Autumn found friends her age in their condo complex and invited them over to join Sierra’s posse. They were starting a dance club. Ginger had to admire her verve. It had taken Autumn to coax the inhibited Sierra to seek out and find some young girls from the sixth grade.
Christian learned the bus schedules, returning to their old neighborhood every few days to visit his friend Benny. They’d known each other nearly ten years, and had formed a strong friendship. Ginger tried talking to herself when the girls were off playing with their friends, and she found herself alone. She tried to calm her festering hysteria. You’ve seen too many movies, she told herself. He won’t harm you.
Jackson was in a period of denial. When he came home from work, he watered his plants, readied his clothes for the next day, turned on the television, then poured himself a drink. Alcohol was his constant companion. It numbed him. Anesthetized his feelings for Ginger. When he was sober, his conscience told him he was wrong, should apologize. But when he was high, his conscience said she should come begging for his forgiveness. He preferred it that way.
Ginger’s heart vacillated between the loving memories of her years with Jackson and how the uncompromising demands he made destroyed their marriage.
It was as though the views of equality written in an article in 1906 had been scripted with the female servant in mind. When Booker T. Washington was invited to dine with President Theodore Roosevelt, the southerners were outraged. Seemed the female Negroes’ invitation to the White House was extended merely for their performances— musical that is. Henceforth, on October 16, the Nashville American observed the following commentary:
The South refuses social recognition or equality to Booker T. Washington not because of any hatred of him, not because of his respectability, but in spite of it. It denies him social equality because he is a negro. . . . To accord social equality to negroes of Booker T. Washington’s stamp would be a leak in the dam. It would cause other negroes to seek and demand the same recognition.
Would her sons ever see Black men being held in the same esteem as their White compatriots in their lifetimes?
Yet Ginger also wondered if she, being a Black woman, could ever gain enough respect from her Black man to be treated as an individual. She wanted to be a helpmate instead of a slave, demanding the same value he did. She would not be subservient and submissive to his limitless demands on her person merely for entertainment purposes. And she was not his mother, his lover, his friend, his wife, but just a woman. Because that was all she was. Just a woman doing the best she could.
She wished, instead, that a man would come out of the darkness into the light and say, “Baby. Baby . . . let me help you.” Those four words, so simple: “Let me help you.”
Randall’s apartment was the perfect hideaway. Time and care showed in every corner of his home. Constantly surrounded by beauty, Ginger felt alone, discarded. A Picasso lithograph, Girl Before a Mirror, graced the wall behind the sofa. A copy of Willem de Kooning’s Woman II adorned an adjoning wall. A Parisian cityscape and several scenes of rural life, elegantly framed, hung in the foyer.
Depending upon her mood, Ginger could take or leave Edward Steichen’s 1928 black-and-white photo of Greta Garbo. The extra-large framed glossy hung on the wall near the kitchen. Passing by that wonderfully expressive face when she made her daily cups of tea left Ginger feeling cold. Unlike Garbo, she truly found no joy in being alone.
Ginger learned from Kim that Randall wouldn’t be back. She was astounded when Kim said he didn’t want to remove the paintings and have them sent over to London. He’d painstakingly hung each artwork, and wished them to stay that way. Having painted up a storm over the past two years, Randall had decorated his London apartment with canvases of his own. Though not of the same caliber as his treasures in Michigan, he felt as though the loving few he’d created himself were worth more to him than any famous artist’s works he’d had the pleasure of owning.
Less than a week after Ginger had written Jackson the nasty note, she began to have misgivings. She felt she hadn’t given him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he’d been drinking too much, clouding his usually sound judgment. One night, while the kids were asleep, she decided to try to patch things up. Surprised to find that he wasn’t at home, she drove down to the club, hoping he’d be there with his friends.
