Knowing

by Rosalyn McMillan

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

After years of working in a factory, Ginger decides to go back to school and join the 9-to-5 white-collar world. The higher she climbs, however, the more her jealous, controlling husband tries to pull her back down. Desperate to hold onto the things she loves, yet driven to achieve more, Ginger must make choices that are both extraordinary difficult--and ultimately freeing.

Release date: April 22, 1999

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 416

Sample

 

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.




Sexual Healing

 

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.

Despite their best intentions, Ginger and Jackson’s eight years of marriage were often an emotional ordeal of cautious speeches and angry silences during the day. But as evening approached they surrendered to the volcanic passion that couldn’t be ignored. Their silent obsession. Reality disappeared in the zest of their union. It was the one aspect of their marriage they never argued over.

But at this stage in her life it wasn’t enough. She had played this scene before with her first husband, Michael Carter, who also claimed to love her to distraction. She had grown up believing in Cinderella, but after eleven years of her first troubled marriage, she found that her husband wasn’t Prince Charming. He was just a man. Still, she wanted desperately to believe in the fairy tale of finding the man of her dreams. So without hesitation she had married Jackson Montgomery.

She knew her intelligence was above average — something her high school transcripts verified — and she was as proud of her intellect as she was of the combined African, European, and Native American features blended in her face. It was a struggle, however, to change Jackson into a man who wasn’t just interested in the shape of her body but also the shape of her mind. She respected him for who and what he was, and expected him, in turn, to respect her for who and what she was, and the person she strove to become.

She chastised herself for spoiling him, making him believe that sex was the priority. She had already sold him on the idea that their bedroom turned into “The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas” when the lights went off. She sighed, inhaled, and took another long sip of her drink.

Yes, she’d gone to bed with him on their first date. But how was she supposed to know what to do? She’d never been on a date before, even though she was nearly thirty years old at the time. She’d been married at seventeen. Still in the process of divorcing her husband, she hadn’t had sex for nine months and was horny as hell. It was ridiculous the way attorneys expected a woman to stay celibate during divorce proceedings, so she wouldn’t be considered a slut during the custody hearings, while a man could go out and screw anyone anytime, and was rarely questioned about his dalliances.

So it was only natural that she wound up in Jackson’s bed, feeling like a teenager. Carefree and happy. A few dates later, they decided to drive his brand-new black Bronco to Port Huron, where she lived. They’d just come from the Masonic temple and she had on a sexy antique white lace dress with iridescent sequins sprinkled around the bodice. His olive green silk suit flattered his sleek, muscular frame. He was totally appetizing. Utterly inviting.

Desire overwhelmed them, before they’d even reached her house. She couldn’t wait. Neither could he. She ended up straddling him, having sex down the freeway at eighty miles an hour. She’d never forget it. Neither would he. Two weeks later he asked her to marry him. A few years later they had a baby daughter, Autumn. She was his spitting image. Jackson was happier than he ever would have believed. You’d think he’d had her all by himself, the way he carried on about his little girl.

Jackson Montgomery could charm the rattle off a rattlesnake. He was intelligent, articulate, suave, and charismatic without even trying to be. When he walked into the room, you couldn’t help but stop and stare at his tall, slender, poised body. Ginger had been mesmerized the first time those seductive hazel eyes gazed into hers and seemed to look straight through to her heart. She was helpless, and who wouldn’t be?

Getting up, she went into the kitchen and washed the delicate goblet and placed it back inside the cabinet. She’d finished the entire bottle of wine, but inner tranquillity still eluded her, and the desperate yearning she felt for Jackson had only been heightened. As she walked toward the circular staircase, she felt as light as the feather flakes that blanketed the ground outside. As quickly as it had begun, the snow had ceased.

When she opened the door to their master suite, barely making a sound, a familiar husky voiced called from the bed, “Baby, come back to bed, baby.”

She stood in the center of the room, letting her flimsy garment fall to a fluffy puddle around her ankles.

Sliding beneath the cool sheets, Ginger snuggled close to Jackson’s heat, two animals, bodies melded.

Gliding his palms against the round of her hips, he whispered in her ear, “I love you, baby.”

The pungent aroma of dirty gym shoes greeted Ginger before Jason did. Turning toward the open doorway, her teacup in hand, she grimaced. “Mornin’, Jason.”

“I’m gonna put these in to soak, Ma. Is anything in the machine?” asked Jason, dropping one of the size-twelve sneakers.

She called over her shoulder as he walked toward the rear staircase, “No. But add a little Pine Sol to that water. Those shoes need some disinfectant.”

She turned back to the magazine article she was reading on new businesses with low start-up costs. Ginger knew one day she’d be working in a professional field. As her eyes traveled down the page, she couldn’t help but notice the protruding blue-green veins on both her hands, a result of the hard work they’d done.

