Knowing (53 page)

A slow groan escaped Jackson’s throat. He started thrashing his legs wildly. Turning his head from side to side. Ginger held on as Jackson tried to scoot from beneath her sucking embrace, but she held on, suckling him harder as they rolled off the bed.

“Stop, baby. I can’t take any more,” Jackson pleaded as he struggled to free himself.

That’s what you think. Ginger came after him. Jackson was valiantly trying to catch his breath when Ginger flipped him over onto his back. Ginger covered Jackson’s body in reverse with hers, curling her toes around his shoulders, pinning him down with her weight. Taking his penis back into her mouth, she watched his toes pointing like arrows as she stroked him.

He was powerless to make an attempt to stop her again. Ginger could hear the cries of pleasure as his body began to shake. She placed her hands beneath Jackson’s buttocks, forcing him deeper into her mouth. She could see his testicles stiffening, roaming rampant beneath rows of ringed flesh.

Knowing that his climax was near, she clamped his sweat-soaked buttocks tighter. Ginger continued to draw him into the warmth of her, as Jackson dug his heels into the carpeting, begging her to stop, knowing he couldn’t hold back much longer.

“Please, baby . . . don’t! Please . . .” Jackson begged.

Ignoring his pleas, Ginger sucked harder, faster, increasing the tempo, until his veins, strained to the limit along the sides of his rigid penis, took on a purple hue. Ginger let her mind take control of her body, focusing all her attention on her fingertips and tongue, and played a synchronized rhythm along the length of his penis, adjusting and increasing the tempo.

Ginger could almost hear his heart beating outside his chest, like the drums that she knew were pounding inside his brain. Then he came, and came, trembling uncontrollably. Jackson clamped his legs together tightly, his body responding to the shattering spasms. Ginger massaged the milky fluid oozing from him, then caught her breath, exhausted, wishing his heart had given out. It would have been just what he deserved.

She let him lie on the floor as he was, tangled in the heap of sheets, his heavy breathing winding down to small snatches of a snore, just as he was.

He’d loved it, just as Ginger always assumed he would. Ginger’s sweat mixed with tears as she reached to turn off the music. Hesitating for a moment before she left the room, she stood near the bed, looking down at Jackson, staring at the man she loved and hated.

Blowing out the candle, she took one last look at Jackson. Tears streamed uncontrollably down her face. When his light snoring graduated into a deep sleep, she left him. Thoroughly disgusted, she went into the bathroom to clean herself, knowing that a part of her would never be completely clean again.

Knowing he’d be asleep for hours, she pulled the double doors to close off their bed from the living area of their bedroom and packed a small suitcase. She scribbled a note and taped it on the bathroom mirror. Waking Christian, she told him quickly to pack a bag for a few days, and not to ask her any questions. She’d explain later. After packing a bag for the girls, Christian carried the sleeping Autumn, and Ginger assisted Sierra’s drowsy body to the minivan. At first Ginger thought she should go to her mother’s, but instinct told her that Kim’s place would be a better choice. With Kim still in the hospital, she’d have some privacy. She still had her key, and she knew that Kim wouldn’t mind her and the kids staying for a little while.

Later that evening, Jackson felt for her in the darkness, coming up empty, yet feeling the stickiness between his legs and remembering. He couldn’t believe what he had allowed her to do. Had he been so drunk that he’d dreamed the whole thing? The clammy feeling between his legs proved otherwise.

Walking into the bathroom, he called out her name. Getting no answer, he turned on the light and noticed the note taped on the mirror.

Anger filled him as he read the cutting words:
It takes a bitch to know a bitch and to show a bitch — fuck you
. He didn’t bother to look downstairs. He knew she was gone. Still feeling the effects of the alcohol, he walked naked back to their bed and stretched out in the center without covering himself. She could just go to hell. Fuck her. He didn’t need a whore for a wife anyway.

On the tenth of December, Kim finally regained her power of speech, and related to Bill the whole sordid story behind the videotape. She knew what she’d done was wrong, but hoped that Bill could forgive her.

“Kim, I knew about your past before I met you. I’d heard the rumors, but I ignored them. I’m not perfect. And I don’t expect you to be. I know from past experience that everyone has some shameful secret they’re reluctant to share. And I wouldn’t have watched a video of you making love to another man, no matter what the circumstances. I have more respect for you than that.” Bill’s eyes filled with tears as he hugged the woman he loved. “I want you to promise me you’ll never try anything like this again.”

“Promise. I love you, Dr. Bill. I can’t begin to explain how much,” Kim said, her voice still shaky from the medication.

