Knowing (36 page)

“Perfect.” I haven’t forgotten a thing about you, she wanted to say— the smell of your skin, the texture of your hair, the glaze on your eyes when you take off your glasses. Yet something made her hold back. Folding her arms beneath her head, she lay back, her eyes closed, mulling over pleasant memories.

Flashes of the last time they made love reeled through her mind as if in slow motion. That had been several months ago, and it was wonderful. How she missed touching him, loving him, the ruddy hue of his raw skin after they were done. Tingles prickled along her taut belly, and the tips of her fingers itched to touch, to feel.

As much as she loved him — and she couldn’t deny that — she wasn’t ready to forgive him for not returning her calls, her pleas begging for understanding. Many a night Kim had parked outside his apartment building trying to build up the nerve to go in and plead yet again, to try to make him understand. And on each of those occasions she’d found Sheila’s car either parked or approaching Bill’s apartment complex. After nights of spying, Kim felt ashamed, and didn’t return again. It was over.

Leaning his upper torso over Kim, he kissed her tenderly, saying, “I love you. Forever. I’ll love you forever, Kim, until the end of time.” He stroked her cheeks as she opened her eyes, searching his, her mouth agape wanting to respond.

She closed her lips. Closed her eyes. Enraptured by his profession of love, a soft hope blended with apprehension. Her instincts and intelligence told her to hold back a little bit of herself for safekeeping — even as the pulsing of her heart sought another.

Jason started his senior year at the end of August six credits short of the forty-four he needed to graduate by next June. Two weeks into September, Jason discussed his dilemma with his home-boy Mick, with whom he’d played basketball daily over the summer. They both were in the same situation. Together, they made up jokes on the basketball court about school, how stupid it was.

Eventually Jason started cutting classes. On the days he graced the school with his presence, he interrupted the class by continuously letting out gas or laughing with the other students. His Spanish teacher dropped her coffee at seeing fake spiders floating on top. Wads of chewing gum held tacks in place at the edge of his economics teacher’s seat. Ultimately, he was caught and sent to detention.

He never studied, and began taking a lackadaisical attitude toward school. And by October boredom had set in. He was out of pranks, and running out of time, which led him to his final act: bringing a toy gun to school. Jason was caught taking the gun from his locker by his science teacher. Thirty minutes later, he left the principal’s office, suspended from the Detroit public school system.

Letters were sent home detailing the incident and Jason’s suspension. With no response from Jason’s parents, the letters kept coming, and Jason found ingenious ways to intercept them.

During the day he played basketball at an out-of-the-way court that most of the other dropouts frequented daily. His girlfriend, Tiara, stopped by during the school lunch hour to try to talk some sense into him.

“I’ll tutor you, Jason. We can bring up your grades, together.” Tiara was eager to help Jason, buying into the lies he’d told her, saying he was flunking his senior year because of low grades. He was too ashamed to admit that he’d been expelled for something as stupid as bringing a toy gun to school.

Jason kept silent. Getting A’s was the least of his problems. When he barely studied he got a B. When he did absolutely nothing he could make a C. But he wasn’t ready to tell this young girl with her puppy-love emotions how difficult life could be. Jason leaned against her car, bouncing the basketball as he listened to Tiara, his mind light-years away. Nobody could understand how he felt. Nobody could. . . .

Eventually the school called the Montgomery home directly, and Ginger found out that her son had been suspended from school for an entire month and had lied about it.

Hanging up the phone, she was stunned by her son’s deception. Hadn’t any of the kids noticed him being home? Why hadn’t Christian mentioned anything being odd about Jason’s attitude? How could her household be falling apart right before her eyes and she not be aware of it? Had she taken on too much responsibility, thinking she could manipulate two jobs?

Earlier that evening, having confined Jason to his room, after vowing to half-kill him if he left for any reason other than to go to the bathroom or have dinner, Ginger left his room fuming. He would not give her an explanation as to why he’d started a nonstop campaign to fail school. He said nothing. Wouldn’t even look at her, just stared noncommittally out his bedroom window.

