Knowing

by Rosalyn McMillan

  Sierra was full of cheer when she told her mother, “Mama, Dink was so nice to me today. He showed me how to float on my back at the pool.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Even in front of his girlfriend,” she continued.

  Ginger and Sierra worked together putting away the food as the crowd thinned. Gwen hadn’t lasted but a couple of hours at the party before she feigned a migraine headache. Living in London for so many years, it was difficult for her to adjust to Michigan time.

  After Gwen was safely upstairs, Katherine confided in her three other daughters that Gwen’s marriage was on the rocks, that it was the time that her husband was spending with his other woman while Gwen was away that was giving her the headache.

  Jason peeped his head over the refrigerator door and looked down at Ginger as she made room on the bottom shelf. “Me and the guys cleaned up the pool area, Mom. Jackson told us not to bother with the yard, he’d do it tomorrow.”

  “Thanks sweetheart.”

  “Have you had anything to eat, Ma?” Wrapping an arm around her waist, he gave her a worried look. “You’ve lost too much weight already.”

  “She looks pretty,” Sierra objected.

  “I’m fine.” Changing the subject, she asked Jason to take Autumn upstairs and to awaken his grandmother. They had both fallen asleep on the couch in the living room.

  Sierra closed her small hand over her mouth, chuckling. “Wouldn’t it be funny if Autumn peed on Granny?”

  Ginger tore a piece of aluminum foil and wrapped the contents of the watermelon bowl. “I truly don’t think Granny would laugh. She’d probably whip her butt.”

  Through the leaded windows, Ginger watched Jackson taking down the graduation banners taped to the front of the garage. She wondered where Mae Thelma had gone to. Sherry, LaWanda, and Katherine had done their best to make her feel uncomfortable during the party. Jackson was angry at all of them.

  Ginger and Jackson hadn’t talked to each other during the entire night of the party. Their fight was a silent one. Yet there had been no malice in Ginger’s intentions. She simply invited her son’s father to his son’s graduation party. Jackson made her feel like it was a betrayal.

  Later that night, when the last candle was blown out, single fragments of sand sluiced across the pavement, signifying that the evening was over. The party had been a huge success. But Ginger felt like a failure. She needed comfort from her husband. Wanted to empty the burden of the guilt that flooded her consciousness about the attempted rape. She wanted his love and understanding. She needed him to wrap his arms around her and say that everything would be all right.

  Nearly an hour had passed since everyone left, and Jackson still hadn’t come inside. It was 3:00 A.M. Closing her eyes, Ginger tried to relax in a hot bath laced with jasmine oil. Then suddenly, her attempt at tranquillity reversed, she felt a tremoring sensation as if she were slipping down a smooth, irresistible current, and gravity was pulling her body down lower, lower. Soon the water covered her face, then suddenly darkened like ink. She was immersed in darkness. Alone. Isolated.

  Frantically, she began kicking. Faster. Harder. Unbearable seconds passed. Her eyes squeezed shut tighter. She was afraid that if she opened them, it wouldn’t be just another bad dream. Water splattered onto the carpeting. Then it splashed across Ginger’s face, causing her to sit up abruptly.

  The beating in her heart thumped loud. Her eyes opened wide. Suddenly she felt ice cold. Her teeth chattered as she reached for the bath towel. Slowly, her body crumpled to the floor. Her fingers felt the damp carpeting as she realized what had happened.

  Somehow Ginger willed the courage to pray. During the past months she hadn’t opened her Bible. Had this rapist, who’d almost stripped her of her womanhood, also stripped her of her belief in God?

  She prayed for her children. Prayed for Jackson. Prayed for her mother, her sisters, her brother. Prayed for Kim and Bill. There was even a small prayer to help her to forgive Mae Thelma. Ginger remembered the pastor saying that God portrays himself as standing outside the door of our hearts waiting to be invited in so that this sense of intimacy can be renewed.

  He was close. She could feel the warmth — through her body. Ginger opened her heart, and said, “Please, help me, Lord. Please!”

