Blue Collar Blues

by Rosalyn McMillan

  “And?”

  “Haven’t you read today’s papers? R.C. got married.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Hell no.” Khan looked toward the phone. Her eyes seemed to be begging it to ring. “He married some cute chick while he was in Japan. They’re spending their honeymoon at his ranch in Kentucky.” Reaching for another cookie, Khan frowned, and tossed it back into the bag. “I know that Uncle Ron, Mama Pearl, and even you didn’t approve of the relationship. But I saw something in him none of you did. We were good for each other. And I’m not just talking about the bedroom, either.”

  “I know what you mean,” Thyme said. “No one thought that my marriage to Cy would last this long either. Especially Sydney.” Sydney was Thyme’s sister-in-law, Cy’s twin sister. Thyme’s thoughts drifted to Sydney, who was unaware that prejudice squints when it looks and lies when it talks. Then Thyme looked at Khan and said, “Now it’s my turn to confess: I’ve filed a discrimination lawsuit against Champion.”

  “Really? Why?” Khan looked surprised.

  “When I was promoted to plant manager at Troy Trim four years ago, there were twenty-five hundred employees. I was hired to bring in new business to increase production. Now there are only twenty-one hundred employees at Troy Trim. The rest have been permanently laid off.”

  “Tell me about it. It’s all you hear about at the plant. Everyone’s scared they’re going to be next.”

  “Your Uncle Ron’s always on my back to do something about Troy Trim’s obvious streamlining.” Thyme sighed. “I realize after a while that I was being pressured to increase production and reduce people. How could I satisfy you union people and still make money? It’s a squeeze play: there is no way for me to do my job successfully. I began to wonder if I was given this position to get rid of me, force me out.”

  “Damn, Thyme, you can handle it. Every time I see you in the plant, you’re wearing a bad-ass suit, some bad-ass shoes, and shaking that bad-ass wrap hairstyle of yours. I tell some of my co-workers in the unit when you walk by, ‘See that fine sister? She’s my friend. And one day I’m going to be just like her.’”

  Even though her skin was a deep shade of chocolate, Thyme was sure she blushed.

  “You know how hard I’ve pushed you about getting your degree so that you could get ahead in the business world. A degree counts. It states who you are. How hard you’ve worked to become who you are now. All that’s great, but in my ignorance I thought that a degree and hard work alone would gain me access to Champion’s upper echelon. I know now it won’t. Get this: Ten years ago management stipulated that salaried employees who were seeking a promotion should have a college degree.”

  “So what’s the problem? You’ve got a Ph.D.—”

  “It hasn’t done me a damn bit of good. Somewhere someone wrote in that policy that everyone with a B.A. was eligible except for Thyme Tyler.” Thyme needed to be careful here. Although Thyme wanted to tell her the facts, she didn’t want to discourage Khan from finishing her degree in communications. “I’ve lost several promotions over the past ten years. The company isn’t aware how much I know about the salaried employees they’ve promoted over me.”

  “What I’m hearing is that even though you’re qualified, they’ve promoted less qualified folks than you?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then it’s a race issue.” Khan paused and then said, “And why are you pushing me to go crazy over a piece of paper that could possibly have no meaning?”

  “Because you need it. We’re not given the proper respect without it. Not out there in the white world where it counts.” Thyme downed the last of her wine and went into the kitchen crumpling her paper cup. “And if my attorney is as good as he says he is”—she tossed the cup into the trash can—“I’m going to get paid big-time because of it.” A basket. She made it.

  “You’re going public?”

  “Amen.”

  “How does Cy feel about this?”

  Thyme hedged. “We discussed my being pissed off about the promotions a while back. He thinks it’s a mistake. Cy feels that to make a fuss would ruin my career.”

  “You said the suit was big. I’m assuming we’re talking a million dollars?”

  “Maybe. Most likely between seven hundred fifty—”

  “Fuck the career. With that much money, you can quit Champion and do something on your own.”

  “The money is not the point. I grew up at Champion. Besides, Cy works there too.”

