Blue Collar Blues (8 page)

“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 the aroma of her scent lingering on the sheets.

___________

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.”

“I don’t understand. You promised me that you had already set up everything before leaving Japan. I married an American citizen—doesn’t that automatically get me a green card?”

“No. This is real life. The green card isn’t even green anymore. It’s pink and it makes you a ‘resident alien,’ not a citizen. We’re going to have to be very careful with this, Tomiko. People get deported every day.”

“I know. But we haven’t done anything illegal.”

R.C. paused and then said, “Tomiko, do you remember the papers we signed before we left Japan?”

“We signed a lot of papers.”

“I know, but I’m talking about one in particular; the immigrant visa. Remember, we were in a hurry . . . well, I was in a hurry to get back home and I suggested that you come in as a tourist on a visa waiver. We filled out a form called an I-Ninety-four. That meant that you had to lie and tell them that you were just coming to the States for a visit and would not be residing here permanently.”

“I don’t see why Americans make it so difficult for people to work here. They should be glad that I’m not applying for welfare.”

She could hear R.C. chuckle. “It’s a long story, Tomiko. But as your employer, I can file an I-Nine form for your permanent residence card. I know all this sounds confusing, but you’ll have to trust me. I’ve got some smart people here working with me on this. Be patient. Everything will work itself out.”

R.C. touched her chin with his fingers, pulling her face back toward him, then let them run across her lips. He kissed her. “Don’t let small things upset you. Detroit is a great city. Once you see the house, you’ll love it here. Especially the food. Are you hungry, honey? I’m starved.”

“Can we stop by the market? I’d like to cook dinner tonight.”

“Are you sure? I can have a steak and lobster dinner delivered by the time we get home.”

Tomiko smiled. “Have you forgotten how much you loved for me to cook for you when we were in Japan?” The warm look in his eyes told her that he remembered, and remembered also what they had shared afterwards.

Since she had left Japan, she hadn’t had an ounce of decent food. Sure, R.C. took her to the most exclusive Japanese restaurants, but it wasn’t the same. The food was high in presentation but low in taste.

The one and only talent that Tomiko seemed to have inherited from her mother was cooking. Everything else she’d learned on her own.

R.C. checked his watch. “Take the Fenkell exit, Herman. Make a left on Fenkell, take it three miles up to Evergreen. Make another right at Evergreen. Kisoji’s Market is on the west side of the street.”

The glass-fronted market sparkled with bright lights. Beige laminated walls showed off the artfully displayed products. Once inside, Tomiko could smell the familiar scent of soybeans and sesame-flavored bean curd as well as the flavorful assortment of teas and exotic seasonings.

Several other Japanese women shopped inside the market, and they greeted her warmly—more warmly, in fact, than her Japanese compatriots did in her home country.

A small line was forming at the fish counter as the women studied the day’s selection of fresh octopus,
maguro, ebi,
and
hamachi.
They were out of one of Tomiko’s favorites:
akagai,
or red shellfish.

She spotted the noodles with which she could make
soba
and
udon
dishes, her favorite main dishes, and purchased fresh vegetables, grains, seafood, fish, chicken, and a small portion of pork.

She was happy to find the Japanese foodstuffs plentiful. Her mother had warned her to resist the heavily spiced and greasy foods that the Americans loved; they were saturated with oil and butter and would make her fat.

Satisfied that she’d selected well, Tomiko motioned for R.C. to come in and pay for the groceries. R.C. handed her a brochure from Kisoji’s. “They have a delivery service.”

Gushing like the newlywed she was, Tomiko hugged her husband. She had begun to feel homesick but was ashamed to tell him. But now, having been surrounded by the familiar sights and smells of Japan, she felt less estranged. “Are we far from our house?” Tomiko asked once they were back inside the limo.

“About twenty miles. But there’s another market you’ll like on Seven Mile Road. You can walk there from where we live.”

“I’m going to surprise you with something special for dinner.”

“Tomiko. It’s late. We’re both tired. We can order in and you can cook a meal tomorrow.”

She ignored the impatience she heard in his voice. Even though she was a size six, she still loved to eat. She was fed up with the American food and she’d been barely able to eat. Tomiko was positive she’d lost an unnecessary five pounds. She had to take care of her body if she was going to make it as a model—and she would.

“You’ll see. I’m going to serve you the best Japanese food you’ve ever eaten.”

They debated about the logistics of cooking at such a late hour until the white limo stopped under the arch of the Italian-style ranch on Gloucester Drive in Palmer Woods. The front entrance was lit up like a palace. It was one of the most impressive homes Tomiko had ever seen.

Tomiko watched R.C. unlock and open the arched front double doors with beveled glass that led into the thirty-four-foot-high clerestory atrium and foyer.