But Khan felt lighter when she spoke about Buddy, as if suddenly Buddy had become the man in her life. Perhaps he wasn’t that attractive on first notice, but the more she got to know him, the better looking he became.
“Time is passing so quickly, Mama Pearl. I feel like I’m fifty already.”
“You can’t see the passing of time, Khan. You can keep a diary of what you do, what you say, what your thoughts are. But it takes time to see the passing of time. You have to look back at it. You’re too young to have experienced that, Khan. Enjoy life now. Because time, next to death, is what limits our lives. Both come too quickly, and can never be retrieved.”
“Grandma—”
“Shhh,” she said. “Time is endless, time is as wind, and as waves are we.” She paused. “Can you hear it?”
__________
Saturday. Thyme was leaving the church after Luella’s funeral. She had slipped into the back row during the pastor’s eulogy.
Thyme was surprised when Luella’s oldest son, Cole, was introduced by the pastor to speak on behalf of his mother. He wore a rattan-brown single-breasted suit, white shirt, and a simple brown and beige tie. There was a proud smile on his face before he began. Cole spoke about the early days when his mother would take them to the Detroit Zoo and the Detroit Science Center. He told the small congregation that even though Luella had spoiled both of them, they always knew how much she loved them. That love had encouraged them to excel academically. Without her forcefulness and support, Cole said, he and Reese would not have become such successful students at Columbia University. At that moment, Reese, sitting in the front pew, broke down in tears. His father, Omar, weeping himself, tried to console his son.
Thyme was genuinely moved. And she was proud to see the enormous floral arrangements, mostly from Champion workers, that nearly overshadowed the coffin.
The atmosphere in the church was overwhelming, and Thyme couldn’t wait to make a quick exit the moment the service was over. The service left her feeling defeated, and the depression lingered as she drove home.
Thyme hadn’t seen Khan at the funeral, though this wasn’t surprising. Thyme thought back to her argument with her friend and winced. Thyme scanned the radio for news about the strike. She thought now that she’d been overly optimistic with Khan, assuring her that there wouldn’t be a walkout.
Was it her fault that Valentino was in jail? That Luella had died? She was beginning to reassess her culpability. Although the A-team had been formed and endorsed by the union and operated with the full knowledge and consent of Ron, Thyme still felt she could have done more to address the stresses brought on by the issue of overtime. Thyme knew there was no way she alone could have dismantled the overtime system, including the special favors given to the so-called A-team, but if she’d been more involved, she might have prevented Luella from dying and Valentino from ruining his life.
But what hurt Thyme the most was that Khan now thought so badly of her.
As soon as she arrived home, Thyme made some coffee and turned on the TV for any news reports on whether the local union had reached a tentative agreement with Champion to renew its contract.
Later that evening, just as she finished watching the eleven o’clock news, the late-night anchor announced that the local union had agreed to ratify the contract. The union had quickly reached a tentative agreement long before the September fourteenth deadline. Thyme gave out a long sigh of relief and clicked off the set. The phone rang just as she was slipping into bed.
“It’s me, Thyme.”
“Cy?”
“I know it’s late, but I was watching the late night news. Congratulations. No national strike.”
“Yeah. It appears that everything is under control,” she said, thinking about her settlement, which still was not
settled.
“When are you coming home?”
“Late next Wednesday night. I miss you, baby. Can you wait up for me? It might be one in the morning before I get in.”
Thyme sighed. She so wanted to have him in her arms. But she still felt so betrayed, so angry. “Just come home.”
“I miss you, sweetie. There’s no one like you, Thyme.”
“It’s about time you found that out.”
As Thyme’s eyes shut and her mind closed in on sleep, she felt a glimmer of hope that all was not lost in her marriage.
* * *
A week passed quickly and when Thyme arrived at her office the Wednesday of Cy’s return, Elaine handed her an envelope that had just been delivered by registered mail. Thyme opened it and skimmed the contents. Jack Cohen, the president of Local 1099, had called a membership vote the previous week. The union had voted overwhelmingly to strike Troy Trim two weeks from today, September 30. The main issues were (1) health and safety—lax security, causing Luella’s murder, and operators’ sewing accidents because of inferior parts; (2) the high sewing standards for the 1999 car lines; and (3) outsourcing the jobs from Champion Trim to Mexico.
