Knowing (20 page)

“Thanks, Jason. I’m sure I can figure out something for you to do and work around your schedule.” An unpleasant thought was nagging at her lately. She hadn’t remembered seeing Jason do any homework lately. “Jason, have you been keeping up with your studies?”

“I got it covered, Ma.”

“Sure?” She stared deeply into his eyes, looking for a quick glint of betrayal. She detected a split-second hesitation while his eyes caught up with the lie.

Jason nodded a yes, slowly, as he fingered the sparse hairs on his chin. Trying to skip the subject, he said, “I’ll do what I can to help, Ma.”

Instantly, the phone rang as if summoned by Jason’s guilty conscience. “As a matter of fact, I already got it worked out.” She gave him her best imitation of one of his smug smiles as she picked up the phone to answer.

“Hello.”

“Hey, girlfriend.”

“Kim. How’s Aunt Jewel?”

“I don’t know. She hasn’t spoken a word to me since I came home. I’ve tried to get her to talk. But she won’t answer me. She’s been in her room lying down for the last two hours. I know she’s not asleep, she keeps tossing and turning.”

“Let her be, Kim. She’s got a lot on her mind, with your daddy not being able to talk and all. Just give her a little time, to be by herself. That’s all she needs.”

Kim began crying. Short, panting sounds reached Ginger’s ears. “Kim. Take it easy. Everything’s going to be okay. Don’t take it so hard. You know how much your mother loves you.”

“I know,” she whispered. “Bill and I got in an argument over the phone while I was at work today. He hasn’t got time for me anymore. Couldn’t you tell Sunday? He left after he told the little kids stories.”

“You’ve told me how busy he was with opening the clinic. It’s got to be a strain on him, Kim.”

“Yeah, yeah. But what about the strain on me? My father just had a stroke. My mother and I arguing every other day, about nothing. Just plain nothing. Even Randall turned on me today. I can’t take too much more of this bullshit.” And my boss fucking with me at work, she wanted to add, but didn’t. Things were getting too hectic at work. The new girl, Brenda, was screwing up everything in the office, and George Cameron had blamed Kim for not training her correctly.

The other girls in the office were whispering among themselves, saying Brenda wasn’t qualified for the job and was causing them constantly to make excuses to their clients for her ineptness. Ordinarily, Kim would have taken up for any other sister they tried to put down, but in this case they were totally correct in their assumptions. They hinted at her being qualified at other things. Kim was sure she didn’t need any training in the other department because Cameron hadn’t looked at Kim in a sexual way since Brenda was hired. “Kim, why don’t you call Mama and talk to her. You two seem to be able to get along so well. She’ll know how to deal with Aunt Jewel.” She paused. “Promise me you’ll call her?”

“Sure, I’ll call. Ginger —”

“Yeah.”

“I’m thinking about quitting my job.” Kim blurted out quickly.

“What?”

Randall walked into Cameron’s office without knocking. It was past office hours, and he’d been waiting for the last person to leave before approaching him. “What the fuck! —”

“Excuse me, Mr. Pierce,” said Brenda, Picking up her bra from the desk, she quickly unstraddled herself from Cameron’s lap. She gathered her blouse, clutching it to her bouncing nude breasts, and made a beeline to the door. She looked back at Cameron before closing the paneled entryway.

“I told that stupid bitch to lock the damned door,” Cameron muttered under his breath. “And what the fuck do you want?” he asked, zipping up his pants. “I’ve just about had it with you busting in my office anytime you damned well please,” he said, walking around his desk.

Randall took a seat on the burgundy leather chair facing the desk even though he knew he hadn’t been asked, and probably wouldn’t be. “So that’s the reason you hired her. I should have figured it out sooner and saved her the embarrassment. Not that I give a damn about catching you. I’ve caught you before with other women. I’m tiring of you fucking over my Aunt Sylvie.” Reaching inside his breast pocket, he lifted a toothpick and placed it in the corner of his mouth, chewing mildly.

