It was late Sunday night, and Cy had just returned from his trip to Mexico. Thyme was so relieved to have him home again that she’d seduced him as soon as he walked in the door.
“Cy? Can we get serious for a minute?” She felt nervous but she was determined to go ahead.
“Mmmm, I feel too good. Getting serious might spoil my mood. Especially if it’s about Champion Motors.”
Her voice was low. “Please, there’s something I really need to talk to you about.”
“All right.” He folded his arms behind his head and raised a brow. “Go on. I’m listening.”
“I’m filing a lawsuit against the company claiming discrimination. Some of the people you work with will be subpoenaed next week. They might not be so friendly toward you.”
“What? How could you? You did this behind my back?” He swiveled his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up straight. He sat there silently, then stood up, revealing his toned buttocks. He walked swiftly to the chair in the corner of the room and gathered his clothes in his arms.
“Behind your back? I’ve been trying to talk to you for weeks. You’ve been away for the past month. It’s as if you’ve been avoiding me!”
Thyme stared deeply at the pearl blue walls, the silver carpeting, her pastel portrait. They seemed a collage. Her eyes burned, straining not to blink. Tears filled them.
“I can’t believe this. Do you know what you’re doing? You’ll put both our jobs in jeopardy!”
It was like their union had never occurred. Suddenly Thyme felt vulnerable in her nakedness and pulled the sheet to her shoulders. “That’s all you care about. You can’t for a minute think about my side of it. I’m beginning to wonder if you colluded with Champion and stopped them from promoting me!”
“You sound like a crazy person. You’re totally paranoid.”
Crazy for marrying you?
“I would never do anything to hurt you or your career. How could you think that? Don’t we have any trust in one another?” Cy continued.
Thyme looked at Cy, her eyes brimming with tears. She wished she could say yes, that she still loved and trusted him as she always had, but something deep inside had been shaken.
Instead of answering Cy, she turned and looked out the window at the starlit sky. When she heard the sound of the shower jets in Cy’s bathroom, she dragged herself into her own, trying to believe that he loved her enough to support her, that he would come around, hoping against hope that she hadn’t put too great a burden on too small a soul.
* * *
When Thyme finally called Khan the following Monday, she was glad she did.
“What’s up, girl?” Khan asked in a cheery voice.
Thyme felt relieved. “How was Ron’s barbecue?”
“Fine. Is that why you called? Why do I sense you have something on your mind other than slabs of meat on a grill?”
Thyme said quietly, “I finally told him.”
“You told Cy about the lawsuit?”
Thyme felt tears filling her eyes. When she trusted herself to speak, she said, “I told him last night when he got home. All he seemed concerned about was Champion.”
Khan kept silent.
Say something, Khan. I don’t care if you call me a fool. Just tell me your true thoughts. I need to hear them. Please! “I know you think I should never trust Cy, but you don’t know him. He’s always been there for me before.” Thyme was glad that her friend couldn’t see her tear-streaked face. She never wanted her to see her so humbled. Especially by a man.
“Thyme, I’m sure he loves you very much. But this situation is complicated. I don’t think there’s any getting around the race issue.”
“You’re right. I’m not sure how I’ll feel about our marriage if Cy won’t support me in this.”
“Cross that bridge when it comes. For now, remember where you are in your career: right at the top. And remember that you’re a strong, smart, proud black woman. Can’t no man take that from you. Even a white one.” Khan paused. “And most importantly, Thyme, I want you to remember that you’ve always got a friend. I love you, Thyme. You’re doing the right thing.”
“I am?”
“Sure you are. It’s just that the right thing isn’t always easy.”
That afternoon, Thyme met Cy at their financial planner’s office to discuss their investments. Removing his Mondo di Marco sunglasses, Cy embraced his wife. He kissed her lightly on her cheek as she sat in the seat beside him. What a day for it, thought Thyme.
