Blue Collar Blues (34 page)

“What’s wrong, Thyme?”

“Nothing. It’s late and I’ve had an Excedrin kind of day.”

“But are you okay? Is everything all right?”

“Sure,” Thyme said and rolled away, pulling the covers up to her chin.

By the time Cy opened his eyes the next morning, he could hear Thyme speaking to him. As she handed him a cup of coffee, she said, “Your sister called me while you were away. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have taken her gossip seriously, but I received a strange propfs message. It was addressed to you. It came from Mexico.”

Cy felt as if his world were crushing in on him. Oh God, no. He hoped the sudden rise and fall of his chest didn’t betray his fear. “I don’t see the connection.”

“Does the name Graciella sound familiar?”

Cy shook his head yes. “That’s one of the receiving supervisors.”

“Well, the memo was signed Graciella, and she ended with the comment, ‘I miss you already.’ Then Sydney said something about a secret, implying that you enjoyed other varieties of dark skin, such as Mexican.” Thyme’s voice was beginning to sound edgy. “Now you tell me, Cy: What would you think if you were in my position?”

Cy just looked at her and then said, “It’s probably Sydney up to her usual efforts to cause problems between us. Let me take care of it, Thyme.”

Thyme looked at him blankly, her face hard and absent of feeling.

Oh shit! How could Graciella have done such a stupid thing? And Sydney?

As soon as Thyme had left for work, Cy called Sydney at the office. “I’ll be brief,” he said. “I told you before I left that I didn’t want you interfering in my personal life. You didn’t listen.”

“Who’s telling you lies about me, Cy?” she asked in an innocent voice.

“No one, Sydney. It’s the truth. You’ve finally crossed the line. I’ve warned you. No wonder you’re alone.”

“How dare you talk to me this way! I’m your sister. Blood is thicker, Cy. You always said so.”

Cy cringed. “Well, that has changed. Because of you. You’ve changed. You’re nothing but a bitch now, Sydney.”

Sydney laughed. “It’s funny, Cy. Those freaky bastards I married—all four of them—made me into the bitch that I am today. And you know what? I love myself now more than ever.” Sydney laughed again; her laugh was worse than a wicked witch’s. She sounded downright cruel.

“I never realized how sick you are.”

“How’s that, Cy?” she stammered. “Did you say sick? Who are you to sit in judgment when you’ve been living two lives? You’re always yapping about how much you love your wife. If you love Thyme so much, how could you lie to her for so many years?”

“I’m warning you, Sydney, if you get between me and Thyme, I’ll never forgive you. Never.”

When he slammed the phone down, he felt his face coated with sweat.

Cy wasn’t scheduled to return to work until Monday. It was suddenly clear that he had to do two things to save his marriage: resign from Champion and stay away from his sister. No matter how enticing becoming partners with Sydney had seemed, he now realized that it would never work. He was confident that he wouldn’t have a problem securing employment at another company. He spent the morning in his home office revamping his résumé and made a number of calls. He was sure it wouldn’t take long to find a good job.

He ran some errands, and by the time he returned, Thyme was home from work and in the family room on the chesterfield sofa with her reading glasses on. Beside her were a pile of business magazines, including
Fortune, Forbes,
and
Business Week.
She looked like she had fallen asleep.

“Baby, you trying to get old on me,” he teased, waking her with a kiss. He held a white paper bag in his hand. “Close your eyes,” he said, removing her glasses.

“What do I care about G.I. Joe?”

“I
said
close your eyes.” When she obeyed, Cy reached inside the bag and brought out a small plastic bottle. Unscrewing the cap, he dipped a plastic stick up and down in the mixture then removed a bubble wand and blew.

“That tickles.” Thyme laughed. “What on earth are you doing?” she asked, jumping back and protecting herself. “That’s not fair.”

“Here,” Cy said, handing Thyme her own bottle from the white bag.

“Good. Now it’s my turn.” Thyme began blowing bubbles in his face and he turned just in time. They tussled on the sofa until she managed to blow a few bubbles in his ear. Cy got up and, walking backwards, began blowing more bubbles in her direction.

Thyme followed him, picking up the pace, a smile on her face.

