Knowing

by Rosalyn McMillan

  They drove home in silence. Hurt and humiliated, Ginger willed herself not to cry.

  As he pulled the Bronco to a stop in the driveway, he turned to face her. “I’ve just got one thing to say. Quit the real estate business.” He could see the shock in Ginger’s face as he continued in an authoritative tone. “I don’t care if you go to work at Kmart. I don’t care if you take up sewing wedding dresses again. But not this damned house-selling shit!”

  “You’re not being fair, Jackson. You know how much work I’ve put into developing my career. I’m successful, and you know it.” Hurt filled her voice.

  “I don’t give a damn about success. You’re my wife before you’re anything, and I won’t have you out showing men property at all times of the night. We both know what can happen!”

  The whirring of the fan from the heater was the only sound inside the Bronco as they both sat mute.

  “Jackson —”

  He lifted his hands from clenching the steering wheel and pointed a finger in her face. “I don’t want to hear it. I really don’t want to hear any more about this. I said quit! Quit or —”

  Staring him down, ignoring the finger wagging in her face, Ginger knew what was coming next. “Or what, Jackson?” she asked evenly. How could the most beautiful person in the world all of a sudden look so ugly to her?

  “Or there won’t be a marriage left to counsel. You got a week to make up your mind.” Before she could say a word, he exited the truck and slammed the door.

  “Fuck you,” she said, alone inside the truck.

  The next week dragged by. Thank God the kids sensed something was wrong. There wasn’t a single argument among them — a miracle in itself.

  Ginger’s heart skipped a beat each time Jackson passed her that weekend, thinking this would be the time they would sit down and discuss their problems. She was sure he could see how upset she was. But it was becoming increasingly evident that he didn’t care, and Ginger was losing her patience. She couldn’t deal with all the pressure. She wrote him a letter, hoping to explain her feelings calmly. Maybe after reading it he would finally understand her.

  Didn’t he care anymore? Didn’t he love her? Or had their marriage been just lust, after all? His silence, and indifference, seemed to answer for her.

  “I should have known she was under too much pressure,” Bill said to Randall. Bill had just taken a quick shower and was on his way back to the hospital when the phone rang.

  “You can’t blame yourself,” said Randall. “Just thank God that she’s alive. If you ever loved her, Bill, give her a chance to explain.”

  Three days after Kim’s attempted suicide, Randall had finally managed to catch Bill at home. Randall sensed that Bill was still uncomfortable talking to him, and tried to keep their conversation short.

  Randall wouldn’t be able to put all the pieces together until he spoke to Kim, but somehow Cameron had gotten to Kim that night. But Randall was certain he knew what had happened that night. However, this wasn’t the time to go into it.

  “Whatever might have happened, I’m not ashamed to tell any man how much I love her. Only God knows how much. I appreciate your concern, Randall. The doctors aren’t sure when she’ll come out of this, but trust me, I’ll call as soon as she’s out of the coma. I’m sure that’s what Kim would want. I promised Kim during Christmas that I would respect your friendship. I mean it.”

  Several weeks later Bill sat beside Kim’s hospital bed, holding her right hand firmly between his. Ginger had mentioned to Bill that she felt Kim’s finger’s moving weeks earlier, but he hadn’t believed her. She was so emotional that he assumed she’d been overreacting. But when he felt her stiffened fingers move in small degrees, Bill immediately jumped up to signal the nurse. He reclaimed both her hands, staring down at her in astonishment. Her eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened. Bill’s own breathing threatened to stop, and for one silent moment, they found each other’s eyes. That single, frozen moment in time, when just a look of understanding reflected back genuine love. That love reached the dormant recesses of his soul, awakening them. Bill knew he’d never experience a feeling this powerful before. It could only be the power of God touching them both. All his questions subsided. His heart opened for understanding.

  The room was dusk dark. Every now and then a crack of flames sent sparks flying inside the fireplace. The fragrance of hickory mixed with oak floated into the room.

