Knowing (51 page)

That did it
. She was nobody’s bitch. Not his. Not anyone’s. Her upper torso wheeled up, catching Jackson’s palm before impact. “Don’t you
ever
put your hands on me again,” she hissed. Jackson hesitated, their eyes locking. Snorting, he left the bed without another look, or another word passing between them.

Days passed slowly the next weekend, the nights even more slowly, while Ginger endured fitful sleep on the sofa. By the beginning of the second week, Ginger felt the need to reconcile. She couldn’t go on living this way. They were worse than strangers — they were virtual enemies. Someone had to make the first move.

Having rehearsed her entire speech, Ginger was waiting for Jackson when he returned home from work. She made a final attempt to assure her man that she hadn’t been intimate with anyone but him. Asking his forgiveness, again, for hesitating to tell him the truth. Couldn’t he understand? No, he couldn’t. His nose flared wide as if he smelled something foul, his eyes as deadly as a vampire’s as he stared at her, then casually walked away.

Ginger endured hours of counseling, spending more time with a therapist who casually suggested to Ginger that her husband accompany her at their next visit. She told Ginger that she would not be able to help her much further without the presence of her husband. Jackson finally agreed after weeks of her crying and coaxing.

When the psychologist tried to explain to Jackson the trauma of a woman dealing with an assault on her person and the repercussions stemming from that attempt, Jackson remained impassive. Barely fifteen minutes passed before he got up and walked out, refusing to return.

They drove home in silence. Hurt and humiliated, Ginger willed herself not to cry.

As he pulled the Bronco to a stop in the driveway, he turned to face her. “I’ve just got one thing to say. Quit the real estate business.” He could see the shock in Ginger’s face as he continued in an authoritative tone. “I don’t care if you go to work at Kmart. I don’t care if you take up sewing wedding dresses again. But not this damned house-selling shit!”

“You’re not being fair, Jackson. You know how much work I’ve put into developing my career. I’m successful, and you know it.” Hurt filled her voice.

“I don’t give a damn about success. You’re my wife before you’re anything, and I won’t have you out showing men property at all times of the night. We both know what can happen!”

The whirring of the fan from the heater was the only sound inside the Bronco as they both sat mute.

“Jackson —”

He lifted his hands from clenching the steering wheel and pointed a finger in her face. “I don’t want to hear it. I really don’t want to hear any more about this. I said quit! Quit or —”

Staring him down, ignoring the finger wagging in her face, Ginger knew what was coming next. “Or what, Jackson?” she asked evenly. How could the most beautiful person in the world all of a sudden look so ugly to her?

“Or there won’t be a marriage left to counsel. You got a week to make up your mind.” Before she could say a word, he exited the truck and slammed the door.

“Fuck you,” she said, alone inside the truck.

The next week dragged by. Thank God the kids sensed something was wrong. There wasn’t a single argument among them — a miracle in itself.

Ginger’s heart skipped a beat each time Jackson passed her that weekend, thinking this would be the time they would sit down and discuss their problems. She was sure he could see how upset she was. But it was becoming increasingly evident that he didn’t care, and Ginger was losing her patience. She couldn’t deal with all the pressure. She wrote him a letter, hoping to explain her feelings calmly. Maybe after reading it he would finally understand her.

Didn’t he care anymore? Didn’t he love her? Or had their marriage been just lust, after all? His silence, and indifference, seemed to answer for her.

“I should have known she was under too much pressure,” Bill said to Randall. Bill had just taken a quick shower and was on his way back to the hospital when the phone rang.

“You can’t blame yourself,” said Randall. “Just thank God that she’s alive. If you ever loved her, Bill, give her a chance to explain.”

Three days after Kim’s attempted suicide, Randall had finally managed to catch Bill at home. Randall sensed that Bill was still uncomfortable talking to him, and tried to keep their conversation short.

Randall wouldn’t be able to put all the pieces together until he spoke to Kim, but somehow Cameron had gotten to Kim that night. But Randall was certain he knew what had happened that night. However, this wasn’t the time to go into it.

