Blue Collar Blues (9 page)

“Hello, I’m Bonnie. Mr. R.C.’s maid.” The light-skinned black woman with rich red kinky hair and freckles extended her hand to Tomiko. “Welcome to Michigan.”

Tomiko shook the other woman’s hand. Bonnie appeared to be appraising Tomiko, and her gaze seemed a little menacing to Tomiko. Still, Bonnie’s voice was neutral when she said, “I’ll check on you later to see if you need anything.” R.C. was giving instructions to Herman, seemingly oblivious to the exchange between the two women.

Even though there was so much to see, R.C. took Tomiko around the house in less than five minutes.

The interior was airy and had a tropical feel. The thirty-foot-high ceilings created an impressive but inviting welcome. Recessed lighting wrapped around the ceilings. The floors in the living room and lower level were made of polished limestone from Italy. R.C. had told her that the carpeting in eggplant, teal, and plum was custom made to offset the neutral tones. A columned archway framed an elegant elevator, whose facade was accented by a hand-tooled copper dome. Six thousand square feet of luxurious living were packed into two levels. The lower level, accessible by either stairs or elevator, opened into a lower loggia.

Tomiko was surprised by such luxury. “This is where you live?” she asked.

He took her arm and led her back upstairs. “This is where
we
live.”

With only a few of her suitcases unpacked, Tomiko asked Bonnie to press the matching batiked black silk kimonos she and R.C. had purchased before leaving Japan. Soon she was serving her husband dinner: grilled chicken on skewers that were dipped in a thick, sweet peanut sauce. She had prepared a clear soup containing two or three white beans, a slice of red ginger cut in the shape of a starfish, two pieces of twisted kelp, an ear-shell, and a sliver of pink fish. The rest of their meal consisted of grilled seafood and steamed vegetables. Though it was nearly ten-thirty, the meal was light enough so as not to disturb their sleep—or anything else.

Tomiko had learned early on that the appearance of food and the manner of serving it was as important as the food’s taste. Food presentation was an art designed to nurture the spirit as well as the body. Therefore, her every thought during the preparation had been attuned to the spirit of the body, a fact she hoped would reach R.C. where it counted.

She served the meal in the lower-level dining area, which R.C. said he preferred. R.C. had brought a simple, flower-painted pottery flask and cups for sake. She wondered who had stocked the elegant chinaware and flatware. As for the interior decor, it was obvious that her husband had hired the very best talent in home design. Hungry, they both devoured the dinner.

Afterwards, they retired into the sitting area to watch the late-night news.

“I don’t believe this shit.” R.C. turned up the volume on what was obviously a commercial for a Champion dealership. He dropped the crossword puzzle he’d been working on in his lap and leaned forward for a closer view of the show. A regulation-size boxing ring appeared to have been airlifted and planted in the middle of a canyon. Shadowboxing inside was a well-known country western singer, who was dressed in a pair of oasis blue Everlast boxing shorts trimmed in silver. Sydney stood just outside the ring, leaning seductively against the new 1999 silver Rembrandt. Behind them was an unidentifiable mountain. A close-up shot panned the truck, then the singer’s superstar smile. The music started and the singer crooned the catchy jingle, “Once a champion, always a champion; if you get stuck, we got the truck.”

“Sydney Tyler, you white witch, you do have class.”

Tomiko watched as her husband’s eyes were glued to the commercial. There was no denying that the woman, obviously the owner of the dealership being featured, was beautiful, with her petite body, striking wide-set blue eyes, and cleft chin. Her voice as she spoke her lines was sultry and soft.

Was this competition? Tomiko wondered.

The phone began to ring.

“R.C., are you going to get that?” Tomiko began collecting the empty plates and putting them on the tray.

No answer. Heading for the kitchen, she answered the phone on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hi. I’d like to speak to R.C.”

“Who’s calling, please?”

“It’s Khan.”

In a flash, Tomiko remembered R.C. calling out this name in his sleep. She thought quickly. “Now is not a good time. Can you call back later?”

“No. Put him on the phone.”

“Is this business?”

“No. It’s private.”

“Call back tomorrow, please.” Tomiko didn’t wait for an answer. She hung up.

She decided that she wouldn’t give this woman named Khan another thought, whoever she was. What did it matter? R.C. was her husband now.

