Blue Collar Blues

by Rosalyn McMillan

  He needed her comfort. He brought a bowl with hot water and soap to bed and washed her hands and mouth like a baby. “Baby,” he said, after removing the tray and tablecloth, “let me rock you to sleep. I know you’re beat.” He kissed her softly on her lips, along her cheek, and then moved to her ear, whispering, “Let’s not talk about business, work, or birthdays any more tonight. You and I are more important.” Thyme was already fast asleep in his arms.

  * * *

  Cy awoke early the next morning. Thyme was still asleep. He left her a note saying that he was going to Time Travelers in Beverly Hills to purchase some things for his G.I. Joe collection, and would be back by three. He added a postscript that he hadn’t forgotten about their Titanic tickets this evening.

  When he returned home, he had in his possession a 1965 Deep Sea Diver G.I. Joe in its unopened box, one of the original brass models of the Japanese Nambu pistol, and a French Resistance fighter that was handmade by Walter Hansen. They were priceless. Thrilled by what he’d bartered and bought, he set up his treasure in the library, taking care to position them by the rest of his extensive collection.

  Afterwards, he couldn’t find Thyme anywhere. But when he opened the patio doors on the lower level, he saw Thyme and Khan floating in the middle of the lake on the pontoon. Moving to the end of the dock, he waved. But he sprinted back to the house when he heard the telephone ringing.

  “Hello,” he said, out of breath.

  “Hello. Mr. Tyler, this is Krandall Jewelers. The items you ordered for Mrs. Tyler are ready for your approval. Can you stop by this afternoon?”

  Cy paused and looked back at Thyme and Khan still relaxing out on the water. He checked his watch. He still had another hour. “Certainly.”

  Fifteen minutes later he parked in Krandall’s parking lot.

  “Mr. Tyler.” Riley Blackwell, the head jeweler, extended his hand. “Won’t you have a seat?”

  Cy had wanted to surprise Thyme with the diamond necklace and earrings, but he’d forgotten until yesterday to confirm the order. The store had to have them shipped from its safe. Mr. Blackwell was known for his unique bejeweled creations and historical designs. Looking at the jewelry, Cy was amazed. The precious diamonds were set in an intricate lacy web of white gold. Thyme would be speechless. Mr. Blackwell handed the pieces to Cy, and Cy nodded his approval. Cy then filled out and handed the jeweler his personal check and asked that the package be wrapped.

  By the time Cy made it back home, Khan had left and Thyme was sitting on the edge of the platform in their bedroom, wearing a lavender bra and slip, polishing her toe nails. She looked at him and said, “Where’ve you been?”

  “To the jeweler’s.” He brought the package from behind his back and handed it to her. “It’s a birthday gift.”

  Thyme sat, continuing to paint her toes, not really looking at him. Finally, she looked up and said, “Is there something you want to tell me, Cy? You look like you have something on your mind.”

  For a minute, Cy thought about telling her about his promotion and its condition. But when he saw the tired, worn face of his wife, he decided against it. Another time.

  “Here, Thyme. Open your gift.”

  After opening the package, Thyme said nothing. He assumed that she was overcome by the beauty of the pieces. But when she finally spoke, her words startled him.

  “I’m surprised by your extravagance, Cy.”

  Tightening the top on the polish, Cy eased himself up to see that Thyme’s face was now void of a smile. In fact, she looked angry. “Don’t you like them? I was certain that you’d—”

  Thyme stood, the diamond necklace dangling off the tips of her fingers as if it were made of candy. Her voice was ice cold. “Did you think two pieces of jewelry would make me withdraw my lawsuit? Not on your life.”

  Cy was dumbfounded. What had he been thinking? Suddenly, Cy realized how far apart they’d become. His brow lifted slowly as Thyme began to speak again. “I’ve been talking to Ron Lamott. He seems to think that Champion is keeping secrets from the workers about the plants in Mexico. Do you know anything about it?”