As they waited for the financial planner, Thyme admired her husband’s clothing as she glanced down at his slamming chocolate alligator shoes. Again, she felt a pang of contrition. He was so fine, but how come he couldn’t be more supportive? He wasn’t like the typical white male. Dressed in a chocolate brown Hugo Boss suit, silver pink shirt, and silver print tie, he looked like a mannequin in a Saks Fifth Avenue window.
When they had dated in the late sixties, Cy had only worn moderately priced clothes, but once he started earning money, his attire reflected it. His ties were always Fumagali or Robert Talbertt, his suits by Hugo Boss, Armani, or Richard Tyler, shirt and shoes by Gucci. She remembered kidding him about his three pairs of alligator loafers—unheard of for a Caucasian male.
“Tired?” Cy said gently.
“Exhausted.” She wanted to stroke his face and plant a kiss on his soft lips.
Luckily, before last night’s argument came up, the door opened and a young woman called their name. She led them to Mr. Aldinger’s office.
Expensive artwork was the backdrop for expensive furniture. Keith Aldinger commanded high fees, and he was worth it.
He handed each of them a prospectus for how to diversify and invest heavily into more retirement programs. Thyme listened with one ear. Based on their past history with Keith, they had nothing to worry about. She was certain that he would protect their money the way he did his other clients’ who left his office smiling like angels.
Then he handed them a two-page statement, listening their incomes so far this year. Thyme snapped to attention.
“Let’s get down to business, Cy and Thyme. You both know why you’re here.”
Thyme nearly choked when she read the bonus that Cy had listed beside his name. He had lied to her by twenty thousand dollars. Why? He knew she’d find out eventually. She gulped hard as she read the rest of the report, not daring to look at her husband.
“It’s clear that you two need to move some investments around. Champion stock is declining fast, given its shift to Mexico. My suggestions are as follows. . . .”
Afterwards, Keith walked them back to the reception area. “You know, if you two could adopt a couple of kids, you’d come out a lot farther ahead,” he said jokingly. “Uncle Sam loves couples like you.” He shook their hands and was off.
When Thyme looked at her husband, he looked away.
That same night Thyme longed to slip into a pair of pajamas and sip on a glass of wine. But no, Cy had already made a commitment to have dinner at Sydney’s house.
When they arrived at Sydney’s, it was jet black outside, but her home was lit up like a palace. Located on Southlawn Avenue just two miles from Woodward in Birmingham, her home was a showcase with over fourteen thousand square feet of living space.
Situated on 4.34 acres of professionally manicured grounds, the house afforded privacy as well as security. A Gunite swimming pool, spa, and tennis court complemented the lush grounds. Inside, there were five bedrooms, five bathrooms, and four half-baths. The master suite alone was over twenty-five hundred square feet.
Cy parked the car on the outer curb of the driveway and they walked to the entrance. When they rang the doorbell a black maid opened the door.
“Hello, Mr. Cyrus, Ms. Thyme. It’s so good to see you two. Ms. Sydney is in master Graham’s room.”
Master Graham! The boy was only three years old and already she was calling him “master.” How low would Mildred go?
“Thanks, Mildred,
” Cy said.
Before they could take a step, Graham ran toward them and hugged his uncle around the legs. “Hi, Unc C.” Graham could only say a few words. Yet “Unc C” was one of the phrases he loved to roll off his tongue. And Cy adored him.
Cy had explained to Thyme the feeling of immortality Graham provided. There was nothing Cy wouldn’t do for him. Even though Sydney could afford it, Cy had already put aside a considerable amount for Graham’s education. Thyme felt no resistance whatsoever to her husband looking out for his nephew. If she hadn’t presented him with a child, how could she prevent him from loving his own blood?
As Cy picked up his nephew and swung him around in his arms, Graham instinctively reached out for his aunt Thyme. His color blindness was only one of the things Thyme loved about him. Most children don’t know about prejudice unless their parents teach them.
Thyme couldn’t help being drawn to Graham, despite her less than warm feelings toward his mother. Graham’s innocence was accentuated by his chubby little arms and legs and his soft cheeks.
Just as Thyme reached out to hug the child, Sydney came down the hall. Quickly and awkwardly, Thyme withdrew from Graham, who looked a bit bewildered.
