Knowing Page 24

  Mae Thelma did a quick turn, her hair swinging behind her like a whip, and pounded up the stairs. Ginger felt so good she almost wanted to take a sip from her mother’s tumbler. From the expression on Katherine’s face, it was evident that she was not fooled by the other woman’s manners. The duel was on.

  Mae Thelma sat down on her bed, shed her shoes, and stretched out her legs. She mulled over the snide looks and sharp retorts Katherine had given her throughout the day. So that’s how it is. May the best woman win, she thought.

  She recalled her encounter with Jackson last night, while Ginger was away showing a home. Timing it perfectly, having figured out his daily schedule and habits by the sounds outside his door, she had gone up to ask a question.

  Reaching for his robe, Jackson had stood before her, clad only in his white cotton briefs. Their eyes met and held. Neither moved. Her eyes spoke the secret of secrets. She couldn’t take them off him. Then and there, she knew that he knew she wanted him. Cooler than the quickly passing dusk when the heat of the day is silenced, she left him to ponder the encounter.

  She’d lain awake all night, listening. Waiting. Hoping. Praying he’d climb those stairs and profess his need. Her heart pounded at the thought of him lying beside her. Loving her passionately. Desperately. Releasing the desires she’d seen in his eyes. Knowing it had to come.

  While she waited, she opened an old book and read a song by Genevieve Tobin and William Gaxton, which inspired her to write him a letter, explaining her feelings.

  Folding the letter carefully, she tucked it beneath her pillow, until the right time when she could share her feelings openly with Jackson. Together, they’d figure out what to do about Ginger and Robert Earl.

  “Up to no good, that bitch is, Ginger. I don’t care how sweet and mannerly she is. She’s full of shit,” said Katherine, wagging her hips, her tight pants pressing her buttocks together like two kidney beans.

  A few months ago, Ginger wouldn’t have believed Katherine’s accusations. But lately her cousin-in-law had been a little too bold in her attentions toward Jackson. It was downright disrespectful. Every time Jackson farted, Mae Thelma didn’t have to know what he ate!

  23

  Songs in the Key of Life

  Randall stood outside his lover’s apartment door, banging on it. He’d spotted the familiar foreign sports car in the allocated parking spot, so he knew he was at home. He continued to knock until he heard someone swearing on the other side of the door.

  “What the hell —”

  “Can I come in? I’d like to talk to you.”

  The short smoking jacket barely covered his lover’s nudity. Cracking the door and speaking in hushed tones, he said, “Can’t you see I’m busy? I’ve got company. Right now just isn’t a good time.”

  Randall put his foot through the small opening just as the door was being pushed shut. “If not now, then when?” His piercing blue eyes narrowed like slits, and his mouth twisted up as though he were sipping vinegar. He repeated the question, but received only silence and a drop-dead look from his annoyed lover.

  “Call me tonight. Around eleven.” His eyes begged for understanding as he lowered his gaze down toward Randall’s intrusive foot.

  Because he loved the man, Randall decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “You call me at eleven. I’ll be waiting.” Pointedly consulting his Rolex for effect, Randall turned and walked away.

  “You’re trying to be like Alice in Wonderland, even though one world — the normal one — is obstinately blind to what lies beyond the looking glass,” said Randall as he continued working on his painting later that night.

  The voice over the phone sounded defensive. “I understand how you feel. I can even empathize with you. But during all the years of our relationship, I’ve tried unsuccessfully to get you to understand my situation. I don’t have the luxury of coming out. Perhaps being gay won’t affect your job, but it will affect mine!”

  “That’s something you’ve conjured up in your mind. It’s the nineties. Society is no longer concerned with your sexual preferences.”

  “Most of my friends and co-workers have no idea that I’m gay, and I prefer to keep it that way. There are men in my business that everyone assumes are gay, but once that person says it out loud and admits his sexual preference, he confirms a reality that people cannot accept.”

  “Let me —”

  “I haven’t been totally honest with you lately. You seem to be comfortable knowing who you are and having society and America accept you for what you are. But, as yet, I haven’t come to terms with myself. Every day it’s a struggle.”

