The radio host had continued.
“It began at five A.M. Sunday morning, as workers filed into the Van Dyke plant to earn some overtime making heaters and air-conditioner components for the new Syrinx car line. Witnesses said that less than a half hour into the shift, Alvin Coltrain pulled the automatic pistol and confronted his estranged wife and her lover, Sean Zion, in a passageway in the rear of the plant, known as the heater area. Coltrain first shot his wife, then fired at her lover, who apparently was trying to stop him from shooting her. Coltrain then put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.”
Cy was sick of the violence. Stress at the plants was at an all-time high.
Everywhere, in all the plants, there was violence—much worse than on the streets. If Champion’s hourly workers were this stressed now, it was going to be an all-out war when they found out the company’s plans for Troy Trim. Company against union. Hell, worker against worker, for that matter. And Thyme would be right in the middle of it.
Pushing open the glass doors, Cy said good morning to his secretary. “Get my wife on the line, will you, Geneva?” Cy asked before retrieving his messages and walking into his office.
“Certainly, sir.”
As Cy unlocked his briefcase, he heard Geneva’s voice over the intercom. “Your wife’s out of the office at this time, sir. Elaine said to try back in an hour.”
“Try calling her then, Geneva. Thanks,” he said, hanging up the phone. Aggravated, he changed the channel on the radio in his office to a smooth jazz station.
Cy’s office, newly decorated in cherrywood, silver, burgundy, and black, was well lit, with tens of shiny recessed lights around the perimeter. A black-lacquered Champion clock was located on the wall behind his desk. Thick burgundy carpeting covered his six-hundred-square-foot floor space as well as his private bar and bathroom. Silver-framed pictures of Thyme, his twin sister, Sydney, and his nephew, Graham, sat beside his phone. But Cy’s most treasured items were the bowling trophies that were displayed throughout his office.
Champion Motors was taking drastic measures to remain competitive with General Motors, Ford, and Chrysler. Since Champion had started developing the trim operation for its new luxury car line, Syrinx, in Mexico, sales had increased. The corporation was seeing less and less of a need for trim business in the United States. Syrinx, as well as ten other top-selling Champion lines, was now being sewn in Matamoros, Mexico, and fifteen other lines would be moved to Mexico next year. By that point, American production would be cut by a third.
His throat felt dry as ashes and he tugged at his tie. He removed a stack of files from his briefcase and headed for the refrigerator that his secretary was considerate enough to keep supplied with fresh sparkling water. A wave of nausea swept over him. The Perrier temporarily cleared his head as he chugged down three-quarters of a bottle.
He was on the phone when he heard a knock at the opened door.
“Come in,” he said to his boss, John Sandler. “Have some coffee. I’ll be finished in a minute, John.”
Sandler declined the coffee and, with a broad smile fixed on his face, waited until Cy completed his call. When he did, Sandler handed Cy a sealed envelope.
Inside, Cy knew, was his yearly performance bonus check. Champion paid bonuses at the start of the new fiscal year in April.
“You’ll notice this year’s bonus is substantially higher than last year’s.”
“That’s good to hear.” Cy stood and briskly shook Sandler’s hand.
John Sandler, a slim, deeply tanned, white-haired man of sixty with a falsetto voice, was one of five top officers at Champion. His division was Financial Services. He reminded Cy of an aging choir boy trying to sing his way into heaven, never able to make it. Sandler was known around the company as one of the biggest liars in the business.
Cy wondered why Sandler had personally brought him his check. Usually he allocated that menial job to his secretary. Something else was going on. Cy knew that the only way to find out was to ask questions and try to gauge which answers were lies. “Does Senator Reese still plan on accompanying me on the Mexico trip next month?”
“We’re completing the final details of your meeting with the senator and the Mexican ambassador. I feel this new business venture with the Mexican government is going to prove very advantageous for Champion.”