Disappointed at not finding him there, she asked Little Bubba, but he told Ginger that he hadn’t seen Jackson lately. She talked to Little Bubba for a while about the problems she and Jackson had been having. They popped a few cans of beer, and he even let her beat him at pool. Ginger knew he was letting her win, but it felt good anyway. As she drove back to her new home, something told her to swing by Mae Thelma’s house. By then it was nearly one o’clock in the morning.
Her heart sank to her knees when she saw Jackson’s Bronco parked in the driveway. From the street, she couldn’t see any lights on. She could forgive him for verbally abusing her. She could forgive the gossip from the church. She could forgive his jealousy over her job. But she couldn’t forgive his screwing his cousin’s wife. Or any woman, for that matter.
Fuck it, she thought. Jumping out of her minivan, she left it parked in the middle of the street and ran to the house, pounding on the front door. Mae Thelma answered in her nightgown.
“It’s late, Ginger,” said Mae Thelma.
“Is Jackson here?” asked Ginger, praying that his truck had broken down and that he wasn’t inside.
“Mae Thelma,” a voice called from inside. Though barely audible, Ginger knew it was Jackson’s, and left without another word. That was the final assault. She was through with him.
Ginger stopped by their home, piling up her van with all the clothing she could take. Whatever she couldn’t pack in the van, she’d buy, or get after the divorce was final. All her hesitancy about filing had vanished tonight. She’d contact her attorney in the morning.
In the days that followed, Ginger phoned her mother every day. Katherine advised Ginger to take the time and effort to do some serious soul-searching before she filed for a divorce. Katherine asked her if the thought that two different fathers would be standing at the front door to pick up their children for their biweekly visits had occurred to her. And what if something happened to her? Would the children be separated, living in two different homes? Had she thought about which half of the furniture she would keep and which pieces Jackson would want? And did she actually think that, during their separation, Jackson would allow Ginger to entertain another man in front of his daughter? Could she stand to see him out with another woman? It was obvious to Ginger after each of their conversations that Katherine felt she was making a mistake, moving too fast.
School was out for the Christmas holidays, for the kids as well as for Ginger. She found herself with more time than she knew what to do with. She couldn’t concentrate on reading. Every male character in the novels took on Jackson’s face. When the story gravitated to the sex scenes, Ginger had to close the book. Jackson’s naked body appeared before her like an apparition. Even the scent of him seemed to linger in the air. Closing her eyes tightly, she tried to squeeze back the tears that she knew would surely fall.
One morning shortly before Christmas, Bill and Ginger transported a nearly healthy Kim back home to her apartment. After he was sure that Kim was safely tucked in bed and resting comfortably, Bill left to have Kim’s prescriptions refilled, leaving the two women alone to talk awhile.
The scars on Kim’s face were nearly invisible now. Her hair was short, cut evenly to the length of her new hair growth where they’d shaved it from the operation. She wore very little makeup, and looked refreshingly beautiful in one of the new dresses Bill had bought for her.
“You first have to forgive yourself,” Kim was saying. Kim handed Ginger some pamphlets Bill had given her about rape victims. She’d read them over and over. She had even called the hot line a few times and spoken to a social worker. It helped. “When you do, you can go on with your life a
nd grow, and without even knowing it, you’ll forget Edward Deiter.”
Ginger wrestled with the strands of her wig as she chronicled to Kim the whole episode of her attempted rape. She told her about Ri-Va — her struggle, and death. They discussed Jackson’s outrage about the incident. His threats to make her quit her business. His lack of forgiveness or support, and the loss of trust that ultimately broke their marriage.
Ginger broke down crying. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I used to be so sure about everything. Now I’m not sure about anything. I’m questioning myself all the time.” She stopped, wiping her eyes with a tissue offered by Kim. “I love that man, Kim. God knows I do.”
“I know. I know you do,” said Kim with tears in her eyes. She hated to see Ginger upset like this. But she knew Ginger’s decision to divorce Jackson had to be hers and hers alone.
The papers were hand delivered to Jackson two days before Christmas. The children seemed to have a sixth sense about their mother’s difficult decision. And they’d helped out as much as they could with the transition of moving to a smaller place.
