Knowing

by Rosalyn McMillan

  “Is this my coffee?” he asked, moving past her into the kitchen, picking up the warm mug.

  “I’m calling a service to come in and clean once a week. This is getting to be too much. And since you don’t give a damn about how tired —”

  “You had a woman in here cleaning every day. Remember? You threw her out. You had it made. Mae Thelma —”

  “Don’t you mention that bitch’s name in my house.” She grabbed her purse from the counter, spilling hot tea on the floor. She paused, turning by the back door. “And since you seem to have such admiration for bitches, consider yourself married to one.”

  Ginger snubbed the cotton mountain Jackson was building on their bathroom floor. She ignored the soda cans, ignored the crumbled papers all over the room. She supervised the kids cleaning every other room in the house, but left their bedroom just as Jackson left it, a cluttered mess.

  Weeks passed before he finally got the message and cleaned up his mess. However, he hadn’t bothered to speak to her cordially. Didn’t say hello or good-bye. Just complained when dinner was late.

  Ginger grew exceedingly tired of carrying more than her share of work. Taking Jason to school during the week was more taxing than she’d imagined. Her patience with Jackson was wearing thin. She even made an appointment with Merry Maids to come out and give her an estimate on the cost of a weekly cleaning. But knowing this would cause further problems between her and Jackson, she called back and canceled.

  Ginger tried to gloss over their problems when the kids questioned her. They wanted to know why Jackson was mad all the time. Why Mommy cried in the bathroom when he was gone. It was getting harder to keep up the pretense of their once happy marriage.

  For the sake of her children, Ginger decided to make more of an effort to smooth out the problems she and Jackson were having, knowing her children deserved and needed the strength and stability of a family home. After one unsuccessful marriage, Ginger vowed that she wouldn’t let her kids suffer through a string of stepfathers like so many of her friends’ children had to. Usually the children ended up the real victims.

  Taking vacation time from work over the Thanksgiving holiday, Ginger planned a spectacular dinner for her family. The girls pitched in, cutting up onions, bell peppers, and celery for the cornbread dressing while Ginger juggled pans of hot cornbread and toasted white bread from oven to broiler. Jason and Christian did an exemplary job washing Ginger’s antique china service and setting the dining room table.

  The windows grew steamy from hours of cooking as the buttery aroma of a twenty-five-pound turkey roasting in the oven and the rich bouquet of desserts cooling on the racks engendered a holiday atmosphere at the Montgomery home.

  Jackson smiled at Ginger before seating himself at the head of the table. Two lighted candelabra at each end of the table emitted a pleasant lavender scent. Ginger reached out and took Jackson’s hand on her right and Jason’s on her left, bowing her head in prayer. And each of the children linked hands in turn, forming a chain as Ginger said the blessings.

  This was the catalyst to break the ice between Ginger and Jackson. At Jackson’s suggestion they played Concentration downstairs in the family room. Concentration turned to playing Tonk. Tonk ended with several hands of Speed, until Jackson threw the cards in the air, administering his temporary crown to Sierra, who was faster than anybody at Speed.

  The warm smile Jackson aimed at Ginger was readily read and accepted. Together, they walked hand in hand up the stairs to their room. They didn’t need to say anything else.

  Ginger showered and slid into a slinky, black silk nightgown. Perfuming her body with intermittent drops of Red cologne, she carefully restyled her wig more provocatively than she’d worn it at dinner.

  “Aren’t you cold?” asked Ginger, cuddling next to Jackson’s nude body. He lay on top of the blankets, oblivious to the cool of late November. Jackson responded to her question with hot kisses over her neck and mouth until she was breathless. Sliding his hands beneath her gown, he cupped her full buttocks.

  “Sweetheart?”

  “Yes, baby.”

  “Do you think I’m fat? I’ve gained a few pounds.”

  “Baby, as long as I can lift up this leg” — he backed her buttocks into his stomach, lifted her leg by the ankle and eased on in from behind, proceeding to bump and grind — “I don’t care how big you get.” The rotation of her hips against his gyrating pelvis made a loud smacking like hands clapping.

