Tempest Rising - Diane Mckinney-whetstone [73]
Tyrone didn’t tell him that Ramona wasn’t the one who’d kept him up last night. “Did she look in just now?”
“Wouldn’t matter. How many times I got to tell you? You can see out, but can’t no one see in, two-way mirror, Tyrone.”
“Yeah, yeah, I forgot. She’s fine, ain’t she, Pops?”
“You doing it, son.” Perry and Tyrone slapped hands, and Perry resisted the urge to lecture. Hell, she was fine. He couldn’t deny that.
Tyrone went back to spreading ink over the press, he hummed a few bars of “My Girl” until the press went so loud that he could no longer hear himself. Then he just held the rhythm in his head and sang it in his head, one bar he sang for Ramona because he truly loved her, the next for Candy because he loved the way she drew him out and held on to his explosion all the way until that last spark had fizzled into a tiny red dot. Not even Ramona held on like that. He’d been drawn back to Candy’s lair again every night since that Saturday night they met—it was more like a lair than an apartment, with fake animal skins covering the couch, chairs, most of the walls; candles burning in every room; smoked mirrors on the walls that were absent the leopard and tiger prints—and he was going to see her again tonight, and tomorrow. He couldn’t help himself. He’d start the day off planning to spend time with Ramona, and Candy would call, rather, purr in his ear, “Please, please come see me tonight. Young blood.” She was so attentive to him too, from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet; no part of him escaped her attention, which was soft and thick and warm and creamy. He couldn’t pass it up. Would just have to think of some excuse for Ramona about tonight, and tomorrow. He smiled inside; he really felt like a man now, having to think up a lie to tell his main lady so he could spend some time with the one on the side.
He watched the inked pages run through the press so he could settle himself down. Thinking about Candy was gonna have his pants bulging for real in a minute. He concentrated on the pages running through the press, each page sharper than the last until the color and the clarity would be up to Perry’s high standards. Tyrone liked running the press. Liked the notion that he was a craftsman like his father. Also liked this feeling of having a woman on the side. Was so secure in his manhood now he didn’t even feel the need to brag to his father about the whirlwind week he’d had with Candy.
These blank reams he was sending through the press were becoming bulletin covers for the Palm Sunday service at his and Ramona’s church. A flowing white robe surrounded by emerald green palms and pink-centered lilies splashed out on the finished page. Four-color process was a challenge, though; he was studying the lilies, deciding if he needed to spread a bit more red ink to get a deeper pink. He almost didn’t hear Perry again. This time telling him that his maybe future mother-in-law was walking past.
“Your momma gonna have to send up some strong southern prayers to protect you from that Mae woman if you and Ramona should ever decide to tie the knot,” Perry said as they both looked out the window now. “She’s a tough gambling woman, all right. I don’t know where she pulls the nurturing from to take care of all those foster kids always coming and going. And that eye, look at it, damn, son, don’t you shake in your shoes a little when she fixes that eye on you?”
Tyrone would have laughed, but Victoria was with Mae, limping, hopping actually, her hurt leg bent so she looked like a bona fide cripple. Tyrone’s eyebrows dipped way low in concern.
“I’m only messing with you, boy,” Perry said as he noticed his son’s face, almost stricken-looking.
“Naw, naw.” Tyrone waved his hand. “That’s not it.” And then he was out of the door calling first to Victoria and then to Mae.
Victoria heard him first, so unaccustomed