shooing her out of the kitchen, even as Kendrick walks in to meet them. Lena doesn’t have the slightest idea whether or not her son shares his sister’s insight. Silent meals, Randall’s late hours, her clothing piled in the guestroom for three days—her kids are no fools.
The tension between mother and son is palpable. She fans herself with both hands, a gesture meant to clear the air, and hopes that Kendrick gets her hint. “I do trust you, Kendrick, I hope you know that.” She speaks as if their confrontation was moments instead of days ago and points to his keys on the counter with a wide smile.
“Thanks, Mom.” Kendrick ruffles Lena’s hair and then juggles his keys between both hands, like the metal Slinky he had as a kid. As nosy as his sister, he heads to the stove, lifts a lid from a saucepan, and dips a finger into the curry. “Food works for us, too, Mom, in case you forgot.”
With one swift turn, Kendrick and Camille connect palms with a loud high five and slap a second one with Lena. “What’s that corny old-school saying? Something about a man’s heart?” he asks. Lena offers a thumbs-up to her son’s obvious hint, knowing that if the timing were different—or more full of the happiness of the old days—that would have been her only intention.
f f f
Lena places small, square white bowls filled with curried carrots topped with fresh basil—for color and contrast—and strips of sautéed chicken fillets on the kitchen table. Mixed green salad and jasmine rice balance the Thai food; the proper mix of carbs, protein, and veggies. She stirs passion and love into the tangy coconut soup in the hope that Randall will taste those emotions and daydreams of contentment while the lemongrass stems soak in cool water.
The first time Lena cooked for Randall, it was a disaster. She called the New Orleans hole in the wall they had visited and begged the cook for his shrimp Creole recipe, then labored hours more than she should have, given how simple the recipe read. Once they sat down to eat, the shrimp were tough, the sauce salty, and the rice mushy. After two mouthfuls, Randall told Lena to get her coat. “I’m not the kind of man who’ll suffer through his woman’s bad cooking.” He chuckled when she playfully twisted his arm. “You just remember those words when you cook for me.” She wanted to tell him that her feelings were hurt, that if the tables were turned she would have eaten his salty food. That was the first time she held her tongue with Randall. In that moment she learned his intolerance for error, and it bothered her, but not enough to stop seeing him. That was the first and only time he left her food on the table. In the end, her cooking snared him.
Surely, she thinks, it will help her keep him.
At five minutes after eight Randall opens the kitchen door, his tie loosened from his collar. His lips are tight; his moves calculated like a boxer considering which corner is neutral territory.
“Truce.” Lena helps Randall slip out of his jacket and leans close.
This night her neck and the dip between her breasts, behind her ears and knees are covered with jasmine. Jasmine is the scent that mixes best with Lena’s own. Randall gifts her with bottles, bars, and creams of the lavish fragrance every other Valentine’s Day, though Lena cannot remember the last time she wore the perfume. Perhaps when malaise overtook her long before Randall’s nearly month-long departure? Or after the Christmas holiday party and the argument, in front of Candace and Byron, over the best route to take home? Or last summer when she asked him not to take her car to the horrid, lecherous man at the flatlands automated carwash and he did anyway? Randall sniffs. The jasmine will do its work; help them to recall that first year of marriage, that first serious argument, and making up.
“Truce.” He gave her a bottle of jasmine oil, and later, massaged it all over her. All those years, it stood for apology, if needed—his or hers—for romance and good loving. Now, a hint of prim satisfaction stretches across Randall’s face, and Lena wonders if he remembers that first time she wore the perfume, much less expensive then, the scent still the same. Randall looks from the food to Lena and slides onto the upholstered bench. He sniffs. At the food. “Smells good.”