Knowing (49 page)

Ginger spun around, her eyes ablaze. “I don’t fucking believe you can possibly think I have the time or the inclination to blanch and freeze vegetables after all I’ve been through. Did it ever occur to you that your wife might be tired?”

Jackson caught himself before calling her lazy. She knew it was time to pick the vegetables. Each year they always put away the garden for the fall. He hadn’t told her to take on all the added work of Kim’s business. Why couldn’t Bill handle it? Kim was his woman. Jackson wanted
his
woman to take care of
his
business at home. And if she couldn’t, he knew a woman who would. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take care of it,” he said.

Ginger had turned her back, pretending to take her vitamins as she geared up for a confrontation. But then he surprised her. Changed the rhythm. Had she heard him right? Okay, bucko, I got your number. They hadn’t made love since all the ruckus had started. Nearly two weeks. They never went that long when they weren’t mad at each other. That was it, he wanted sex. “Whatever,” was all she managed to say before a knowing smile formed on her lips.

Later that afternoon, Jackson caught her just as she was making herself a soothing cup of tea, spiced with a stiff shot of brandy. Coming in from gardening, he was in a good mood. His baby girl had cornered him just as he was clipping the last head of broccoli. “Listen, baby, I got a joke for you. Autumn just made it up this morning. I can’t believe how talented that girl is.”

“Tell me the joke, Jackson.”

“Here’s how it goes: ‘Your mama so fat, she sat on a quarter and squeezed a booger out of George Washington’s nose.’ ”

Ginger didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh. Just sat staring at Jackson, watching him keel over laughing. He didn’t know Autumn was just mimicking a comedian from
In Living Color
the night before.

“You didn’t think it was funny?”

“Not particularly.”

“Wait, wait. I got another one for you. My uncle told me this joke twenty years ago, but I always liked it. Hold on. Give me a minute to get it right.” He scratched his head, thinking. “Two bulls were ambling along a pasture one summer day, and then, walking up on a hill, stopped to chat under a tree. The older bull was telling the young bull about the facts of life, when the younger bull happened to look down in the pasture and saw a herd of cows. He said to the older bull, ‘Let’s run down there, grab one, and fuck her.’ The older bull hesitated, took his time saying, ‘Let’s
walk
down and fuck ’em all.’ ”

Ginger waited a few seconds, then burst out laughing. “Now that was funny. I might have to send a tape of you and your daughter’s comedic debut to
Star Search.
”

They fell on the floor laughing, releasing the tension that had separated them for weeks. Temporarily, Ginger let her problems roll off her back like water over petroleum jelly. Ginger loved playing the hussy. She got into character, deepened her normal husky voice, gave Jackson a sexy smile and a quick bump and grind of her hip. The heat was on, and they both knew it. Resting her hand on Jackson’s knee, she faced him, the devilishness in her eyes speaking seduction. “Remember how Michael Douglas threw Sharon Stone against the wall in
Basic Instinct
?” She moved in closer, raking her nails beneath the bulge of his crotch. “And remember when Al Pacino threw Ellen Barkin against the refrigerator in the
Sea of Love
? Why don’t you throw me against the wall like that?”

Jackson, sweaty from hours in the garden, knew the signals. He threw Ginger against the refrigerator as she had asked, kissing her hard. She winced from pain. A light laugh tumbled from her belly. They both slid down the cool surface of the icebox, laughing, as their lips parted. “Black people don’t screw like that.” Lying on the kitchen floor, they roared with laughter.

Jackson was back in the saddle. He knew by the pleasure in Ginger’s face that Bronco Billy and Miss Lilly would ride the prairie by their lonesome tonight.

When Ginger was finally alone, she basked in the peaceful silence. Sitting downstairs in the family room, nursing her toddy, she let her head fall back as she tuned in Oprah. The kids were riding their bikes through Palmer Park with their new schoolmates. Autumn had grown so tall over the summer; Jackson finally convinced her to join the basketball team. But the swim meets had begun first, and this particular afternoon Sierra had talked her into going to check out the competition. Namely, the boys’ team.