  Cotton was high, flying high on straight scotch and pussy. There wasn’t a better combination, as far as he knew. Weaving in and out, out and in, he wanted to show her how deep he could fill her. How the long, thin shape of his penis would slide around inside her like a hot piston inside a Cosworth engine.

  The glow of the fire from the fireplace gave Katherine’s naked body an ethereal glow. Though her body was thick from food, booze, and age, no one could deny that she was still a handsome woman. Her Rubenesque curves only added to her sexual mystique.

  Beside the sofa, on the mahogany coffee table, stood a stack of bills she’d cautiously counted earlier. Cotton had promised he’d bring his full check home this week from working construction after her threat to put him out for good if he didn’t start contributing to the household.

  “Baby,” said Cotton seductively. “Oooooh that’s some good shit.”

  Katherine wasn’t impressed by his compliment. When she and Lewis were first married, he’d told her that “if God made pussy better than hers, he must’ve left it in heaven.” Katherine had believed him. Until time after time she caught him with other women. Obviously there were a few more women Lewis had encountered who were blessed with heavenly pussies.

  Cotton didn’t know that Katherine had gone down to the construction site and spoken to his boss. She’d taken special care to dress that morning: chocolate brown Stuart Weitzman pumps, three-quarter-length double-breasted brown wool-crepe suit with brushed gold buttons, and a gold satin turban elegantly coiled around her head. Her unruly red hair, curled to perfection, bubbled over her shoulders. She knew she looked classy. And with all the finesse she could muster, she gently persuaded the man to tell her everything about Cotton. His absenteeism, his tardiness, but most importantly the amount of his weekly paycheck. The boss man, Katherine’s age, knew without being told the reason for her visit. Katherine left his office with enough ammunition to put her game plan to work.

  “Mmmmmm, you know you feel good to me, baby.” Katherine rolled her buttocks, tightened, then relaxed her well-trained muscles, sucking him farther into the depths of her aura. She locked her ankles across his back. The suctioning sounds of fluids and flesh competed with the crackling fire nearby.

  Her tongue flicked over his shoulder, along his neck, inside his ear. “I want to feel every inch of you,” she whispered, as she swiftly rolled him onto his back and straddled him. Cotton’s eyes pleaded for sexual pleasure.

  Balancing her body on her knees, Katherine’s weight was a plus. She knew her body well, and maneuvered it expertly. She rotated, gyrated, and finally exonerated his pulsating penis.

  As they lay satiated beside the fire, the heat drying their sweat-soaked bodies, not a word was exchanged between them. Just a moment of repose, while they waited for the return of their normal breathing pattern, each immersed in his own thoughts.

  She glanced at Cotton from the corner of her eye. Katherine, master of the game, would play her hand tonight, at all costs.

  Waiting and more waiting, and for what — Jackson’s forgiveness? She couldn’t continue living with him like this. She wouldn’t beg his forgiveness again, knowing it wouldn’t change things between them. No, she couldn’t bear the undeserved humiliation of being slapped, and called a bitch, yet again.

  During their estrangement, each time Ginger looked at Jackson, he seemed calm and unmoved. It made her furious. Jackson’s coldness toward Ginger had increased, as had her irritation at him because of it. Things couldn’t continue this way between them for too much longer.

  Gin
ger had to do something. She tried calling Katherine. There was no answer. She called her psychologist. Just when she needed counseling the most, Ginger had forgotten that her doctor was on vacation. She had no one to talk to. No one to understand her most intimate feelings. Unable to understand the emotional roller coaster that her heart was experiencing, she struggled to maintain control, but lost.

  It was as though she were imprisoned in her own home for a crime she hadn’t committed. The warden: her husband. It had taken her longer to see that there weren’t any locks keeping her captive than she cared to realize.

  The November sky bleak and dreary, cool raindrops casually fell. Ginger’s mood was no brighter. She had to get away. It seemed childish to flee, but what else could she do? Ginger felt that her judgment was impaired, her self-respect depleting in this weakening state. But now she knew that she didn’t have to wait for him to release her; she’d let him see how it felt.

