Knowing Read online

  PRAISE FOR KNOWING

  “True-to-life, funny, and sometimes biting dialogue. . . . Looks at passion between and beyond the sheets. . . . Explores a situation that many women can relate to.”

  — USA Today

  “An enthralling first novel . . . cuts across ethnic lines.”

  — Entertainment Weekly

  “Recommended. . . . Will appeal not only to African-Americans, but to most women struggling to make sense of their lives.”

  — Library Journal

  “Ultimately it’s the story of everyone’s struggle to find that faith, that happiness. Turn the pages fast, though, or you’ll burn your little fingers!”

  — Patrice Gaines, author of Laughing in the Dark

  “An engaging, vividly rendered story . . . undeniable momentum.”

  — Kirkus Reviews

  “A good-hearted novel. . . . It’s about who’s most important, your husband, your kids, or yourself.”

  — Washington Post Book World

  “McMillan has this kind of novel down to perfection, snappin’ on the menfolk, crying on cue, and standing tall for the Sisterhood.”

  — BookPage

  “A tale of love, lust, family ties, deception, dreams, relationships, and fulfillment . . . peppered with something for everyone: lustful sex scenes, passionate sermons, [and] bittersweet and powerful moments with families.”

  — Grand Rapids Press

  “Warmth and down-to-earth richness . . . humorous. . . . McMillan’s strong point is certainly her powers of description and imagery.”

  — ACE magazine

  “KNOWING gives frustration a voice.”

  — Virginia Pilot

  “Rosalyn McMillan has a knack for capturing the directness and humor of modern black female speech. She manages to bring out the glamour, passion, and fabulous interior design in the lives of everyday, workingclass people.”

  — United Autoworkers Solidarity magazine

  This novel is dedicated to my mother and father, Madeline Katherine and Edward Lewis McMillan

  Copyright

  The poem “Complicated” is reprinted courtesy of the author, Angelica R. King.

  Lyrics from “Reaching for the Sky,” by Peabo Bryson, © 1978 WARNER-TAMERLANE PUBLISHING CORP. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission. WARNER BROS. PUBLICATIONS INC., Miami, FL, 33014.

  Copyright © 1996 by Rosalyn McMillan

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Vision is a registered trademark of Warner Books, Inc.

  Warner Books

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  Originally published in hardcover by Warner Books.

  ISBN: 978-0-446-93032-1

  First eBook Edition: April 1999

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank God for the power and creativity that facilitated me in writing this novel.

  I would like to thank my best friend for a lifetime, my lover and husband, John D. Smith. Also my four children, Vester Jr., Shannon, Ashley, and Jasmine, who were and always will be the inspiration, the motivation, and the loves of my life.

  Equally important are what my special sister Crystal Joy calls the shopping network: my three sisters, Crystal, Terry, and Vicky McMillan, whom I love and cherish dearly. Let’s give new meaning to the phrase “shop ’til we drop,” girls! See you soon.

  My agent, Denise Stinson, is a miracle; she’s also my friend. She worked very hard and lobbied for me and the success of this novel on unlimited occasions. I thank you, Denise, for your hard work and enthusiasm on this project, and I unequivocally appreciate everything you’ve done.

  Research is very essential also, and I’ve learned to enjoy the process. I would like to thank the Southfield Public Library for the generous help they’ve given me.

  It’s very important to have someone in the publishing industry who believes in you and your work. Anne Hamilton was that person. I would personally like to thank Anne, who loved Knowing first, and my editor, Rob McQuilkin, who loved it last.

  And finally I’d like to give honor to my mother, Madeline Katherine, who could have been a stand-up comedian in her lifetime; but she chose to be a mother. We’d be on the telephone talking and I’d say, “Mama, wait a minute, let me get a pencil so I can write this down.” And she’d say, “Child, I can’t remember everything I say.” Her remarks were always so spontaneous, so on the money. I am still enamored by her words of wisdom and can still hear her laughter today.

  My mother left this world two years ago, but I am content in knowing that she is telling jokes to the angels up above, and that she is an inspiration to them as well as to the loved ones she left behind who still cherish her memory.

  I feel your power, your sweet spirit, Mama, radiating over me. In the evenings, as I look up toward the heavens, I feel and I know that it’s your single star shining bright down on me. I miss you and I love you, Mama.

  Twinkle, twinkle, little star, now I know what you are.

  Contents

  Praise for Knowing

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Complicated

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  A Preview of "One Better"

  Spice

  Complicated

  November light streams through the window

  and lays in yellow slices on my bedspread.

  And I can’t help but stare at you as you lay helpless,

  still fully succumbed to the throes of sleep and slumber.

  I sit up slowly so as not to disturb your sleeping form.

  Curly black hair,

  long lashes and sleep-smoothed skin

  the same exact color as strong black coffee.

  And I love strong black coffee.

