Before leaving, Ginger kissed Kim on the cheek. Feeling better than she had in months, Ginger laid her head over Kim’s heart, cupping her hands over Kim’s. Ginger bolted up, stunned. She’d felt a slight flicker in Kim’s right index finger.
31
Run Away Child, Running Wild
Near the middle of November, Ginger received a shocking phone call from the rape crisis counselor, Mrs. Ruth Beverly, who asked if she would come in and speak to a victim. The circumstances leading to the rape had been similar to Ginger’s. Apparently Mr. Deiter had raped another young woman who now lay in the intensive care unit of Detroit Receiving Hospital, fighting for her life.
Ginger couldn’t do it. She’d relived that horrible night too many times, and was just beginning to sleep better at night. She felt the pressure of Mrs. Beverly’s plea, but she didn’t yield. She had enough problems of her own to deal with.
Her relationship with Sierra was strained because of the impending trial. Sierra’s grades, already low, were falling dramatically. And each time she sat Sierra down for a heart-to-heart talk, it ended in screams and threats. Sierra’s self-esteem was failing, and so was Ginger’s patience.
Classes at the school of design were canceled that Saturday morning. The instructor was sick, but had left homework assignments for Monday’s session. Ginger thought of the sick young girl suffering in the hospital. She felt helpless. That could have been Sierra languishing there. She was suddenly ashamed of herself for not offering her assistance. And so by 9:30 A.M, Ginger found herself in the parking lot of Receiving Hospital.
“The girl’s been through hell,” Mrs. Beverly explained to Ginger. They rode the elevator downstairs from the counselor center to the intensive care unit.
The young girl’s name was Ri-Va. She was just twenty-five years old. She’d been walking along Woodward Avenue to her apartment, just six blocks away. Suddenly, a man grabbed her from behind, covered her mouth, and threw her inside his car, placing a paper bag over her face. She caught only a quick glimpse of him. After he parked in a nearby alley, she fought, clawed, and scratched, but her efforts against his overwhelming power proved futile, and he raped her in the backseat of the vehicle.
A few weeks later, she started bleeding vaginally, but was alarmed that the discharge had such a foul odor. And the cramps grew worse. She ran a high temperature and experienced severe joint pain, particularly at the knees.
Running scared, Ri-Va confided her symptoms to her boyfriend. And, after a great deal of hesitation, she described the rape. He was enraged and took her to the hospital, but hadn’t been back to visit her since.
Ri-Va was diagnosed with disseminated gonorrhea, and was noted to be pregnant. They performed suction evacuation, because it was an inevitable septic abortion. They initially treated her with Rocephin, prophylactically. She failed to respond. Her blood pressure dropped, suggesting septic shock, and ultimately she went into cardiac arrest.
Three code-blue procedures in ICU had stabilized Ri-Va’s condition and she was placed on triple antibiotics — ampicillin, gentamicin, and clindamycin. Despite these efforts Ri-Va remained febrile.
“Ri-Va,” said Mrs. Beverly. Her voice was soft, but firm. “This is Ginger. The young lady I told you about.” Ri-Va’s weakened brown eyes registered the two women. “She can describe the man —”
The head nurse interjected, checking her watch. “Five minutes, no more.” Gloom was written all over her face. Ginger and the counselor nodded their heads in unison.
“It’s very important that we find the man that did this to you, Ri-Va. Please listen to Ginger’s description of your assailant. I know it’s difficult for you, but please try, Ri-Va. Please.”
“He was kinda tall. Tall and brown-skinned, a creamy-like brown,” said the young woman in quick breaths.
“And his hair?” Mrs. Beverly broke in.
“Neat and short — kinda wavy I think.”
Ginger stood in the background, watching Ri-Va struggling over the details. Her small breasts rose, as if she were out of breath, but she continued.
“Big teeth. I remember seeing a mouthful of white teeth when he laughed back at me. He looked like the actor that used to play on St. Elsewhere.”