She imagined how delightful it would be to take his shaft between her lips and slowly fill her mouth with every last inch of him. How she would love to feel his orgasm with every pull of her mouth, and then tell him how much she enjoyed the ambrosia of his juice. Oh, how she would pull him down even deeper to the small of her throat, tightening her lips around his head so he could feel the tenderness inside her mouth once again. She knew that she would bring him to the exquisite edge of orgasm, then ease back and admire the glistening energy of his shaft throbbing at her.

Alone now upstairs, her vagina began to pulsate with the thought of feeling him inside of her as she removed her personal items from her suitcase. She knew that she couldn’t bear to fantasize further. She hurried to finish her task of organizing her toiletries and cosmetics in the bathroom.

Afterwards, she showered and perfumed her body with Nude cologne and came to bed wearing her sexiest nightwear: nothing. R.C. had come upstairs quietly to join her and was already turned over on his side when she slid into bed beside him. But when she did, she sensed that he was tense about something. She flicked off the TV set he had been watching and snuggled closer. Kissing the back of his neck and shoulder, she moved her hands across his torso, then reached up to thread her fingers through his hairy chest. He turned over onto his back and removed his briefs. And when he did, Tomiko took him inside her mouth, and she could feel his body relaxing. But for some reason, the more she enjoyed the taste of his flesh, the softer he became. So soft in fact that finally his penis folded in half like a wilted dandelion.

Tomiko couldn’t imagine what was wrong. She couldn’t decide if she should say something or try something different. So, without another thought, she released him and began to kiss and lick his lower torso, then continued farther up and over the slight swell of his belly, which was soft on the surface yet taut with muscle. She stopped only for a second to rotate her buttocks and straddle him.

Before she knew it, he flipped her petite body off of him with a strong shrug. The tone of his voice was harsh. “That’s enough.”

“R.C.? Is something wrong?”

He kept his back turned from her when he spoke. “No. I’ve heard about young people your age believing in voodoo sex.”

“Voodoo? What do you mean by that?”

“People who are expecting magic in their sexual relations.” He reached for his briefs and slipped them back on. “I’m fifty years old, Tomiko. I’m not a sex machine. You should have known there would be limitations.”

“But . . .”

“Now go to sleep. I ain’t performing no magic trick tonight.”

Tomiko turned over onto her side and curled her body into a fetal position. Silent tears stung her eyes, then fell like rivulets of molten lead, the torrents burning a passage to her heart. He turned away from her and again pulled the covers over himself. Minutes later, he was snoring.

Eventually, she fell asleep, her mind struggling with the pain that was most difficult for her to bear: the deadly pang of shame.

* * *

The morning sunlight woke Tomiko. The spot beside her was empty, which was no surprise. R.C. must have already left for the office.

The spacious master bedroom was airy with views of the outdoor landscape through a wall filled with high windows that angled into skylights. The cool atmosphere was enhanced by wallpaper made up of mottled lavenders, aquas, and teals that gave a soft, impressionistic feel to the room.

Rising from the bed, she stood by the window, stretched, and peered outside. As she stood there a small flock of colorful butterflies came into view. She could almost hear their wings as they fluttered by. She felt surrounded by beauty indoors as well as out.

It was a lovely morning. Resting her forehead against the warmed glass, she closed her eyes, trying to forget the hurt of last night, and chose instead to pretend that it had been just a bad dream. She imagined instead that she and R.C. had made delirious love.

She was so caught up in daydreaming that she barely heard the phone.

“Hello,” she said. Nude, she lay across the bed.

“Hi. Are you finding everything you need in the house?” It was R.C.

“Sure.”

“Are you upset about last night?”

Of course she was. But there was no point in mulling over it now. Instead she asked, “R.C., when are you going to teach me to drive in Detroit? I don’t like the idea of Herman driving me around the city every time I want to leave the house.”

“We’ll start this weekend. Now, I’ve got to go.”

Tomiko thought it very clever the way R.C. managed to be so attentive toward her and brush her off at the same time. She supposed that, with a little patience, she would one day be as cunning. Tomiko knew that once R.C. saw her in action, at work, competent and professionally put together, his admiration for her would grow, and their love, like fire once again kindled, would soon blow into a flame.

