Knowing

by Rosalyn McMillan

  The cousins spent a luxurious morning at the beauty salon, Kim’s treat. They discussed the plans for Kim’s wedding, went to lunch, stopped by the drugstore and picked up every bride and wedding magazine published, and ended up back at Ginger’s house.

  After perusing every magazine, Kim still hadn’t come close to picking out a wedding dress. She agreed with Ginger that she wanted an ivory gown instead of white. The ivory looked richer. She also had her own reasons for not wanting to belittle the saintly implications of pure white.

  Determined to make some decisions concerning the wedding, they both agreed on the color and style of the bridesmaids’ dresses. Telling Kim that she was glad she’d asked her to help her with her wedding for the umpteenth time, Ginger bubbled with excitement.

  “I always wanted to have a big wedding.” Ginger sipped on a glass of wine as Kim flicked through the telephone directory, looking for a banquet hall. “I feel like I’ve been robbed. Been married twice, and haven’t worn a wedding gown yet. You better believe my girls are going to have the biggest weddings I can afford.”

  “Have you ever thought about you and Jackson renewing your vows and getting married over again on your tenth anniversary?” Kim knew that Ginger had not been able to afford a large wedding with her first husband. And that when she and Jackson decided to marry, neither of their families could afford to fly in from out of state. They had both agreed it was ludicrous to have a big wedding without their families present. So they’d gone all out and splurged on their enormous home instead.

  “It’s been four months since I quit Champion Motors. I wish I had done it sooner.” Taking a delicate sip of wine, she added, “Jackson seems distant. Colder. It’s obvious he resents me for not listening to him.”

  Ginger remembered just last night. She had been working in her office:

  “What the hell is this, Ginger?” He’d tapped the entries in her appointment book.

  A plastic T-square, three number-two pencils, drawing pens, a block of graph paper, and various-sized templates were scattered arbitrarily over Ginger’s desk. It had taken her hours to complete a school project, redesigning a family room to make it more functional.

  A tired look registering on her face, she expelled an exasperated breath of stale air. “My appointment book,” she had said matter-of-factly.

  Jackson rested his buttocks on the side of the desk. “Why is it that nearly seventy-five percent of your clients are men? Not couples. Men. Why is that, Ginger?” His tone was accusatory.

  She dropped her pencil, looking up at him. “The men are the ones who usually make the appointments. It doesn’t mean that their wives don’t accompany them.”

  He’d slammed the book down in front of her. “You’re never home. You’re either at school, out showing homes, or at the office. Everywhere but here! You’re pushing our relationship too far, Ginger. I won’t have it.”

  Ginger had looked candidly into Jackson’s eyes. “When I’m home you watch television and ignore me. Or you find an excuse to leave. Maybe you’ve gotten comfortable with me being gone and don’t even realize it.”

  “That’s bullshit. I enjoy having . . .”

  “Sex! I’ll spell it out for you Jackson, S-E-X. That’s the only enjoyment we seem to find together lately with each other. We forget about our problems. You never want to talk. It’s always wait till tomorrow, baby. Problems aren’t solved by having sex. Just ignored. The sex isn’t enough anymore.” She had stormed off before he saw her tears. It just wasn’t enough.

  The stark reality of that night brought her back to the present.

  Ginger couldn’t fathom the thought of being without Jackson. Of living without Jackson. It scared her to think that he could possibly be thinking about leaving her. She tested her fears on Kim. Tested and detested the ugly word on her tongue. “The way Jackson and I have been arguing lately, we’re liable to make it to the divorce court before we take a ceremonial walk down a church aisle.”

  Kim was as quiet as a church mouse.

  He couldn’t understand why life had to be so complicated. Why Ginger insisted on making their life difficult. Didn’t she understand him at all? Was it too much to ask for a few things from life? Just the simple things. Small things. Ginger produced an erotic and narcotic effect on him. That supreme high that had touched his soul, that he had never felt before, and that meant everything to him. In touching those things, their hearts would merge, and they would meet, together . . . forever. . . .

