Knowing Page 20

  “I have to go in the office for a few hours today.” She saw his stern expression, and tensed.

  “I thought we agreed right after your aunt died, you’d take this weekend off.”

  “It’s just for a few hours, Jackson. I’m showing a house in Indian Village Monday to a client. I’ve got some paperwork to do for the homeowners. I won’t have time to prepare all the documents after work Monday, and check the figures, before the appointment is scheduled.”

  Jackson’s temper flared. She was hardly at home anymore. Spent very little time with the kids, and their time together consisted of quick romps in the sack late in the evening, and she had to wake him up from his sleep to get that. “Do what you have to do, Ginger.”

  “Sweetheart, I know I haven’t been home as much as I’d planned. But I’ve worked out a solution.”

  “I’m listening.” He’d taken off the fountain handle and was coating the inner threads with lubricating grease.

  A broad smile beamed across her face as she spoke. “I figure if I drove my van to work, I could come home early and put in the hours at the office, be finished by two or three, and have dinner started by the time you sit down in front of your Westerns.”

  “You’re going to be able to do all that? Drive to work, work at the office, cook dinner, and take care of me?” He shook his head, sighing deeply, as she eagerly nodded yes to all four questions. “Is selling real estate that important to you?”

  Over the past seventeen years, Ginger had begun work daily at five in the morning. She usually finished by ten-thirty or eleven in the morning, and would pick up a book and read, or talk on the phone until it was time for Jackson to get off work at two-thirty.

  “Yes, Jackson it is. I’m good at it, too. You’ll see.” It was her ticket out of that plant. She felt it in her heart, could see herself successful, and prayed nightly for the victory. A ticket to salvation. God only knew how much she needed to be free to live a normal life like other people did. Like her clients did. Getting up at seven or eight in the morning, watching the eleven o’clock news at night. Simple pleasures people normally took for granted.

  “Do what you gotta do,” he said, still straddling the short wall. He didn’t like it, but he knew that Ginger needed to keep her mind off her hair. Even though she tried to shrug it off, like it wasn’t bothering her this time, he knew she was hurting. He saw the pain each morning as she put her wig over her smooth head, and every night when she put it back on the Styrofoam stand.

  Studying Jackson as he sat on the wall, Ginger decided he looked like a cowboy on his rearing horse. His jeans and shirt were grimy with the dirt of the garden and splotches of grease from the fountain, his hair was matted and speckled with white petals, and salt-and-pepper whiskers shadowed his unshaven face. And yet the musky sweat coming from his body smelled like a whiff of provocative perfume. The power of his hazel eyes drew her in like magnets. Her cowboy. Tonight they’d ride into the sunset together.

  “What you daydreaming about, Ginger? You look —”

  The sound of motorcycles from more than three blocks away caught Jackson’s attention. He listened intently to clamor of the approaching machines. “That’s Mr. B,” said Jackson, leaning toward the blaring sound.

  “How can you tell?”

  “By the sound — Mr. B’s riding a Yamaha. Sounds like a little car with a small engine in it, like a Fiat.” Hearing the tone of the next bike, he said, “That’s Ramsey’s Honda.” He saw her questioning look, and explained, “Sounds like a Yugo.” Next, a louder sound. “That’s Ves driving his Honda. His bike is older than Ramsey’s, pipes are almost burned out . . . louder.” A smooth, even sound hummed behind the trio. “That’s Little Bubba.” Still the questioning look from Ginger. “He’s driving his new Harley. A Harley has a two-stroke engine.”

  “That’s different from your Kawasaki?”

  “Yeah, all the other bikes, Hondas, Yamahas, Suzukis, have four strokes. Try to listen to the sound of the exhaust pipes. Mine is a two in a two . . . two cylinders going into the left side and two cylinders going into the right side of the exhaust pipes. Some bikes are four in one . . . all four cylinders going into one pipe out the back of the bike . . . see . . . listen. . . . My Kaw sounds heavier.”

