The Battered Body

FIVE

“I love this. Our havin’ breakfast for supper!” Lindy exclaimed as she settled on the floor in front of Bennett’s leather couch and kicked off her fleece-lined boots. She wiggled her toes, which were encased in black socks stitched with poinsettias, and issued a contented sigh. “I feel like I’m gettin’ ready for a sleepover party.”

Bennett gestured at his red cotton sweatpants. “I feel like I’m nearly wearin’ pajamas. You can go on home and change into a flannel nightgown if you want.”

Lindy pretended to be insulted. “Now why are you assumin’ that I wear some kind of grandma gown? I happen to sleep in pink satin pajamas from Victoria’s Secret, thank you very much.”

“I bet those look lovely with your skin tone and black hair,” Gillian complimented her friend. “No satin for me, of course. I wear an organic cotton/bamboo blend nightgown. It’s a planet-friendly fabric. As you might expect, there are no dyes, so the gown’s natural beige. Still, I feel much closer to Mother Earth during sleep.” She took a spoonful of apples from a Pyrex baking dish. “Are these baked, Lucy?”

Following Lindy’s example, Lucy had removed her boots and was warming her feet in front of the fire, her dinner plate balanced on her lap. “No, they’re raw Gala apples, but I soaked them overnight in a marinade of orange juice and cinnamon. I figured they’d offset the salty taste of Bennett’s breakfast casserole.”

“And my cucumber and red onion vinegar salad,” James added. “I’m relieved to discover that it’s actually possible to have a healthy meal that doesn’t taste like cardboard. I’ve got a full plate here containing less than five hundred calories. Amazing.” He took a bite of Bennett’s casserole. “Hmm,” he said, toasting his friend with his empty fork. “Well done.”

“Thank you, my man. And now, before we watch Dr. Ruth and the Diva of Dough go at it, let’s get the Jeopardy! board game fired up. I’ve only got a few weeks before the real show tapes, folks, and I wanna be one of the few African American men to win a big ole pile of money from those rich TV folks.”

Bennett placed the game board on the floor and the supper club members gathered around it, enjoying the crackling fire, the delicious food, and one another’s company. As usual, Bennett answered question after question correctly.

“I think this one might actually stump you.” Lucy held up a card with a triumphant flourish. “Here it is: after June, this month is the most popular for wedding ceremonies.”

“Pffah! Easy!” Bennett snorted. “What is August. And Las Vegas is the top destination for weddings, followed by Hawaii and then the Bahamas. The average honeymoon lasts for one week. Wanna hear some more?”

“Have you memorized all these questions?” Lucy accused playfully.

“Not yet,” Bennett replied. “But I got all the answers from the DVD version in the ole noggin, as well as a bunch from the Trivial Pursuit games. Personally, I think they exaggerated the title of that Genius edition.” He looked at James. “I could tell you a whole mess of weddin’ statistics in case you wanna pass them on to your daddy.”

“Sure. Maybe it’ll make him feel better to know that weddings make all women go completely crazy,” James answered, and he received scowls from the three females in the room.

“The average wedding ring costs around two grand,” Bennett said hurriedly to deflect attention from James’s comment. “Most couples invite about one hundred and seventy-five people to their wedding.”

“I don’t even know that many people, and half my family is Catholic!” Lindy joked.

“Well, we’ve all messed up the averages for the ages of your run-of-the-mill bride and groom. According to the facts, I should’ve been married at least twice by now,” Lucy remarked sourly.

“Statistics can be misleading. I believe that it’s never too late to find your soul mate. The yin to your yang . Our kindred spirit, finally guided home,” Gillian gushed. “Look at Jackson and Milla.” She reached over the game board and gave Bennett’s hand a warm squeeze. “Perhaps you and Jade are meant to entwine your lives together like two vines of climbing roses stretching toward the sun.” Reaching her arms into the air above her head, Gillian exhaled loudly as Bennett cocked his head to one side in bewilderment.

“Speakin’ of roses.” He cleared his throat and continued to watch Gillian out of the corner of his eye. “I can tell you the names of a dozen climbing roses from Baltimore Belle to Dublin Bay to Silver Moon, but if I don’t get a handle on more pop-culture facts, I’ll be toast. Without a doubt, it’s my Achilles’ heel.” His expression turned grim. “How am I supposed to know the name of Paris Hilton’s dog for cryin’ out loud? I think it’s already pretty damned impressive that I know she lugs around a Chihuahua like it was a handbag.”

“She’s got two, actually,” Lindy answered hastily. “The first one, Tinkerbell, got too large to be a fashion accessory. I believe Paris’s latest Chihuahua is named Bambi.”

“How do you know this stuff, woman?” Bennett looked impressed. “Are you some kind of Entertainment Tonight junkie? ’Cause I do not have time for that.”

“No, Mr. Mailman. I read People . If you wanna be up on all that’s goin’ on in the world of celebrity gossip, pick one up at the gym and start studyin’ up. You need to know who’s goin’ out with who, who’s pregnant, who’s lost twenty pounds on the leek soup diet, who’s won an Oscar, an Emmy, a Grammy.”

“You could come to the library if you need a copy,” James suggested. “Though you can’t get near it when Mrs. Turner and her Mom’s Morning Out girlfriends are in the building. And come to think of it, once school lets out, the junior high and high school girls hog all those kinds of magazines.” He frowned. “If only my patrons got that excited about literature.” He picked up a question card and turned to Gillian. “This environmental group was founded in Vancouver in 1971 and was originally known as the Don’t Make a Wave Committee.”