“Whatever might have happened, I’m not ashamed to tell any man how much I love her. Only God knows how much. I appreciate your concern, Randall. The doctors aren’t sure when she’ll come out of this, but trust me, I’ll call as soon as she’s out of the coma. I’m sure that’s what Kim would want. I promised Kim during Christmas that I would respect your friendship. I mean it.”

Several weeks later Bill sat beside Kim’s hospital bed, holding her right hand firmly between his. Ginger had mentioned to Bill that she felt Kim’s finger’s moving weeks earlier, but he hadn’t believed her. She was so emotional that he assumed she’d been overreacting. But when he felt her stiffened fingers move in small degrees, Bill immediately jumped up to signal the nurse. He reclaimed both her hands, staring down at her in astonishment. Her eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened. Bill’s own breathing threatened to stop, and for one silent moment, they found each other’s eyes. That single, frozen moment in time, when just a look of understanding reflected back genuine love. That love reached the dormant recesses of his soul, awakening them. Bill knew he’d never experience a feeling this powerful before. It could only be the power of God touching them both. All his questions subsided. His heart opened for understanding.

The room was dusk dark. Every now and then a crack of flames sent sparks flying inside the fireplace. The fragrance of hickory mixed with oak floated into the room.

Cotton was high, flying high on straight scotch and pussy. There wasn’t a better combination, as far as he knew. Weaving in and out, out and in, he wanted to show her how deep he could fill her. How the long, thin shape of his penis would slide around inside her like a hot piston inside a Cosworth engine.

The glow of the fire from the fireplace gave Katherine’s naked body an ethereal glow. Though her body was thick from food, booze, and age, no one could deny that she was still a handsome woman. Her Rubenesque curves only added to her sexual mystique.

Beside the sofa, on the mahogany coffee table, stood a stack of bills she’d cautiously counted earlier. Cotton had promised he’d bring his full check home this week from working construction after her threat to put him out for good if he didn’t start contributing to the household.

“Baby,” said Cotton seductively. “Oooooh that’s some good shit.”

Katherine wasn’t impressed by his compliment. When she and Lewis were first married, he’d told her that “if God made pussy better than hers, he must’ve left it in heaven.” Katherine had believed him. Until time after time she caught him with other women. Obviously there were a few more women Lewis had encountered who were blessed with heavenly pussies.

Cotton didn’t know that Katherine had gone down to the construction site and spoken to his boss. She’d taken special care to dress that morning: chocolate brown Stuart Weitzman pumps, three-quarter-length double-breasted brown wool-crepe suit with brushed gold buttons, and a gold satin turban elegantly coiled around her head. Her unruly red hair, curled to perfection, bubbled over her shoulders. She knew she looked classy. And with all the finesse she could muster, she gently persuaded the man to tell her everything about Cotton. His absenteeism, his tardiness, but most importantly the amount of his weekly paycheck. The boss man, Katherine’s age, knew without being told the reason for her visit. Katherine left his office with enough ammunition to put her game plan to work.

“Mmmmmm, you know you feel good to me, baby.” Katherine rolled her buttocks, tightened, then relaxed her well-trained muscles, sucking him farther into the depths of her aura. She locked her ankles across his back. The suctioning sounds of fluids and flesh competed with the crackling fire nearby.

Her tongue flicked over his shoulder, along his neck, inside his ear. “I want to feel every inch of you,” she whispered, as she swiftly rolled him onto his back and straddled him. Cotton’s eyes pleaded for sexual pleasure.

Balancing her body on her knees, Katherine’s weight was a plus. She knew her body well, and maneuvered it expertly. She rotated, gyrated, and finally exonerated his pulsating penis.

As they lay satiated beside the fire, the heat drying their sweat-soaked bodies, not a word was exchanged between them. Just a moment of repose, while they waited for the return of their normal breathing pattern, each immersed in his own thoughts.

She glanced at Cotton from the corner of her eye. Katherine, master of the game, would play her hand tonight, at all costs.

Waiting and more waiting, and for what — Jackson’s forgiveness? She couldn’t continue living with him like this. She wouldn’t beg his forgiveness again, knowing it wouldn’t change things between them. No, she couldn’t bear the undeserved humiliation of being slapped, and called a bitch, yet again.