  Cy measured his words before he replied. “Not really. It’s possible that you may know more than I do about company secrets. Ron seems to know everything about everybody beforehand. You keepin’ an eye on that secretary of yours? Elaine’s probably a leak.”

  “Elaine?”

  Cy continued in a calm voice. “Thyme, you’re jumping to conclusions and placing too much trust in your friends.”

  “Oh,” she said, standing. “Do you mean my black friends? Maybe I’ve missed something. I’m not supposed to believe them, but I can believe the white scum that run Champion Motors? The same white scum that have stopped me from getting where you are today?”

  Cy spoke slowly. “Thyme, you have to understand something. Champion’s not about color. It’s about business. Do you understand what Champion Two Thousand really is?” She was silent. “Tomorrow—no, today—take the time to look up the word oligopoly. That means a market situation in which each of a few producers affects but does not control the market. In laymen’s terms it means that it’s all the same product except for the outer skin. Therefore, what will happen is this: GM makes the best seats, Chrysler the best wiring harnesses, Ford the best drive trains, and Champion is known for its quality in audio systems. They’ll all buy from each other,” Cy explained.

  “I don’t get it. How will each company make money if they’re all working together?”

  “Whoever markets the best will be the company that prevails. Toyota has been doing this for years. The Lexus is a marketing phenomenon. It’s about time the Americans caught up.”

  “I don’t feel comfortable about any of this bureaucratic bullshit,” Thyme responded. “The only thing I care about right now is the fact that I probably won’t have a job at Champion in two years. But you will. That’s because you know what’s going on and I don’t.” Her voice began to rise. “Oh, yeah. I get it. They can still get rid of people like me if they decide they want to. Because I don’t belong to the old boys’ club like you do.”

  “Stop it, Thyme. This is business. That’s how it’s run.”

  “No, goddammit. It’s about time we discussed—everything. My discrimination lawsuit against Champion is solid. I’m sick and tired of white people with less education and less skills being promoted over me.”

  “Thyme, you don’t—”

  She raised a finger. It shook as she spoke. “Don’t go there with me, Cy. I love you. You know that. But don’t make me choose between what’s right and what’s white. You might lose.”

  18

  __________

  Screwing wasn’t this much work, Khan thought, wiping the sweat from her forehead. Crouching in the middle of the kitchen floor, she stopped, pulled up her baggy jogging-suit pants, and sat back on her knees. She then tightened an old black scarf tied around her head. With an earnest expression on her face, she picked up the scrub brush and dipped it into the bucket of warm pine water. Perspiration dripped from her temples. Even though it was August and the heat was sweltering, Khan needed to wash her floors—it was a form of therapy.

  Lifting her head at the sound of the phone, she was thankful for a break. From the number displayed on her caller ID, she knew it was her Mama Pearl. She hadn’t spoken to her since July, and Labor Day was a month away. How could she tell her that this would be one more vacation she wouldn’t be able to make it down to see her? What words would spare her feelings?

  She didn’t yet know that her guilt didn’t diminish the hurt her sin caused.

  “Hey there, baby,” Mama Pearl said. “How you doing? I been worried about you.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama. I’ve been meaning to call you.” The cleanser she had sprinkled on the floor made her sneeze.

  “Now you watch what you’re saying. Don’t put me in the same category as those bill collectors you hate calling. You know Mama’s not here to judge you. I can feel when things
ain’t going right in your life. That’s the purpose of this call.”

  Oh Lord, Khan thought, her Mama Pearl had always been able to read her mind. And always, always, she made it so easy for her to talk over problems.

  “How come you know me better than I know myself, Mama Pearl?” She went back to her task. Holding the receiver of the portable phone between her shoulder and chin, she dipped the brush back into the bucket and started where she’d left off.

  “’Cause you ain’t full grown yet. You been wasting your time up there in Michigan searching for the wrong things—”

  “Do you mean a man?” She sniffed, then wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  “Naw, I ain’t saying that. What I mean is that when you truly grow up, I won’t have to call you. You’ll be calling me. Now you tell your Mama Pearl what’s troubling you.”