Then, pushing her back to arm’s length, Bill asked Kim if she would forgive
him
. Confusion was written all over her face. “For what?” she asked.

“I never told you about my son that died.”

Beneath the stark-white hospital sheets, Kim’s body stiffened, unbelieving. “You had a son?”

“Yes. Remember the story I told the students at Wayne State about the reasons why I dedicated my life to being a doctor?” Kim nodded, still startled by his revelation. “The child I was referring to that died in the shooting was my son.” A gasp escaped Kim’s lips. “The boy’s mother, Angel, and I were high school sweethearts. She knew my plans to attend medical school. We agreed to wait until I completed my internship before marrying and starting a family.

“But Angel became pregnant just before graduation. Somehow my mother found out, and confronted her. Angel assured me that she’d get an abortion. I didn’t know why then, but that’s when our relationship started falling apart. Before I left, we agreed to communicate, but my letters and phone calls went unanswered a few months later.

“I found out from my mother Angel had left town, and shortly afterwards, married a man much older than herself. Years later, after her husband died, she returned with her son. After one look at the boy, my mother put two and two together and guessed the child was mine. Angel didn’t deny it. But my mother never told me about the boy until it was too late. Less than a month after my son was shot, my mother had a heart attack. I was bitter, Kim. I’d lost my son, my mother, and part of my soul as well.”

Now Kim understood Bill’s ideas about raising a family, and why he had resented her not wanting any children. But after everything that had happened in their lives, he knew that now was not the time to talk about it. They had come a long way.

Embracing Bill, Kim wept harder than she had in years. Everything was coming together.

*    *    *

“It’s so good to hear from you, Randall,” Kim said, cupping the telephone receiver.

“How you feeling?”

“I’m just fine. Thanks for the calls to Bill,” Kim answered, looking at the photograph of Bill that sat on the stand near her bed.

“Anytime.”

“I should be going home by the end of December. Maybe before Christmas if everything goes well.” A wave of guilt made Kim want to explain to Randall why she had been so stupid as to try and take her life. “Randall . . .” she began slowly.

“Listen, Kim we’re friends. There’s no need to explain. I’ve always known what went on between you and Cameron. Believe me, knowing Bill, I can understand why you felt that you couldn’t tell him. Until now. He’s got a fresh attitude about life. Just give him a little time.” His voice wavered, enunciating each word carefully. “Time is precious. None of us knows how much time we have in this world. We have no idea how long. But once that time is lost, it’s irretrievable.”

“Randall . . . ?” Kim felt a lump in her throat. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“Anything?”

“Have you found anyone special since you’ve been in London?”

“No. Just an occasional distraction from . . . you know.”

“You two haven’t had any further communication?”

“He’s been over a few times. He assures me that he still loves me, yet he’s still not ready to commit to what we could have together. I don’t believe he will ever come to terms with his sexuality . . . so . . . I’ve tried to forget him. That’s part of the reason why I’m not coming back. But there’s no one I’ve met who comes close to what we shared.”

“I understand totally, Randall.”

Kim was released from the hospital five days before Christmas. After a visit from her father, she’d made a speedy recovery. Ollie jokingly told her that he would probably outlive her. When he actually walked from the doorway to her bedside, it had given her the extra push that she needed. Her father had left her with a word of wisdom for her future.

“No one is so old that he cannot live yet another year, nor so young that he cannot die today. When God wounds from on high, he will follow with the remedy. When one door closes, fortune will usually open another.”

Kim rehearsed those words until she knew them by heart. They taught her to believe in the glory and the wisdom of God.

Ginger and her three children had spent two weeks cramped in Kim’s apartment before Randall suggested to Kim that Ginger and her kids use his apartment. It was all paid for. The only stipulation was tender loving care of its inhabitants.

Edward Deiter was charged with second-degree murder, rape, and attempted rape. He was arraigned, and a “presentation of evidence” trial date was set, as was a bond in excess of $250,000. After completely draining his bank account, Deiter made bond and returned home.

After rumors of his behavior spread, he was inevitably dismissed from his position as an advertising executive. Unable to seek employment, he eventually lost his home. Piece by piece Edward Deiter’s life fell apart. The last anyone heard, he was purportedly living in Indiana with a young woman.

After reading that Mr. Deiter was released on bond, Ginger was afraid to go out alone. More often she took Christian with her on home showings. The girls went only when Christian was unavailable. They enjoyed looking at the homes. It was like a personalized Parade of Homes which they’d frequented with Ginger over the years.

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.