“Cy,” she said, hugging her brother tightly. Her voice lowered an octave when she said, “Thyme, it’s so good to see you.” Sydney placed her arm through Cy’s and led him toward the dining room, leaving Thyme to walk behind them.
“I’m starved. What’s for dinner?”
“I thought we’d start with onion soup, then Caesar salad, and the main dish is pheasant with wild rice stuffing and curried beets.” Sydney, who wore no lipstick or any other makeup, blew back a lock of hair. “I’ve been cooking all day. But what other way could I show my brother how much I missed him while he was away?”
“Mmm and strawberries, Unc C,” Graham said, holding up his red-stained hands for Thyme and Cy to see.
Graham’s tiny chubby hands were covered with red blotches. Well, Thyme thought, maybe Sydney made dessert, but I’ll be damned if she cooked the rest of the meal. Thyme knew that Sydney’s lack of makeup and dress-down attire was a ruse, a costume to make her fib about cooking credible.
As they dined on course after course of soup, salad, breads, shrimp appetizers, and pheasant, Thyme became more and more convinced that Sydney hadn’t spent more than ten minutes cooking. Mildred, she bet, had cooked it all.
Just to check it out, Thyme said sweetly, “Sydney, how did you ever learn to make pheasant? Why, it’s superb.”
Sydney hesitated and said, “Ah well, our mother used to serve it at her fancy dinner parties. Isn’t that so, Cy?”
Cy grunted noncommittally and filled his mouth with food.
“So how do you make it?” Thyme continued.
Sydney looked at her hatefully. Thyme had blown Sydney’s cover. She smiled to herself. It made the evening worth it.
“More sauce, Cy?” Sydney asked, jumping up to wait hand and food on Cy and change the subject at the same time.
“No, this is fine.”
“Come, come. I know how much you love my special sauce.”
How sickening, Thyme thought.
Dessert was worse. Thyme knew Sydney made the dessert because it was too sweet and the only bad part of the meal. Sydney piled so much whipped cream and so many strawberries on Cy’s shortcake that it would take a mouth as wide as the Detroit River to swallow it.
By the time they headed home, Thyme had had enough. “I don’t care if she is your sister,” Thyme shouted in the car, “she’s one of the most miserable bitches I’ve ever met. Imagine the nerve of that whore treating my husband as if you were her man!”
“She was just being—”
“Who do you take me for? And that wimpy-ass black maid. My Lord, where did she find her? She acts like she’s still on a plantation. Don’t ask me to go back over there again!”
“Give her a break, will you? You know her divorce was just finalized. It’s only natural that she would—”
“Bullshit! Which divorce is this? The third? The fourth? I don’t blame them, I’d leave her frigid ass, too.”
“And where did that come from?”
“Excuse me. My Lord . . . are you that stupid? The only time that bitch heats up is when she’s around you. Now you figure that shit out.”
16
__________
Cézanne once said: “The landscape thinks itself in me. . . . I am its consciousness.” He would often ponder for hours at a time before putting down a single stroke. If he were alive today, he would be touched by the beauty of mid-July, and within it he would capture the natural beauty of a young woman named Tomiko.
The critics loved her. At five foot ten and a shapely size six, the cameras loved her too. She looked absolutely bewitching in close-ups. Her deep olive skin tone showed that she was a woman of all cultures—a plus on the contemporary modeling scene. Her high forehead represented royalty. Her slightly long nose and chin with small, full lips inspired comparisons to the timeless beauty of Mona Lisa.
After signing with Clara Clarke, a hot young agent in West Bloomfield, Tomiko’s schedule was jam-packed with several high-paying modeling stints in New York, California, and, in the fall, London and Paris. These jobs would take Tomiko away from home for one and two weeks at a time. She didn’t like traveling that often, but who could turn down twenty-five thousand dollars per shoot? Regardless, Tomiko was tired.
Without the help or interference of R.C., Clara had secured for Tomiko the position as Champion’s national model, in addition to being the spokesperson for her husband’s dealerships.