  Parking in front of the clubhouse, he locked his bike, pausing to take a final look at his mean machine. The other club members had heard the roar of his engine, and were pouring out of the club to check out the first new bike of the season. Jackson felt like a ten-year-old kid showing off his new bicycle.

  Two hours later, he felt as if he’d aged fifty years in the course of an afternoon. The fellows he’d joked with, got high with, bullshitted with, partied with, and known over twenty years seemed to be mocking him. Had they been talking about Ginger?

  “Man, he said by the time he stroked her a few times, she loved it. Said the thought of him taking it at first thrilled her. They’d screwed for hours before she left with the plans to meet him again the next week,” said Ramsey, slapping Mr. B. on the back.

  “Man, I heard she couldn’t get enough. Kept begging for more.” The murmuring crescendoed, then faded. The joke passed from one man to another, as it crept closer and closer, within earshot. Before the blood hit the crown of his head, Jackson rose from the bar, and stood eye to eye with the conspirators.

  “Something funny I should know about?” Jackson’s voice was deadly. Maybe it was someone else. How could they know anything about Ginger? Knowing he had to separate his irrational thoughts from his true feelings because they were entirely two different things, he cautiously backed away from the bewildered trio of faces.

  Keenly aware of Jackson’s violent temper, they all kept silent until Little Bubba called out, “Get on over here, Jackson.” He was racking up the pool balls. “It’s about time I kicked your ass today.”

  Giving the group at the table a final roll of his eye, Jackson waved off Little Bubba and left.

  With a flick of his right wrist he started the ignition of the motorcycle, then turned up the volume of the radio inside his Shoei helmet. After shading his amber eyes with ebony sunglasses, he sat gunning the engines a little more than usual before riding off.

  At the stoplight, he straddled the fully dressed Harley, turning his head slightly toward some children eyeing his bike. His mouth curved into a smile. To them, he must look like a Black Arnold Schwarzenegger — the Terminator outfitted in all black leather. Out of the blue came an angry German shepherd barking noisily, diverting the young boys’ gaze.

  As the traffic light changed, Jackson sped off toward the freeway. The overcast sunrise was partially hidden by a morning mist. Last night’s rainfall was still evident in the silver sheen of the damp grass. Tender new leaves would soon unfurl into clouds of spring green as the fresh scent of April showers lingered in the air.

  He’d never forget that night. The evening had haunted him like a bad dream. He’d never quite been satisfied with Ginger’s explanation of what happened that night. It was like a bad itch, and he’d scratched and scratched, but he still itched.

  He remembered, just as clear as the sky now forming, the scene that night when Ginger returned home more of a wreck than the car was. Something felt strange about her recollection of how the accident had occurred. Said the driver just drove off. After rattling off some obscenities about him probably not being insured and their rates probably going up as a result of a claim on their insurance, Jackson had stifled any questions about why she hadn’t called the police on her car phone — or called home.

  Jackson rolled the gossips’ chorus over and over in his mind and angrily spat at the curb, before weaving his Harley up Mae Thelma’s cluttered driveway. Overturned bicycles slowed his taxiing near the porch. Hearing the thunde
r of his heavy Harley, the boys ran onto the front porch, screaming for a ride on Uncle Jackson’s new bike. After giving each a generous tour, he left them outside, goggled eyed, as they touched and inspected every instrument and gadget.

  “Sure you don’t mind my drinking in your house, Mae Thelma?” asked Jackson, pouring himself a hefty swig of the pint of bourbon he always kept in his saddlebags.

  “Now hush yo’ mouth, Jackson Montgomery. Ain’t nothing wrong with a man drinking. It’s the evil thoughts and deeds he does while drinking is the sin.” Sinking her knee in the couch, she pushed back her immaculate white curtains to check on her boys.

  “Don’t worry, Mae Thelma. The two of them couldn’t budge my bike. It weighs over twelve hundred pounds.”

  She felt the rush of adrenaline as she forced herself to look away from Jackson’s taut muscles. Unknowingly, Jackson had cast a spell over Mae Thelma. She felt weak to his overwhelming display of force and power.

