mirror as she applied her makeup. I’m not picking it up. Not today, she told herself. Fifteen minutes later, Jackson emerged from the darkness in the bathroom, stretching his arms and squinting his eyes as they adjusted to the bright light.

  Giving her a quick kiss on the cheek, he reached for his toothbrush. Ginger stiffened as their bodies touched. She rolled her eyes, which he ignored, continuing his vigorous brushing.

  Having dressed and checked on the kids, she made herself a cup of tea, and Jackson’s coffee, then returned to their bedroom. Peeking inside the bathroom, she noticed the pile of clothes still resting comfortably on the floor. “You ready, Jackson?”

  “Yeah,” said Jackson, fastening the latch on his watch. He turned out the lights in the sitting room. When he reached for the bathroom lights, Ginger caught his arm. “Aren’t you going to pick up your dirty clothes?”

  He rolled his eyes, saying nothing, and strolled out of the room.

  Ginger turned off the light, quickly skipping steps down the front staircase as Jackson went down the back stairwell. Standing before him as his foot touched the bottom step, she pushed her knuckles into her hips. “I’m tired of picking up after you, Jackson. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were doing it on purpose. Diet Pepsi cans are all over our bedroom. Empty packages of cracklin’ are on the dresser instead of in the trash can.”