“Now let’s see how fast those young legs can run,” he said and took off.

“Uh-oh. Here I come.” They ran all over the house, downstairs, upstairs, blowing bubbles after each other, giggling.

Thyme tripped on the steps, spilling hers. “Okay, I’m out. Game’s over.”

It was a relief to laugh. It felt good to both of them. They sat for a moment, exhausted, looking into each other’s eyes and not saying a word.

They ended up back on the sofa after Cy helped her clean up the mess. “Baby, I’m sorry about the other day.”

“It’s not important.” She touched a sticky spot on his face. “I love the bubbles. What made you think of it?”

He kissed her. “We’ve been way too serious lately. I thought it was a simple way of telling you how much I love you.” He kissed her again, then pulled her head to his chest. “I admire you so much. I realize how much you’re dealing with at work. I don’t know how you keep motivated. You’re such a strong woman. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve been stealing your strength for years.”

Suddenly Thyme pulled back from him. “What, what’s the matter?” he asked.

“Cy, I can’t forget about everything. I can’t forget you lied to me.”

“But I told you that will never happen again. I love you, Thyme—you must believe me. You’re my entire world. You’ve got to believe me.”

“I want to, Cy, I want to.” Thyme fell back into his arms and let him undress her.

* * *

On Monday, Cy arrived at work early. He wanted to turn in his resignation as soon as possible, but he knew he had to wait for the right moment. It might be weeks before he could do it right.

When he logged on to his computer, he saw that he had three propfs from Graciella and deleted them without reading them.

He also read an executive memo stating that in less than two weeks, six more of Troy Trim’s units would be taken out of the plant and sewn in Mexico. By then everyone would know what was happening, including Thyme. Cy gulped; this news going public would only remind Thyme of how he had held back important information from her.

If the union workers found out about Champion’s plans to close the Troy Trim plant, Thyme would be right in the middle of a wildcat strike. The recent violent death of one of their own would make the problem that much worse. Cy realized that by withholding the information he knew about the plans to shut down Troy Trim, he’d left his beloved wife twisting in the wind. Would she ever forgive him?

His instincts told him that regardless of any settlement Champion reached with the union, management would find a way to renege on giving Thyme the next available management position at world headquarters.

The sale of Troy Trim at the end of the year looked inevitable, and he was powerless to stop it. The only way to save himself and his marriage was to get out.

__________

“Hot damn, we did it! The award is $1,270,000!” Stephen Kravitz yelled the figure as if it were his. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to call you for hours.”

Her voice was dull. “Troy Trim officially went out on strike today.”

“I know you’re upset. But Thyme, you’re rich now. Laugh. Shout. Open a bottle of champagne!”

Thyme was unmoved. She’d spent the last week and a half praying the negotiations with the union would avoid the strike. But they hadn’t. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, Stephen.”

“My God, Thyme. We’ve won. We’ve cleaned their clock. Aren’t you the least bit happy?”

“Yes, I am happy. I’ll shout tomorrow. But not now.”

What did money matter to her now? She felt more distant from Cy than ever, she’d lost her best friend, and to top it all off she was menstruating with huge cramps and the Midol wasn’t working. What good would hundreds of pieces of green paper do? After all, it was just paper, and it provided no comfort. Her victory was in winning. But there was no joy. What hurt worst of all was that she couldn’t share her victory with her husband because she knew he didn’t support her the way a husband should support his wife, especially when she was right.

Thyme remembered being struck by a passage she’d read by the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge: “As there is much beast and some devil in man, so is there some angel and some God in him. The beast and the devil may be conquered, but in this life never destroyed.”

Reading those words, and remembering them now, she visualized her husband’s two faces.

That evening, Thyme sat in front of her home laptop. Cy stood in the doorway. She kept her gaze focused on the computer screen. She’d just finished a video conference with three of her business associates. They were discussing the strike at Troy Trim and the possible implications for other trim plants that would be destined to the same fate. Everyone seemed reluctant to point fingers, but all agreed that the company was at fault. Greed was at the root of this problem. This situation could have been avoided.

“You okay, honey?” he asked. “I’m sorry. You’re upset about the strike.” Cy began walking toward the liquor cabinet.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the sale of Troy Trim?”