Cy felt the hairs on his neck rise. He knew that Sandler was once again reminding Cy that if he valued his job, he’d keep his mouth shut about the company’s plan to sell off its Troy Trim plant. Sandler knew that Thyme was head of operations at the plant, but he was banking on Cy’s loyalty to Champion and to his paycheck.
“When the dollar represented gold, it was just as good as gold,” Sandler continued. “But now it’s only as good as the current state of inflation. The lower Mexican wages give us an opportunity to hold on to a little more of that gold.”
Cy was becoming more and more uncomfortable with withholding vital information from his wife. Keeping secrets about the coming changes at Champion had begun to keep him awake at night. If Thyme ever found out how much he knew, there was no telling how she’d react. Cy had many friends, hourly and salaried, from whom he was keeping important information that could profoundly impact their jobs. But this was business. Big business.
“I’ve been at this company for thirty-five years, Cyrus. I’ve seen the automobile industry bounce back and forth and go through hills and valleys. Champion Two Thousand was not designed to be a short-term palliative. Changes are occurring because we are reengineering the company.”
Cy was sick to death of hearing the strategy behind the destruction of thousands of autoworkers’ lives. How could Champion treat husbands, wives, mothers, and fathers like numbers? How could Champion ask him to decide who should be cut from employee rolls?
Sandler continued, “We need you to expedite Champion Two Thousand. As you know, this program is Champion’s strategy to remain the leader in the automobile business now and in the future. We need to anticipate global market changes.”
Sandler’s words echoed in Cy’s mind throughout the long day.
It was 10 P.M. when he left the office. As he drove home, Cy kept going over his conversation with Sandler: it was clear that Champion was throwing him a bone to keep quiet. But how long would his own job be safe? Didn’t he owe it to himself and to Thyme to be honest about Champion’s plan to dump hundreds of jobs? And how had he gotten stuck with the job of streamlining?
Cy knew he was partly responsible for Champion’s development of Mexican production. He had used his own ties in Mexico to help Champion pave its way into the Mexican market. After he graduated from high school, Cy had spent a year living in Mexico City; he had been lured there by its culture and language. After college he returned to Mexico to work in the General Motors plant in Matamoros. It was in Mexico that he had first fallen in love.
Cy’s thoughts turned to Graciella, the woman who had been his lover now for over twenty years—before, during, and after his marriage to Thyme. Cy and Graciella had two children together, and despite his love for Thyme, he still hadn’t been able to give up his relationship with Graciella.
He had met Graciella when they were both working at the General Motors plant, but it had been their mutual love of bullfights that ultimately brought them together. Graciella still kidded Cy that what he had between his legs was as strong as a bull. For reasons he couldn’t explain to himself, he felt more virile with Graciella than he ever had with Thyme.
Though he knew that he satisfied Thyme sexually, he always worried that there was something missing in their relationship. Was that why he clung to Graciella? He couldn’t let go of the myth that the black man’s penis was better hung than the white man’s and it bothered him. Though they never discussed it, Cy felt a racial wedge between himself and his wife that he had overlooked as a newlywed but which grew as maturity crept in and life’s knocks hit them. And then there was always Thyme’s resistance to having children.
/> When Cy opened the door of the elaborate master bedroom, Thyme was already asleep. He knew that if he didn’t wake her, she would complain in the morning.
The soothing ambience of their bedroom was perfect for relaxing. There were a few steps up to the main area, which was dominated by a round revolving bed that was eight feet in diameter. Behind the bed was a twenty-foot rectangular portrait of Thyme, her nude body draped seductively with pale pink silk. Rose petals were sprinkled in her hair and at various spots in the sheer fabric. She had been thirty-five when Cy had the portrait commissioned. She was more beautiful to him at that age than ever before.
“Wake up, Thyme. I’m home.”
Cy pressed the remote to turn on a CD. Thyme sat up on her hindquarters like a praying mantis.
“Turn that shit off. I thought we agreed on the music we were playing this month? No country.”
