Searching for Tina Turner - By Jacqueline E. Luckett Page 0,36
At Lena. “You, too.”
Lena scoops a healthy portion of the made-from-scratch green curry sauce over his rice. This food comes close to what she thinks he experienced in Bali: spicy, thick, and rich. Once she settles in beside him, she takes his left hand in her right. They sit that way for a time that she does not count, the smell of her jasmine mixing with the curry, until he reaches for the remote control on the bench. When she grabs it first, he tickles her arm until the remote falls loose so that his fingers can now dance on its pad. The TV screen explodes like lightning in the darkened room. Even as she scrutinizes him, his eyes puffy from concentration and the long day, Lena knows he seeks solace in the inanity of TV.
“I’d like to talk about the party and about us. We need to clear the air and make a fresh start, and we can’t talk if the TV’s on.” Lena catches herself and the sigh about to escape her lips. One. Two. Three. It took all day to concoct this exotic meal, to gather the ingredients, to select the right tiny red chilies to heat up their food and their marriage. “I worked hard today to make this evening… special.”
“And I worked hard today so you can make fancy food. Are you ready to apologize?”
“I think we need to apologize to one another.” Lena uncovers the tureen and hastily ladles chunky soup into Randall’s empty bowl.
“I don’t see it that way.”
With exacting synchronicity, Lena’s jaw twitches at each abrupt change of channel—the staccato of newscasters, commercials, random dialogue—and his casual acceptance, his expectation that all of his meals will be this grand, this tasty.
“Let’s make a deal. A little food. We’ll talk.” Lena presses her hand to the back of his neck, and the spot at the base of his ear that usually makes him melt. “Then we’ll watch the last quarter. Upstairs. In bed. That is, if you feel up to it.” For Lena and Randall, makeup sex has always been their best.
“But the Warriors play the Lakers tonight.” Randall grins like a mischievous boy. “Last game before the playoffs.”
Lena pushes thumb against the Y, Vernon’s Y for change, on her palm while the basketball players on TV run up and down the court. Run, run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man. The urge to scrape scrape scrape the fragrant food down the garbage disposal, to flip the on/off switch again and again until the whirring is smooth and food, ground to pulp, washes down the drain, is strong. As are Kendrick’s last words. She yanks away the remote from Randall’s hand and turns the TV off. Wineglass in hand, Lena pushes away from the table and goes to the sink full of the pots and pans and skillets she used to prepare the special dishes.
“You’re acting like a spoiled brat.” Randall clicks the TV on again.
“I’m sorry.” Anxiety rushes to Lena’s tongue, mixes with her spit, and swims over her taste buds. Maybe I am, she wants to shout, a spoiled, frustrated midlife woman unable to get her husband to accept her apology, her food, her sweet jasmine perfume, to understand she seeks change for the benefit of the both of them. In the instant she hurls her glass across the floor, Lena both intends and regrets the action. The glass shatters, scattering wet shards from the sink where Lena stands all the way to the table at the opposite end. Only the stem remains intact. The odor of wine mingles with the basil and curry, and the kitchen smells more like a cheap bar than home.
“Look, Lena. I don’t know what more you want.” Randall stands, a man on the verge of action, looking from Lena to the shattered glass to the louvered door that separates the kitchen from the hallway. The long, low sigh he releases is like, Lena supposes, the tears she fights with a barrage of rapid blinks. “I’m tired. And you’re obviously irrational.”
“Don’t leave, Randall, we’ve got to do this sooner or later.”
“I’ve done all I’m going to do tonight, Lena.” The door swings hard and wide as he passes through it.
If she were taller and huskier, if she were a man, Lena knows she would punch Randall, punch him hard until he fell, until he understood. She tiptoes around the pieces of glass and through the swinging door. Keeping