  At the beginning of their relationship, he’d told Randall that every now and then he desired the intimacy of women. Though the level of lovemaking and satisfaction didn’t compare with how he felt when he was with Randall, he still pursued his quest for the one woman who might convert him.

  “You’re still seeing women?” asked Randall, hoping he’d deny it but knowing that he wouldn’t believe him if he did. Randall knew that a woman’s love couldn’t possibly compete with the more powerful love they felt for each other. He would have to be patient, and in time his lover would come to realize that his sexuality was nothing to be ashamed of. You had to learn and accept it first within your own heart and mind.

  As his lover talked on, Randall began covering up the painting that he knew he’d never complete.

  “I told her I’d cook it, Jackson,” said Mae Thelma, hoeing the weeds in the garden. Jackson worked the soil on the other end. He’d just finished picking the first batch of turnip greens, and was about to put six more packages of turnip seeds in the ground for a second mess that would be ready to pick by late September.

  Sprinkling the seeds, he smiled at Mae Thelma, saying, “Ginger don’t burn things too often. I managed to eat it anyway, even though it was a little tough.”

  “It was tougher than puttin’ socks on a rooster. That’s how tough it was. And I refuse to eat food that ain’t prepared right.”

  Ginger had insisted that she would cook dinner Friday evening. One of Jackson’s favorites. Liver and rice, smothered with onions, and broccoli and fluffy Bisquick biscuits. But problems had arisen at the office, and she was unable to leave as early as she’d planned. Scurrying around the kitchen, frantic about the lateness of the hour, Ginger had thrown pots on the stove as Mae Thelma watched, biding her time, knowing that dinner would be a disaster.

  Jackson smiled as he raked the dark earth smooth. He loved gardening. One thumb hooked in the loop of his jeans, he stood back to admire his handiwork. Then panic set in as his eyes scanned to the other half of the garden. “Mae, you moved my collards?” he asked incredulously.

  “Feels to me like you had ’em too far apart.”

  But now they’re too close together, thought Jackson. Collards were supposed to be planted at twelve- to fourteen-inch intervals, and she’d mistakenly huddled them less than eight inches apart. What the hell, he thought to himself. Ginger probably wouldn’t even notice, she’d been so busy lately.

  “It’s hot as blue blazes out here,” Mae Thelma said, and, wiping her sweat-stained forehead, she went inside.

  Moments later, she returned with two tall glasses of iced lemonade. Sitting cross-legged beside Jackson on the grass, she pondered Jackson’s attitude toward her over the past week. Retracing her steps, Mae Thelma was sure it had been a week since she placed her outpouring of love in a letter she’d left under his pillow. She had assumed that after he read her letter, he would approach her. Maybe he was waiting until this afternoon. He’d promised to take her to pick out the new appliances for the kitchen that would be installed in her house in a few weeks.

  Jackson reminded Mae Thelma of their garden his mother always planted in Mississippi. They planted everything from asparagus to sweet potatoes to zucchini in the red, rich soil of the South. To water it, they used a little pond on their property that was approximately fifty yards from the garden. He chuckled as he
remembered all nine of the children passing buckets of water down the line to their mother. It was a sweet memory he would always cherish.

  Loving memories of his mother and family always made him think of going back home to the South. Feeling nostalgic, he started humming “Sylvie,” one of his old favorites, and after a few notes, Mae Thelma joined in.

  Mae Thelma surprised Jackson with her knowledge of Huddie “Leadbelly” Ledbetter. She talked about how Leadbelly had been born to a family of Louisiana sharecroppers in 1888, and became an itinerant musician with a wide-ranging repertory of turn-of-the-century blues, ballads, spirituals, and work songs.

  “Remember ‘Good Night, Irene’?” asked Jackson jocosely, after sipping a swig of tart lemonade.

  “Sure I do. And do you still know the words to ‘Midnight Special’?”