“Sale?”

“Cy, I found out. Now we’re not just talking Mexican workers temporarily taking our jobs. We’re going to another level—workers, many of our friends, permanently losing their livelihoods, their homes. How can you continue to deny what you’ve obviously known for months?”

“Thyme . . .” he implored.

“How could you lie to me like that? What about my friends? They will never believe I didn’t know months ago what was going on!” Thyme looked at the computer screen and wanted to scream. She tried to gather her strength.

“I was protecting you, Thyme. You have no idea what goes on at World Headquarters. It’s bigger than both you and I. The automobile business has become global. It’s dirty and extremely competitive. If Champion doesn’t cut costs, there will
be
no Champion in the next century. It’s that simple.”

“And where does that leave us?” Thyme asked as calmly as possible.

“I’m working on that.” Cy was quiet for a minute, as if he were trying to make an important decision. Finally he said, “Look, Thyme, I don’t want to say more now. Just trust me that I’m taking care of everything.”

What a clever way of saying you lied.

Without another word, Cy left. Thyme heard him get into his car and drive away. Thyme, for the first time, was glad to see him go. The moment he left she started looking through his jacket pockets, looking for anything else that might discount what he had told her. What she found was the pager that he had asked her to turn in two months earlier. Somehow, between the two of them its return had fallen through the cracks. She pressed the recall, and a number frequently dialed came up on the display. The area code was from Mexico.

Thyme dialed the number.

“
Hola,
” a young boy said in Spanish.

Thyme hung up quickly. Seconds later, her phone rang.

“Did you call my home?” a woman asked.

Thyme was shocked. Apparently they had return-caller ID in Mexico as well. “Yes. But it was the wrong number. Sorry.” She hung up for the second time. But this time her instincts were beckoning her.

Lies, like truth, she knew, had a way of catching up with you. Either way, she would find out and hope and pray that Cy had told her the truth.

But didn’t she already know he’d lied to her? Was it time to be truthful with herself? He had lied about this Graciella woman, and he had lied about Champion. Things had broken down so badly between them, how would she react to yet more betrayal? Right now, she felt they would never be the same again.

It was time to take a good, honest look at herself and determine if she was ready to make a new life, one that may not include her husband.

She picked up the phone and dialed her attorney. “Stephen?” she asked hesitantly, “I’m interested in retaining the services of a private investigator. Do you have any suggestions?”

__________

It was Thursday morning the seventeenth of September, and Khan sat in the break area with several of her co-workers, snacking on a Sprite and chips. At 10:30 A.M. everyone was waiting for the new work schedule to be posed.

Everyone was still arguing about who was at fault for Luella’s murder. Some blamed Luella for being so hungry for overtime. Others blamed Valentino. No matter how justified, no one had the right to take another person’s life.

Khan’s feelings were mixed. Sure, she was saddened by Luella’s death, but she was sadder every time she went to visit her cousin in jail. It hurt her deeply to see his forlorn face beaded with the sweat of frustration behind steel bars that seemed to be viciously stealing away his beauty. He seemed to brighten when Khan told him that Sarah and the baby were doing well, but the light soon faded from his eyes.

When the schedule was finally posted on the bulletin board outside the break area, everyone got up to look. As a reminder no one wanted to see, a picture of Luella along with her obituary was pasted on the bulletin board next to the schedule.

“Look,” one of the women in her unit called out, “there’s no overtime scheduled for next week. The whole plant is on eight hours.”

Another voice said, “Everyone except the A-team. Them fuckers always find a way to get overtime.”

“Hold up,” another said, “Look at this shit. Six units are down. What in the hell is going on?”

Khan got close enough to look. One man standing behind her said, “This don’t look good. The plant hasn’t been on forty hours since April.”

“And six units down. What’s up?”

Ron walked up just then. He was dressed in a red polo shirt and pale blue pin-striped slacks. “I’ll tell you what’s going on. The company ain’t listening to our demands.” He held newsletters, which he passed out to everyone. Listed on the newsletter were the dates and times each union member was supposed to picket, and where to pick up their strike pay. The strike was being called for September thirtieth, two weeks away. Ron called everyone to attention and explained that the union was calling for a local strike.