Knowing Page 33

  “Jackson! Jackson!” she hollered excitedly. “Guess what?”

  He and Autumn were outside shooting hoops. Ever since Jason left, Jackson had taken it upon himself to teach Autumn to play basketball. At six, she was the tallest one in her class. Every one of Jackson’s six sisters played basketball in school. Two were exceptionally good. Ginger didn’t want to spoil his fun by telling him that Autumn had asked her on several occasions to tell her daddy that she didn’t want to play basketball. She wanted to play soccer.

  Jackson dismissed the relieved look on Autumn’s face as he told her that was enough for today. “I just saw Gene Russell while I was out jogging.”

  “So?”

  “So, we talked for a while, he invited us to a preseason after-five party he’s throwing at his house next week.”

  Seeming to ignore what she’d said, he shot a few hoops as she stood there waiting for his reply. “Why would he do that?”

  “He remembered seeing us at the games. I casually mentioned that I sold real estate, and we chatted a few minutes about redecorating. He suggested I could pass around a few business cards. Wouldn’t you like to meet the team?” She tried to hide the excitement in her voice.

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.” He left without another word.

  Hurt, Ginger picked up the basketball and, though ordinarily not a good shot, sank the basket on her first attempt. He could go to hell if he thought she was going to pass this up.

  They arrived at the party at a few minutes past six. The evening air was clean and crisp. Expensive cars lined both sides of the street and the circular driveway. Clusters of beautiful people, impeccably dressed, walked toward the entrance of the grand home.

  Inside, a white-jacketed butler showed them in. Portraits of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcom X, Nelson Mandela, and Rosa Parks graced the walls of the main hallway. A consummate connoisseur of African art, Mr. Russell also displayed his enviable collection of masks, drums, and artifacts.

  Reggae music could be heard from somewhere down a long hall as two young attendants led them toward the focal point of the party. Like most of the women, Ginger couldn’t keep her eyes off the decor.

  Holding her hand, Jackson gently pulled Ginger closer to his side. Ginger skipped a step to keep up with Jackson’s long strides. She strained her neck to catch a glimpse inside each room as they passed by.

  “Jackson,” whispered Ginger, “do you think Gene Russell would consider giving us a tour of the house?”

  “No. And don’t ask.”

  “Why not?”

  The small crowd stopped in front of an elevator. Jackson didn’t bother to answer as they slowly descended to the lower level. An orchard of spicy scents misted the air inside the small cubicle.

  Ginger hadn’t realized that she was hungry until she inhaled the aroma of freshly baked bread. Stepping off the elevator, Ginger felt a rush of nerves. She blinked her eyes several times in succession, worrying if the glue would hold. The music blared. Seconds away, a few feet away, famous people would be talking and dancing.

  Jackson sensed her hesitation. “You look gorgeous, sweetheart.” He kissed her tenderly on the tip of her nose. Surprised, Ginger relaxed when he added, “Even those bedroom eyes.”

  He’d noticed. Earlier that day, Kim and Ginger had spent hours at Helga’s Spa getting pampered. They had lunch, a couple of glasses of chilled wine, and Ginger felt better than she had in months. Kim had convinced Ginger that she needed to have eyelashes professionally applied. They felt natural. The technician assured Ginger that they would not come off or lift at the corners. Ginger smiled, gazing into the mirror. The softness that Ginger felt was missing in her face was back.

  Joe Dumars arrived, giving Ginger and Jackson a polite smile and a hello and continuing toward the back of the room. A few feet away stood Gene Russell inside the doorway, smiling that brilliant smile, shaking hands with his guests. And Jackson spotted Isiah Thomas, Bill Laimbeer, and Mark McGuire by the pool table in the background.

  Spit-shined cranberry alligator shoes hurt Jackson’s feet. Yet, feeling a little cocky in a new doublebreasted navy blue pinstriped suit, he boldly walked over to Gene, Ginger traipsing along with him. A stunned Ginger smiled shyly as Jackson introduced himself and his wife.

  Gene Russell greeted them effusively, excusing himself temporarily from his guests. A waiter appeared offering assorted wines in exquisite glassware. Ginger took one, as Jackson and Gene made quick exchanges about basketball. Gene led them toward the pool table, assuming that Jackson would want to meet the rest of the Pistons.