It was nearly ten in the morning by the time she had showered and changed, and she could smell freshly brewed coffee in the kitchen. Tomiko had little use for the chauffeur, but to her Bonnie was essential. Bonnie knew the truth about what went on in the house. Tomiko had felt an odd tension when she met the woman the night before, but she was confident she’d eventually find a way to get through to her.

When she entered the kitchen, Bonnie obediently poured her a cup of coffee, then went back to cleaning out the refrigerator.

“Do you know a person named Khan?” Tomiko’s voice was calm as she sipped her coffee.

“You should ask Mr. R.C. about that. That’s none of my business.”

Tomiko noticed how hard Bonnie was looking at her. “Is something wrong, Bonnie?”

“Listen, I respect you as Mr. R.C.’s wife. But I expect you to respect something about me, too. I’ve been running this house for years, just the way Mr. R.C. likes, and he’s never complained. Not once. He likes his privacy. I don’t cater to no one coming in here asking about Mr. R.C.’s personal business. Whatever you need to know, you should be asking him, not me.”

Tomiko stuttered. “I . . . I . . . just thought . . .”

“Leave the thinking, child, for the grown folks.”

Thus the ground rules of the home were set: Do it Bonnie’s way or there would be hell to pay.

For the next couple of days, Tomiko surreptitiously kept close track of Bonnie. She watched her make out the dinner menu for the week, an eye on her laundry schedule as well as the schedule she kept while cleaning the house. Tomiko was sure that Bonnie was watching her as well. Finally, Tomiko figured out a way to forge a bond with Bonnie. She was a clothes fanatic.

R.C. had followed through on setting up an interview for Tomiko with his advertising agency, and on Friday she had an interview at eleven at the Penobscott Building. Deciding what to wear, she thought, was a good way to ask for Bonnie’s advice. After scouring her closet, she selected her best outfits and spread them out over the sofa and chairs in her bedroom.

Soon enough there was a knock at her door. It was the time when Bonnie removed the dirty clothing to begin her morning’s wash.

Tomiko noted the fascination in Bonnie’s eyes as she spotted the tailored tweed by Marc Labat, the chocolate coatdress by YSL, and the featherweight printed crepes by Cécile et Jeanne. One especially caught her attention, and she came a little closer to inspect a new silk by Edouard Rambaud.

“My Lord,” Bonnie said, shaking her head, “this sure is fine.” She touched the hem of the fabric. “Don’t see this type of quality silk around here much.”

“Thank you. R.C. bought most of my clothes in Paris. But this one,” she said, touching the fine silk, “he purchased in Kyoto. I have an interview today with an advertising agency,” she said casually. “What do you think I should wear?”

Bonnie looked at each of the outfits carefully and chose a navy blue silk suit with celery green leaves embossed on the lapels and cuffs. “I think you’d look beautiful in this, dear.”

“Perfect choice.” Tomiko smiled warmly at Bonnie. Then she paused and thought for a moment before she spoke, “Bonnie, I realize that I’m a stranger. But soon you’ll know me better and maybe even trust me. I’ll be around a long time.” She measured her words carefully. “I can see how much you care for R.C. I can’t be the best wife to him if I don’t know what’s going on.” She paused, looking Bonnie dead in the eye. “Of course I don’t expect you to tell me all of R.C.’s private business. But I worry about this woman, Khan. Were they lovers?”

Bonnie was silent.

“Were they lovers, Bonnie?”

“Yes.” She stopped, and began collecting Tomiko’s clothes off the sofa. “For nearly five years.”

Bonnie began hanging Tomiko’s clothes, leaving out the outfit she would wear to her appointment. Once she was finished, she began to tell Tomiko a little about R.C. and Khan. All the while she talked, she continued to do her housework. After all, she was on a schedule and she had shopping to do this afternoon.

Before long, Tomiko knew all she needed to about Khan. She told herself it really didn’t matter. The bottom line was that R.C. had married her and not Khan.

While Bonnie removed the sheets from the bed, Tomiko hung on to every word. Afterwards, Bonnie sat down on the edge of the bed to take a short break. They were just about to get to the best part, Tomiko thought: what Khan looked like.

“Can’t say she wasn’t pretty. She was. Blond hair and all, ’cepting she had one of those looks like Buckwheat on the
Little Rascals
,” Bonnie said, “and the cutesy facial expressions of Darla.”