  He smiled to himself as he thought about the Harley. He wanted to trade in his Kaw and buy a Harley, but he didn’t want to broach the subject to Ginger. She’d bought his Kawasaki as a surprise after his special-edition Kawasaki LTD had been stolen from the ethnic festival downtown.

  He went on explaining to Ginger as the bikes rounded the corner. “A Harley has a unique sound. It can be distinguished as far off as it can be heard. The wind carries the sound.”

  An “oh” was all Ginger could manage to answer as the male members of Jackson’s Production 10 Motorcycle Club approached their driveway in single file. “Hi Mr. B., Ramsey. Hi Ves, Bubba . . .” greeted Ginger, still amazed that Jackson had guessed the order of the bikes correctly.

  Ginger walked toward the house, knowing without being asked that five cold ones would be more than welcomed. Minutes later, she sat a six-pack of beer on the patio table. They each thanked Ginger for the cold brew. Jackson had turned on the stereo system he’d installed in the garage, tuning it to 1400 FM, the blues station. He’d backed his black-and-gold Kawasaki from the garage stall as his friends stood around appraisingly. It was their ritual to check out the condition of each member’s bike at the beginning of bike-riding season.

  Ginger went back into the house unnoticed. She knew they’d be out there for hours, talking, laughing, reminiscing about the Kentucky Derby they attended each year, the first weekend of May. Jackson and Ginger were unable to attend this year with the other members and their wives. Jackson’s boss had put in a request for Jackson to be put on a special team that was being formed to help eliminate millions of dollars of waste in the plant. Jackson was elated that he’d been chosen. Though the timing was bad, he’d happily agreed to join the pilot project.

  Pausing to take a final look at her Black cowboy, his long body leaning against his metal horse, Ginger smiled to see him enjoying himself.

  Looking outside her patio window, Katherine watched the man cutting her lawn. He wore a tank top and she could see his muscles glistening with sweat. She had only spoken to him over the phone, when he’d agreed to come by Saturday after he finished his mother’s yard.

  Katherine glanced up at the clock above the refrigerator. The sound of the mower had awakened her; it was early. Stretching her arms above her head, she sank her fingers into her thick head of hair, feeling the coarse edges. Shit! Her scalp was still wet; her head had gotten sweaty last night, dreaming about Jewel.

  Moving to the refrigerator, she poured herself a generous glass of beer. As she turned on the radio, she thought of her sister-in-law. Jewel, just seventy years old, had been thirteen years her senior. Though Jewel hadn’t looked old, she’d aged since Ollie had got sick. Little by little, her vivaciousness had been drained from her. She’d given up. Katherine had felt months ago that Jewel was the one who needed medical attention. Ollie would make it. Even though he’d had a temporary setback and lost his power of speech, Katherine still saw the fight in his eyes. He hadn’t given up, as Jewel had. She knew that sooner or later, Ollie would garner the strength and find the courage to free himself from the cocoon that sheltered him from life.

  Kim had been a pillar of strength throughout the whole ordeal. Katherine was proud of the stamina and tenacity shown by her niece. Kim had inherited Ollie’s stamina, Katherine’s intelligence, and Jewel’s looks. A helluva combination. She was going to be fine, just fine.

  Katherine consumed her second glass of golden spirits and looked again through the patio windows at the handsome man, sweating profusely now, as he filled the tank with gasoline. She contemplated her next move. Figuring she had at least a good hour and half before he’d be finished, she rushed upstairs to put her plan into action.

  “Whhhhhew. Th
ank you, ma’am,” said the young man. He drank the cold lemonade in three gulps. The sweat from the glass ran down his neck, along his Adam’s apple, as he tipped his head back.

  Katherine watched in awe. Up close, his muscles were even more impressive. He was taller than she expected. Probably six-one, six-two, she figured, lowering her gaze from his uplifted arm, hesitating at the bulge nestled against his thigh.

  “Why don’t you stop and rest a minute? You’re not in any hurry, are you?” said Katherine, holding down the brim of her straw hat against a quick gust of wind.