  Jackson slowed down the pace, easing her leg a little higher, moving in long, methodical strokes. He lifted the wig from her bare head, all the while saying, “You don’t need to put this on.” He kissed her smooth head, tossing the wig on the dresser. “You’re sexy to me, baby, big, small, or bald. I love you, Ginger.” Then he eased on in a little deeper, pushed a little harder. The pace of her heart raced, she greeted his strokes with a primal rhythm to match his, and at that moment and for a few moments later, she was ready to believe anything.

  * * *

  Christmas Eve brought a surprise visit and gifts from Kim and Bill. The twinkle in Ginger’s eye at seeing them together again brought a quick explanation from Kim. Bill, however, winked at Ginger behind Kim’s back as he hung their coats in the front closet, overhearing the tail end of Kim’s short remark about just remaining friends.

  Bill declined Ginger’s offer of a mug of hot cider and headed upstairs to play the video games he’d brought for the boys. Ginger couldn’t help remarking to Kim at Bill’s natural rapport with her sons — the boys truly respected and admired him. But when she mentioned what a good father he’d probably make, Kim steered the conversation elsewhere.

  Ginger thanked Kim for the presents they’d brought as she placed them under the Christmas tree. And as they sipped on spicy, hot apple cider, they caught up on all the happenings of the weeks since they’d seen each other.

  Jackson, Sierra, and Autumn had left earlier that afternoon to pick up Katherine in Port Huron. Knowing that her mother was embarrassed at not having any money to buy Christmas gifts for the kids troubled Ginger. Katherine hadn’t known, nor had Ginger, that Jackson had taken matters into his own hands. Knowing his mother-in-law, and how proud she was, Jackson had gone shopping at Northland Mall, bought toys and clothes for all four kids, and had them wrapped and signed From Granny.

  Jackson, the kids, and Katherine hadn’t returned by the time Kim and Bill had to leave. Hugs and wishes for a prosperous New Year were reciprocated. Ginger felt relieved after locking the door behind her guests. Even though she and Kim were blood relatives, she was supremely thankful that Kim had the wisdom and tact not to mention her weight problem.

  Katherine, however, wasn’t as generous. The second she’d shed her heavy coat, she kidded Ginger about the size of her thighs. The twinkling lights of the tree caught Katherine’s eye before Ginger could say a thing. She was sure her mother was secretly counting the presents under the tree with her name on them as she bestowed compliment upon compliment over the lovely decorations.

  Ginger handed Katherine an ice-cold Colt 45, all the while eyeing her mother’s trimness. Unbeknownst to Ginger, Katherine’s young man had worried thirty pounds off her robust frame. Ginger had unwittingly packed on a lean twenty-five. The similarity between mother and daughter in features and proportion hadn’t been so close in twenty years.

  Ginger took the remarks in stride, relieved to see her mother enjoying herself around her grandchildren. While sipping her beer, Katherine apprised Ginger of Jackson’s Santa Claus rescue. Ginger’s heart warmed at her husband’s foresight.

  During January of 1991, Ginger made several appointments with various school officials at the board of education, and begged them to allow Jason back in school. It was useless. He’d committed a serious offense when he’d brought the gun to school, even if it wasn’t real. How could a teacher with so many students in a classroom possibly tell the difference between a real gun and a play one? There had been an insurgence of young men br
inging real guns to school and teachers were fearing for their lives. After a heart-to-heart with one of the more communicative assistant principals, Ginger finally understood the seriousness of what Jason had done.

  By February it was touch and go whether Jason would be able to graduate with enough credits by June. He’d lied to the bitter end to his mother about the classes he’d missed, using the computer at school to print new report cards over the past year. Trying not to get her son into any more trouble, she’d managed to secure an accurate transcript with the help of a friend of a friend, who worked at the school.

  One tired evening, on Ginger’s way back from picking up Jason from night school, he rolled down the window, hollering at a young man walking down the street. “Yo homie, need a ride?” The young man strained through the falling snow to see Jason smiling gleefully, and nodded yes.