She felt blindsided; it had never occurred to her that Champion workers would strike even though the national union had settled. She felt that the local issues could be worked out without a strike.
Damn! You could have warned me, Ron.
Thyme walked through the plant to speak personally with people who had worked closely with Luella, including Khan. She wanted to give them a chance to air their feelings, whether they were sadness or anger. Thyme knew it was important to give the workers a chance to voice or vent.
True to plant life, the gossip about Luella’s death superseded talks about the upcoming local strike. But what good would gossip do? Thyme thought. It happened. It was over. They had to get on with their lives and hope that most learned a lesson about the true price of overtime. It didn’t matter who was right or wrong. Neither Valentino’s family nor Luella’s family would ever be the same.
The employees were dealing with the grief in their own way, and most seemed to welcome work as a way to dispel their frustrations. Thyme was relieved. If Champion would negotiate with the union fairly, settling the local strike issues would be a relief to everyone.
After lunch Thyme received an odd propfs message. As was customary with electronic mail, several words were always abbreviated—EMBRDY meant embroidery; CTNS meant cartons. It was so stupid. Why couldn’t they just spell the shit out?
MSG FROM: GCASTELLANPO14—TRY0006 USAET (UTC-1:00) 9/16/98
Subject: Lear Matamoros
To: Ctyler 12—TRY0006
Hi Cy,
ON YOUR DESK YOU’LL FIND TWO SHIPPERS. BOL#25779 WAS FINALIZED ON THE 14TH. NOTE THERE WAS NO AN EMBRDY LISTED ON THE SHIPPER. ENRIQUE VARGAS CALLED FROM ANOTHER MATAMOROS PLANT. THE SHIPMENT HAS BEEN SITTING AT CUSTOMS FOR TWO DAYS BECAUSE THEY DIDN’T HAVE ANY PACKING SLIP FOR THE EMBRDY THAT WAS NOT ON THE TRUCK. WHAT HAPPENED WAS, THE SHIPPING CHECKER DIDN’T SCAN THE EMBRDY CONTAINERS BEFORE FINALIZING THE SHIPPER.
I AM FAXING YOU A COPY OF THE EMBRDY LABELS OFF THE CTNS. I AM ALSO SENDING YOU A COPY OF THE SHIPPER IN CASE YOU WANT TO REVIEW THIS WITH YOUR CHECKERS.
YOU JUST LEFT AND I MISS YOU ALREADY! I KNOW THINGS BETWEEN US ARE STRAINED, BUT WE’LL FIND A WAY. THERE’S TOO MUCH TO GIVE UP.
Graciella
Matamoros Trim II
(525)355-0667, FAX #355-9455
=====END==OF==NOTE======
As soon as Thyme stepped into her home, the phone began to ring. It wouldn’t be Cy—he’d told her he’d be getting in late. Who could it be? Then she smiled. Maybe it was Khan and they would finally make amends.
“Hello,” Thyme said expectantly.
“I heard my brother’s coming home tonight.”
“Sydney?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Just thought I’d give you a courtesy call and fill you in on what your husband’s been up to.”
“Listen, Sydney, we’ve never liked each other. I’m tired. I’m beat. Let me say this clearly: You’ve got a fixation on your twin. If you can’t understand that old concept, Sydney, you should switch analysts. Any good shrink will say you’re too close to him. Possibly that may be one of the reasons why your husbands leave and your kid is a mess. Jarrod will probably win custody and Graham will stay in London. You should direct your energy toward your own family and stay the hell out of mine!”
Sydney’s voice was purposefully slow, the pulling of molasses. “Oh, honey. You may be joining me soon.” Sydney laughed a vicious laugh. “Cy’s got secrets. But twins can’t keep those kinds of secrets from each other. And you know what?” She giggled. “I can’t wait until you find out Cy’s secrets.”
“I’m hanging up on you now, Sydney. It’s obvious you’re drunk.”
“Wait, Miss Black America. Your husband loves black skin, but black comes in many shades. Try Mexican. They’re just as dark as you pretend to be. Night,
y’all.
”
At that moment, the name from Cy’s memo leaped before Thyme’s eyes: Graciella.
__________
“It had to end one day,” Cy said to Graciella.