Christian was a sophomore at Renaissance High School and still maintained a 4.0 grade-point average. After conferring on the phone with Jason, who was spending a tour of two years in Germany, Christian had risen to the occasion and put himself in charge of the family. He’d taken the girls aside and handed out the rules and regulations of the household.
Ginger, however, struggled with conflicting feelings. This would be their first Christmas away from each other, and Jackson hadn’t bothered to send a card or telephone. He hadn’t seen his daughter in weeks. Hadn’t asked Autumn what she wanted for Christmas. Autumn was devastated. She tried to hide her feelings from her mother, but Ginger knew better. Jackson had spoiled Autumn since she was born, and hadn’t missed a single opportunity to show his love to his only child. Sierra and Christian almost felt guilty as their father picked them up earlier on Christmas Eve to do last-minute shopping. Autumn and Ginger were left alone in the apartment. The hurt Ginger saw in her baby’s eyes as she watched the clock, the hours passing slowly, broke Ginger’s heart.
Why hadn’t Jackson come to get her? Weeping, Ginger fell on her knees without realizing she’d uttered a sound. But Autumn, hearing her mother, ran into the family room. She wrapped her small arms around her mother, and did her best to rock Ginger’s stiffened body back and forth, their shared tears blending their pain and prayers in harmony.
33
Where Did Our Love Go?
“You sure you’re gonna be all right, Mama?” Ginger cinched the winter-white wool cape snugly around her before opening the front door.
“Damned right.” Katherine kissed each of her grandchildren before they scooted out the front door, eager to get in a few snowballs before they headed back to Detroit. Katherine had lost so much weight that she no longer needed shoestrings in her pants, nor either of her famed double girdles.
Ginger hated to see her mother like that. Katherine’s life had gone downhill ever since she’d let that younger man enter her life, her home, and eventually her heart. She’d broken down and admitted to her daughter the hell she’d been going through. She was embarrassed to tell Ginger, knowing that everyone had warned her about younger men wanting nothing but money from an older woman. They were right. Cotton had used and abused her for as long as Katherine could stand it. But when the lights got cut off, and she was forced to burn wood in the fireplace to keep warm because the gas company had tired of her excuses months before, she had to make a decision.
“You could come and stay with us until my house gets sold, Mama. Or with Kim?” But Ginger knew before she made the suggestion that her mother wouldn’t leave her home. She enjoyed her privacy too much.
“No, baby.” Katherine smoothed tawny fingers over the folded bills Ginger had given her to get the lights and gas turned back on. “You still ain’t heard from Jackson?”
“Not a peep.” They watched the kids enjoying themselves in the snow. It was the twenty-ninth of December. The wind whipped across the white earth. Bubbles and pine needles were trapped in the thin ice coating the sidewalk. Ginger called out to the kids to stay off the walkway before they fell and broke their backs.
Autumn, ignoring Christian and Sierra, stretched out on the ground, swishing her arms and legs back and forth to make angels in the snow. Ginger looked back at the fireplace, crackling with flames. “You sure you got enough wood to last until the utility company comes out?”
Katherine pushed Ginger through the front door. “I got plenty of wood, and boxes of candles.” She smiled mischievously, and a glimpse of the old Katherine surfaced. “You young people don’t know what hard times is.”
Driving from the airport, Jackson turned on the radio news as his mind wandered to the letter that Ginger had written him. It was her final plea before she’d made her decision to leave. Why hadn’t he listened?
Why don’t you understand that I need you to love me? Why do you make our love so complicated? Do you have to have so much control? You know I love you. Don’t ask me to submit totally and lose myself yet again, in the process. Giving up my career that I love, that helps to make me who and what I am. No love is worth that.
I need to be able to love freely and express myself. Yet, I know I need a man in my life. I need you, Jackson. I long to feel you near me. To look at me as only you can.