  “I’ll never forget ’em. ‘Midnight Special’ was one of his songs the White folks prettied up after Leadbelly passed in nineteen forty-nine and tried to claim as their own. He was the first authentic traditional singer to go before the American people and make them aware of the rich folk music that existed down there.”

  “It’s a downright pitiful shame that his songs didn’t become popular until after his death. Otherwise he might have realized his dream of becoming ‘the nation’s first Black singing cowboy,’ ” said Mae Thelma pensively.

  “Girl, how you know ’bout Leadbelly?” inquired Jackson, smiling. Admiration showed in his eyes. “You ain’t but thirty.”

  “My mama told me all ’bout Leadbelly.” She sipped her lemonade, cooling her temptation to touch him. “Got aplenty of his albums still stored up at Mama’s house. All us kids loved to sit down in the cool evenings and listen to old Leadbelly singing them spirituals. His voice was so relaxing and uplifting, it was enough to make a Mississippi preacher lay his Bible down.”

  Leaning back on the palms of his hands, Jackson stretched out his legs. There was a kinship about southern folks that was hard to explain to people unless they had been born there. Ginger didn’t understand how he felt about home, how much he loved the South. Loved the peace and openness, the freedom of having your own little piece of land, where life was easy and slow. You’d work in your garden, listen to the gospels on the radio, full and satisfied after consuming the fruit of your labors, then go to bed when the sun went down, and rise when the sun rose again. Now that was living. “You ever think about moving back to Mississippi?” asked Jackson.

  “Don’t everybody want to go home?” She felt the pulse of her heart beating wildly inside her, and was about to blurt out her feelings for him when she heard the padding of oncoming feet.

  My, but don’t they look cozy, thought Ginger. She clasped Autumn’s tiny hand tighter as they walked toward the two lazy gardeners. “Good morning, folks,” said Ginger, carefully.

  “Hi, Daddy,” said Autumn, ignoring Mae Thelma. “You going with us, Daddy?”

  Picking her up and swinging her in the air, he kissed her soft cheeks and landed her next to her mother. He gave Ginger a warm kiss on her lips. “Daddy can’t go, baby. I promised to take the boys to get a haircut. Then Mae Thelma and I have to go pick out the new stuff for her house. Remember her house burned down?”

  “Yeah,” said Autumn, casting a sullen glance at Mae Thelma, still failing to acknowledge her presence with a hello or good morning. Autumn had seen the woman putting a red pouch in her daddy’s pants pocket. She’d taken it out, found a letter inside that smelled real funny, and given it to Granny because she couldn’t read. Granny said she was a good girl, and to keep an eye on Mae Thelma for Mommy. She couldn’t wait for them to move. Mae Thelma and her two bad boys.

  Mae Thelma took the cue and went back to the garden as Jackson mentioned how good his women looked, all dressed up and fancy.

  As Ginger backed out of the driveway, she stopped, remembering to tell Jackson that Little Bubba had called and wanted him to stop by the club. They were having an emergency meeting.

  Keys dangling in hand, she tiptoed around the garage, trying not to sink her heels into the soft earth. “Jackson,” she called out. “Jackson —” She stopped dead in her tracks as her tan leather pumps sank into the lush grass. That bitch had moved the plants. She had to have done it. As Ginger looked deep into Jackson’s eyes, she saw in the smoothness of light flashing the entreaty imploring her silence.

  Ginger conveyed Little Bubba’s message and turned to leave. A thought came to mind as she glared down at her muddy shoes. “Jackson?” she said seductively, her wide-brimmed straw hat casting a soft shadow over her eyes.

  “Yes, baby.”

  “Are you planning on taking Bronco Billy out for a ride tonight?” The coy look on her face was readily read by Mae Thelma.

  Jackson’s hairs raised on the back of his neck as he struggled to compose himself. If he had been three shades lighter, he probably would have blushed. Not wanting to create any further problems between the two women, and especially not wanting to infuriate his wife any more than necessary, he added, “Sure, sweetie. A long ride.” His voice sounded like a caress as he exaggerated his southern drawl, pausing between each word.