It was his last night in Mexico. Determined to move ahead for everybody’s sake, he had stayed in Champion’s suite at the Radisson for his entire visit, coming to the house only tonight to spend time with the children. Now the children were asleep, leaving him and Graciella alone. They sat opposite each other at the kitchen table. It had rained all day and still the rain came down, relentless. Even their affair appeared worn out by the rain.
“Why are you doing this, Cyrus?” she pleaded. “I’m happy with the way things are. I’ve lived with this for twenty years. You never heard me complain. I always accepted my role in your life. Why now? Why now!”
“I want you to find someone, Graciella. A man who will marry you.” He ignored her protests and continued, “You’re still young and beautiful.”
“But my heart is with you, Cyrus. I cannot love another man. How can you ask me to allow another man in our lives? How can you desert Gregor, who so looks up to you? You can’t expect him to accept another man’s love when, like me, he only wants the love of his father?”
“That’s not fair. You know how much I love the children. Don’t use them to manipulate me.”
“Then don’t leave us.” Her voice was a moan. “We need you. You need us, too. We’re a part of your life, Cy.”
“I won’t be back, Graciella. I’ve made up my mind to resign from Champion Motors.”
“And when will you return to see your children?”
Cy was silent for a moment. “There are still some details I have to get worked out back home before I come and see the kids again.”
Her face was pale, but Graciella remained rigidly straight and stared at him with unblinking eyes. Her hand tightened around the arms of the chair so hard that her knuckles whitened.
“Graciella . . .” Cy began pleadingly. It hurt him to see her this way. As he looked into her face, her brown eyes, her heart, his heart ached with emotion. He would miss her. “I’ve set up an IRA for you and the children, and you will also receive twenty-five thousand dollars from me each year. As promised, I will also pay for the children’s education.” Cy had worked out the numbers and felt comfortable that the financial issues had been dealt with fairly, but he still had some doubts about his emotions.
“You can’t buy me off!” Graciella said angrily.
“I am not buying you off. I’m taking care of you and our children.”
“You cannot just get rid of me by signing a big check. No—no! I’ll never let you go, Cy.” Her hoarse voice rang through the small kitchen as she lunged out of her chair, pounding Cy’s chest with both her fists. Tears streamed down her face and she fell against him, sobbing, pleading with him not to end the relationship.
“Don’t do this, Graciella.” His voice was very quiet.
He would not let himself give in to the soft feelings he felt for her, although he was tempted. As he had told her during the last trip, he would always care for her, but these feelings for her and the children were destroying his marriage. He pushed her away. And when he did, hate replaced the tears in her eyes.
Cy’s rejection drove Graciella into a silent rage. She had never fought for what she wanted; now, for the first time, she was making a stand. She stood, slowly walking toward him, then slapped him with all her might. The sound echoed through the room. “You must be crazy if you think you can just walk out of our lives. I’ll tell your wife about us. And that’s just the beginning.”
He grabbed her hand and held it. His eyes were direct, challenging. “No you won’t, Graciella. Don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be.” Cy walked out of the kitchen and left the house for the last time.
Even as he heard her cries turn to screams, he continued walking toward his car. It was one of the longest walks of his life.
* * *
Cy felt weightless as he landed at Metropolitan Airport. Michigan greeted him with an onslaught of mid-September rain, but this was home and he was glad to be here.
Beads of rain hit him hard, like steel marbles, and Cy didn’t have an umbrella with him. He started to get pissed as his suit jacket absorbed the water. He couldn’t locate his keys in his briefcase; he then fished through his pants pockets, through his coat pockets, and, finally, nearly soaked, he found his keys on his belt loop.
Standing alone in the darkened parking lot at the airport, he had to laugh. He felt cleansed. Free. How powerful the rain is, he thought, and yet how simple. Who but the Omniscient could have devised such an admirable arrangement for watering the earth and cleansing the soul? And once again he felt the pull of home. His wife was fifty minutes away.
Driving home, he tried not to think of Graciella, but it was almost impossible. He was hoping that the worst of their breakup was finally over and praying the memories would fade with time.
As Cy pulled into the driveway, he noticed that most of the lights were out. He crept into the house quietly and slipped into his bathroom to shower. He wanted to wash away the last trace of his guilt before he got into bed with his wife. He approached her sleeping form.
“Thyme, baby, I’m back. I’ve missed you.”
“Cy—”
“It’s me, baby. I’m home.” Cy pulled Thyme into his arms, but he could feel her resistance. After a moment, he released her.