  27

  Everyday People

  Katherine phoned Ginger every day for a week after Jason’s party. A mother’s instincts were never wrong. Ginger hadn’t been her usual self all weekend. She’d been too defensive, too moody. Katherine couldn’t put her finger on it, but something was wrong.

  Loneliness. Such an empty word. It was what Katherine detected in Ginger’s sad eyes, and the feeling she felt herself since Cotton had left. How could she help her daughter when her own life was in constant need of repair?

  The drapes were drawn, keeping out the gleam of a young sun in the darkened bedroom. A light air of musk wasn’t evident to the room’s only occupant. A glowing blue-gray light from the television illuminated the queen-size bed. Katherine, in yesterday’s starched pajamas, lay on her side watching Bette Davis — on TV. She’d watched this scene nearly a hundred times, and yet, each time Bette growled “Fasten your seat belts. It’s going to be a bumpy ride,” Katherine couldn’t help but smile.

  This morning, however, Katherine was bathed in sweat, crying into her third jumbo glass of Colt 45. Tears blended with the sweat of her soul. The bitter taste of beer felt desert dry in her throat, and the empty bottles around the room left an unpleasant odor.

  Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she burped and gave Bette Davis one last look before flicking off the television set. Hell, she thought to herself, I could play that scene.

  Jackson felt stymied. He’d laid all the traps. Even used Mae Thelma to make Ginger jealous, yet nothing was working. He couldn’t understand it. In one instant, she was vulnerable and ready to do anything to please him. But before he could fully implement his plan, she changed. At the turn of a dime, Ginger appeared to be as strong willed as the devil himself. She wouldn’t budge. Just sat there steaming, ready to charge into an argument. Yet the more she argued, the more she defied him, the more he loved her.

  Mae Thelma was a good woman, but she belonged to his cousin. One thing Jackson respected was another man’s woman, just as he’d hoped other men would respect Ginger belonging to him. Reality was reality. Men these days just did not respect another man’s woman as being his woman. They felt that they could just cop at any time.

  Jackson knew that Mae Thelma had been reared in the Church. Basically, she was a good woman. She’d just been left alone a little too long, so young.

  As the warming of a Michigan June closed, the heat of July lifted the Montgomerys’ spirits. They were going on vacation. Sierra and Autumn looked forward to the yearly trek to visit their southern cousins. Christian landed his first summer job. Ginger and Jackson agreed it was okay to leave the two boys home for a week or so.

  Since graduation and with consistent therapy, Jason had made giant strides in his self-esteem. This would be his first test of trust. But the confident look in Jason’s eyes as he shook Jackson’s hand good-bye assured them that they needn’t worry; the house wouldn’t be vandalized and he’d make sure Christian was home at a decent hour while they were away.

  Driving south on I-75 into Toledo, Ohio, Ginger still hadn’t been able to shake the blame she felt about that night with Edward Deiter. Why hadn’t she given him an earlier appointment? Why hadn’t she questioned him when he asked to see the same house again, one he barely gave a second glance to at the first showing? Why? When did the pain and guilt stop? Would the minute details of that horrid night ever fade so the healing process could begin? Her blank stare reflected her mood as acre after acre whizzed by.

  “How much longer, Daddy?” Autumn asked. Interstate 71 carried them through Dayton and Cincinnati. Ginger knew in the beginning, having asked Jackson that same question while traveling through Cincinnati: It would take hours before they reached
Kentucky.

  Going to Mississippi is turning out to be more punishment than fun, thought Autumn. She whined, “It’s hot. Can’t we stop for some ice cream?”

  Ginger kept her thoughts to herself. Jackson was one of those men who refused to stop when driving long distance. Everyone suffered. He was in a race against time, unrelenting in his quest to make it to his destination in record time. Probably so he could brag to his friends how quickly he’d made it from Michigan to Mississippi. Never mind the inconvenience to the passengers. That was of little consequence.

  “Jackson, can’t you stop at the gas station up ahead and get the kids a cold drink? It’s at least ninety degrees outside,” she begged, finally.

  “There’s more than a half a tank left,” he said, pointing at the control panel. “I’m not stopping until it’s time to fill up.”