“Denzel Washington,” said Ginger flatly. The memory of that night jumped before her like a black cat. That this could actually be the same man was now a certainty, and she was afraid. Ginger remembered the tears, the blood, the words he’d said that night: “Don’t fight it. I know you want it.” Then he’d begun slapping her —
“ ‘Don’t fight it,’ ” Ri-Va said weakly. “That’s what he kept repeating, until he forced my mouth over . . . over . . . ” she couldn’t finish.
“I know,” said Ginger, going to the bed and holding her hand. “Kiss it!” Deiter had demanded. It was all so ugly.
“He drove a black BMW. I’ll never forget those gold wheels with silver cylinders in the center. Even though it was dark outside, they still sparkled like black diamonds.” Her breathing was labored, and she stopped for a moment.
The silver-and-gold Dayton wheels with spinners on the car in question definitely fit the description of Deiter’s BMW. With a definite description of the man and a good description of the car, Ginger was certain it was the same man.
“Will he be arrested?” Ri-Va asked, the question more breathed than enunciated.
Mrs. Beverly looked toward Ginger in piteous supplication.
Ginger wrestled with her emotions. She made no commitment just then, but stared at the shell of a woman lying before her, death summoning.
Ri-Va tried to lift her head up from the pillow. “I wonder if he’ll find a hiding place, such as mine, for his escape. God knows I’m not judging him.” Her dry, cracked lips turned up at the corners cynically. “I just expect justice. Am I wrong?” She fell back, her face expressing pain, exhausted.
“I’ll do what I can,” Ginger said, with a small smile directed toward Mrs. Beverly.
Ginger wasn’t certain that she would testify in court against the man if Ri-Va didn’t make it. The young woman struggled to shake Ginger’s hand before they left, and she was genuinely moved by the gesture. Ginger remembered the conviction in Ri-Va’s voice when the woman stated that her soul wouldn’t rest until Deiter was behind bars.
Tears misted Ginger’s eyes as she felt the cantillation of the choir revving up to vocalize the hymn for Sunday’s morning’s worship service, “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.” Her mind traversed the short conversation with Ri-Va.
The rhythm of the spiritual song sneaked beneath her skin, the music flowing all through her body. Ginger was surprised to hear herself singing along:
“Why should I feel discouraged? Why should the shadows come? Why should my heart be lonely — and long for heav’n and home — When Jesus is — my portion? My constant friend — is He. His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me. His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me. — I sing because I’m happy,— I sing because I’m free — For His eye is on the sparrow, — and I know He watches me. . . . ”
Though Ginger prayed daily, and read her Bible when she could, she was ashamed that she hadn’t been faithful in her attendance at church. She felt guilty, knowing that God preferred “fellowship” among Christians. She knew she could draw strength from other people’s testimonies — listening to their trials and how they overcame them.
When she returned home, there was a message from Bill. Apparently Kim showed signs of coming out of the coma. Ginger remembered the slight movement of Kim’s finger. She felt the gift of hope, and the power of being blessed. Her prayers had been answered.
“I’m sorry, Ginger. I can’t understand how you can profess to be so tired. You don’t work in the plant anymore.”
Another argument, another night without sex. Jackson was furious. It was almost as if he had to make an appointment with Ginger for her to perform her wifely duties. This was wearing thin. Ginger hadn’t been in the plant for eleven mon
ths, yet she complained that she was experiencing more fatigue than when she was working. It didn’t make sense.
“I work at the real estate office. Or don’t you consider that a real job?” said Ginger, thinking of defying him and hiring a service to clean twice a month. After months of begging, Jackson still had not agreed to hire a cleaning woman. Ginger and the kids worked continuously to keep the house clean. Yet the down-home, spick-and-span, corner-crack cleaning that Katherine had taught her would have to wait.
“The mildew in the shower stall is three weeks old.”
“You could clean it,” said Ginger weakly.
“It seems to me that you claimed to be able to work your business, go to school, take care of the kids, the house, and still make some time for me. That seems to ring in my ears, Ginger. Do you deny what you said?”
“No.”
“Then don’t renege.”
“I need you —”
“You need. You need!” His voice shouted.