  Chest covered

  in dark and silken softness.

  I long so much to reach out and touch you

  and feel your heat

  beneath my hands, but I do not.

  Instead, I sit thinking,

  mute and melancholy.

  I love you. It really is that simple. I love you more

  than I have loved anyone in my whole life.

  But I can’t tell you. You might laugh

  or blow it off, or what’s worse,

  you may tell me that you don’t feel the same way.

  That makes this complicated.

  And so I sit,

  a prisoner of myself,

  a prisoner of you,

  serving hard time and waiting

  for my daily ration of bread and coffee.

  — Angelica R. King

  1

  Sexual Healin
g

  Ginger waited until she heard the familiar faint, even snoring from the man lying next to her in their usual double-spoon sleeping position. She lifted his arms from her waist and slid out from under the comforter of their king-size bed, pausing to trace a light caress as feathery as butterfly wings across his thighs. She knew nothing would wake him for a few hours after a serious session of sex. She never could understand how men were able to go to sleep so suddenly after sex, while their women, listless, would lie staring at the ceiling, counting the spots on the walls, straining to listen for sounds from children’s rooms.

  In her closet, Ginger slid a pink satin gown over her nude body. She stepped into a pair of matching satin slippers and walked out of their bedroom, glancing back over her shoulder for a last glimpse of her husband sleeping peacefully.

  She carefully cracked open the door of her daughters’ room, knowing the television would still be on from their unsuccessful attempt to stay awake and watch the Friday night comedians on the cable channel. She went in, lifted Autumn’s leg, which was dangling over the edge of the bed, and tucked the cotton coverlet securely under her chin, careful not to disturb Suzy Scribbles, the doll her five-year-old daughter never slept without.

  Turning off the set, Ginger leaned over and kissed her daughter Sierra, who was in the fifth grade. If only she could put a timer on the television set to turn it off automatically at 11:30 on Friday and Saturday nights, Ginger thought, she’d save herself a fortune on the electric bill.

  Christian, sucking on his bottom lip as usual, had gone to bed first on the weekend. Ginger smiled, shaking her head as she left his room. She’d wager none of his friends approaching their first year of high school hit the sack before his younger siblings. Never had she seen a child who loved to sleep so much. He must have gotten it from his father’s side of the family. She hoped the rest of his body would soon catch up with his large, round pie face and pearly white chipmunk-sized teeth.

  “Mama, is that you?” Jason called from his room. The faint sound of rap music could be heard in short, choppy waves, emanating from his stereo system. He’d rushed across the street to ABC Warehouse after his fifth paycheck from working as a bagger at the grocery store and laid out his hard-earned cash. Ginger was astonished that he hadn’t bought the latest Michael Jordan gym shoes. She came home from work one night to find him and Christian huddled together trying to figure out the instructions for assembling the glass-and-oak cabinet that housed the unit. She noticed Jason’s increasing addiction to the harsh lyrics that no one in the house but he seemed to enjoy. Ginger hated rap too, until she saw L. L. Cool J on the TV American Music Awards, his shirt off, moving his pelvis in a titillating, scandalous imitation of sex. . . . It left Ginger perspiring all over. Later, she heard from a friend that other women, heated from his gyrating performance, had also left smiles on the faces of their unsuspecting husbands that night.

  “Yes, it’s me, Jason.”

  Modestly covering himself with his top sheet, Jason whispered, “Anything wrong, Ma?”

  “No. I can’t sleep.” The neon digital clock cast a turquoise glow over the posters of various basketball players and rappers papering his walls. He sat up as Ginger pressed the Off button on the stereo. “Don’t you have to be at work at six-thirty in the morning?” She closed the door to his closet. The smell was overbearing. She barely heard him mention they’d changed his schedule from 11:00 A.M. to 7:30 P.M. “Drop those stinking gym shoes in the laundry room when you get up. All of ’em,” she instructed.

  Jason wrapped the crisp, white sheet around his muscular body, like a Roman emperor, gave Ginger a quick kiss on the cheek, and guided her out the door. “Okay, Ma.”

  He loosened the toga and flopped down on the bed, reaching underneath to retrieve his Sony Walkman. Adjusting the earphones, he crossed his legs at the ankle, laced his fingers behind his head, and began nodding to the beat of the radical refrain. Hearing the faint sound of the blaring music outside his door, Ginger shook her head.

  As she descended the circular staircase leading to the first floor, the coolness of her satin robe teased the tips of her breasts. A trace of lemon polish hung in the night air from the carved oak panels that covered the walls of the spacious circular foyer. Raking her fingers through her hair, she leaned her head forward, and massaged her temples with the tips of her fingers.