“And by the looks of it, she’s getting a little fed up with your indiscretions, too.” Randall jutted the toothpick upwards with a flick of his tongue.

“Why, you little bastard . . .” Cameron snapped, standing in front of him.

“If I were you, I’d sit down.” Randall stood, his six-foot frame towering over the short man. He swung his raven ponytail around until it hung perfectly down the center of his back. “You weren’t planning on hitting me, were you, Uncle?”

Cameron stepped back two steps, resting his buttocks against the back of the desk. “Hell no, what’s a piece of pussy between family? You want a piece? She’ll fuck you if I tell her to . . . and she’s damned good,” he added, walking around to sit in a leather padded arm chair. “Or,” he said, sarcastically, “would you rather have one of the delivery boys?”

Blood rushed to his face, but Randall remained cool, refusing to stoop to this level. He smiled smugly to himself, sure that the cocky son of a bitch’s days were numbered.

My Guy

Closing the door of his apartment, Randall dropped his keys on the kitchen counter, tossed his briefcase on the bar stool, then hung his black cashmere coat in the front hall closet. After pouring himself a glass of Chardonnay, he relaxed in the raspberry suede armchair next to the stereo system.

Extending his long legs, Randall leaned his head back. His Adam’s apple strained tight against his tanned skin as he stared at the ceiling while dangling the fluted wineglass carelessly in his right hand. The beauty and serenity of his surroundings, the quiet peace of being alone, made him feel wonderfully tranquil.

Anchored against the west wall was a white lacquered ladder leading up to the loft bed he used primarily for romantic evenings. Dozens of bright pillows splashed color against the blue walls. A wet bar and private bath provided all the necessary furnishings for an evening of lustful indulgence.

He’d painted his apartment in eight shades of blue: royal Hawaiian blue, midnight blue, heavenly blue, Scandinavian sky, royal blue mist, empress blue, cornflower blue, and federal indigo blue. A royal blue sectional chintz sofa accented the mix of his beloved blues. Clouds, painted as though they were billowing in the wind, wafting like sails without need of a boat, were scattered along the twelve-foot-high ceiling and along one wall that had floor-to-ceiling windows.

Large ferns and palms, placed throughout the huge great room, sat on sculptured pedestals. Beautiful paintings framed in antique gilt covered the remaining walls. Anyone visiting his home for the first time would know that Randall was a connoisseur of art. His many treasures included priceless sketches as well as paintings by obscure but interesting artists.

Randall had been obsessed with collecting since the age of twelve. He’d started by going to yard sales, garage sales, antique malls, buying and repairing what he’d found there. He’d found a few minor treasures for as little as three dollars. But with the proper repair, and the perfect frame, the small investments became attractive works. His collection now, at age twenty-four, totaled almost two hundred pieces.

He spent several hours each week restoring his paintings, rematting, reframing, and cleaning them. He learned how to glue torn canvas together, to retouch paint and work chipped paint back onto the paintings. A waterfall oil painting that he was especially fond of had had three layers of paper glued to the back of the original. He’d spent twelve hours removing the paper and glue before reframing the painting.

He took his empty glass to the sink and walked into the bedroom, peeling off clothes along the way. A black iron canopied bed was placed strategically in the center of the huge room on a pedestal of three powder blue carpeted stairs. Silk brocade pillows in cream and dusty pink, trimmed with silk tassled fringes, layered the top half of the bed. Yards of ecru chiffon were casually draped over one corner of the iron canopy, puddling like fresh cream down the steps.

Filmy ecru chiffon drapes framed the floor-to-ceiling windows on either side of the massive fireplace. A Chinese rug clung to the thick, silver blue carpeting. The whir of the ceiling fans overhead at each end of the airy hideaway lent a Mediterranean touch to the formal bedroom.

Combing his fingers through his thick hair, Randall studied the painting he was working on. He walked around the easel tilting his head to see various angles, then placed the wooden tip of the elongated black brush between his teeth and squatted.