  Seventy-five miles later, in the city of Louisville, Kentucky, they managed to stop for a reprieve at the service station. Although Ginger had brought sandwiches, fresh fruit, potato chips, and iced pop in the cooler in the back of the Bronco, it was always the ice cream or Popsicles the kids wanted on the thirteen-hour drive.

  “Do you want me to drive, Jackson?” asked Ginger. They’d just changed highways in Nashville, Tennessee, from 65 south onto 40 west, and taken 40 into the northeast corner of Jackson, Tennessee. She knew he was tired. She also knew he thought she couldn’t read the signs changing freeways and would get them lost if he fell asleep. Telling him time and time again that she could read a map never seemed to suffice. “It’s just one more highway, Jackson.” She exhaled deeply. Looking over her shoulder at the kids asleep in the backseat, she wished she could join them. “Highway forty-five in Corinth, Mississippi. Then Booneville, Baldwin, and then home into Guntown.”

  His lids were heavy. The white strap T-shirt he wore was stuck to his back against the hot seat. He said nothing in answer to Ginger’s request, just glanced at his watch a few times. It was nearly 7:30 P.M. Pulling over to the side of the highway, he still hadn’t said anything.

  In two hours and twenty minutes, they would be at his mother’s house in Guntown. “Don’t drive over sixty-five, Ginger,” Jackson said as he moved the girls over on the back bed of the truck. “Wait!” He lifted the cool sheet draped around Autumn’s butt. “You think she needs to pee one more time?”

  “No,” said Ginger, pulling onto the highway. A service station was nowhere in sight, and she didn’t like her child peeing on the side of the road. Ginger never could make Jackson understand it was all right for a man to urinate on the side of the road, but somehow it wasn’t quite the same for a young girl or a woman. “She can make it till we get to your mother’s.” She smiled, stepping on the gas pedal. When the speedometer climbed to seventy-five, she set the cruise control. I hope she pisses all over you, Ginger thought.

  The week did seem long, but the kids had a good time, despite the 102-degree heat. Ginger and Jackson argued throughout the seven-day excursion, especially about the fact that Autumn peed all over him and they had to make an unscheduled stop at a gas station so Jackson could change his clothes.

  He’d left her alone while he went off with his friends. She had nothing to do. There was always a horde of people at his mother’s house, but Ginger never could remember which ones were family and which ones were friends. Their faces became one big blur as she patiently waited to return home to Michigan.

  On the final evening of their stay, Jackson’s mother took her aside. It was the first time Ginger and Hattie B. had ever had a talk — alone.

  “I was pregnant with my seventh child when he left,” Hattie B. told her. “There was no money to feed my other youngins, so I had to move back home with my mama. I’d heard that my husband Jim was in Wisconsin, then he’d settled in Chicago. He sent money home every now and then. Not enough for us to get by, though. Came home a couple times a year. Gotten me pregnant with the two other chillerins while he was passing through. Times was hard then, but we had each other, and the good Lord found a way for us to make it.

  “Yes, Lord. My chillerins come up rough. But they was always thankful for what they did have.” There was a contented smile on Hattie B.’s face. A proud smile as she rocked back and forth in her rocker, remembering the good old days. “Me and my oldest chillerins made crops for a living.”

  “Made crops?” asked Ginger, feeling her respect for this woman grow with each word she lovingly spoke.

  “Picked cotton. The kids would give me half of their earnings, and keep the other half. They never wasted any money. They ’preciated what little we did have. After I delivered my ninth child, Jim stopped sending even what little money he had bothered to send home. That’s when I started weaning myself off from him. He wanted me and the chillerins to move out to Texas with him. Said he’d send us the money to move”— she let out a short laugh — “I told him no.”

  “Why didn’t you go with him? Jackson said he was a minister.”

  “He was. Been saved most of his life, but I couldn’t tell after I’d delivered my last baby girl. He’d changed. Couldn’t trust him. He’d stayed away from me too long. This was home. I was raised here in Mississippi. Life here always been good for me and my chillerins. Even when I was a child, White folks around here always treated us good. We all’s just like family. When integration came, Guntown was about the best place to be. Didn’t have no problems with the folks down here. No, Mississippi is home. My chillerin’s home. I can’t see myself living nowheres else.”

