Knowing

by Rosalyn McMillan

  There was an odd look in his eye. “After touring so many of these historical homes, I believe that one seems to be in better shape. Just need to see the furnace room and check the alarm system.” He raised his elegantly ringed hand before she could protest. “Trust me, ten minutes tops. If everything’s in order, I’ll make an offer in the morning.” He flashed her an award-winning smile, looking like an older Denzel Washington.

  Slipping on her black leather gloves, she picked up her briefcase from the impressive foyer of the mansion. After a quick computation, she realized that the commission on the Boston Street home would be a hefty one. What the hell — ten minutes would generate almost five grand for her bank account. “Follow me, Mr. Deiter. It’ll be my pleasure to show you the home again.”

  The homes in the historical subdivision off Edison Boulevard were stately mansions, built in the late 1880s and early 1900s, many by lumber barons or industrial tycoons.

  The night wind howled, and dried leaves matted against the black iron fence and scraped the sidewalk as if they were metal. Ginger discounted the uneasy feeling she had as she unlocked a set of massive iron gates, then unlocked a set of solid wood carved doors. The home was always kept partially lit. And flicking on the remaining lights, Ginger failed to notice that Mr. Deiter casually locked the door behind them.

  He assured her there was no need for her to go down to the basement. He’d check the furnace, and meet her back in the family room in five minutes. While he was gone, Ginger admired the beautiful house. Roughly twelve thousand square feet, the palatial home was a sight to behold. There was even an indoor pool and sauna.

  The last owner had updated the left wing. It was breathtaking. Two hand-painted murals of panoramic Roman scenes graced the ceiling and the rear wall. Gold leaf adorned the harps being played by chubby cherubs. The polished marble floors glistened beside the matching carved interior columns. Ginger would have loved owning a home of this magnificence, but the upkeep alone, utilities, and separate buildings for the maid and butler would run two thousand dollars a month. Definitely out of her income bracket.

  Glancing at her watch, she pursed her lips. He’d been gone almost fifteen minutes. Damn! I should’ve said no, she chastised herself. Jackson was going to be pissed if she got home after nine! But as she started to turn, she felt the pressure of cold hands on the back of her shoulder. Her body immediately tensed. What the hell —

  His chin pinned down her crown, pushing her head into his chest. When Ginger felt his pelvis rotating against her buttocks, she screamed. “Stop! Don’t do this! Please!” she begged as his hands roughly explored the softness of her body underneath her coat. She struggled to disengage him. Crouching in a half-stance, she wiggled, pulled, pushed, and tugged until she was free of his grasp.

  “Don’t fight it,” he said, walking steadily toward her as she retreated backwards. “I know you want it just like I do. You’ve been coming on to me all evening.” He grabbed the collar of her coat with such force that her heels left the ground.

  Ginger felt her legs weakening, threatening to betray her efforts to fight back. His breath felt like hot coals against the hollow of her neck. “I’m sorry if you’ve mistaken my politeness as a come-on.” She spat the words out through gritted teeth. “I’m married, Mr. Deiter, and my husband is expecting me home.” Why had she worn that stupid sack dress? If she’d had on slacks his hand wouldn’t be pushing between her thighs. She could feel the sweat beading on the top of her bald head beneath the wig.

  The protection of her tight panty hose temporarily blocked his fingers. She sighed with relief, but as her body relaxed for a half second, he took advantage of her limp posture. Putting his right leg between hers, he pushed hard. She lost her balance and fell backwards onto the marble floor. The wind was knocked out of her. She opened her mouth to scream again, but terror froze her voice. He was tearing off her panty hose with one hand, pulling off her spiked heels with the other, even as she kicked wildly at him.

  Sweat poured down his face. His movie-star-handsome face was distorted, ugly with rage. “Shut up.” He slapped her. Bright red lipstick smeared across her face, tears covered her cheeks. Ginger’s eyes grew large with fear. Even though the room was lit, the big house sat back almost two hundred feet from the street, and no one would notice any disturbance even if they happened to drive by. No one would hear her screams. No one could help her.