  Intrigued by his stories of Vietnam, she listened intently as he filled her in on the last fifteen years of his life after he returned home from the Service. His name was James Cotton, but all his friends called him Cotton. He’d contracted a severe case of quartan malaria and was sent back home to the veterans’ hospital. There, he was diagnosed as also having a disease that affected the nervous system.

  The government had sprayed this orange mixture — Agent Orange — over the area where the soldiers were fighting. It was used as a defoliant, to kill leafy plants and trees that provided cover for the Vietcong. But the plan had backfired, and the government knew it. Thousands of American soldiers were affected by the spraying and were subsequently sent back home.

  Cotton was involved in a lawsuit against the government because it turned out that the military knew about the side effects all the time, and chose to ignore them. He was bitter about risking his life, fighting in a war he didn’t believe in, and coming home to spend twelve years cooped up in a facility that made him feel more like a prisoner than a war hero. Not being able to hold down a full-time job, he’d started mowing lawns in the summer and shoveling snow in the winter. It was just pocket change, but his lawsuit would be coming up in court soon, and he could purchase the truck and tools he needed to really make some money.

  Katherine immediately felt a kinship. He sounded mature, was moderately handsome, and, if she’d read correctly between the lines, was looking for a woman. Katherine shimmied the bodice of her sundress down, with the finesse of an old pro at work, to show the fullness of her caramel breasts, and ran her hand over her long, thick head of red hair, which men seemed to love to touch.

  Near dark, she and Cotton had moved from the backyard to Katherine’s living room. After consuming two quarts of beer, they were laughing like two old friends. She showed him around the house. He was impressed with its large basement. It was done in knotty pine, had a bar similar to the one he’d seen in the Red Shingles, a spot everyone in Port Huron frequented on the weekends. He stopped short to stare at the huge workroom. There were drawers, compartments, and pegboard sheets of paneling for hanging tools, and tables bearing impressions from the weight of table, hand, and power saws. A carpenter’s paradise.

  She sat in front of the bar as he mixed and poured them drinks. She wondered if he could be in love with a woman his age. What did love have to do with anything, anyway? Not a damn thing, in her mind. Not a damned thing. He looks like he belongs here, she thought. And judging by the signals he was sending her with his body and his mind, he thought so too.

  “You sure this is what you want to do, Kim?” asked Randall, closing his hairy, tanned hands around hers.

  They sat at a small table near the window, awaiting their dinner, going over Kim’s plans for her future. Kim had called Randall late Friday evening after Bill had left and asked him to join her for dinner tonight. She’d selected a small, out-of-the-way restaurant that she knew hadn’t made it onto his list of the “in” places to dine. She was ready to make some changes in her life.

  “I have little choice, Randall. I can’t keep working with George Cameron. He’ll end up firing me. Then where will I be.” She withdrew her hands, leaning back in her seat. “No, I think it’s better that I make a clean break and quit. I typed out my resignation this morning. He should receive it by Monday. I sent it registered mail.”

  “Then it’s settled. Where do we begin?”

  “Then you’ll help me?” asked Kim excitedly.

  “What are friends for?”

  Kim smiled at the Black couple seated in the small dining room, who had been eyeing them since the moment they arrived. Hadn’t they seen an interracial couple having dinner before? There were three other tables occupied by two women, a single male, and a young child and grandmother, none of whom seemed bothered or interested.

  While they ate, Kim agreed that during the four months she needed to wait to qualify to be a licensed broker, she would shop for her office equipment. She needed two computers, a fax machine, a copier, and a laptop computer. Randall tallied up the figures for the purchases, giving Kim a quizzical look.

  “Are you sure you have enough money for all this, and to live on until you get on your feet? I told you, and I mean it Kim, I can make you out a check —”

  “I’ve been saving money for years, Randall. Taking risks with my investments, and they’ve worked out. I’m not saying I’m loaded, but by no means am I near needing a loan.” She added thoughtfully, “But if it becomes necessary that I do, you’ll be the first one I’ll come to.”

  “Have you thought of a name yet?”

  “Jewel Investment Services, Inc.,” she said proudly.