  “And how did your husband take it, when you wouldn’t come?”

  “Ahhh, he didn’t seem to bother ’bout it ’tall. People would come back and tell me they’d seen him with other womens. Even my nieces and nephews would send word back what he was doing.” She stopped rocking, looking out into the still of the night. Listening to the crickets. “He’d backslid, taking up with them womenfolks. But I never did.” She paused, exhaling. “He stayed away too long. The love was gone. We was just like friends, the last time I seen him. We didn’t sleep together no more then. Sometimes I would say, ‘You pay me for my food, ya heah?’ He’d laugh.

  “Didn’t have but a three-room shack, but I was thankful it kept us warm, and we wasn’t getting rained in on. Yes, Lord, weren’t for the grace of God watching over me and my youngins, we’d a starved a many a day.” She raised her hand, giving acknowledgment to the Lord, saying “Thank you, Jesus” as tears formed in her eyes.

  Ginger sat back, feeling guilty over the resentment she’d felt for her husband’s mother. She was everything he’d said she was, and more. Hattie B. had told Ginger that Jimmy Montgomery had been gone for twenty-eight-and-a-half years before she received a call saying her husband had passed. The call came from his common-law wife in Texas who claimed to have a daughter by him the same age as her baby daughter by him. Hattie B. said the woman refused to take care of the funeral. He’d left her in so much debt that she was eager to shed any more responsibility. Even the cost of burying him.

  Ginger went to bed that evening long after Jackson had made his farewells and hit the sack. He was snoring soundly as she slid in next to him. She smiled — now she understood his obsession with bologna. Her mother-in-law had told her how she and the kids looked forward to spending their money buying rag bologna and crackers down at the corner store. Most of their extra money went for buying good food to eat. They had had the best of times, she and her children; even though they were poor, she swore they didn’t even think about it. Because you never missed what you didn’t have, she always insisted.

  Hattie B. taught her children to appreciate what they did have. They’d just sit on the porch and talk, laughing over good times, all ten of them. Crackers and bologna. After nearly thirty years, Jackson’s appetite for the good old days hadn’t changed. He’d already loaded up the Bronco with ten tubes of rag bologna.

  Ginger stroked Jackson’s supple thighs, and hugged his waist, waiting on the comfort of sleep. She shook the somber thoughts from her mind t
hat Jackson could possibly be a bit spoiled — first by his mother, and now by her. Yet she couldn’t help but wish that she’d experienced the same overflowing love and affection Jackson and his siblings had been blessed with. Even the wealthiest families couldn’t provide themselves with the same abundance of love that one woman had the infinite wisdom to bestow upon her children. Did Jackson possess the same wisdom? she wondered as sleep finally overcame her thoughts.

  Broad strokes of crimson canvased the blue Barbados sky. Speckled silver studs twinkled randomly in the background, hinting at a Fab-Five debut. Ginger lay back against the chaise lounge on the patio, meditating. Her interview earlier that morning with a counselor at Southfield’s School of Interior Design had gone well.

  A closed book rested on her lap. Several colorful brochures were stacked on the table beside her. After skimming the contents of the material, Ginger’s mind was made up. In a few months, she’d enroll. Champion Motors would pay the full tuition. It wouldn’t cost her anything except her time.

  “Mom,” called Jason from the patio door, “you out here?” He could see the outline of a form, but was unable to decipher who it was.

  “Yes,” said Ginger, unaware the evening had crept upon her so suddenly. “I’ll be in in a minute.” Collecting her books, she quickly went inside.

  “Where’s the kids, Jason?” Ginger asked, locking the door behind her.

  “Playing video games in Christian’s room.”

  As Ginger inserted the books and pamphlets into the bookshelf in the music room, Jason tried to find the right words but, fearing the time would never be right, blurted out, “I joined the Service, Mom.”

  Whipping around as if she’d seen a ghost, her eyes widened. “You did what?”

  “I . . .”

  “Tell me I didn’t hear you right, Jason.” Ginger’s fingers went immediately to her throbbing temples. “Tell me I didn’t.”