  Through the soles of her delicate slippers, she felt the cool brick ceramic tiles that bordered the shiny oak hardwood floor of the entrance hall. Stopping for a moment to admire her beautiful home, she was surprised by the newly fallen snow outside the windows of the music room. She headed toward the kitchen, where, reaching inside the cabinet, she selected an ornate crystal wine goblet from the impressive array of cut stemware.

  Her mother, Katherine Lee, had taught her well. As poor as they were when she was a young child, her mother had refused to purchase anything but the best, even if it had to be second- or third-hand. Ginger followed the same practice, stopping at auctions and garage sales, always looking for that rare, undiscovered treasure and oftentimes finding a gem among junk, under a stack of old books or wedged in the corner of an old curio cabinet.

  Turning toward the garden window, she admired the winter wonderland outside. Inside, she fingered a leaf of the carefully tended African violets nurtured by her husband, Jackson. He loved to display his natural ability as a gardener, and as a result, their home was filled with Chinese fan palms, bamboo palms, large, leafy dumbcanes, and dozens of ivy baskets.

  A single snowflake stuck firmly to the leaded pane. Of the millions of white speckles falling in large clusters, growing larger each moment, the solitary flake managed to cling on, to survive. If only for a few fleeting moments, it stood out and acknowledged its own existence and resilience briefly, experiencing the splendor of freedom. She pressed an outstretched palm against the frosty window in awe of the snowflake’s courage, the courage to break away from the crowd and become a singular entity standing alone, above the rest.

  Closing her eyes, Ginger repeated a prayer she’d memorized. “Come, my soul, thy spirits prepare; Jesus loves to answer prayer; he himself has bid thee pray, therefore will not say thee nay.”

  Cupping her hand over her mouth, she held her breath for several moments as her eyes misted.

  She flicked the light switch by the stairway off the kitchen that led to the wine cellar. When she opened the cellar door, she felt a slight chill and hurriedly selected a vintage bottle of Chardonnay.

  She walked through the music room sipping the rich wine, tapping the keys on the white baby grand piano that stood proudly in the center of the pale pink wool rug, which was bordered by the plush off-white carpeting that covered the floors throughout most of the home. This was her favorite room downstairs. It was shaped in a circular design, and leaded Pella French doors surrounded three-quarters of it. The rear of the broadfront English Tudor house boasted 140 windows on three levels of its 5,000 square feet.

  Placing the wine on a glass table, she slid onto a velvet chaise, kicked off her satin slippers, and tucked her feet beneath her.

  The sting of the cold, wintry air whistled through a break in the velvet-draped windows, even as the wine warmed her from within. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks. Why, suddenly, did she feel so alone? Was this what being in love was supposed to feel like? Was Jackson’s and her love for each other real, or just an illusion? Something inside her knew, and didn’t want to accept, that illusions can change from time to time.

  Again Ginger combed her fingers through her hair, savoring the smooth texture. More in sorrow than in anger, she felt a sinking depression on being forced to deal once again with the impending loss of her hair. Though in her heart she knew it was coming, she prayed that the problem would somehow not return.

  The cycle of alopecia areata, which doctors could not explain, lasted approximately two years. She lost her hair and often suffered the added burden of migraine headaches. Her doctor prescribed Valium for
the stress, but the medication left her tired. Her lethargy was an effect neither her children nor her husband could understand, since they were accustomed to her workaholic disposition.

  She had been only eighteen years old when the first of the bald patches appeared in her scalp. The problem was eventually diagnosed by a local dermatologist. She’d lost her hair a total of eight times over the years. It had always grown back, but each time she noticed that the loss had become progressively worse. The small dime spots on her scalp advanced into complete baldness, and loss of her eyelashes, then all her body hair.

  Ginger had the most severe type of alopecia — alopecia totalis — she was told at the University of Michigan Hospital. She’d been praying for years for someone to find a cure.

  She felt numb all over. No one could possibly understand the personal anguish and pain she felt. It was like a slow death, happening over and over again.

  Lifting her half-filled glass in the direction of their bedroom, she saluted yet another exemplary performance by her husband. Slowly, she lowered her glass as sadness enveloped her like an old friend, and she became acutely aware of her fears. Did he truly love her? Or did he only lust after her body? Was there that much of a difference?

  She’d read an article in the newspaper during Black History Month about how Black women should treat their men. We should treat them with the utmost respect, love, kindness, and recognition, which they rarely experience in the world. We should be enthusiastic about their aspirations and triumphs. We should encourage them to seek brighter horizons beyond merely being athletes, to strive to become scientists, attorneys, and congressmen, so that they can help to write the laws that govern them and our country, the article had told her. But what of our hopes and dreams? Ginger wondered. Were they insignificant? Who would help the women deal with pain and suffering?

  She had four healthy children, a beautiful home, with lots of beautiful things: expensive paintings, precious antique furnishings, and a closet of designer clothes to die for. Why, then, did she feel such emptiness, such shallowness? Something was missing, something she couldn’t bring herself to think about.