They didn’t make love. Didn’t talk anymore. Just remained at a Mexican standoff, neither one recognizing the other’s side. Ginger withdrew. She felt empty. Pressured. Unloved.
Early Tuesday morning, Ginger received a phone call from the prosecuting attorney’s office, apprising her of the case against Edward Deiter. Her presence was requested at the prosecutor’s office on the twelfth floor of the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice at her earliest convenience.
Ginger’s mind flip-flopped between her civic duty and selfish pride. She had only known Ri-Va for a mere seventy-two hours before the girl died, yet she felt an overwhelming compassion for her. Ri-Va hadn’t made it through the next cardiac arrest. She’d expired at 7:56 on Monday evening. That could have been me, thought Ginger.
Trying to decide whether or not to testify in court, and needing Jackson’s support, threatened Ginger’s emotional equilibrium.
With charm in her eyes, Ginger sucked in her pride and surprised Jackson with a late-night candlelit dinner for the two of them. The evening sparked a warm glow, and love was met with love. Then only days later, after making love late one chilly evening in November, Ginger snuggled up close to Jackson and they talked for a while.
Katherine had warned Ginger about running her mouth in the heat of passion. Why didn’t she listen?
“Jackson,” said Ginger serenely, tucking his arms beneath her nude breasts, “ I know I’ve been a little touchy lately, a bit anxious with you and the kids. Can you forgive me?”
“Anytime, baby,” he cajoled. The words behind his triumphant eyes said, “So now the truth is finally coming out.” He knew Ginger was ready to bare her soul. The sweet peace of sleep would have to wait, Jackson thought to himself.
Like the harkening of a million angels, she was in a mood of charmed surrender. The warmth she felt in her heart glowed in her face as she turned to kiss him. “I’ve been subpoenaed to testify in court.”
“Why?”
“Something happened to me over a year ago that I haven’t been completely honest about.”
She finally admitted to Jackson that a client had tried to assault her last year, and that she was almost raped, but she managed to get away. The memory still haunted her. Hunted her down like an animal.
“I need your support in this, honey. It’s important. A young girl has died—”
“You’ve been putting on quite an act, haven’t you?” Jackson raised up like a leopard ready to attack. Exiting their tangled bed, his sleek, dark, naked frame pounced onto the floor. He was angry. His sixth sense had warned him that Ginger had been hiding something. “Am I supposed to sympathize with you?” Knowing Ginger had been involved sexually with another man had only been a thought, a feeling, until now. He wasn’t ready to deal with the reality of the situation. In his mind he could see Ginger and her lover lying naked in bed together. Her husky laughter coupled with his. The laughter! They were laughing at him.
“Understanding, Jackson. That’s all I ask. I’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing!” Ginger pleaded.
The purple darkness of the room hid Jackson from Ginger’s vision. On the nightstand, the dead-lock glow of the neon clock reflected his golden cat-eyes, which seemed phosphorescent, adding to his elusiveness. “What a pity,” he said distastefully, “to have wasted so much grief —”
Ginger wrapped the cool sheet around her nude body before turning on the night-light. “I wasn’t raped Jackson, just assaulted. I knew how —”
Jackson slid into his jeans, leaving them unzipped, his massive pubic hair sprouting over the open V. “You lied to me, Ginger. Why?”
The air in the room was suddenly so heated and so close she could smell her own sweat. Ginger’s voice, low, full of hurt, replied, “You wouldn’t have understood, Jackson. You would have made me quit, and you know it.”
“You lied to me, Ginger.” I’ll never forget that, he thought.
“I need you to understand how I feel. How I felt then. The nightmares I’ve had. The months of sleepless nights. I could have been killed, Jackson. I was terrified.”
Jackson stood before the bed, resting both hands on his narrow hips. “And my feelings. My trust in you.” At that moment Jackson felt an ambivalence growing inside him toward Ginger. What else had she lied about? What other men had she met in the night inconsequentially, and later called it an attempted rape? He hated her for lying. And he needed her. Yet he despised himself for that weakness.