Years of healed scars covered her hands. Though some were barely visible, she knew the location of each knick and mark. Lumps on either side of her fingers, the size of thumbtacks, were more prominent, calling attention to the fact that she worked in a factory. Ginger knew that, in order to be a professional, she had to look the part. Acrylic nails would do for a start.

The sun raised its sleepy head, streaming light through the room. Jason had been up for nearly two hours, and Ginger sat drinking her fourth cup of tea when Jackson decided to make his grand entrance.

After looking over her shoulder to see what she was reading, Jackson kissed Ginger fondly on the cheek. He tensed, quickly assessing the situation and Ginger’s mood. Several issues of Entrepreneur and Women’s Entrepreneur magazines were folded back, signifying that something had piqued her interest. Not this again, he thought to himself. Walking into the kitchen, he opened the cabinet door, reached for the coffee, opened yet another cabinet for a coffee mug, pulled out the silverware drawer, . . . and again, left it sticking out like a red flag.

“Can’t you ever close a door?” asked Ginger, walking behind him and slamming the doors and drawer. She knew she should be used to it by now. Jackson never shut a cabinet door or pushed a kitchen drawer to its original position no matter how many he’d opened. Boy, did that get on her nerves. Their kitchen also had a spacious butler’s pantry with its own sink, storing trays, and serving counters, with a total of fifty upper and lower cabinets. Fortunately, his meanderings this morning hadn’t taken him that far.

Often, she would come home from grocery shopping, tired and angry, only to find almost every cabinet door in the kitchen wide open. Did she think maybe it was the kids trying to help out, making it easier to put up the groceries? Oh, no. The culprit was none other than Mr. Montgomery looking for crackers to snack on, cheese spread, or a plate — he could never seem to remember where they were stacked.

Ginger had asked Jackson on numerous occasions to have the kitchen remodeled, so at least the hinges would swing back on the cabinet doors and the needless arguments would cease. But no, he’d always refused, saying it would mess up the architecture of the house if they installed a modern kitchen.

Their home, built in 1923, was the epitome of old-money extravagance. The third floor held two bedrooms for the maid and butler with a large full bathroom — they didn’t employ either. A spacious cedar closet completed the arc of rooms, which were circled around a massive skylight. They rarely used the third floor. They had plenty of other rooms as well as the twin sofa sleepers in the basement to use whenever relatives decided to stay over.

Dressed in a pair of tight, worn jeans, Jackson curled his fingers around the handle of the mug, and braced himself against the counter. The strong aroma of rich, black coffee filled the air. He took a long sip. “Did you enjoy last night?” He looked her in the eye as a slow, devilish smile eased across his face.

“Don’t I always?” said Ginger, resting her hands on her hips.

Easing off the counter, swiftly untying her pink chenille bathrobe, he pulled her into his arms, forcing hers to drop at her sides. His large, nut-brown hands cupped her buttocks, pulling her up on her tiptoes to feel the bulge in his crotch. Her gown molded between her thighs as he thrust his knee to spread open her legs. Closing his mouth over hers, he kissed her. Ginger felt the velvety smoothness of his skin that stretched over his muscular shoulders as she struggled to disengage their bodies.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered in her ear, licking the lobe. “We can go upstairs for a quickie before the kids wake up.”

“I don’t feel like screwing, Jackson. I’ve got a lot on my mind,” said Ginger, finally freeing herself from his embrace.

Jackson glanced in the breakfast room, and then looked at her. “We’re not going through this again, are we?” His muscles flexed, his breathing quickening.

As he followed her, Ginger nervously stacked the magazines neatly in a pile, and gathered them up against her bosom. Turning to look him in the eye, she said, “I don’t care to discuss this with you this morning. We’ll talk about it this evening. I’m going to take a shower.” She stormed up the stairs. He followed her, swearing under his breath.

“What did you say?” she fired. She turned at the landing before the flight of stairs leading to their bedroom, and looked down into eyes staring up at her from three steps below.

Jackson propped himself against the wood railing. “You got a one-track mind —”

“So do you. It’s your way or no wa —”

“That’s why it don’t do no good to tell you nothin’.”

“What!”

“ ’Cause you got your mind made up already. That’s why I can’t help you with nothin’.”

“That’s not true, Jackson, and you know it.”

“I can’t give you no suggestions because you got a one-track mind. I try to help, and tell you how I feel about things. Ain’t that important?” His eyes begged understanding.

“Not when they differ from mine. Which is all the time. Are my feelings important to you?”

He expelled a few exasperated breaths. He was getting nowhere fast. “Ginger, it’s always your way or no way. If you would just take time to listen to me once in a while, you’d save yourself a lot of time. You know I want to help.”