  Even though Gene was a head taller than Jackson, Ginger couldn’t have been more proud of her man. He fit in beautifully. Looked positively scrumptious. Mingled expertly with the guys. Jackson’s easy smile rested on her for a moment. She could tell he was enjoying himself. Excusing herself, Ginger deposited her empty wineglass on a tray and headed for the buffet tables.

  Three exotic floral arrangements tiered a lighted, eight-foot Lucite display. White linen tablecloths dropped to the floor with lace overlays. Hundreds of votive candles huddled atop each table, casting an elegant glow. Prisms of light reflections shone on the mirror displays and sterling silver chafing dishes.

  Stunning floral creations were arranged near each entrée. Spicy shrimp sizzled in a bed of fresh scallions. Fresh jumbo shrimp, marinated and dipped in coconut, were served with pineapple or plum sauce. Béarnaise sauce drizzled over strips of sesame chicken.

  A station of Norwegian smoked salmon was enticing. Equally tempting was a circular design of Brie amandine.

  Standing beside an ice sculpture of Gene Russell’s basketball shoes, a chef hand-carved paper-thin slices of roast tenderloin for the guests who stood in line. Others were helping themselves to the seasoned roasted chicken to his right.

  A cappuccino and espresso bar held court near the dessert table of pies, cakes, and tortes. Kahlúa, Baileys, and various other liqueurs were a matter of choice, along with chocolate shavings to add to a savory cup of hot cappuccino.

  Ginger relaxed near the bar with a tumbler of Martell and ginger ale. Jackson and Joe Dumars were deeply involved in an animated conversation about the Pistons’ chances of victory this year over the competitive Chicago Bulls. Ginger hated to interrupt her husband as he artfully executed his version of Michael Jordan’s jump shot. Tapping her feet to the beat of the music, Ginger watched the couples dancing, wishing she and Jackson would at least get in one slow dance before the evening ended. She spotted a woman on the dance floor in a deadly pair of Donna Karan black peau de soie pumps with a rhinestone buckle across the instep.

  “Enjoying yourself?” asked a seductive voice.

  Ginger’s eyes rested on his elegantly clad size-fifteen-and-a-half shoes first. She hadn’t seen any shoes that big before. At least not in person. Her head fell back as she looked up into Gene Russell’s face. Damn, he was cute, with those thick, sexy lips. “Yes. I’m having a wonderful time,” she stammered.

  He extended his hand. Taking it, Ginger felt like a queen as he executed a half-bow. “Your husband mentioned that you’d like a tour of the house.” He smiled again, and Ginger felt her heart turn flips.

  “He did?” Ginger was shocked. “I’d love one.” Smoothing out her dress as she stood, she clutched her purse. “Lead the way.”

  As they entered each room Gene explained the renovations he planned. He was especially proud of the complete remodernization of the Euro-design kitchen. Ginger could see the pride in his eyes.

  The estate maintained a houseman, caretaker, security officer, chef, and Gene’s personal maid. As they made their way back to the party, Gene asked Ginger if she had circulated any of her business cards yet. “A few,” she said, glancing at her watch. It was later than she thought — Jackson would be worried. A slight breeze of his opulent cologne invited her to slow down.

  When they reentered the party scene “Time, Love, and Tenderness,” by Michael Bolton was ca
using a rush of sentimental lovers onto the dance floor. Ginger felt the warmth of Jackson’s eyes on her from across the room.

  Ginger moved stealthily toward her lover. As she batted her lashes provocatively, playing the ingenue, Jackson swept her expertly into his arms. A perfect fit. Their bodies moved languidly to a slow dance.

  A half-hour later, while driving home, Jackson hinted that he was apprehensive about letting Gene Russell take her all over that large mansion alone. “Was he a gentleman?” asked Jackson.

  The night had long since dropped its inky curtain. A million diamonds sprinkled across the heavens above them.

  “Perfect.” Ginger closed her eyes, savoring the night. Reaching out, she touched him, feeling his warmth. The warmth she felt for him, even when they were apart. Jackson illuminated her world. Was the center of her universe. “Let’s make love, Jackson.”

  “Now?”

  She stretched. Her voice purred. “Outside. On our patio.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  She touched him. Stroked him softly. Tonight, she thought, would be the perfect ending to an enchanting evening.