  “The perils of plant life,” Khan said, sighing dramatically. “The whole company seems to be turning on its head. Tell me, Thyme, do you think we’ll strike in September? Uncle Ron won’t say.”

  “I doubt it. As you probably know, Motor Trend picked the Chrysler Incognito as the car of the year and now they can’t build that car fast enough. The waiting period is nine months for all new orders. My guess is that Chrysler is going to be the next strike target because they’ll be under so much pressure.”

  Khan tried to whistle, but her mouth was stuffed with cookie crumbs.

  “But haven’t you and Cy ever argued over the fact that even though you have a Ph.D. and he only has a B.A., he makes twice as much money as you do?” Thyme and Khan had always been remarkably open about money. And occasionally about issues of race.

  “No.”

  “Even though you know it has to do with the fact that he’s white and you’re black.” This was a statement, not a question. Before Thyme could answer, Khan spoke up. “I’m sorry—just because my relationship is over doesn’t give me the right to try and create problems in your marriage.”

  Thyme knew that Khan had learned to be especially attuned to racism, having grown up in Itta Bena, Mississippi.

  “What did Mama Pearl use to tell you?”

  Khan smiled and said, emphasizing her southern drawl, “If you ain’t light, bright, and damned near white, you ain’t worth nothing.”

  “And you know your Mama Pearl don’t speak unless she knows it’s the truth.”

  The silence between them was awkward for a moment while Thyme put her shoes back on. “Look, Thyme, you’ve always been everything that I want to become.” Khan paused and took a breath. “But when I wanted to come by for a quick visit the other day, I was stopped at the gate.”

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to Cy about it. I’ve got to get you the code so that won’t ever happen again.”

  “Hell. You know I’d love to be living large like you two in the Bloomies. Waking up to birds singing good morning. Crickets whispering good night. Hell, last time I was there I thought I’d entered never-never land. But now since my man done left me, I don’t stand a chance. I’ll never be able to afford that shit.”

  Khan sounded bitter and a touch resentful. Thyme hesitated before saying anything. This was touchy ground between them, and Thyme didn’t want to seem defensive about Cy being white.

  Khan shook her head and then said, “So how’s the white brother holding up in the bedroom?”

  “My mama told me to never discuss my man’s theatrics in the bedroom with another woman. I’d live to regret it.” Thyme tried to smile and defuse the tension between them.

  “But girlfriend, I don’t have no interest in a white man. Nothing personal, but I don’t believe that a white brother can come nowhere near to making love correctly.” Khan cupped her buttocks with her good hand. “I’m talking about fucking, not oral sex.”

  “Someone gave you the wrong information, my young friend. White men hang as long and as hard as black men. Don’t be fooled by myths.” Thyme went back into the kitchen and placed the half-empty bottle of wine in a bag. “I know I’m acting like a ghetto girl, but since you don’t drink, it would be stupid of me to leave it.” She smiled, then became more serious. “Sex is the least of what’s between me and Cy. It’s much more than that.”

  Thyme couldn’t help but smile as she watched Khan, who wasn’t even five feet tall, move around in the kitchen, cleaning off counters and
washing out the few dirty dishes left in the sink. She looked like a child trying to play house, a miniature Barbie.

  “So . . . getting back to the lawsuit, do you think you’re being discriminated against because you’re a woman or because you’re black?”

  “To tell you the truth, Khan, I’m not sure, but I can hear the question you’re afraid to ask: Why did I marry a white man? I think what we need is to come together in a joint effort—black, white, men, women—and to fight for what’s right: equality.” Thyme laughed and then said, “That’s the bullshit I tell everyone else. The simple fact is Cy has pash. He could flirt with an entire room full of women at one time, and each woman would feel special—which doesn’t bother me, because I know he only has eyes for me.”

  Khan was frowning, a sure signal that it was time for Thyme to go home. Thyme got her car keys out of her purse, saying, “Maybe I should go. It’s been a long day for both of us.” She moved toward the door and cracked it open. The fresh air felt invigorating and she could smell the rain in the darkness.

  “I’m hearing two things, Thyme. First, apparently Cy doesn’t know you’re going forward with the lawsuit. And second, he doesn’t realize how strongly you feel about the discrimination issue at Champion. If your marriage is so secure, how can you keep secrets like that? Secrets are as bad as lies.”

