Searching for Tina Turner - By Jacqueline E. Luckett Page 0,28
year’s worth of biofeedback sessions. “I’d be happy if we could table this.”
“Not work. Like Tina says—whether times are happy or sad.”
“That was Al Green. Tina Turner was singing, Lena, not espousing a philosophy.” Randall’s heavy voice is sarcastically chipper. “With the money Tina Turner makes, she’s found happiness, trust me.”
The singsong doorbell chimes, and Lena rushes to the dining room for one last survey of the table. She swaps two place cards, corrects the alignment of a spoon and fork to exactly two inches from the table’s edge, and motions to the housekeeper in the kitchen to turn the oven off.
Randall steps into the entryway and spins on the doorbell’s last note—his silk shirt flutters from his broad shoulders to its loose hem. He raises his thumbs: all systems go. “Look around, Lena. What do you have to be sad about?”
f f f
From her end of the table, Lena feels like a minor character in her hundredth performance of play: a vital prop, without dialogue and unnoticed. She is unable to figure out if she has grown away from her friends or too much into herself.
Lynne, who worries more about pedigree than personality, blathers on about a couple she recently met: the husband’s father was the first black appellate court judge in his state and the wife is a third generation AKA. Charles’s fear of Bali street food. Candace prattles on about her children: X is getting a PhD, Y is pregnant by her doctor husband again, Z is up for partner at his law firm.
Lena takes in the room—gilded mirror over the buffet, the crystal chandelier, the curved arches cut into the Oriental rug’s thick wool pile. What does she have to be sad about?
“How’s your dinner, Charles?” Lena asks Randall’s best friend.
“Perfect, as usual,” Charles volunteers through a mouthful of roast and reaches for another slice.
“And these cut veggies… what are they?” Charles’s bimbette girlfriend asks Randall. As if he knows, Lena thinks. Randall makes suggestions, like executive overviews, and leaves the details to his wife. The young woman, sultry and innocent at the same time, refocuses her attention on Randall before Lena finishes her description of the sharp mandoline and its precision cuts of yellow and red beets, jicama, and carrot tied with softened strands of chive. The bimbette sits on Randall’s left, Charles on his right. Randall chitchats with the two of them and flashes his even-toothed smile. Watching the three of them, Lena wonders if Charles brings these air-headed, busty women to their home more for Randall’s entertainment than his own.
“This is why I adore your parties, Lena.” Lynne nudges her husband, who is almost done before the others have barely started. He shoves food in his mouth and tells them he can’t stop this habit—six sisters and brothers who all ate fast in order to get seconds—even though it’s been forty years since he sat with them at his parents’ table.
Lynne dismisses him with a wave of her hand. “Your food is so creative, like one of those TV shows. Artsy.”
The dark wood is the perfect backdrop for the food arranged in the middle of the round African mahogany table Lena commissioned for the square dining room. The rich wood is striated with tiny rings that testify to its age. Frilly paper caps on the standing rib roast, garnishes of purple cabbage, parsley, and finger-sized fruits; presentation and taste are important to her. She cannot brag about well-earned promotions or increased corporate profits or the next big takeover like Randall, but she can outdo most with her food.
Candace, her politically incorrect, six-carat diamond, and her dimpled husband, Byron, sit to Lena’s right and left. Candace catches his eye as her tongue drags creamy potatoes across her fork.
The bimbette joins in. “Oh, everybody’s life seems much more exciting than Charles’s.” She bats her obviously false eyelashes in Randall’s face.
“I make money, baby,” Charles says through his second helping of garlic mashed potatoes. “That’s exciting enough.”
Randall slaps his buddy’s back and winks at Lena: I told you so. The bimbette hasn’t been and probably won’t be around long enough to understand she should keep her mouth shut. Or perhaps, Lena muses, this one gets a “get out of jail free” card, because she is young enough to be the daughter of any one of them or, as her neckline creeps farther down between her full, taut breasts, no man pays attention to what she says.
The housekeeper brings in a silver tray with two dessert choices—a