  Satisfied with his answer and the embarrassed look that crossed Mae Thelma’s face, Ginger walked away. Thank God she had explicitly told that bitch not to do any of her washing. She could cook and clean until she got sick and tired; Ginger didn’t plan on anyone washing her husband’s shorts and smelling his funk but her. That was all she needed, to walk in on that she-bitch checking Jackson’s drawers for semen stains.

  The sun had risen early that Saturday morning, but was still low on the horizon. There were long lines of children in all colors and shapes waiting for their turn to enter Detroit’s zoological park.

  The youngsters wore cheerful smiles and their eyes looked triumphant as Ivory Michaels and his daughter made their way through the park’s entrance.

  Ivory felt the women’s stares on his back as he and his daughter boarded the train at the main station in the front of the zoo. The loud toot-toot of the whistle and shrieking noises from the horn elicited excited cries of laughter from the small children, and they were off.

  One of the mothers sitting next to Ivory asked him for his autograph, which caused a swarm of other women to reach over their seats to follow suit. His daughter became slightly annoyed with the invasion of her private time with her daddy.

  “You mean it, Daddy?” asked his daughter, her ponytail swinging from left to right as she pulled him away from the small train.

  “Let’s see,” he said. “I was told by my partner that there was a beautiful boutique not too far from here, for little princesses just like mine.” He kissed her small hands, flicking a finger across the tip of her nose lovingly.

  Ivory thought about the bitter fight he and Elizabeth had had the day before his daughter was due to arrive from California. He’d told her he was ending their after-working-hours relationship. She’d been furious, and left his apartment crying.

  He’d grown bored with her, sooner than expected. She was an extremely intelligent woman, which was what had attracted him to her in the first place. It was more of a challenge to date an intelligent woman than an attractive one. And though Elizabeth was both beautiful and intelligent, it was her brain that had given her the privilege of his bed.

  His father had been a preacher, and he had grown up with deep-rooted spiritual convictions that somehow had been left behind as he became more successful. Nevertheless, his early Christian upbringing had taught him to respect religious women. He therefore tried to avoid them.

  Usually the young women in church were more sensitive than the worldy ones — and would gossip among themselves terribly. Their mothers would encourage him to take them out— to church functions or the movies. After seducing most of the young adult choir and some of their mothers in the church offices, the baptismal chamber, the kitchen . . . Ivory had lost his respect for both the Church and its saintly women. His father had been deeply upset and disturb
ed when Ivory began to find excuse after excuse not to attend weekday or Sunday services.

  At sixteen years old, Ivory had already bedded more women than the average man of forty. Subsequently, the girls had gotten to be a bore, and his sexual desires moved from females to men. It intrigued him to find how some of the older males whom he had admired and looked up to now found him attractive. He had a few serious relationships, before his father found out about it. When he did, he forced Ivory to marry a pretty young girl right after high school, to save face for their well-respected family.

  His mother had always told Ivory that God had blessed him with such good looks. If she’d only known what a curse those looks would be for his own self-respect, she would have prayed for a less attractive son.

  It hadn’t taken his wise, young wife long to learn of his bisexuality. But by that point she was about to deliver their first and only child. She told him she’d keep his secret if he’d give her complete custody of their child. He agreed, and had regretted it ever since.

  Single at twenty years old, sex became a job for Ivory, and he was looking for the benefits. Going to bed meant getting what he could get out of the relationship. His partners had to have something to offer him. Pretty just didn’t do it anymore. He’d known for years that any woman could give you an orgasm but that one could make it special. He knew that when he concentrated first on dominating their minds, like an awakening of spirituality, he could essentially control any woman — a woman he didn’t have to trust, because there was no need to trust a woman whom he could control.

  Yet as he sat watching his daughter enjoying her food, he knew that deep inside he wanted to find the woman who could challenge him, who wouldn’t acquiesce to his unlimited “tricks of the trade.” He knew he couldn’t care about a woman if he controlled her, because if he really loved a woman, he wouldn’t try to control her.