  “I’m not picking up strangers, Jason. Especially this time of night.”

  “That’s Mick, Ma. We play ball together. Stop at the corner.”

  Ginger offered a curt hello, and asked the young man where he lived.

  “Where you been, man?” asked Jason.

  “Library. Been doing a little extra studying.”

  “Yo man. What for? You ain’t graduating either, are you?” said Jason without the slightest bit of embarrassment for himself or his mother because he might be joining him.

  “I’m graduating in June, dude. Me and my dad had an interview in Royal Oak last weekend with the air force. If everything goes okay, and I’m bettin’ it will, by August I’ll be leaving for the Service. Armed forces don’t take dropouts. You have to have a diploma. I found that out when I took the test. Scored real high, but the sergeant said that getting the little piece of paper with my name on it was more important than my test scores.”

  “Yeah,” said Jason, an octave lower. Embarrassment crept into his voice when he said, “So you’re bringing up your grades, studying at the library.”

  “Yeah, man. Working on those credits I’m short, too, thanks to my dad. I got plans. Gonna invest in that Air Force College Fund too.”

  In the rearview mirror, Ginger could see the conviction in the young man’s face. A quick glance at Jason acknowledged that he was having a few conflicting thoughts about being labeled a dropout.

  Ginger would never know that Christian had taken Jason aside that evening after seeing the exhaustion on his mother’s face and given Jason a little brother–big brother talk. Christian, though naturally quiet, always kept a close eye on his mother. He knew she was under extreme pressure trying to work at Champion Motors, hurry home, and put in an additional fifteen hours a week at the real estate agency. Christian hit home when he made a cutting remark about Jason being so insensitive when the whole family knew their mother was trying hard to deal with the loss of her hair.

  Jason respected his younger brother’s concern about their mother. And Mick’s oration on top of it did a guilt trip on his conscience. That night he tossed and turned for hours, unable to sleep.

  What did he have to look forward to? He hadn’t listened when his mother tried to discuss helping him make up his credits. He had ignored her, tuned out her and everyone else. And after hearing Mick’s remarks about how his father helped him get his senior year together, Jason was jealous that he was unable to confide in his father about his problems and his future after school. But how could he tell his mother that at seventeen years old, he still needed quality time with his father? Unsure whether he’d appear disloyal to his mother or Jackson by mentioning his father, he kept these feelings to himself.

  Valentine’s Day brought a small box of Godiva chocolates from Jackson. Ginger had pleaded with him not to buy her anything sweet. Flowers would suffice . . . but he didn’t heed her advice. Stuffing a chocolate truffle in her mouth, she struggled to ward off the self-pity that creeped into her mind on a daily basis over her hair loss.

  Worrying over Jason, and trying to pretend she wasn’t tired when she felt exhausted, had her nerves on edge. Her only comfort was succumbing to the temptation of black cherry ice cream or milk-chocolaty Mars Milky Ways. Often.

  February ended with broken promises of dieting. By the end of March, further procrastination forced Ginger to take her weight loss more seriously. Her breathing was labored. Occasionally she felt sharp pains in her heart. She sought out the advice of her physician and he assured her she was as healthy as a moose, that the pains were probably gas, but he insisted she needed to shed some pounds. Thirty-two pounds heavier than her normal weight, she was back to being one of the butt sisters.

  Jackson had laughed one evening as she exited the shower, telling her that her buttocks had so much cellulite it looked like she’d been sitting on a pile of rocks. Ginger hadn’t laughed with him. She was angry and reminded him that last night while he was huffing and puffing, he still managed to get her leg up.

  During the next week, Ginger forced herself to start a daily jogging routine through the subdivision. Speckles of silently trickling snow blanketed dormant green. Dressed in sweats, she braved the cold weather, preferring the intoxication of fresh air to the confines of the house. Occasionally, when the roads were coated with snow or ice, Ginger opted to use Jason’s exercise equipment downstairs in their basement for an hour. By day eight, she’d elevated her daily trek from one and a half to three miles.