During their estrangement, each time Ginger looked at Jackson, he seemed calm and unmoved. It made her furious. Jackson’s coldness toward Ginger had increased, as had her irritation at him because of it. Things couldn’t continue this way between them for too much longer.

Ginger had to do something. She tried calling Katherine. There was no answer. She called her psychologist. Just when she needed counseling the most, Ginger had forgotten that her doctor was on vacation. She had no one to talk to. No one to understand her most intimate feelings. Unable to understand the emotional roller coaster that her heart was experiencing, she struggled to maintain control, but lost.

It was as though she were imprisoned in her own home for a crime she hadn’t committed. The warden: her husband. It had taken her longer to see that there weren’t any locks keeping her captive than she cared to realize.

The November sky bleak and dreary, cool raindrops casually fell. Ginger’s mood was no brighter. She had to get away. It seemed childish to flee, but what else could she do? Ginger felt that her judgment was impaired, her self-respect depleting in this weakening state. But now she knew that she didn’t have to wait for him to release her; she’d let him see how it felt.

There was no note left for Jackson when he came home that Wednesday afternoon explaining why she and the kids had fled. No explanation to her clients for missed appointments. No excuses to her teacher for missed classes. She simply left without a trace of evidence as to when or where she was or when she’d return. Just simply left.

Ginger stopped at the corner gas station and filled up the van while Christian bought goodies for the kids to snack on. Back on the road, Christian hesitantly asked the million-dollar question: “Are we going to be away for long, Ma?” Christian didn’t want to mention his record of perfect attendance. This would be the first time he’d ever missed a day of school.

“Just a few days,” Ginger answered, steering the van toward the Jeffries Freeway heading toward an out-of-the-way inn in Novi. Jackson would never think to look for her that far away. “Mama needs some time to figure out a few things.”

“Is Daddy coming too, Mommy?” asked Autumn innocently.

“No, baby. Not this —”

“My teacher gave me too much homework,” said Sierra, shuffling through the mounds of ditto sheets in her folder. “This must be enough homework for two weeks!”

“You need it, ’cause you never turn in your homework anyway,” said Christian sarcastically.

“You better shut up before I pop you,” shouted Sierra.

“Yeah, be quiet, pie face,” intoned Autumn, “before I tell Mama about your messing with her computer when she told you not to bother it.”

“Please don’t start, you three. Mama’s really not in a good mood.” Please God, don’t let him have erased the notes on my computer. I won’t think about this. I won’t. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.

It turned out that the kids had a ball living away from home. Dinners in the evenings were an event. They ate at Kyoto’s, a Japanese restaurant. Dined at Chi Chi’s, a Mexican establishment. Ordered a carry-out dinner from Pizza Hut.

Ginger watched her three children thoroughly enjoy themselves Friday evening as they watched
Friday the 13th, Part VI
. They’d rented six videos, and were saving the last two, horror films, for later that night. Ginger snuggled up to a Mary Higgins Clark novel after the third run of
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
.

“Come on, Mama,” said Sierra, trying to snare Ginger away from her reading, “do the Butterfly with us.” Even Christian, shy as he was, joined in, cajoling Ginger to get in on the fun.

Laughing despite herself, Ginger declined.

Sierra, unrelenting, pulled Ginger onto their makeshift dance floor.

“It’s like batting a baseball and moving your hips at the same time. The same way you swing your hips — you can do the Butterfly with one hip.”

Ginger tried several times until she felt the rhythm. Umph, there it was. “Okay, I got it now,” said Ginger, grinding her buttocks. My knee hurts. It’s hard doing it with one knee, she thought.

“It’s called the Tug Rope,” said Autumn, showing her another variation of the dance. “You act like you’re pulling rope, then you pull it from the side. If you don’t move your hips right, you ain’t doing it right.” Autumn worked her young hips like a frightened colt. “I think this part is called Ride the Pony.”

Ginger admired Sierra’s taut buttocks, teasingly suggestive as she performed an Around the World Butterfly.

Autumn, seeing Ginger’s stiffness, grabbed her mother’s hips and showed her how to Butterfly. Autumn said, “I can make my own dances to my own music.”

“Stop stepping on my feet,” Sierra screamed, aimed toward Autumn.