Ginger was devastated by his uncaring response. Fifteen minutes ago, they were making beautiful love, their bodies and hearts comforting, passionately pleasing the other. And now, after acknowledging and confiding in her husband about her fears, something so serious, he turned from her. She forged ahead, hoping her vows of love could penetrate his heart. “Trust in our love. My love for you. You’re the only man I ever wanted.” You’re the only man I need.
Jackson didn’t hear her moving soliloquy. Didn’t hear the conviction in her voice. He remembered the guys at the club laughing. It tore at his heart strings.
“What kind of fool do you take me for? You planned this farce to cover up an argument with your lover. Am I supposed to believe that each time we’ve made love in the past you were thinking of me? Your heart hadn’t connected with your body in the bed for some time, Ginger — I’ve felt the difference.”
Can you feel . . . can you know how much . . . you’re breaking my heart with your false accusations? Or is this reverse psychology? Are you trying to make me feel guilty because of your philandering around with Mae Thelma? Am I the victim of your perverse sexual desires to want to control two women? The tears sliding down her cheeks felt like pebbles against her granite face.
Ginger tightened the sheet around her now cold body and stood her ground. “I haven’t done anything wrong, Jackson. I have no lover. You’re distorting this.”
Jackson wasn’t moved by her tears. The careful picture he’d painted of his “Queen” was now distorted — becoming ugly. Someone had bedraggled his woman, and she had allowed him to do it. His anger boiled. His temper soared. Jackson’s knees dug into the mattress, grabbing Ginger’s throat, choking her.
“Jackson . . . don’t!” said Ginger, backpedaling away from his suffocating vise-grip.
“You lying slut,” said Jackson, slapping her across the face.
Her head whirled around like a gyro. “Stop!” she pleaded.
“You’re less than a whore.” Hot tears filled his eyes. A low moan escaped Ginger’s dry throat when he slapped her again. Instinctually both hands clamped her head; she could feel her left ear ringing. The sound in her ears was like the echo of a seashell. “Don’t you have an ounce of respect?” Ginger turned away from him, curling her body in a fetal position. Jackson’s voice trembled. “You’re the mother of my child!”
Ginger tried to speak, the fight gearing up inside her, but that word . . . mother . . . caught in her throat. She kept her back to him, hoping that he would just leave. She was disoriented, unable to conjure up the words to
make everything right between them.
“I trusted you, and you betrayed that trust. You lied when it was convenient. You willingly had sex with another man.” Ginger felt the sharpness on her shoulder as he pulled her passive frame back into the center of the bed. Straddling her, Jackson’s right hand again cupped her throat, sinking rough fingernails penetrating, breaking her skin. “Bitch!” he spat out, raising his left hand to slap her once more.
That did it. She was nobody’s bitch. Not his. Not anyone’s. Her upper torso wheeled up, catching Jackson’s palm before impact. “Don’t you ever put your hands on me again,” she hissed. Jackson hesitated, their eyes locking. Snorting, he left the bed without another look, or another word passing between them.
Days passed slowly the next weekend, the nights even more slowly, while Ginger endured fitful sleep on the sofa. By the beginning of the second week, Ginger felt the need to reconcile. She couldn’t go on living this way. They were worse than strangers — they were virtual enemies. Someone had to make the first move.
Having rehearsed her entire speech, Ginger was waiting for Jackson when he returned home from work. She made a final attempt to assure her man that she hadn’t been intimate with anyone but him. Asking his forgiveness, again, for hesitating to tell him the truth. Couldn’t he understand? No, he couldn’t. His nose flared wide as if he smelled something foul, his eyes as deadly as a vampire’s as he stared at her, then casually walked away.
Ginger endured hours of counseling, spending more time with a therapist who casually suggested to Ginger that her husband accompany her at their next visit. She told Ginger that she would not be able to help her much further without the presence of her husband. Jackson finally agreed after weeks of her crying and coaxing.
When the psychologist tried to explain to Jackson the trauma of a woman dealing with an assault on her person and the repercussions stemming from that attempt, Jackson remained impassive. Barely fifteen minutes passed before he got up and walked out, refusing to return.
Knowing Page 38