  “Please, don’t,” she whispered. Something warned her to be quiet. She’d heard that rapists like to hear their victims beg. It turned them on even more. He slapped her again, and she felt the taste of blood oozing from her lips. Oh, God, someone help me! Please, Lord, someone help me!

  “Don’t fight me. I’m tired of playing games.” Lifting himself up on his knees, he loosened his belt and unzipped his pants. The brown irises of his pupils were dilated to their full extent. His head moved back and forth in a wild frenzy.

  Just then, she saw tiny flecks of white powder under his nose. That was what had taken him so long. He pushed his hands between her bare legs and grabbed the waistband of her briefs, ripping them off in one quick motion. Her hairless crotch seemed to peak his interest momentarily as he stroked the perimeter of her vagina.

  Inside, she was quaking with fear. Yet she knew she had to do something. Her eyes scanned the room for something to grab. Something to fight with. Her shoes were across the room. She had no weapon. He took her hesitant hand and placed it on the swell of his penis, prompting her to massage his hardened organ.

  Time was running out. He reached inside his pocket and sprinkled white powder carefully along the tip of his manhood. “Kiss it,” he said in a commanding voice. Oh, Lord, she couldn’t do that. She hadn’t even had oral sex with Jackson. He thought it was filthy, and that only whores lowered their heads below a man’s waist. Tears of helplessness streamed down her face. How could she have been so stupid?

  “No,” she said, with the last drop of dignity she could muster. She thought of Jackson and her kids, and her own self-respect. “You’ll have to kill me first.” Her words were as deadly as snake venom, as she swallowed the scalding bile that filled her mouth.

  Unimpressed by her threat, he raised his hand and struck her again and again. Her head thumped against the cold marble. The tight cap of her hairpiece fell back a few inches, but didn’t come off. When she tried lifting her head, pain engulfed her, causing her upper body to fall back, as if in slow motion. A ton of bricks replaced the dome that normally resided there.

  She felt as though she were inside a mausoleum: the coldness of the marble, the eerie quietness inside walls built a foot thick. I will not die here, she commanded herself. She willed her mind to concentrate.

  Her body wouldn’t respond, but her brain was still active. She knew what she had to do.

  Edward Deiter still straddled Ginger’s inclined body. A snarl scowled across his face. “Play time . . .” he growled.

  Ginger’s survival instincts came into play when she realized that it was going to be her life. Three years earlier, the women at work had been encouraged to participate in a seminar on rape prevention. After several reports of young women allegedly being raped in Champion Motors’ salaried and hourly parking lot, the company took preventative action.

  She was surprised at what came out of her mouth. “Let me help you,” said Ginger, turning into the aggressor. She shimmied down the remnants of the scraggly pantyhose. She hadn’t taken her eyes off his for a moment. He was stunned by the change of events. “Do whatever you want.” She spread her naked torso wide open. Ginger spoke in the huskiest voice she could conjure up. “Yeah, you suck my pussy first, then I’ll suck you till you ache. I guarantee, when I finish working over your dick, it’ll feel light as a feather. You got what it takes, swinging between your legs. . . . I like that. You can fuck me till I’m dry. You can suck me till I’m yours. We can stay here till the moon turns full again.” His excitement paled, and she continued her ploy: “Come and get it — ease on in.” Se
ductively, yet seriously, she concluded in a husky voice, “Just don’t hurt me.”

  Deiter reared back, words escaping him, obviously unprepared for her submission.

  Ginger knew she had him, and she honed in on her prey like an animal ready for the kill. She sensed his next move like a predator. His body suddenly went as limp as the pliant penis between his legs. It was time to make her next move.

  Quick thinking had saved Ginger from being raped by Deiter. Seconds after his face registered a forlorn, Deputy-Dog look, she didn’t hesitate, karate-kicking him in the nuts with her knee. As he howled in pain, she unfastened the antique pin from her coat. The elongated stem was as deadly as a knife. With the precision of a swordsman she lurched forward, lancing, crisscrossing his face with deep gouges, until blood splattered in her eyes. He screamed, falling backwards, unable to defend himself from the strength of a woman out of control.