  Khan exhaled. She stood, finished with the floor, and went to empty the dirty water into the laundry tub.

  She didn’t know where to start. Everything was screwed up, from her job to her bank account. “To tell you the truth, Mama Pearl, I don’t know where to begin. Everything needs fixing. I’m broke, for starters.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Removing her scarf, Khan took a seat in the living room. The soft cushion felt good against her back. “Thank God they picked General Motors last month for the strike target. Otherwise I don’t know what I’d do.”

  “I’m still listening.”

  “I’ve been paying my tithes, though, when I can. The church down the street is Methodist. I haven’t been able to find a good Pentecostal one yet, though.”

  “What’s the pastor’s name?”

  “Uh . . . Reverend Wright. I been meaning to ask my friend Thyme to come along with me one Sunday. You remember my friend Thyme, don’t you?”

  “Of course. She’s the person you’ve been trying to imitate since you left Itta Bena.”

  “Now be nice, Mama. You’d like Thyme—she’s helping me make more of myself.”

  “And amen for her.” Mama Pearl took a deep breath. “All right, Khan. Now you told me that you’re broke, you probably won’t strike next month, and that you’re not going to church every Sunday. Now tell your Mama Pearl the real problem.”

  She felt naked as December’s earth.

  The green light in the fish tank glowed, showing off the bodies of tropical fish squirming around in the water.

  “R.C. was married in April and he didn’t even bother to call me. I knew you never liked him, so I couldn’t bring myself to say you were right about him.”

  “When you gonna learn, child? I ain’t here to judge you. That’s what the Lord is for. What I’m here for, Khan, is to help steer you in the right direction, and maybe”—Khan could almost hear her smile—“maybe out of love give you my opinion about a few things.”

  “But you told me that R.C.—”

  “Wasn’t for you. I know. And one day you’ll find that out for yourself. What I think you should concentrate on is yourself. You are a wise, talented girl, and I am proud of you. You owe it to yourself to do something with your life. Be important; make yourself important.”

  After she and Mama Pearl hung up, it took Khan another hour to finish cleaning her small home. She could still hear her Mama Pearl’s words.

  It was Saturday night and Khan made a vow that she could do at least one thing to make her Mama proud. She would drive over to that church on the corner of Seward and Delaware tomorrow morning and attend a service.

  Resolute, she went into her bathroom and turned on the bathtub faucet full force. Pouring three capfuls of fresh woods–scented bubble bath into the water, she lit all five peach magnolia candles that were perched on the shelf above her and turned off the lights. She inhaled the sweet scent as she shed her clothing. Not only were the candles pleasant to smell, they were also beautiful to look at. Pressed almost to translucence around the pretty peach-colored circumference of the heavy candle were dried white magnolias, their pale green leaves and small buds meeting at the center and base of the flower.

  She hit the remote on her small television as she stepped down into the water. When she did, bubbles covered her chin, and she laid her head back on her bath pillow and watched The Pretender. As soon as she got comfortable, the phone began ringing. Khan let the machine pick up. She heard Thyme’s voice, asking about lunch tomorrow. When Khan heard how distraught Thyme sounded, she got on the line.

  Khan shortened her much-needed thirty-minute soak and ended up on the phone for almost an hour. The problems between Thyme and Cy had gone from bad to worse. They were barely speaking to one another now.

  As soon as she hung up, her uncle Ron called. Ida was threatening to put him out; could Khan come over and talk to her? Ida refused even to speak to Ron and was drinking herself into a stupor every night.

  Finally, Valentino called, asking if she would baby-sit for Jahvel on Sunday.

  It seemed that everyone needed her. Except the man she needed the most.

  She had to hurry; it was almost eleven o’clock, and she didn’t want to miss the opening of The Keenan Ivory Wayans Show. Jada Pinkett was one of the guests.

  Khan went into the kitchen to grab a glass of milk, and tucked four cookies into a napkin. On her way back to her bedroom, she could hear Jada being introduced. Then she heard a soft knock on the door. Who in the hell is it now? she wondered in irritation.