He sat there for almost twenty minutes before finally acknowledging to himself that the concept he’d envisioned wouldn’t work. The background of the canvas was painted black, echoing his mood, but the essence of the scene that he wanted to convey still eluded him.

The clock in his work room read 10:40 P.M. It was late, but the thought of sleep was far from his mind. So was the thought of going to bed alone. Hesitantly, he dialed a number. When the phone rang and he heard a strange voice uttering hello, he quickly hung up.

A few minutes later, he found himself still staring at the phone. Wondering if he’d accidentally dialed the wrong number, he dialed again. Balancing the cordless phone under his chin, he sipped more wine, covering the easel with a drop cloth.

“Hello.”

“Hello,” he said, listening for the familiar voice.

“Was that you that called a few minutes ago and hung up?”

Tightening the caps on the tubes of paints, he answered casually, “Yeah, it was me. Who was there?”

“My uncle is here from New York. You could’ve asked,” said the voice defensively.

“Can you come over?” Randall pleaded. “I know it’s late, but I need to see you. I miss you. It’s been a while.”

“Whose fault is that?”

Randall paused, falling back on the cozy sofa, slowly drawing in several deep breaths before answering. “I wanted commitment from you. Is that too much to ask?”

“Look, I’ve missed you too. But I won’t let you force me into making a decision I feel we’ll both regret.”

Randall felt the heat stirring in his pelvis. He rubbed his growing erection as he spoke into the receiver. “Just come over tonight,” he begged. “Is your uncle —”

“He just went to bed. He’ll be asleep soon — can you wait?”

He reached inside his pants, extracted his penis, and massaged the outer skin in gentle downward strokes. A faint gasp escaped from his mouth. “Not long.”

“I love you — you know.”

“I know. Hurry,” said Randall, forcing his voice to sound calm.

Running down the aisle, Ginger checked her watch, hoping it was a tad fast. Two minutes and he’d be there. Hurry, hurry, she told herself — you can walk faster than this. Skipping up the escalator stairs in twos, she dropped her purse and keys on the conveyor belt as she quickly walked through the large arch of the metal detector. Bzzzzzz.

“Can you step over here please, miss?”

“Damn,” she muttered to herself, “I don’t have time for this shit today.”

The airport security personnel asked if she had on anything metal, and she assured him she did not. He nodded for her to pass through again. Again the buzzer went off. Several people behind her, also in a hurry, were becoming impatient.

Stepping to the side again, she cursed under her breath as the attendant asked her to remove her coat. She obliged him grudgingly, and he put the coat through the machine— no buzzer. He examined her critically.

Then she remembered. Reaching in the back pocket of her blue jean skirt, she removed a key. She’d tucked the key to her locker at work in her back pocket after Veto had used it to get her coat and purse so her boss wouldn’t notice she was sneaking out early. The security man looked at the key and waved her on.

She attached the iron key to her key ring and bounded down the aisle to the designated terminal. Checking her watch again, she looked around, and noticed the gate to the plane was closed. Hardly any of the waiting-area seats were occupied. Panic started to set in. It was just 9:47; she couldn’t have missed him. His plane was schedule to land at 9:40. Ginger ran to the desk to inquire.

“Miss?” she said, panting as she placed her hand over her throbbing chest, “has flight three-o-three arrived?” Her eyes were fixed on the plane taxiing toward gate number Fifteen A.

The flight attendant pointed to the schedule of incoming planes behind her. “That flight was delayed on the layover in Chicago because of the inclement weather. It’s not scheduled to land in Metro until eleven fifty-nine A.M.”

Damn, what am I going to do for two hours? Ginger wondered in irritation. After a visit to the newsstand, she placed her purse on the vacant seat beside her, balanced her large cup of piping hot lemon tea on her crossed leg, and took out the
Detroit News
from her purse. She began reading the cover story.

“Hi, baby,” said Jackson, bending down to kiss Ginger on the mouth. A large package bundled with brown paper crackled noisily as he hoisted it higher on his hip. “I wasn’t expecting to —”