  That night, their lovemaking had resumed with the fierce passion that had been missing for the past few weeks. Jackson made love to her so completely and fully; she felt as if no man could ever touch her heart and love her the way he did.

  Ginger received several letters from Jason. There were even a few pictures of him with a new girlfriend. He sounded happy but made it clear that he missed home. Missed his mother. Ginger cried, knowing how much she’d missed him too.

  By the middle of November, Mae Thelma felt as though she was running low on time. She persuaded her sons to call Jackson, telling him they missed seeing him and asking him when was he coming back over to visit.

  Mae Thelma couldn’t admit to herself that she had reached this mysterious climax of effacement. The humiliation of using her children scorched her to the soul, yet she couldn’t stop herself.

  She used every conceivable excuse to get Jackson to come over that her mind could imagine. The refrigerator was broken. The bathroom faucets leaked. A cracked window needed replacing in the kids’ room. And the kicker: In the bitter coldness at the start of December, the furnace wouldn’t work.

  Ginger took all of this in stride as she struggled to be nice, keep her cool, and maintain her relationship at an even keel. She wanted to scream.

  Sierra and Autumn weren’t thrilled when Ginger suggested that they spend a weekend with their grandmother. An inducement of forty dollars apiece to go shopping silenced their protests.

  But by late Saturday afternoon, each of the kids had called from their grandmother Katherine’s. When was Ginger coming down to pick them up? They were ready to come home. The phone rang again. Shuffling through a stack of insurance papers, Ginger cradled the phone along her shoulder. “Yes?” said Ginger, thinking it was probably Autumn again.

  “Hello. Hello,” came the nervous voice.

  “Yes.” Ginger furrowed her brows.

  “Can I please speak to Jackson?” came the unmistakable slow southern drawl.

  Goose bumps rose on her flesh. Flashbacks of the mice, throwing water in her face, Jason’s party. A streak of yellow. The sickeningly sweet smell of honeysuckle. “He’s at the basketball game.”

  “Me and the boys are at the airport. You think Jackson’ll be home directly?” Mae Thelma asked.

  Determined to start the New Year with the pledge of Jackson’s love, Mae Thelma had made a final attempt to secure a stronger love potion from her aunt Gitty, a high priestess of voodoo in New Orleans. The boys had been eager to meet the great-aunt they’d heard so many stories about.

  You’re asking me what time my husband will be home? Ginger thought but didn’t say. This bitch must have more balls than Jackson.

  “I have no idea.” She slammed down the phone.

  Smothered potatoes and onions, Caesar salad, and a three-quarter-inch porterhouse steak were placed before Jackson as he gave Ginger play-by-play events of the Pistons’ game against the red-hot Chicago Bulls.

  Quietly she listened. Ginger couldn’t keep from watching the clock. It had been nearly an hour and a half since Mae Thelma had called. Though Ginger had prepared a hefty dinner just for two, she merely picked at hers, constantly keeping watch as the clock ticked loudly inside her head. Would she call back? Would he go if she did?

  Ginger nearly jumped out of her seat as the phone shrilled loudly. “I’ll get it,” she offered. Jackson, who sat closer to the phone, sensed Ginger’s discomfort and picked up before the second ring.

  During the lengthy conversation, Ginger cleared their plates. Outside the kitchen window the winter night was as clear as day. Ice crystallized circles of puddles along the street.

  She felt her heart slipping, skipping a beat, hearing the anger and tone in his voice, directed toward her. When he hung up, fury was written all over his face. “They’ve been at the airport for hours!”

  “She could have called a taxi,” Ginger said softly to deaf ears as Jackson skidded out of the driveway. Warm tears slid down her face. Gathering her purse and keys, she drove to her mother’s house in Port Huron. She wouldn’t be here when he got back.

  When Ginger and the kids returned home late Sunday evening, Jackson ignored her, focusing on Autumn, hugging and kissing her. Ginger saw the hurt in Sierra’s eyes as she watched Jackson snuggle his baby daughter. Jackson finally acknowledged his other baby and kissed her too. But the biggest baby of all, Ginger, was left out.

  “What in the hell were you thinking about?” Jackson grabbed Autumn’s hand. “Don’t you ever put your hands on her hair again!”