  “Has a rich ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  “About as rich as this dessert we’re eating. How do you like it?” She frowned. His expression mirrored hers. She lifted the fork from her plate, chocolate filling running through the prongs. “This Mud Pie is just like it reads, muddy.” They laughed together, enjoying each other’s company, making jokes about Cameron, whom they both had reasons to dislike.

  “So, you’ve decided to call it quits with Bill?” asked Randall, getting serious.

  Pushing her dessert plate forward, she tapped her flamingo-pink sculptured nail along the edge. “I’ve decided to try celibacy for a while. I don’t have time for romance right now. What’s important is helping my father to get well and opening my business. I’ve tried it the easy way, and it hasn’t worked, the only road left is the uncertain one — which I’m traveling alone.”

  “You’re on the right road, Kim. You’re heading in the right direction. Just don’t plan on making too long of a journey alone.” He leaned back, extracting a toothpick from his suit pocket. “Believe me, there will come a time, and it won’t be very long, when you’ll feel the need to connect with someone, emotionally, spiritually, and sexually. Someone to share your most intimate thoughts, feelings. Someone to laugh with, cry with, someone you can put your faith and trust in, someone you can lean on for understanding.” Randall’s turquoise blue eyes looked into Kim’s, expressing a pain he was helpless to hide.

  “You two still haven’t made up?” Kim asked with sympathy.

  “No,” he whispered. “He doesn’t want to make a commitment. Claims I’m suffocating him, he enjoys his freedom.” He issued a halfhearted laugh. “Can you believe he tells me how much he loves me, has never loved anyone as he does me. Yet, he won’t come out and admit he’s gay.”

  “Are you willing to do that, Randall?”

  He squared his shoulders, sitting up proudly. “Yes. I’ve given it a lot of thought. I’m not embarrassed about who I am or what I am. Why should I hide it?”

  “You shouldn’t.” Leaning across the table, Kim caressed his arm. The young couple turned up their noses like they’d sniffed something foul in the air. Kim boldly kissed Randall on his cheek, ruffling his smooth raven hair, before she sat back in her seat, glaring at them.

  It was late, and after a long day — she had even played Scattergories with the kids — Ginger was exhausted. But seeing the smiles on their faces was worth it. Jason, who had gotten a rare Saturday evening off work, had opted to break a date with his girlfriend and stay home. He was making the girl suffer, a control tactic a friend of his had hipped him to. As Jason explained the mechanics of dating to Christian, Ginger watched her younger son’s obvious admiration of his older brother’s worldly w
isdom.

  Ginger kissed each of her children good night as they continued playing. She reminded Jason they had church tomorrow, and they’d all have to be in bed by eleven. Hearing their moaning and groaning, she left them. They turned their conversation back to the game at hand.

  “Hey, sweetheart. You miss me?” she called in to Jackson as she changed into her nightgown.

  The room was flooded with light. Warm gusts of wind blew in through the open windows behind the sofa, billowing the curtains into poufs of bishop’s sleeves. Soft music rode along the waves of fresh air as Jackson studied the loose pieces of metal spread before him on layers of newspaper. “Hmmmmmm,” was all he managed to say, as he contemplated the gear mechanism.

  On the weekends after a hot shower, Jackson loved to work on small objects in the comfort of his bedroom while he watched television or listened to the radio.

  “What you doing, honey?” She sat beside him on the sofa. Scooting her body close to his, she fondled the back of his head and felt the dampness in his hair. He’d just taken a shower, and wore only a pair of red undershorts.

  “The gauges on my bike weren’t working right. The speedometer wouldn’t move past thirty.” He smiled smugly to himself. “I was doing at least eighty on the freeway this afternoon.”

  “Honey, don’t you think you and your friends are getting a little too old to be speeding?”

  He gave her a devilish look, moving his eyes in the direction of the bed, at her, then finally at the bulge building between his legs. He smiled at her seductively. “Got any complaints?”

  He had a way of looking at her, of lowering his eyes and staring intensely for long periods of time until she was unable to resist him. “Not a one, honey,” she said, contemplating the passion that his eyes suggested. “I see you’ve got on some nice music for a change. It’s soothing, isn’t it?”