Ginger spoke to each of the kids individually, and they swore they hadn’t known anything about Jason being suspended. After the girls said their prayers, Ginger kissed them on their cheeks, tucking them in bed. She caught Christian closing the door to Jason’s room with an “I tried to talk to him, Mom, but he wouldn’t listen” expression on his face. But he shrugged his pajamaed shoulders, padding barefoot toward his room.

Ginger, nervously chewing away on a Milky Way, found Jackson downstairs in the family room. “I’m worried about Jason, Jackson. He’s never been this rebellious before. He’s not exactly setting a good role model for the rest of the kids. And I don’t know how to reach him.”

“If you were at home more, maybe you would have seen this coming.”

The bitterness in his tone stung Ginger as the truth of his words hit home. She didn’t try to defend herself, momentarily silenced by the sharp pain of an oncoming headache convulsing from the base of her neck, searing its way up to her throbbing temples.

Sitting next to Jackson on the sofa, she winced as he watched
The
War Wagon
, another John Wayne classic. Though she’d seen this Western at least three times— and Jackson had seen it twenty times or so — she enjoyed watching Kirk Douglas. The cleft he’d had put in his chin always intrigued her. Made him sexy, somehow.

During commercials, Jackson constantly changed channels — which got on Ginger’s nerves. She elected to go upstairs for two Tylenol and another candy bar while he flicked back and forth. Back and forth. It didn’t make any sense. Couldn’t he keep his mind focused on one station for more than five minutes? The only activity that seemed to hold his attention for long was sex. And lately they both seemed to be vying for the prize, see who could hold off the longest. It was a Mexican standoff.

The big-screen television Ginger had purchased from her latest commission check was supposed to be a special gift for the kids. However, Jackson had taken it over, much to their heartfelt objections. Why couldn’t he watch television upstairs, like he used to?

Mesmerized by the violent action on the set, Jackson uttered a statement that left Ginger reeling. “Let him flunk. Teach him a lesson. You baby that boy too much, Ginger. You’ve spoiled him rotten.”

How could he say such a thing? Who could have been more spoiled by his mother than Jackson was? Let her son flunk, not graduate with his class? Never! He must be crazy. Or think that she was.

Briefly, she ignored his selfish comment, massaging her forehead, and responded, “He’s going to have to go to night school, Jackson. I don’t know where these schools on the list are.”

His eyes hadn’t left the television for a millisecond. “I told you. Teach him a lesson. Let him know that his unappreciative attitude won’t be tolerated. Who’s going to take him to night school every night? It don’t let out until ten P.M. You gonna go pick him up, and get back in the bed maybe by eleven, and get back up to go to work at three-thirty A.M.? You’re being punished instead of him. Let him flunk.”

Ginger was furious, but she held her emotions in check. She merely said, “I’ll handle it myself. You don’t have to worry about my missing time at work, I can make it.” I always have, she thought to herself — and felt the pain of being alone. A part of her refused to accept just how alone she felt, even though she shared most of her adult life with a man. Her heart made her speak the familiar words, “Jackson, I don’t want to argue. Let’s not argue tonight.” Ginger’s head suddenly felt numb. The pain subsided, in its place an ache in the core of her bosom. She secretly wished there was a pill in the medicine cabinet full of her prescription drugs that could cure an ailing heart.

After all the preachings Jackson had given her about how much his mother had done for him, his sisters and brothers, how much he loved his mother and respected her, how much she’d sacrificed, didn’t he think she wanted her kids to feel the same way about her? After all, she was a mother too. And just because his mother was saved and sanctified, she didn’t love her kids any more than Ginger loved hers. When you truly loved your child, she thought, religion didn’t have anything to do with it. Being saved didn’t make you a better parent, didn’t make you love your child more than the next-door neighbor loved hers. How could he expect her to give up on her son, who was only a child at seventeen, when Jackson, as a man, at forty-three, had yet to relinquish the apron strings of his mother?

Ginger stared at the clump of clothes in front of the laundry chute through the mirror as she applied her makeup. I’m not picking it up. Not today, she told herself. Fifteen minutes later, Jackson emerged from the darkness in the bathroom, stretching his arms and squinting his eyes as they adjusted to the bright light.