  Turning abruptly, Ginger’s eyes flushed with tears.

  “Daddy, Mama didn’t —” Autumn looked back at her mother, her large brown eyes glossy, as her father dragged her from their bedroom.

  How could he possibly think that she would deliberately cause her baby’s hair to come out? He hadn’t even given her the opportunity to explain. It had been a simple mistake, leaving the permanent on Autumn’s hair too long.

  Autumn’s hair, normally twelve inches long, had broken off badly from being overprocessed. Ginger was panic stricken when she found sections throughout Autumn’s hair that measured less than three inches. There was no way she could hide it. Ginger tried to cut it as evenly as she could into a retro-seventies shag style, tried to make light of it to Autumn as she joked to her small child that she’d go back to school after the holidays with a new hairstyle. It seemed to please her.

  When the idea of a permanent for Autumn first arose, Jackson had told Ginger he didn’t want to put any chemicals in his baby’s hair. He’d given in, though, when his sister, who’d called to wish them a happy Thanksgiving, scolded Jackson for being so old-fashioned. Her daughter, Jamara, had been just five when Jackson’s sister had permed her hair — and a year later, her hair was fine. Ginger begged her husband to try to understand how difficult it was to manage Autumn’s thick head of hair. But the call from his sister was what had made him agree.

  Autumn was extremely tender headed, and Jackson had to leave the house when the crying started. He couldn’t stand hearing her cry for so long. Autumn’s hair was so thick, like her grandma Katherine’s, that it took hours of babying before Ginger was finished. “You okay, sweetheart?” Ginger would hear a low sniffle from Autumn, signaling another crying spell, and she’d stop for a moment, then begin again. “Mama’s not going to hurt you, baby. I’ll be finished real soon, okay?” By then Ginger was exhausted.

  The force of Jackson’s accusations was like an earthquake that ruminated deep inside her heart’s core. Her body trembled. Her hands shook. Falling facedown onto their bed, Ginger cried like a baby until there was nothing left but dry tears.

  Ginger’s heart, weeping to belong, to be cherished, closed like a shell, protecting the prize, because the heart has its reasons of which Reason knows nothing. Washing her face with tepid water, she toweled her
face dry in the darkness of their bathroom. She vowed vindication. With renewed courage she went downstairs to face Jackson.

  “I read my watch wrong,” Ginger admonished. “I was trying to make her hair look pretty for the Christmas program at church Sunday. I figured a few more minutes and it would be bone straight. You know how thick her hair —”

  “Was,” he finished.

  The six o’clock news flashed interviews with last-minute Christmas shoppers who scurried for that special gift outside the Twelve Oaks Mall. Ginger felt raw envy as she heard a husband saying to his wife on live television, “This is it, sweetheart.” He waved a perfectly wrapped diminutive package over his heart. Autumn, quiet, sat on the floor in front of her father, clutching her knees.

  “I’m sorry, Jackson.” Ginger’s voice quavered. She could feel the sweat on her nude head beading beneath her wig. “I can take her to the hairdresser’s —”

  He looked up from oiling Autumn’s reddened scalp. “Don’t bother. I’ll take her.” His voice sounded so cold. So heartless.

  “I love her, too, Jackson.” Ginger’s hands shook violently as she massaged her temples. “You think I’d intentionally hurt my baby? You think I want her to feel like I —” She couldn’t finish.

  Jackson, unmoved, finished Autumn’s hair, then patted her bottom, signaling her to get up. Ginger had crossed the line that divided his heart. He didn’t want to admit it, but his baby needed him. To him Ginger was too busy working to notice. Ginger had made her choice. She chose a life away from him and the family that he had worked so hard these past years to create. He resented Ginger’s drive toward success. Everyone suffered, except Ginger. He’d had enough of her selfishness.

  Jackson appreciated economy in words. “Yeah,” he said, and, turning off the television, left the house.

  Ginger sat in her bathroom nursing a drink, trying to numb the pain in her heart. Did he think she was that vindictive, to make her child suffer, and deliberately cause her hair to fall out? There wasn’t a day when Ginger didn’t think about her own hair; not a day that she didn’t see the horror of her bald head staring back at her. No one knew her pain. No one. Not Jackson. Not her mother. Or even her children. It was as if a part of her had died.