  There was no note left for Jackson when he came home that Wednesday afternoon explaining why she and the kids had fled. No explanation to her clients for missed appointments. No excuses to her teacher for missed classes. She simply left without a trace of evidence as to when or where she was or when she’d return. Just simply left.

  Ginger stopped at the corner gas station and filled up the van while Christian bought goodies for the kids to snack on. Back on the road, Christian hesitantly asked the million-dollar question: “Are we going to be away for long, Ma?” Christian didn’t want to mention his record of perfect attendance. This would be the first time he’d ever missed a day of school.

  “Just a few days,” Ginger answered, steering the van toward the Jeffries Freeway heading toward an out-of-the-way inn in Novi. Jackson would never think to look for her that far away. “Mama needs some time to figure out a few things.”

  “Is Daddy coming too, Mommy?” asked Autumn innocently.

  “No, baby. Not this —”

  “My teacher gave me too much homework,” said Sierra, shuffling through the mounds of ditto sheets in her folder. “This must be enough homework for two weeks!”

  “You need it, ’cause you never turn in your homework anyway,” said Christian sarcastically.

  “You better shut up before I pop you,” shouted Sierra.

  “Yeah, be quiet, pie face,” intoned Autumn, “before I tell Mama about your messing with her computer when she told you not to bother it.”

  “Please don’t start, you three. Mama’s really not in a good mood.” Please God, don’t let him have erased the notes on my computer. I won’t think about this. I won’t. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.

  It turned out that the kids had a ball living away from home. Dinners in the evenings were an event. They ate at Kyoto’s, a Japanese restaurant. Dined at Chi Chi’s, a Mexican establishment. Ordered a carry-out dinner from Pizza Hut.

  Ginger watched her three children thoroughly enjoy themselves Friday evening as they watched Friday the 13th, Part VI. They’d rented six videos, and were saving the last two, horror films, for later that night. Ginger snuggled up to a Mary Higgins Clark novel after the third run of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

  “Come on, Mama,” said Sierra, trying to snare Ginger away from her reading, “do the Butterfly with us.” Even Christian, shy as he was, joined in, cajoling Ginger to get in on the fun.

  Laughing despite herself, Ginger declined.

  Sierra, unrelenting, pulled Ginger onto their makeshift dance floor.

  “It’s like batting a baseball and moving your hips at the same time. The same way you swing your hips — you can do the Butterfly with one hip.”

  Ginger tried several times until she felt the rhythm. Umph, there it was. “Okay, I got it now,” said Ginger, grinding her buttocks. My knee hurts. It’s hard doing it with one knee, she thought.

  “It’s called the Tug Rope,” said Autumn, showing her another variation of the dance. “You act like you’re pulling rope, then you pull it from the side. If you don’t move your hips right, you ain’t doing it right.” Autumn worked her young hips like a frightened colt. “I think this part is called Ride the Pony.”

  Ginger admired Sierra’s taut buttocks, teasingly suggestive as she performed an Around the World Butterfly.

  Autumn, seeing Ginger’s stiffness, grabbed her mother’s hips and showed her how to Butterfly. Autumn said, “I can make my own dances to my own music.”

  “Stop stepping on my feet,” Sierra screamed, aimed toward Autumn.

  Sierra was obviously feeling a little jealous toward her little sister, who apparently was outdancing her. Autumn was doing the Crossover. She leaned her body back at a seventy-five-degree angle and worked her pelvis.

  Sierra and Ginger were exhausted. For the first time in months they both agreed on something. It was as though a black cloud had lifted. Ginger didn’t want to fight with her daughter. She’d wanted a truce to their unceremonious problems. It had come. Sierra and Ginger hugged, relaxing into one another. No matter what happened, the weekend was a success. Ginger had left home hoping to come to terms with her feelings about Jackson, but unknowingly would return with a renewed respect between mother and daughter— and the laughter, the theater of a dance, the Butterfly.

  Ginger, Christian, Sierra, and Autumn returned home Saturday afternoon on a happy note. For four short days, they’d experienced a personal high that had been missing for some time. Somehow, a bridge had been formed among them all, a new awareness, a new respect.