  Grabbing her pumps, purse, and keys, she ran from the house and Edward Deiter in her bare feet. Now, through swollen eyes, immediately locking the doors and windows inside her van, Ginger released the downpour of tears as she started the ignition. The nightmare was over. Ginger’s heart did double beats as she sped away.

  Still frantic when she stopped for the flash of yellow, she rocked back and forth, waiting for the light to change. Turning on cue, she was stunned to see a young man and a woman in the next car staring at her disheveled appearance. The pain of embarrassment was accompanied by the throbbing pressure of blood clotting at the curve of her lips, which, Ginger was shocked to see after looking in the mirror, were swollen to double their size. Looking straight ahead, she pushed back her shoulders and held her head high, ignoring any and all who happened to look her way.

  The vision in her left eye was cloudy as the van moved of its own volition. A freeze frame of Edward Deiter’s snarling face appeared before her. Feelings of anger, humiliation, and guilt flooded her. Having no idea where she was going, questions pierced her brain like arrows: Did it really happen? What’s wrong with me? Did I ask for this? Who’s going to believe me? What did I do to deserve this? The questions wouldn’t stop.

  With bruises on her illusions, she mechanically parked at the emergency lot of Detroit Receiving Hospital. After the doctors had taken pictures and patched her up, she found herself forty-five minutes later discussing the incident with a social worker.

  She was shell-shocked. Mrs. Beverly conveyed to Ginger that most husbands would have a difficult time adjusting to someone abusing their wife. She then reeled off case after case of similar situations. Knowing Jackson, Ginger knew her husband would have a problem seeing the attempted rape as it was. He would distort it until he made her feel guilty. Ginger couldn’t take that. Not now. She had enough problems. So she gathered her things, telling Mrs. Beverly that she’d contact her if she decided to prosecute.

  Exiting the hospital parking lot, the simple decision of whether to turn right or left caused Ginger to panic. Tears trembled in her eyes, but wouldn’t fall. People walking down the sidewalk cloaked in bright streetlights barely three feet away seemed like black shadows, almost illusory.

  She made a right onto East Canfield Street, with no idea where she was going. Steering with her left hand, Ginger nervously tried smoothing down the wrinkles of her dress with her right. Reaching in her purse, she rummaged for a tube of lipstick. She swung her van over to the curb, stopping to look in the mirror, applying fresh lipstick and blush. After combing out her curly wig, she looked back into the mirror, seeing a disguised Little Orphan Annie, then turned away. No amount of makeup could repair her swollen eye, nor the gash on her mouth.

  The mere thought of Jackson’s reactions to her face and clothes caused Ginger to make a drastic decision: She had to make her attempted rape look like a car accident.

  Finally the tears came. Why couldn’t she be honest with him? Why wasn’t she being honest with herself?

  The truth was, Jackson couldn’t handle the truth, and she knew it. Ginger felt a sense of fear, helplessly in love with Jackson, and hopeless in trying to make Jackson understand how weak the foundation of their marriage was. Physically they were strong. Intellectually they connected. But emotionally? The ability to communicate and understand each other’s feelings without condemnation was totally lacking.

  Knowing all this, Ginger was determined to salvage what they did have. Undeniably, she loved him through all his faults and through all of hers.

  Moments later, blinded by tears, Ginger drove her minivan into a tree less than a mile away from the hospital. Bracing herself before impact, she felt like one of the dummies in the safety belt commercials as she lurched forward.

  Dazed, she lifted her head from the steering column. Red and blue flashing lights rippled over her arms and legs. Ginger felt herself slipping, losing consciousness. She willed back her weakness as she heard doors slamming and the oncoming footsteps of two police officers.

  “Are you okay, ma’am? Do you feel you need to go to the hospital?” asked the first officer, blinding her with his flashlight. The other policeman, after Ginger acknowledged that she was coherent and not in any serious danger, went back to the patrol car to call a tow truck.

  “Can I see your license and registration, ma’am,” said the officer in a perfunctory tone.

  “Sure,” said Ginger, trembling as she pawed through the glove box. There were no more tears left. She’d cried all she could cry — she had to pull herself together.