“I went inside myself for three years,” a voice said from the TV. “I didn’t have the power to strike back at people when they ridiculed me.”

“The painful part was when people looked at me,” another voice added.

“People can be nasty. They give you dirty looks, and you wonder how to respond sometimes when people stare at you.” The pain in the woman’s eyes was shared by the rest of the panel on stage. Ginger was riveted to the set. “People wonder if it’s contagious. They mistake it as cancer. Think you’re undergoing chemotherapy treatments.”

The only male on the panel talked about a neurolinguistic programming he’d recently listened to by Tony Robbins. He claimed that after listening to and implementing Robbins’s suggestions for breathing techniques to cleanse the body, he’d noticed a small growth of hair after four weeks. Ginger wrote down the name and immediately dialed the 800 number when the segment ended for a commercial break.

There were all kinds of information for people like those on the panel who suffered from alopecia areata or its severe type, alopecia totalis. The TV screen flashed the number of the National Alopecia Foundation, but Ginger didn’t bother to write down the number. She’d spoken to them on several occasions throughout the years, only to find out that there was still no cure. Just theories.

A dermatologist hired by the Oprah staff discussed the problem of hair loss, explaining that a growing number of Americans suffered from it. Though alopecia wasn’t a life-threatening disease, it did threaten the quality of life. A strong person could grow weak as a result of experiencing this mind-boggling disorder. In certain cases it was hereditary. Statistically, twenty percent of the patients who had it found that there was a history of alopecia in their family line. And if tuberculosis and diabetes were prevalent in a patient’s family history, some doctors argued that their chances of contracting the malady were greater. Some of his patients confided in him that their first reaction was that God was punishing them.

A woman who’d taken off her wig, tears streaming down her face, moved the audience with her personal experiences. She’d almost committed suicide because she was so unable to bear the pain and humiliation. She felt as if she’d lost all of her femininity. Didn’t feel sexual at all. However, during her tearful confession she tried to make the audience understand the difference between female baldness and male baldness. She claimed that men looked sexy when they were bald. And they usually kept their eyebrows, while these women did not.

Ginger thought about how sexy Michael Jordan was with his bald head. Yul Brynner had been another sex symbol. And she had a crush on the bald and sexy Charles Barkley. The woman was right. They all had their eyebrows, and mustaches if they so desired. Ginger touched the smooth surface where her eyebrows once grew. She felt a watershed of tears damming behind her eyes.

A proud, bald Black woman from Detroit who frequented the same doctor Ginger did suddenly jumped into the conversation. She told the audience she’d never felt more beautiful. She refused to wear wigs, because she felt as though God had taken away her hair for a reason. Years ago, she’d had to accept the look on the face in the mirror that showed no distinctive definition, that was devoid of expression without eyelashes and eyebrows. She’d had to reconcile it all within herself, and make adjustments. She pointed out that hair follicles missing in her nose and her eyebrows were there for a reason. The nose hair kept your nose from constantly running. The eyebrows stopped the sweat from pouring into your eyes. These were small things that people seemed to take for granted — until they lost them.

Later that evening, Ginger couldn’t shake the painful memories the women had shared with the audience. Still, Jackson hadn’t noticed that her mind was elsewhere when they made love. And she couldn’t confide in him how she’d felt after watching the Oprah show. He wouldn’t understand. No one would.

But she’d bare her soul to Kim during her frequent visits to the hospital, knowing that her cousin was still in a comatose state, unable to respond. Ginger felt herself weakening. Memories of years of dealing with the trial of being hairless had broken her spirit, and nearly broken her.

Ginger remembered a night when Jackson hadn’t been complimentary about her eye makeup, as he was the night of Gene Russell’s party. Jackson would probably never recollect the evening, but Ginger would never forget it. Jackson was helping her put on her fake eyelashes before going out.

“Turn around,” he said.