My head is bald, my eyelashes are gone, I have no eyebrows and I look like another being from outer space, but the person inside of me feels beautiful. The person I know I am, whose beauty is more than looks. My heart and my need to give and express my love to you and my children transcends this body.
Don’t you know that God has blessed you with everything that’s lacking inside of me? Don’t you know that I need you to make me whole. Don’t you know . . . don’t you know . . .
I love to see you walk from one room to another. I get excited just watching your long legs. I just look and look and feel . . . knowing later that evening I’ll feel the petal softness of your skin next to mine.
Yet, sex has always been the strong suit of our marriage. It shouldn’t be.
All I ever wanted from you is your respect and love. There is nothing you and I can’t accomplish together. No reason we can’t be as One. But you won’t comply. You make it so hard for me. And what you’re really doing is making it hard for yourself. That is, if you really love me.
I deserve the respect of being your wife, your woman. I demand it. Because knowing myself, there is no way I could have possibly imagined that in giving so much of myself to a man I love completely, that I would accept so little in return. I’m ashamed of me, for being so weak. For loving too hard. Too much. If you only knew, yet you do know, how much I truly, and I mean truly, truly love you.
If you want another woman, get one. But I’ll tell you now, and it may sound corny, but you’ll never, never, ever in a lifetime ever feel a love like mine.
My life is important to me. Life is short. I want to be happy. After twenty-one years of being faithful to two men, I deserve more than this. I need more than sexual fulfillment, I need your unconditional love. Otherwise, I cannot remain in this relationship. It’s time I put my needs first, because God knows, no one else has. . . .
He turned up the volume on the radio, switching it to a soul station. Mood music. Yes, that was what he needed, relaxing music before he faced Ginger for the first time since she left him. In the beginning, he was bitter. He’d hated her for leaving. For taking his daughter away from him. For making everything they’d worked for together meaningless. But she’d taken none of the antique furnishings she loved so much. Her office was the only vacant room in the house. And then he wondered.
“Who is it?” asked Ginger, checking the clock in the kitchen. It couldn’t be Kim this late. Maybe it was Ivory. He’d called and asked if he could come over and bring a carton of eggnog to share with her. She wanted to say yes, but she worried about the kids waking up and seeing
a man in the house other than Jackson. Knowing it was too soon for them to see other men around, no matter how innocent the situation, she put her loneliness aside for their sake.
There was a short pause before a deep voice answered, “Jackson.”
Ginger was at a loss for words. He was the last person she expected to see tonight. “Just a minute,” she said, her voice losing its drowsy tone. She ran into the bedroom. Out of breath, she retied the scarf on her head, snatching a quick glance at herself in the hallway mirror. She sucked in her breath, and opened the door.
Everything was silent, and yet more silent. Ginger felt a secret sensation between the silent beauty of his lanky frame as he stood outside the door. “Hoped I’d finally catch you in.” He smiled. They both felt uneasy, saying nothing as their eyes finally met. Shifting her body, she moved back to let him enter the apartment.
A twelve-foot white-flocked Christmas tree was covered with hundreds of pink blinking lights, which were reflected in the floor-to-ceiling windows. Ginger noticed Jackson’s raised eyebrow as he viewed her version of a white Christmas. She’d finally gotten her flocked tree. Funny, it was beautiful. Hating fake trees, he’d always managed to talk her out of it before. An expensive leather golf bag and clubs were the only presents left under the tree. Jackson assumed that Ginger had decided to use golf to network.
I should’ve known she’d be living in a place like this. Must cost a fortune, Jackson thought. His eyes took in everything, from the raspberry suede chairs to the expensive paintings on the walls. “Nice place,” he commented.
Extending her arm toward the expansive chintz sofa, she offered him a seat. She sat across from him, easing back in the plush chair. “It’s a little late, Jackson. Couldn’t you have made your visit earlier, when Autumn was awake? She’s been asking for you. Wondering why her daddy missed giving her a Christmas present.”
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