“Oh,” he said, massaging her slender thighs, “am I supposed to listen to rap, like Tupac Shakur’s Makavelli tape you love to listen to?”
“Yeah. And Lil’ Kim.”
“Kim, like Cy, has one syllable. Translated to needing only one nut tonight. One good fuck.”
“Don’t be crass, Cy.”
“Just ghetto. I thought you liked it like that.”
Thyme turned away. “That’s not fair. I don’t ridicule white folks’ music. I just don’t want to hear it when we make love. It screws up my rhythm.”
“Hey. I love black soul.”
She smiled. “But you can’t dance. You don’t have any rhythm.”
“Excuse me,” Cy said, rotating his pelvis on top of her.
“Except between the sheets.”
Cy reached beneath the covers and removed her gown. He could hear her weak protests but ignored them. “You know you want it. Don’t fight me. It only makes me work harder.”
“Stop. I’m tired, Cy.”
Ignoring her weak protests, he kissed her softly on the lips. When he felt her mouth open to welcome his tongue, he kissed her more deeply, as if he were drinking in her whole mouth, tongue, and breath into his. His tongue grew more and more thrusting, as if it had become a sex organ itself.
Reaching down, he massaged her breasts, then released himself from her kisses to suck each breast gently before tenderly tugging at her hardened nipples with his teeth.
His fingers reached lower to caress her narrow waist, curvaceous hips, sliding his pressed palms around and down until he felt her soft mound. He could feel her hairs curling around his fingers as he gently teased the entrance to her moist womb.
“Cy,” she sighed, reaching out to grab his throbbing penis. “Put it in, baby. I can’t wait.”
He kissed her above her navel, then putting his hands on her shoulders, he turned her around. Lying his body over hers, he took pleasure in rubbing his flesh against hers, feeling the softness of her buttocks pressing deep into his abdomen. He moved in circles, pressing his penis deeper into the crevice of her buttocks, pinning her arms above her as he did so.
He felt her moving beneath him, lifting her head to feel his neck curling around her cheek and slide down to rest at her shoulder. Together they moved to a snakelike rhythm until their bodies became moist with desire.
“Put it in, baby,” she moaned.
“Not yet.” He teased her further, pushing his penis down the bottom of her buttocks to part her lips. He dipped the tip a half-inch inside, and felt her pushing up against him, demanding full penetration. When she pushed up and he felt himself sliding deeper inside, he eased back out.
He would not take her.
“Please, Cy. I need it now, baby.”
“Not yet.”
He turned over onto his back and positioned her on top of his penis, easing her down slowly, a half-inch at a time. He lifted his buttocks moving ever so lightly, until their pubic hairs met for a brief kiss. They rotated their hips in reverse, building the tempo, gradually, faster and faster, clicking their pelvis bones until they were out of breath, then moved slower in one direction, plunging deeper, her vagina clasping his penis like a mouth.
He pushed down to the very depths of her womb, and felt the juice on his thighs pouring from her. As he pushed, he could hear little sucking sounds as all the air was being drawn from her womb as his penis filled her. In and out he moved swiftly, admiring the way his penis glistened from the juice of her love.
When her orgasm came, he followed seconds later. Still, he wanted more. The strains at Champion today made him want to make love to his wife all night.
They lay together panting, her body on top of his, until their breathing slowed.
Thyme rolled over onto her side and sighed with pleasure.
Cy left the bed, standing nude in front of the wall of glass in their bedroom, which looked out on the Lower Straits of Lake Bloomfield. He opened the French doors and inhaled the fresh, cool air. He heard her stirring in bed. “Thyme, we need to get a boat to place out on the lake. A pontoon. They’re not terribly expensive. In fact, one will be delivered this weekend.”
“You must’ve read my mind. I’d been thinking about the same thing.” Thyme reached for her housecoat at the foot of the bed. “Now close the door, Cy—it’s freezing!”
“There’s not a place in the world that’s more beautiful.”