  Mae Thelma basked in this moment with her man. She was free. Alone with Jackson to talk over old times and test her new love potion. She excused herself for a moment, going to her bedroom to rub the potent concoction over her breasts so it would breathe out from her housedress at exactly the right places.

  Jackson finished the bottle of bourbon and was feeling mighty sublime. He unzipped his vest and made himself comfortable, eating a plate of collard greens and sliced tomatoes. He assured Mae Thelma that was all he could eat this early in the day, declining the chicken and dumplings and candied yams.

  It seemed every time he and Mae Thelma were together, they couldn’t help but talk about the good old days back home in the South. He hadn’t had a home-cooked meal like this from Ginger in months. As a matter of fact, their sex life hadn’t been up to par lately either. Fast, hurried sex. Everything seemed to be hurried lately. He even suspected that Ginger timed him. He’d noticed on more than one occasion her quick glances at the clock. It spoiled his concentration.

  Jackson’s eyes rested on the swell of Mae Thelma’s breasts as she set a tall glass of Diet Pepsi on the table before him. Less than four months ago, during Christmastime, she’d been bundled under sweaters and coats. But the memory of her youthful body at Jason’s party in that sinful sundress was soberingly vivid. Now the flimsy fabric of her spring housedress barely disguised her hard nipples. He tried to shake away the sinful thoughts in his mind. She could keep a man sweat-stained hot in below-zero weather. Must be the bourbon, he thought.

  Mae Thelma noticed how relaxed Jackson was. Nor did she miss his stare lingering on her breasts. She brushed the front of her dress ever so lightly against his arm. Just to test him. Cleaning the dirty dishes, she watched as he walked back into the living room after handing her his plate. His clothes, the way he wore them, the casual way he walked, seemed to radiate romance. She tore her eyes away as a voice inside her spoke:

  “Wherefore God also gave them up to uncleanness through the lusts of their own hearts, to dishonor their own bodies between themselves: Who changed the truth of God into a lie, and worshiped and served the creature more than the Creator, who is blessed for ever. Amen.”

  She pushed the thought from her mind, convincing herself that what she was doing wasn’t wrong. As Jackson excused himself for a trip to the bathroom, she quickly ran into the living room, extracted a vial from a small red velvet pouch, and rubbed the oily mixture inside his vest jacket. Another voice intervened as her heart pounded, wildly, from fear:

  “. . . being filled with all unrighteousness, fornication, wickedness, covetousness, maliciousness; full of envy, murder, debate, deceit, malignity; whispers, backbiters, haters of God, despiteful, proud, boasters, inventors of evil things . . .”

  She covered her hands with her mouth as she felt trapped inside a possible evil. Yet her aunt had told her that voodoo wasn’t evil. The mixture was merely a love potion, a liquid ampule of ori root, yarrow, rosebuds, and other herbs. It would last for years. Only an eyedropper full was needed to guarantee results. It was supposed to bring and promote love. The glass vessel was kept inside a red pouch because red attracts the spirits. She wasn’t hurting anyone. What was wrong with going after what you wanted? There wasn’t any harm in it, was there?

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Don’t play dumb!” Jackson screamed as Ginger exited the shower.

  “I told you what happened.” She smoothed Vaseline over her damp skin. “Why would I lie?” She hoped her voice didn’t betray her.

  The silver spurs of his cowboy boots sank into the carpeting as he rocked back on his heels, crossing his arms. “You’re fucking around. Admit it.”

  She could smell the stale liquor on his breath. At these times, arguing with him was useless. “Fucking around with whom, Jackson? Can you give me the name of my lover?” She walked past him into her dressing room, tying a scarf around her head. She hated for him to look at her bald scalp when they argued. She felt as if he were mocking her. She felt raw, helpless.

  “Fuck the guessing games. You’re quitting —”

  “Don’t start, Jackson!”

  “Wha —”

  “I said, just don’t fucking start with this bullshit again. I’m tired of you checking up on me like I’m a child. I’m not giving up everything I’ve worked for the past two years just because you’re feeling insecure. You don’t have any proof about anything. That alcohol’s frying your brain. You need to put down the bottle and pick up a Bible once in a while — maybe it’ll clear your own conscience and evil thoughts.” She threw the Bible in his lap as he sat on the chair and clicked on the television set.

