the focus of his attention.
At the exit of the crowded parking lot, Lena pulls onto the freeway and floors the accelerator until the speedometer twitches
close to ninety and the gray marble facade of San Francisco International Airport looms far behind them. The last time she
dropped Randall off, he chided her, all the way to the airport, for her racecar antics and the three or four hundred dollar
moving violation that the highway patrol would issue to a black woman in a very expensive, very red convertible.
This evening, silence is a third passenger in the car. Lena rehearsed the scene, this ride home, in her head: she would say
she missed him, he would say he missed her, too, and that he wants her to have the sense of self-reliance she seeks. No decision
necessary.
Tina’s voice rings out from the radio’s speakers. Like the lyrics that slipped off the printer, this song is perfectly timed.
Tina sings what Lena wants to say:
Two people gotta stick together
And love one another, save it for a rainy day
Lena looks from the road to her husband’s profile; his broad nose and full lips—the thick salt-and-pepper mustache above them—are
fixed in a stern pout. The car is a finely tuned instrument, as controlled and syncopated as the melody. The gears switch
to the music’s beat, and Lena steers in and out of the choppy Highway 101 traffic, back to the Bay Bridge and to Oakland.
“I missed you.”
“It’s been a long time.” Randall turns off the radio and pats her thigh. “The woman next to me on the plane wouldn’t shut
up. The quiet suits me just fine.”
They pass San Francisco’s skyline to the west—the thin pyramid skyscraper and its stair-step sisters compete with one another
in their stretch to the sky—the blue-black waters of the bay to the east. New York, Rome, Barcelona, Lena thinks—no matter
where she goes in the world, this view of tall buildings and twinkling lights, stars under stars, is as beautiful as any place
else she has ever seen.
f f f
Their house perches on a low knoll fifty feet back from the sidewalk. It is not the biggest house on the block, but it has
the most curb appeal. There is no moon this evening to light the wide front porch, the square edges of its overhang, and the
well-groomed lawn. Headlights cast a halogen glow on the white petunias bordering the curb. Clusters of redwood and oak trees
on either side of the house form immense shadows around the yard.
“Frank does a great job with the lawn.” Randall unbuckles his seat belt as Lena eases into the garage beside their stucco
house.
Lena points out the tree drooping beside the garage. “He says the lemon tree is dead, and we have to decide what to replace
it with.” She will make this decision without Randall. The gardener will bow deferentially to Lena, as he has on other occasions,
when she tells him to replace the forty-year-old tree with a younger, healthier one. It will take the sapling years to develop
before the sweet fragrance of a mature tree can once again perfume a summer’s night.
Loud music blasts from the house—more bass than words. Kendrick’s stereo booms a rapper’s version of a tough life their son
has never known and connects Randall and Lena where their airport reunion did not. Together their heads shake in disapproval
of the hard-edged music. Lena tolerates rap, at least those songs whose lyrics she can understand. Randall has said repeatedly
that it’s a waste of time, and his face says so now. But his face also says he’s happy to hear the familiar sounds that confirm
all is normal.
“Well, it’s this way,” Randall says, his version of prayer, his thanks for a safe trip home. Early in their marriage he explained
his appreciation for shortened prayers: too much of his youth spent in all-day Sunday school. With the exception of funerals—his
mother, John Henry, and a college classmate—he avoids church. For now these
At the exit of the crowded parking lot, Lena pulls onto the freeway and floors the accelerator until the speedometer twitches
close to ninety and the gray marble facade of San Francisco International Airport looms far behind them. The last time she
dropped Randall off, he chided her, all the way to the airport, for her racecar antics and the three or four hundred dollar
moving violation that the highway patrol would issue to a black woman in a very expensive, very red convertible.
This evening, silence is a third passenger in the car. Lena rehearsed the scene, this ride home, in her head: she would say
she missed him, he would say he missed her, too, and that he wants her to have the sense of self-reliance she seeks. No decision
necessary.
Tina’s voice rings out from the radio’s speakers. Like the lyrics that slipped off the printer, this song is perfectly timed.
Tina sings what Lena wants to say:
Two people gotta stick together
And love one another, save it for a rainy day
Lena looks from the road to her husband’s profile; his broad nose and full lips—the thick salt-and-pepper mustache above them—are
fixed in a stern pout. The car is a finely tuned instrument, as controlled and syncopated as the melody. The gears switch
to the music’s beat, and Lena steers in and out of the choppy Highway 101 traffic, back to the Bay Bridge and to Oakland.
“I missed you.”
“It’s been a long time.” Randall turns off the radio and pats her thigh. “The woman next to me on the plane wouldn’t shut
up. The quiet suits me just fine.”
They pass San Francisco’s skyline to the west—the thin pyramid skyscraper and its stair-step sisters compete with one another
in their stretch to the sky—the blue-black waters of the bay to the east. New York, Rome, Barcelona, Lena thinks—no matter
where she goes in the world, this view of tall buildings and twinkling lights, stars under stars, is as beautiful as any place
else she has ever seen.
f f f
Their house perches on a low knoll fifty feet back from the sidewalk. It is not the biggest house on the block, but it has
the most curb appeal. There is no moon this evening to light the wide front porch, the square edges of its overhang, and the
well-groomed lawn. Headlights cast a halogen glow on the white petunias bordering the curb. Clusters of redwood and oak trees
on either side of the house form immense shadows around the yard.
“Frank does a great job with the lawn.” Randall unbuckles his seat belt as Lena eases into the garage beside their stucco
house.
Lena points out the tree drooping beside the garage. “He says the lemon tree is dead, and we have to decide what to replace
it with.” She will make this decision without Randall. The gardener will bow deferentially to Lena, as he has on other occasions,
when she tells him to replace the forty-year-old tree with a younger, healthier one. It will take the sapling years to develop
before the sweet fragrance of a mature tree can once again perfume a summer’s night.
Loud music blasts from the house—more bass than words. Kendrick’s stereo booms a rapper’s version of a tough life their son
has never known and connects Randall and Lena where their airport reunion did not. Together their heads shake in disapproval
of the hard-edged music. Lena tolerates rap, at least those songs whose lyrics she can understand. Randall has said repeatedly
that it’s a waste of time, and his face says so now. But his face also says he’s happy to hear the familiar sounds that confirm
all is normal.
“Well, it’s this way,” Randall says, his version of prayer, his thanks for a safe trip home. Early in their marriage he explained
his appreciation for shortened prayers: too much of his youth spent in all-day Sunday school. With the exception of funerals—his
mother, John Henry, and a college classmate—he avoids church. For now these
Similar Books
Scandalous Heroes Box Set
Serenity King, Pepper Pace, Aliyah Burke, Erosa Knowles, Latrivia Nelson, Tianna Laveen, Bridget Midway, Yvette Hines