  Stepping onto the scale, nude and still wet from the shower, Ginger was amazed that she’d lost only two pounds. All that work for just two pounds! She felt like quitting. However, Ginger refused to admit to herself that she hadn’t changed her eating habits sufficiently. She wanted instant gratification as much as any overweight woman.

  Tears streamed down her face as she threw another too-tight suit on the bed, adding to the mounds of clothes that threatened to topple over onto the floor. She wouldn’t feel sorry for herself. She just wouldn’t. Involved in sorting through the racks of clothes in her closet, Ginger hadn’t noticed that Autumn was standing beside her.

  The young girl, filled with wisdom beyond her years, had noticed her mother’s anxiety. “Mommy?” asked Autumn innocently.

  “Yes, sweetheart,” said Ginger, trying to remain calm, but screaming inside.

  “I was watching television downstairs, a commercial came on. You know what it said?”

  “No, baby,” said Ginger, impatiently. Quickly, she inserted her diamond stud earrings in her ears as she studied an outfit carefully, then held it in front of her, the threat of tears not far from the surface.

  Following her mother into the bathroom, Autumn studied Ginger struggling into a charcoal gray flared skirt, the waistband almost four inches from closing. Autumn looked up into clouded eyes. “It says you don’t have to be slim to be sexy.”

  Ginger bent down to hug her daughter. A smile beamed across her face, as she closed her eyes. “I know, baby. And Mama appreciates you telling me that.” She kissed her on her warm brown nose. “Thank you, sweetheart.” Autumn rubbed her nose back and forth across her mother’s before she left the room.

  Chastising herself for letting it all get to her, she slipped into the unconstructed sack dress — which made her look like a fifty-pound bag of potatoes — that she should’ve put on in the first place. Sucking in her gut, she pulled a pair of smoke-gray pantyhose over her heavy thighs. The crotch didn’t quite meet hers, and the waistband slid down midway to her hips, but she had no choice. It was time to go.

  Taking a final glance in the mirror in the foyer powder room, she fluffed the bow in the royal blue, black, charcoal, and white print scarf, clasped it with her favorite silver-and-black antique pin, slipped sterling silver hoops through the second holes in her ears. Twirling her black leather swing coat over her thick frame, she nervously patted the back of her store-bought hairdo. It would have to do. She was showing a property in twenty minutes, and the client had been referred to her by Ivory Michaels.

  “Mr. Deiter?” asked Ginger, walking toward her client as he engaged the alarm on his bla
ck BMW. The custom silver-and-gold-studded wheels glistened, even as smoky storm clouds embroidered the bleak sky.

  He nodded rather stiffly as Ginger offered her hand. “Hello, Mr. Deiter. I’m Ginger Montgomery.”

  “Mrs. Montgomery.” As they shook hands Edward Deiter outlined his ideal home, letting her know right away that price wouldn’t be a problem.

  Though it was only five o’clock, Ginger felt uncomfortable with her new client. He was good looking, well dressed, and arrogant as hell. The information she’d compiled on him was impressive.

  He headed an advertising firm, making well over six figures. He was a divorcé, but needed a large home for personal reasons. The Boston-Edison area or Indian Village subdivision were the only localities he was interested in.

  Throughout the half-hour tour of the home, he barely took notice of the impressive architecture.

  Edward insisted on seeing several other homes in the area that were for sale. Ginger, tired and with a million other things on her mind, hadn’t noticed that most of the homes he wanted to see were vacant. She had keys to most of the properties. The ones she didn’t, they walked around, peeping through the windows so he could get a feel of the structure.

  By seven-thirty, she’d had it. “I’m sorry that you haven’t found a home you like, but it’s late. I’ll check the listings tomorrow and see if there are any new ones in the area you specified, and I’ll call you.” Why wasn’t his girlfriend with him? she wondered. No man could pick a home out for me.

  “Remember the second home we went in, over on Boston?” asked Deiter.

  “The Maximillian estate? You didn’t like —”