  Thyme’s voice broke. “It’s the first time I’ve ever lied to him about anything.”

  “I don’t know, girl. I think you should clue the white brother in. This type of shit may come back to haunt you one day,” Khan said in a warning voice.

  Thyme said solemnly, “Sometimes you got to eat a little shit and act like you like it.”

  3

  __________

  As the moon fell behind the clouds, the first signs of dawn lit the Kentucky sky with hints of purple, orange, and yellow. Some of Kentucky’s finest thoroughbreds, housed in R.C. Richardson’s stables, were sniffing the early morning air, breathing in the honey-sweet of April apple blossoms.

  Tomiko lay asleep, her cheek resting against her husband’s shoulder blade, her arms making a necklace around his waist. They’d been at R.C.’s Paris, Kentucky, ranch for almost a week, and each night felt like their first together. Last night they’d made passionate love in a new way.

  The first words out of her spouse’s mouth the night before had been “Baby, there ain’t no directions.”

  Placing her empty champagne glass on the fireplace mantel, Tomiko had presented R.C. with the Let’s Celebrate Kit—For Lovers Only, a good-luck gift she’d received from her girlfriend in Japan. Tomiko wanted to impress R.C. and show him that she could be adventurous in bed.

  Tomiko had been dressed in a sexy red satin teddy, and R.C. wore matching red satin boxers. They’d sat down on the bedroom floor in front of the blazing fire and R.C. began to look through the cleverly wrapped box, which contained wild berry body dust; pina colada warming oil; tropical fruit love gelee; strawberry kissing potion; lickable cherry body paint; strawberry whipped creme; China musk massage oil; aromatherapy bubble bath; a bag of confetti; a red, heart-shaped candle; a white feather; and two balloons.

  “Come on, Tomiko,” R.C. had said impatiently, “let’s get in the bed.”

  “This stuff smells good,” Tomiko had said in a throaty whisper as she’d sprayed the strawberry whipped creme into two pink clouds over both R.C.’s nipples.

  Looking down at himself, R.C. had laughed. “Is it my turn now?”

  Before she knew it, R.C. had sprayed the remainder of the can of whipped creme all over his wife, then proceeded to sprinkle her with the wild berry body dust. Minutes later, they were having a ball, but the room had been a wreck.

  “Are we through playing?” R.C. had said fondly as he picked confetti from Tomiko’s hair. “Can we fuck now?”

  “Only if I can get on top,” she’d said, popping the yellow and blue balloons taped on her breasts. As they’d made their way to the bed, they’d left a trail of red underwear along the floor.

  “Wait,” she’d said in a husky whisper. “I forgot something.” She had gone back and retrieved the white feather tickler and teased the length of his eager sex. “We might need this.”

  Once in bed, R.C. had taken Tomiko in his arms and kissed behind her ears and down the nape of her neck, arousing her. As R.C.’s tongue had slid inside her mouth, still sweet with the taste of wild berries, she’d reached down and caressed his hardened member.

  Opening her eyes now, then slowly closing them, she was reminded of their lovemaking once again as she pressed her nude body closer to her husband’s. Oh my, Tomiko thought, as her thoughts drifted back to the feather, who would have thought it could do so much. . . .

  Suddenly, her reverie was interrupted by a harsh knock at their bedroom door.

  “Mr. Richardson! Mr. Richardson! Get up!”

  R.C. jumped out of bed and began searching for his red satin robe.

  “What is it, Caleb?” he shouted as he stumbled over one of his slippers.

  Tomiko knew that Caleb was the man who worked with R.C.’s prized horses.

  “Got a problem out at the stables, boss.”

  As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Tomiko slowly made out the shapes of the room: the lovers’ kit littering the floor, the empty champagne glasses, the scented joss sticks on the nightstand, her red satin teddy a few hand prints away. Tomiko also noticed the still-nude form of her husband. Looking at him now, she almost laughed. She hadn’t noticed before how oddly his buttocks were shaped. His broad, heart-shaped rear end with strong, narrow legs and dark-chestnut coloring looked much like those of the horses he bred. From the waist down, R.C. was the color of an ashy Andalusian. Even his wide, bulbous nose was shaped like a mare’s buttocks. Yet her husband, who had just turned fifty years old, was devastatingly handsome.