  Peering through the peephole in her front door, she saw the back of his head first. Even with such a small glimpse she knew who it was. She opened the door and let him inside but kept the door cracked open. Instincts told her to send him away. But for some reason, she couldn’t. Shit, could Lauren Bacall turn away Bogie? Hell no.

  “Come in,” Khan said, opening the door for R.C. She hadn’t seen him in so long, except in her imagination. Now the sight of R.C. in the flesh was shocking. His skin looked gray. Shining through the eyes that she had always loved so much, as she looked up at him, she saw a look of surrender. She’d never seen him so vulnerable. And it weakened her.

  Khan closed the door behind him. Even though nothing was said, and nothing was offered—no matter what—she felt helpless.

  “Khan,” he said so softly she thought it might have been the wind whispering her name. The warmth of his voice ran straight through to her womb, and she felt her knees weaken. The screenplay for the night was already written, and there was no way to edit the script.

  Without knowing or understanding why, she reached out her hands as he came quickly toward her. They slid to the floor in the entryway.

  She gave in to R.C. with everything she had, even though a voice in her head whispered that she’d pay for it later. What did it matter? They were together now.

  They kissed.

  She felt his tongue slide into her mouth and linger. She felt full, unable to breathe. “R.C., blood. I need you,” she panted as he began to rotate his hips deliciously against her. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

  It’s a rule of life: Things get better with time. Khan and R.C. were no different.

  His first orgasm was quick. Khan came frequently and each time with a thrilling tremor, which shook her from head to toe. She could feel R.C. holding back so that they could enjoy another round of pleasure. It thrilled her that he still maintained such restrained skill.

  Khan bathed in the scent of him, a musk that she luxuriated in and could never find in a bottle of men’s cologne.

  And now, as she lowered her head below his navel to please him the way he loved most, she tasted the sweetness of their love, as heady as wine. As delicious as it had ever been.

  She clasped the head of his penis in her hand and, with her fingers as tightly closed as the buds of a flower, roughly kissed and bit the stem of his organ.

  “Khan, baby, that shit feels so good.” R.C. pressed his hands on the sides of her head and rotated his pelvis. “Please baby, do it like you used to.”

  Even with half of him inside her mout
h, Khan smiled. She loved making him feel good, and she loved the exquisite taste of his penis inside her mouth. At that moment, she took even more of him inside her mouth and closed her lips tightly. She felt him clutching at the carpet. Then pulling with her lips as if she wished to entice his organ away from his body, she continued the pressure.

  Khan knew he was seconds away from an orgasm. Encouraged by his response, she took him more deeply into her mouth, pressed his penis with the back of her tongue, then suddenly withdrew. She held his hardness in her hand and gently bit the perimeter around the tip. Next, she caressed his entire organ with her tongue, concentrating on the long vein that ran column-wise along the length of him.

  R.C.’s penis stretched out like it had stilts. She pushed the entire organ into her mouth and pressed on it with all the might she had up to the root, as if she wanted to swallow it whole. Khan luxuriated in the feel of him within her and took pleasure in bringing him to an intense climax.

  He came like an ambulance driver, fast and in a hurry, as Khan stood back and watched the white show. It was an act of nature that she never tired of watching. “Damn, R.C., that’s the prettiest dick that I ever saw,” she said, watching the whitish liquid squirt from his pulsating tip.

  “Don’t you want to get in bed?” she asked.

  She led him back to the bedroom and turned on the pink light on the nightstand. In his touching and retouching, she recognized that making love with R.C. was better than she remembered. Their lovemaking continued for another hour. By then, Khan had forgotten all about his wife.

  Her eyes were closed in bliss, reliving every second, every sound, every scent of the man she’d longed to love her, lying next to her now. Close to two hours had passed. When she felt him slipping from beneath the sheets, she opened her eyes.

  “R.C.?”

  He hesitated, then said in a pitiful voice, “I got to go.”

  Go? You couldn’t wait to get your ass over here, now you gotta go? He seemed to be saying everything in two directions and the intersection was in her head. He was leaving now and would never return.