As Ginger took a step down, her eyes grew wide in fury. Her right hand made a half-arc above his head. “How dare you! When’s the last time you offered to help me at anything?”

“I don’t waste a lot of good advice on you because you don’t take it.” Jackson’s knuckles gripped the banister as he pushed himself up a step closer to Ginger.

Her tone became angrier. “Because you’re manipulative, Jackson —”

“No. No. You can’t recognize good advice. What you’re looking for is someone to support your thinking. Your imagination runs away —”

It’s too bad you don’t have a little imagination outside the bedroom! Ginger thought to herself before shouting, “There isn’t a damned thing wrong with my mind.” She stepped back, gripping the rail.

“Can’t you step outside yourself for a moment, look at the situation and be objective?”

“I can’t. Suppose you try stepping inside yourself and being a little objective? I’d like you to tell me your shortcomings. You’re so quick to pinpoint mine. Lord have mercy, I can’t believe how well you know me. We should get along like two peas in a pod.”

“Knowing you is one thing, being able to speak the truth to you about you is another thing altogether, Ginger.”

“Are you willing to sit down for a few hours and listen to me tell you about yourself, like I’m supposed to be willing to let you tell me about me?”

“I’m not going out trying to open a business, Ginger.”

“Oh! So you don’t think Oprah had any personal problems when she started out?”

Jackson crisscrossed his wrists on his knee and spat out the words “You ain’t Oprah.”

Jackson had long since tired of hearing Ginger brag about Oprah’s success. Oprah was a goddess in Ginger’s eyes. Her mentor. She could do no wrong. If he happened to be in the room when her show came on, Jackson would get up and walk out, saying “I don’t want to hear this shit today.” That always pissed Ginger off, and he knew it. She liked him to watch the show with her. Every now and then he would. Whenever he thought Ginger was on the brink of coming up with another big idea, he knew where it came from. Oprah was causing problems in his home she wasn’t even aware of. There were probably a lot of other husbands out there who felt the same way he did: Leave my woman the way she was, I liked her better that way.

“And you ain’t Michael Jordan either, but do you hear me complaining?” She knew that would piss him off, because he knew how she felt about Michael.

He ignored that retort, and continued honing in on his point. “Listen to me for just a minute, baby. You have a good head on your shoulders. We both know that. But sometimes you get too far ahead of yourself — move too fast. If I don’t support your first thought then I’m accused of being unsupportive. Sometimes your ideas are so farfetched I can’t believe it. And I just go along with you —”

“What!”

Jackson snapped his fingers. “And sometimes I just go on along with you knowing you’re wrong. But knowing if I go along it’ll make you happy as can be. Just to go along with your wrong idea . . .”

Ginger felt the veins popping out on her forehead. You bastard! She thought for a second, regaining her composure. A slow smile eased across her face. Lifting her gown, she turned back to Jackson. She wiggled her hips as she climbed the stairs. “It’s been quite a while since you had a good thought worth pondering over. The single revelation you ever had was when you decided to marry me, and I gave you that one!”

Jackson disregarded that remark, electing to make his point quickly. “I got sense enough not to leave over twenty years of seniority. A company that made it possible for you to live like you do.” Jackson’s gangly arms lifted to praise their beautiful surroundings. “Or have you suddenly forgotten where you live? Don’t you feel your seniority at the company deserves more respect than a fast money-induced advertisement for suckers like you?”

Ginger turned and marched silently up the stairs.




Ain’t Too Proud to Beg

 

Leaning over to fill the tub, Ginger replied through stiff lips, “No, I haven’t forgotten about my seventeen years at the plant.” Turning around to face Jackson, she sat on the edge of the tub and crossed her arms. “We’ve discussed my job at the plant and my endless jobs at home,” she huffed, “and you know exactly how I feel about both.” The sound of gushing water cut their conversation short.

As he walked toward her, Jackson inhaled deeply, then put an arm around her shoulder. Ginger stiffened, continuing to pour generous capfuls of jasmine bubble bath into the tub. Running his fingers through her hair, he turned her head toward him. His lips brushed against her neck as he spoke “Baby, let’s not argue today,” while kissing an exposed shoulder.

The warmth of her breath bounced off his face as she uttered softly, “I don’t enjoy arguing with you, Jackson. I would just appreciate a little understanding.” She stared innocently into his face. “Is that too much to ask?”

Knowing where the conversation was leading, he folded his hands together in a nonhostile gesture. “What is it this time, Ginger?” he asked in a civil tone. “You promised me the last time you spent thousands of dollars on that . . . that . . .”

Her head lowering, she whispered, “Body Shop.” Ginger knew every angle from which he would come at her. They’d had this same argument so many times that she’d memorized his speech. He’d bring up the kids. Her job. Her responsibilities at home. Finally end with “You must be losing your mind.”

“Yeah,” he continued. “That lotion and perfume b