Giving her a quick kiss on the cheek, he reached for his toothbrush. Ginger stiffened as their bodies touched. She rolled her eyes, which he ignored, continuing his vigorous brushing.

Having dressed and checked on the kids, she made herself a cup of tea, and Jackson’s coffee, then returned to their bedroom. Peeking inside the bathroom, she noticed the pile of clothes still resting comfortably on the floor. “You ready, Jackson?”

“Yeah,” said Jackson, fastening the latch on his watch. He turned out the lights in the sitting room. When he reached for the bathroom lights, Ginger caught his arm. “Aren’t you going to pick up your dirty clothes?”

He rolled his eyes, saying nothing, and strolled out of the room.

Ginger turned off the light, quickly skipping steps down the front staircase as Jackson went down the back stairwell. Standing before him as his foot touched the bottom step, she pushed her knuckles into her hips. “I’m tired of picking up after you, Jackson. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were doing it on purpose. Diet Pepsi cans are all over our bedroom. Empty packages of cracklin’ are on the dresser instead of in the trash can.”

“Is this my coffee?” he asked, moving past her into the kitchen, picking up the warm mug.

“I’m calling a service to come in and clean once a week. This is getting to be too much. And since you don’t give a damn about how tired —”

“You had a woman in here cleaning every day. Remember? You threw her out. You had it made. Mae Thelma —”

“Don’t you mention that bitch’s name in my house.” She grabbed her purse from the counter, spilling hot tea on the floor. She paused, turning by the back door. “And since you seem to have such admiration for bitches, consider yourself married to one.”

Ginger snubbed the cotton mountain Jackson was building on their bathroom floor. She ignored the soda cans, ignored the crumbled papers all over the room. She supervised the kids cleaning every other room in the house, but left their bedroom just as Jackson left it, a cluttered mess.

Weeks passed before he finally got the message and cleaned up his mess. However, he hadn’t bothered to speak to her cordially. Didn’t say hello or good-bye. Just complained when dinner was late.

Ginger grew exceedingly tired of carrying more than her share of work. Taking Jason to school during the week was more taxing than she’d imagined. Her patience with Jackson was wearing thin. She even made an appointment with Merry Maids to come out and give her an estimate on the cost of a weekly cleaning. But knowing this would cause further problems between her and Jackson, she called back and canceled.

Ginger tried to gloss over their problems when the kids questioned her. They wanted to know why Jackson was mad all the time. Why Mommy cried in the bathroom when he was gone. It was getting harder to keep up the pretense of their once happy marriage.

For the sake of her children, Ginger decided to make more of an effort to smooth out the problems she and Jackson were having, knowing her children deserved and needed the strength and stability of a family home. After one unsuccessful marriage, Ginger vowed that she wouldn’t let her kids suffer through a string of stepfathers like so many of her friends’ children had to. Usually the children ended up the real victims.

Taking vacation time from work over the Thanksgiving holiday, Ginger planned a spectacular dinner for her family. The girls pitched in, cutting up onions, bell peppers, and celery for the cornbread dressing while Ginger juggled pans of hot cornbread and toasted white bread from oven to broiler. Jason and Christian did an exemplary job washing Ginger’s antique china service and setting the dining room table.

The windows grew steamy from hours of cooking as the buttery aroma of a twenty-five-pound turkey roasting in the oven and the rich bouquet of desserts cooling on the racks engendered a holiday atmosphere at the Montgomery home.

Jackson smiled at Ginger before seating himself at the head of the table. Two lighted candelabra at each end of the table emitted a pleasant lavender scent. Ginger reached out and took Jackson’s hand on her right and Jason’s on her left, bowing her head in prayer. And each of the children linked hands in turn, forming a chain as Ginger said the blessings.

This was the catalyst to break the ice between Ginger and Jackson. At Jackson’s suggestion they played Concentration downstairs in the family room. Concentration turned to playing Tonk. Tonk ended with several hands of Speed, until Jackson threw the cards in the air, administering his temporary crown to Sierra, who was faster than anybody at Speed.

The warm smile Jackson aimed at Ginger was readily read and accepted. Together, they walked hand in hand up the stairs to their room. They didn’t need to say anything else.