“Like this?” Ginger was sweating profusely, something she didn’t ordinarily do. But they were going to the Fox Theater to see Aretha Franklin. She wanted to look soft and feminine, and felt that wearing fake eyelashes would give her that effect. She and Jackson had been in the bathroom for nearly an hour, trying to secure the feathery things.

As Ginger turned to look in the mirror, she caught her breath, shocked to see the wide-eyed, owl-like expression they gave her. She tore them from her eyelids, trying to make a joke of it, hoping Jackson wouldn’t laugh. But he did.

Funny, Ginger thought, how relaxed she was being there, alone, watching Kim’s feeble form. Away from the house, the kids, Jackson, the office, and school, she felt a weird solace. Ginger lifted Kim’s limp hand, caressed it tenderly. Kim still lay motionless, her face expressionless, her skin a dull grayish brown. Ginger studied the bags of fluid seeping life into Kim’s veins. The clear liquid dripped soundlessly. She doesn’t feel any pain, thought Ginger.

Sweet blossoms of freshly cut flowers filled the small room. Bill faithfully changed the arrangements weekly, whether they were wilting or not. Ginger remembered him saying that when Kim awakened, he wanted her to see the beauty of life, alive and new.

Bending her head forward, she clutched both hands to her face, rubbing up and down, down and back, stretching her flesh. Turning toward the window at her mirrored reflection, she was repulsed by a woman wallowing in self-pity. Unwanted tears fell, dripping from her lashless eyes.

The tears cleansed her troubled heart as Ginger felt the splendor of miracles slipping inside her. It was as though God were opening her eyes and explaining why. . . .

Everything in life happens for a reason. And God humbled her by taking something she prized. Ginger thought to herself, I’ve truly been blessed and didn’t even realize it.

For a moment, she forgot all of her sorrows and pain. The color, the fragrance, the sheer perfection of every bouquet surrounding Kim’s room somehow seemed more profound, more intense than they had just moments ago. And she came away full of love, knowing. . . .

Before leaving, Ginger kissed Kim on the cheek. Feeling better than she had in months, Ginger laid her head over Kim’s heart, cupping her hands over Kim’s. Ginger bolted up, stunned. She’d felt a slight flicker in Kim’s right index finger.

Run Away Child, Running Wild

Near the middle of November, Ginger received a shocking phone call from the rape crisis counselor, Mrs. Ruth Beverly, who asked if she would come in and speak to a victim. The circumstances leading to the rape had been similar to Ginger’s. Apparently Mr. Deiter had raped another young woman who now lay in the intensive care unit of Detroit Receiving Hospital, fighting for her life.

Ginger couldn’t do it. She’d relived that horrible night too many times, and was just beginning to sleep better at night. She felt the pressure of Mrs. Beverly’s plea, but she didn’t yield. She had enough problems of her own to deal with.

Her relationship with Sierra was strained because of the impending trial. Sierra’s grades, already low, were falling dramatically. And each time she sat Sierra down for a heart-to-heart talk, it ended in screams and threats. Sierra’s self-esteem was failing, and so was Ginger’s patience.

Classes at the school of design were canceled that Saturday morning. The instructor was sick, but had left homework assignments for Monday’s session. Ginger thought of the sick young girl suffering in the hospital. She felt helpless. That could have been Sierra languishing there. She was suddenly ashamed of herself for not offering her assistance. And so by 9:30 A.M, Ginger found herself in the parking lot of Receiving Hospital.

“The girl’s been through hell,” Mrs. Beverly explained to Ginger. They rode the elevator downstairs from the counselor center to the intensive care unit.

The young girl’s name was Ri-Va. She was just twenty-five years old. She’d been walking along Woodward Avenue to her apartment, just six blocks away. Suddenly, a man grabbed her from behind, covered her mouth, and threw her inside his car, placing a paper bag over her face. She caught only a quick glimpse of him. After he parked in a nearby alley, she fought, clawed, and scratched, but her efforts against his overwhelming power proved futile, and he raped her in the backseat of the vehicle.