  While he checked out her papers, Ginger assured the officer that she had taken some medication earlier, then suddenly blacked out. Since the odor of alcohol was absent from her breath, the officer believed her story.

  “I just want to go home to my family, sir. These are superficial wounds. I don’t want to trouble anyone. I just need some rest, is all.”

  The other officer poked his head in, unstrapped Ginger, and guided her in a gentlemanly fashion to the backseat of the squad car. When all three were seated in their squad car, the first officer told her, “It’s procedure to take a police report.” In an effort to reassure her, he added, “You’ll need it for your insurance company.”

  They offered to drive Ginger home, and she readily accepted. She couldn’t have prayed for a better alibi to substantiate her story than two concerned police officers safely seeing her home.

  As they headed east toward Palmer Woods, Ginger decided never to tell anyone about the attempted rape. Especially Jackson. He’d make her quit. She refused to let one out-of-control client destroy her dreams. Even if it meant carrying around so much guilt.

  26

  Fingertips

  Nightly, Ginger tumbled wildly in her sleep, resting only when Jackson awakened and held her close in his arms. It was like turning an old movie reel; over and over again, she played the scene with Mr. Deiter in her mind. What could she have done? How could she have prevented it from happening? She wanted to place the blame on someone. Something. Prayer hadn’t done any good. It was as if God had temporarily turned his back on her. In her heart she knew that the power of God within was greater than the pressure of the troubles around her. Yet, somehow, that knowledge couldn’t comfort her.

  When, only days after the incident, Ginger found another note from Jason’s night-school teacher hidden in his shoe, she was in no condition to react calmly.

  Ranting and raving as she ushered him downstairs, she cursed Jason for lying. Cursed him for not being honest about his grades and truancy. Ginger’s hands shook uncontrollably. She felt as if all of her strength were crumbling.

  Jason sat on the sofa quietly, until she had vented most of her anger. He wasn’t used to seeing his mother so out of control.

  “Why don’t you listen to me sometimes, instead of hollerin’ all the time?” Jason asked. He lowered his head as he whispered the words he later wished he could have called back. “You love Christian to death. You don’t love me.”

  Anger filled Ginger’s voice. “What did you say?”

  “You don’
t love me.” His voice began to swell with conviction. “You don’t even try to understand me when I tell you I need to talk.” Tears welled in his eyes. “You’re always so busy, yet you seem to always find time for Christian when he asks.”

  Ginger put her arms around her eldest son and held him. Tight. Tears of pain streamed from her eyes. There was no denying it — the truth in his words. “I do love you, Jason. Talk to me. Make me understand.”

  His large hands cupped the invisible air as Jason and Ginger sat on his bed, side by side, both needy in their own right. Both needing comforting. Both wanting to reach out and touch, to touch an emotion and hold on to it, and just feel . . . feel the comfort, feel the love, feel the understanding.

  The music played low on his stereo, while outside the spring winds gave a frustrated howl, stroking barren branches along the window pane. Jason paused, and looked deep into his mother’s solemn eyes. He said, as painlessly as he could, “I miss my family, Mama. The one I grew up with . . . with Daddy.”

  Ginger turned her head to shield the pain that penetrated her body like cancer. She’d known it would come to this. Jackson was an okay stepfather, but he saved most of his fatherly affection for Autumn. She’d seen the hurt in her boys’ eyes more than once, and chosen to ignore it rather than confront it. Yet she’d known all along how deeply Jason felt about his own father, Michael Carter, and truly there is no substitute for a man who unconditionally loves his own son.

  “I haven’t spent much time with Daddy since I’ve been working.” His pause was longer this time. “Sierra and Christian go to Port Huron every other weekend. They see Daddy all the time.” His voice quivered as he uttered his emotional stance. “I love him too, Mama. Can’t he make time for me, sometimes? I’m his oldest son.” Tears streamed freely down her son’s handsome face.

  Brushing away his tears with her fingertips, Ginger said, “Your daddy loves you, Dink. Just as much as the rest of the kids. I’m sure he thought that giving you your space as a teenager meant more to you than spending weekends with him.”