  “Forget what I said, Ginger. I’m sorry. I just don’t like you out in the evenings by yourself.”

  She stood in front of the television set, having donned her nightclothes, blocking his view. “So where the hell have you been all day?” She was waiting for him to lie. After showing a client a home this morning she’d noticed Jackson’s bike in front of Mae Thelma’s house.

  Later that afternoon, she’d met with Ivory Michaels. Feeling lonely throughout these never-ending arguments, she needed to confide in a male friend. She needed someone to talk to. Ivory wasn’t fresh. He wasn’t aggressive. Just a good listener, something Ginger hadn’t experienced from Jackson over the past months. He just wouldn’t listen to her. Just storm off as she tried to explain. Time and time again, Jackson’s ear was absent and Ivory’s was waiting.

  Ginger sensed that Ivory was struggling through problems of his own, yet he never wavered from his Mount Rushmore stature. Week after week he listened, giving her good advice, telling her when she was wrong, egging her on when they both knew she was right. Yet he never suggested that Ginger dissolve her marriage. He encouraged her to forge ahead.

  Was that his strategy for getting closer to her? Ginger wondered. On the surface pushing her closer to her man, yet beneath the façade ultimately guiding her closer to him, because of his unselfish nature?

  Ivory was leaving for Paris that spring weekend to cover the extravagant wedding of a rich Texan. The amount of money purportedly being spent on the nuptials was unprecedented. Five hundred guests were to be flown in to participate in a weekend of festivities that entailed a masquerade party Thursday night, a square dance Friday afternoon, a Friday night Texas barbeque and finally, Saturday, a candlelight wedding ceremony, followed by a lavish reception and a fourteen-course dinner. Ivory promised Ginger that he’d show her all the pictures when he returned. Maybe she could get a few ideas for Kim’s wedding!

  Just out of curiosity, after she and her client had concluded their business, Ginger had swung back by Mae Thelma’s house and was angry to see that Jackson was still there.

  “Down at the club,” Jackson responded casually when she asked where he’d been. “We’re putting in a fence around the parking lot. Then me and the fellows had a few drinks.” He waved his hand like he was swimming. “Move out of the way, will you?”

  “And . . .” she said, not budging.

>   “Hmmmm,” he blew out. “That’s about it.”

  “You lying son of a bitch. You were over Mae Thelma’s all morning.”

  “Funny, I hadn’t noticed the time,” said Jackson in a Clint Eastwood monotone.

  During the heated month of July, Jackson found a bank receipt in Ginger’s minivan, and was outraged to learn that she had stashed away so much money. He’d intended to find some kind of evidence disputing Ginger’s claims about that night. It was obvious she had been hiding something. Some man. Had to be giving her money. And he’d find out who it was.

  “Twenty-five thousand dollars! Where in the hell did you get that much money?”

  “Commissions,” said Ginger flatly.

  “And you didn’t bother to offer to help put the roof on?” Jackson was torn between disbelief that she’d earned so much money and resentment that she hadn’t offered him any.

  “If I was still at the plant — if I was still waiting on you to tell me to go with my instincts, if I was still waiting on your blessings, I wouldn’t have a dollar.” She rolled her eyes at him.

  “Still, I am your husband. You could help out.”

  Her voice, her heart, were bitter. “You could have supported me when I needed it. Instead you turned your back on me. You closed our account altogether. You tried to make me suffer.” Ginger felt exonerated. “My bank account proves I’m not suffering one iota, Jackson.”

  “You bitch.” The words sounded louder than Jackson had intended.

  Tears of hurt, tears of defiance, tears of pride clouded Ginger’s eyes. “I got your bitch mother-fucker.” She grabbed her crotch. “Right here.” She fought for courage, and it came. “You’ll smell daffodils in December before you get a whiff of this pussy!” Ginger shouted, slamming the door to their bedroom.

  Ginger moved into her office for the entire month of July. They never made love. And by the time August rolled around, they were more irritable than ever.