  Jackson neither acknowledged nor reprimanded Ginger on their return. He tersely kissed Sierra, ignored Christian, and took his baby daughter aside, pampering her with hugs and loving kisses.

  They resumed their sleeping arrangements: Jackson sovereigned in their king-size bed; Ginger suffered on the narrow sofa.

  On that first night at home, after endless hours of tossing and turning Ginger finally felt the exhaustion of sleep creep in upon her. She awoke minutes later startled by what she perceived to be a devil, clad in bright red underwear.

  He hissed, pointing a finger in her face. “Don’t you ever take my kids from this house. If you want to leave, go! But you leave them here. This is their home. Kids don’t understand parental problems. You’re confusing them. Lord knows what you’ll stoop to next!”

  Ginger rubbed her eyes, still trying to focus on what had transpired. She hadn’t imagined she’d see the devil in the red briefs — the scent of his Old Spice deodorant still lingered.

  She’d hoped Jackson would miss her and be willing to call a truce when she returned. She thought that giving him time alone to think, and to miss her, would bring his focus back onto the importance of their relationship. It hadn’t worked, though. Their conversation was more strained than ever. He wouldn’t even look at her. Blow after blow was sending Ginger into a frenzy. She couldn’t cope. But then she realized that she had a last hope: Maybe he still hadn’t read the letter.

  32

  Since I Lost My Baby

  Hurt blinded Ginger’s better judgment, and she confronted him at last. “Jackson, I won’t live with you like this. We don’t talk. We don’t spend time together anymore. You seem to be avoiding me all the time. Didn’t you read my letter?”

  “Yeah, I read it,” he lied. “So.”

  “So, I thought you’d have some kind of response to my feelings.” Her voice was betraying the heart that she so valiantly tried to protect.

  “Like I said. So.” He flicked the buttons on the remote control, seemingly unconcerned. “Am I supposed to fall down on my knees and kiss your ass?” He looked up at her, his hazel eyes reflecting the glare of the television set.

  For a second Ginger was scared. Jackson never treated her with such indifference. Their arguments had never lasted this long. For the first time in their marriage, Ginger truly felt that Jackson didn’t love her anymore.

  “I wrote you a letter, too.”

  “You did?” Ginger’s voice inflected signs of hope.

  Picking up the drink next to hi
m, Jackson took a gulp.

  “Where is it? Can I read it now?”

  Stretching out his legs, Jackson finished his drink. “Yeah, why don’t you. I’ll get it.” Ginger’s eyes followed him as he walked to the closet and retrieved the note from his jacket pocket.

  A sneer came across his face as he handed it to her. All Ginger’s hopes died when she read the note: Fuck you, bitch.

  Barely able to compose herself, Ginger sucked in her pride. Undoubtedly, the only thing you enjoy about me is fucking me. I seem to have no other value. Thank you for making it so plain. Refusing to cry, she scanned the note again, and dropped it in the trash can. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “If that’s the way you want it, Jackson.”

  Tears were the last thing on her mind when Ginger turned on the stereo. She’d show him. He’d be sorry. A sultry song floated throughout the silent room. She felt the music flowing through her body like hot, liquid gold, enter her like fine wine. Ginger pretended she was a whore, paid to put on the show of a lifetime. And moving her body to a provocative beat, she began a striptease.

  Ginger danced closer to Jackson, naked, spreading his legs open as she stood before him. Her right hand caressed his chest, then she outlined his full lips with the index finger of her left. Ginger layered Jackson’s mouth with kisses as he responded automatically.

  Teasing the nipples on his chest, Ginger pushed his knees open wider, and softly ran her vagina in a circular motion up and down his thigh. The lips of her sex opened and closed, suctioning his leg, grinding her full buttocks slowly and easily down the expanse of him as her eyes held his.

  Next, she moved squarely astride him. With both hands, she massaged Jackson’s temples. His head fell back against the sofa as Ginger’s hands massaged and caressed his chest, neck, face. When Ginger began stimulating his crotch with her long fingernails, she felt his erection straining against the tight jeans.