  Struggling to slip on his robe but not quite making it, R.C. poked his head outside the door.

  Tomiko raised up cautiously on her elbows and listened with her eyes as well as her ears.

  “Wicked Widow is in labor.”

  “Did you call the vet?”

  Since her father also bred horses, Tomiko had grown up around the beautiful animals and knew when she heard the sound of the groom’s voice that something was wrong. She also knew it was unusual for foals to be born on a farm set up to breed studs. A horse breeder’s primary business was to use his stud’s talents by impregnating mares for a large fee. Apparently R.C. was more ambitious than most. He owned two top thoroughbreds: Reverse Richard and Oxford’s Fool. Both were the foals of recently retired Triple Crown winners. Their stud fee was fifty thousand dollars. One prize stud could accommodate over one hundred mares in a season. Since he became the sole owner of the Paris farm eleven years earlier, borrowing money from his old buddy Oxford, he’d told her he’d purchased five broodmares for his private use. He planned on racing the two-year-olds sired by his own studs in Japan. It was clear to Tomiko that between the horses and the car dealerships, R.C. couldn’t help but make loads of money.

  “It’s bad, R.C. The birth is breech. The mare is straining real bad. You could lose both the mare and the foal.”

  Wrapping the sheet around her, Tomiko jumped from the bed and threw on her clothes. “Is the foal early?”

  “Yes.”

  Caleb explained to them that the regular veterinarian was out of town and his office was sending his replacement.

  Within minutes, they were at the stable door, roughly three hundred feet from the main house.

  Standing sixteen hands high, Wicked Widow was a black beauty. Her coat the color of expensive black mink, the horse was a testament to her pedigree. The Wicked in her name was an allusion to her temperament.

  “We can’t just watch her die,” Tomiko said, alarmed. “She’s suffering.”

  “Where the hell is the vet on call?” R.C. asked as he paced the floor outside the stall.

  Caleb shrugged nervously as he tried to calm the mare. “He was on his
way over an hour ago. Shoulda been here by now. It’s nearly six A.M.”

  “Can I help?” Tomiko asked.

  No one paid her any attention.

  “Don’t worry,” Tomiko said, easing into the stall and dropping to her knees, “I know what to do.”

  R.C. looked frantic. “What if the foal doesn’t make it?”

  Tomiko wasn’t sure whether R.C. was worried about the mare or his financial investment. She tried to think about what her stepfather would do at this moment. She knew that the mare was a side issue, and that she had to focus on delivering the foal. Once the foal was taken care of, then her stepfather would tend to the mare.

  “Let me help you,” Caleb said to Tomiko.

  Tomiko stroked the mare’s neck. “You can hold the mare steady while I turn the foal around.” She eased down on the bank of hay to lie next to the horse. Tense minutes passed as Tomiko worked feverishly with the mare, her hands up the birth canal.

  For a moment, she locked eyes with R.C. They both understood that Tomiko was fighting to save the foal’s life. It was going to be the mother or the child. There was no way they would both live.

  When the mare began to groan and kick, R.C. looked away. Seconds later, when the mare’s screams heightened, he turned back again. “What’s taking that damn doctor so long?” R.C. snapped at Caleb.

  “He’s already too late.” Caleb’s jaw muscles flexed as he struggled to hold the mare’s head still. “There now, girl. Hold steady now,” he said as he watched Tomiko work inside her.

  Wicked Widow strained and trembled, her movements becoming increasingly restless. She groaned and convulsed in severe pain. Her shiny coat was swathed with sweat.

  “You should leave, R.C.,” Tomiko whispered. “You’re scaring her.” Her arms were coated with blood and she could see both fear and disgust in R.C.’s eyes. “This is your first birth, isn’t it?” she asked him.

  R.C. didn’t bother to answer. At this moment, his clothes were soaked clear through.