“Once again,” she said, joining him, “I couldn’t agree more.”
“Remember when you first showed me the house? I wasn’t too impressed.”
“Yeah. You thought it was too big.”
“Nine thousand square feet of custom living space on three levels. I didn’t think we’d ever furnish it all.” He appraised the elegant room now, but his eyes were always drawn back to his prized possession: the portrait of his wife. “Now, I love this house. But not without you, Thyme. I hate this house when you’re not in it.”
It was more than the average worker, blue collar or salaried, could ever hope for. The lake’s beauty served as the inspiration for the theme of the decor, with water inside as well as out. One slate-colored two-tiered waterfall greeted guests; a pyramid-shaped fountain stood in the living room. Silver-blue wool carpeting was set against the palest blue walls, with touches of burgundy to show the richness of the woods. There were two staircases on each end of the mansion, recessed lighting throughout, and three types of wood. Located on the lower level of the two-story house were a sunken hot tub with ceramic tile and a steam room. There were three kitchens, including one in the mother-in-law suite in the east wing—it was a part of the home each knew they would never use.
But it was the view of the lake that had sold Cy on 2300 Cyprus Cove. It was a symbol of success. Cy was not satisfied with accumulating money; he wanted to show how successful he was.
After Thyme fell back asleep, he walked through the dining room, admiring their heirloom china, which had been left to him by his parents. His great-grandparents had purchased the porcelain in the early 1900s in Beijing, China. Thyme had cried tears of love and affection after his mother offered the china to them on her only son’s wedding day. It was a legacy that should be passed on to his children.
Maybe it wasn’t too late for Thyme to change her mind. Stranger things had happened.
Neither color, circumstance, nor Champion could come between them. The love they shared for each other was stronger than the elements that threatened them—like race, like his disapproving sister, Sydney, like his mistress, Graciella, and the children they shared.
When he went back into the bedroom, he could hear Thyme exhale, a faint smile still on her lips. He admired his wife’s beautiful black body glowing in the semidarkness; even in her sleep it was disturbingly provocative. The thought of waking her again entered his mind. He went to lie beside her and his hands stroked her delicate flesh softly, as if she were a flower. He kissed her earlobe, then whispered, “I adore you.”
The familiar smell of her perfume enveloped him, on the sheets, the pillow—even his body had caught the scent. He snuggled closer, breathing in t
he aroma of her scent lingering on the sheets.
5
___________
Their plane landed in Detroit Metropolitan Airport at 7:40 on Tuesday night. Ten minutes later, Tomiko and R.C. were met at Northwest baggage claim by Herman, one of R.C.’s drivers. With tons of luggage finally stowed, R.C. took delight in pointing out to Tomiko all of the interesting sites along Interstate 94 as they drove east toward home.
A full moon bulged low in the sky, its face turned toward them, lighting the cars whizzing past them like silver phantoms. At least six late-model vehicles, some wrecked, some just with flats, were abandoned on the right side of the highway. Tomiko observed houses so close together that if someone dropped a match on one, another would catch fire. Before she could organize the zillion questions she wanted to ask R.C. about her new surroundings, she felt a jolt, and fell against him.
“It’s nothing. Just a pothole,” R.C. said reassuringly. “It’s one of the things Detroit is famous for.”
Tomiko could hear Herman snickering.
“It’s not like I pictured it would be, R.C.,” Tomiko said, adjusting her antique Japanese jacket and stealing another glance out the window. She had looked forward to seeing Detroit as her new home, but the landscape she saw out the window did not feel welcoming.
“Did you get in touch with your advertising person about using me in one of your dealership commercials?” She and R.C. had agreed that they would use a commercial about one of his dealerships featuring Tomiko to attract more work for her. That way, she’d better her chances for being accepted by one of the top modeling agencies.
“Not yet.”
“But why not? You know this is important to me. You promised.”
“You don’t have a green card yet, Tomiko.”
Blue Collar Blues Page 6