It was the middle of July, and the projections for which new auto would win Motor Trend’s Car of the Year were a main topic of conversation in Detroit. The two top choices were Champion’s luxury Atlantic sport coupe and Mishimoto’s Verve. Marketing was at a fever pitch, and models like Tomiko, who made cars look good, were in high demand.
“Ms. Richardson,” the makeup artist snapped, “if you don’t keep still, I’ll never get your face on right.”
“What do you expect? I’ve been sitting in this chair for over an hour.” Swiveling around, she looked into the mirror facing her. Her jaw tightened in anger. “Dammit, Betty, look what you’ve done! My eyelashes are crooked, my foundation is too dark, and my lips look as if you’ve doubled them. I could do a better job myself.”
“Then why don’t you!” Betty threw her palette on the counter. “You women expect us to perform miracles.”
There was a hard knock on the door and the director’s assistant, Emery, marched in. “Tomiko should have been on the set five minutes ago. What’s the problem now?”
Before Tomiko could speak, Betty cut her off. “I quit. She claims I fucked her face up. You deal with her.”
“She just wants to make me look as bad as she does.” Tomiko covered her face with cold cream, cleaned it, and began redoing her makeup. Betty continued trying to get the assistant to see her side of it.
Tomiko said, “Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready to shoot.”
Betty angrily gathered her things and started to follow the assistant out of the dressing room. “One more thing,” Tomiko said over her shoulder. They both stopped. “I’ll be doing my own makeup from now on. I’ll have my agent contact you.” She pointed at Betty. “And I want her salary added to mine.”
True to her word, Tomiko was on the set in five minutes. The admiring stares she received from the men on the crew confirmed that she’d done a good job on her face. But Tomiko didn’t feel so glamorous now. It was six o’clock in the morning and the hot lights beaming down from overhead felt like violent sun rays. The crew was antsy and so was Tomiko. Everyone had been at the studio since four.
The commercial they were filming today was at R.C.’s used-car dealership. It held over two thousand cars and trucks from both the Mishimoto and Champion car lines. The lot was one of the largest in the state. This commercial would spin off into a radio ad.
All of R.C.’s marketing ideas had worked, and his dealerships were thriving. And although Tomiko was glad for R.C., she couldn’t help but feel a touch of resentment. R.C. was able to consume himself with his car dealerships, his horses, but not with her.
She hated getting up this early, especially for only five thousand dollars. (Even her husband paid a fee.) Once she’d started making money, she wanted more and more. She’d had it with these cheap local jobs.
Suddenly Tomiko noticed R.C. watching her from the trailer. Even from that distance, he looked annoyed and tense. She tried to catch his eye, to no avail. He rarely showed up at shoots, so she felt a bit off kilter. When the assistant director called “Action!” she was all business.
Suddenly everyone on the set was moving. The extras hired to move around the parking lot strolled into place. Tomiko was supposed to be a saleswoman trying to convince a buyer to purchase a car. Just as she was about to deliver her lines, she caught another glimpse of R.C. out of the corner of her eye and, for some reason, she felt nervous.
Tomiko missed her cue and the director called “Cut!” This occurred a number of times. Each time the director called “Action!” Tomiko would flub her lines.
Over and over, they repeated the silly scene. Tomiko couldn’t believe her own stupidity. The more they shot, the worse she got. Then, at last, they made an almost perfect scene. The director assured her that the next one would do it. By then it was 8:30 A.M. Tomiko was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open, let alone smile and focus her practiced gaze in the camera.
R.C. came up to her before the next take. “Tomiko, what’s going on? Each take you screw up is costing me a fortune. Please. Try to do it right this time. I can’t afford to blow this right now.” He wiped his sweat-streaked brow, then gave her a perfunctory kiss on the forehead.
Tomiko felt chilled to the bone.
“On one, on two, on three,” the director said, then paused a second and screamed, “Action!”
Tomiko plunged into the scene, and when the director called “Cut!” Tomiko knew it was her best take of the day.
Blue Collar Blues Page 17