“That’s an easy one.” Gillian fluffed her cloud of red and blonde-streaked hair. “What is Greenpeace.”

Bennett clapped her on the shoulder. “Well done, woman.”

As they played on, James told his friends about his visit to Dr. Ruth. “She is the epitome of kindness. Even though it’s a hassle keeping this food log, I already feel more optimistic about getting fit since I saw her on Monday.” He pointed at the television. “I just hope she got a word in edgewise on Good Morning Virginia since she had to share the spotlight with Paulette.”

“The Diva’s been quite busy making enemies since she got to town, hasn’t she?” Lindy said, packing up the game pieces. “I hear she raised quite a ruckus at Food Lion because they don’t carry super-fine sugar.”

James nodded. “You can add Megan and Amelia Flowers to the growing list of folks who will be happy to see her go back to New York. And I can’t say that I’m one of her fans either. I’ll be quite relieved to drop her off at the curb at Dulles after the wedding.”

“Okay, folks, it’s time for the news.” Bennett clapped his hands, returned his playing piece to the game box, and turned on his small television set with the rather grainy screen. “We’ve got sugar-free caramel pudding and Cool Whip for dessert. So grab a spoon and eat up. By the time you’ve heard Dr. Ruth speak, you’ll all want to become her clients.”

The image on the television screen morphed from an orange tabby cat gulping down a bowl of Meow Mix to an image of a somber-faced anchorman. The news anchor, who had shellacked hair and a subtle tan, related the details of a convenience store robbery that had occurred shortly after dark that same day in the outskirts of Charlottesville.

“Tony Kim, the clerk on duty this evening,” the anchorman intoned, “did not possess keys to the safe and could only offer the assailant the cash from his register. Apparently, two hundred dollars was not enough to appease the armed robber, and he demanded wallets and jewelry from each one of the store’s customers.”

The camera switched from the anchorman’s face to a scene of police cars with flashing lights parked helter-skelter around the perimeter of the small gas station. Members of Charlottesville’s police force gesticulated and conversed with deputies from the local Sheriff’s Department. James felt that their behavior seemed a bit theatrical due to the presence of the television crews and decided to ask Lucy if she agreed, but when he glanced over at her and noted the rapt attention she was giving to the broadcast, he decided to keep quiet.

After providing a teaser on the weekend weather as well as the outcome of the men’s basketball game between rivals Virginia and Virginia Tech, the camera zoomed out in order to show a wide-angle view of the entire news desk. At this point, the anchorwoman arched her eyebrows and said, “And things heated up in the town of New Market today. The life of a well-known chef, television star, and author was threatened after she appeared on our own CBS morning show. Stay tuned for the surprising events that were captured on film by one of our crew members.”

As James and his friends sat in stunned silence, the Aflac duck flew on screen and jumped in the driver’s seat of a taxi cab, planning to take over the injured driver’s fares and save his family from certain starvation.

“I can’t stand it!” Lucy grabbed James’s arm, causing him to overturn his spoonful of caramel pudding onto the front of his sweater. “What happened this morning? Don’t leave us hanging like this!”

James shook his head dumbly. “Honestly, I have no idea.” He protested. “No one called me at work and the house was empty when I got done with lifting weights, so I’m as mystified as you are.” He flexed his arm and poked his sore bicep, hoping Lucy would be impressed, but she had already returned her attention to the TV.

The Aflac commercial was followed by a lengthy ad expounding the myriad virtues of Chrysler’s new minivan. A pair of shiny-haired, white-toothed children sat in the back seat, laughing as they watched the Cartoon Network on their Sirius satellite television system while an unusually happy-looking teenage boy played video games using the screen above the third row of seats. In the front, the smug, slim, and casually dressed parents gazed proudly at their progeny in the rearview mirror and exchanged deeply contented grins. At the end of the ad, the family disembarked from their cool car and prepared to share a picnic lunch on a scenic overlook near the ocean.

“Those parents are gonna shove all three kids off that cliff,” Lindy declared. “That’s why they’re smiling.”

“I thought it was because all of their cup holders were filled with little bottles of whiskey,” Bennett remarked, and then groaned as a weight loss commercial featuring Special K cereal droned on and on. “If that woman in the red dress pivots in front of that mirror one more time, I’m gonna bludgeon her with the cereal box. I’m tired of all these damn ads!”

“Me too,” Gillian agreed. “Our culture is simply barraged with capitalistic messages. That’s why I prefer to record all of my favorite shows from the National Geographic Channel and fast forward the steady stream of ‘buy-me’s’! It’s very empowering.”

“Shhhh,” Lucy hissed. “They’re finally coming back on!”

“Earlier today on CBS’s Good Morning Virginia show there was a face-off between area nutritionist Ruth Wilkins and celebrity chef Madame Paulette Martine, also known as the Diva of Dough.” The anchorwoman began her story by facing the camera with a stoic expression. “The focus of this morning’s show was on opposing positions regarding Americans’ tendency to overindulge on rich foods between Thanksgiving and New Year’s.

“Ms. Wilkins began the Good Morning segment by providing pointers on how to avoid the curse of holiday weight gain. Then Madame Martine allowed several members of our studio audience to sample her famous cakes. Here’s a taste of what those lucky few experienced.”

The screen switched to a setting familiar to all of the supper club members. The segment had been filmed at Milla’s culinary school. Paulette, wearing an apron covered with forest green fleurs-de-lis, stood proudly behind three gorgeous cakes resting upon glass pedestals. She swept her hand over Milla’s butcher block as though trace particles of sugar or flour lingered on the polished surface.

“These cakes are the perfect accompaniments for the season,” Paulette began, her voice clear and authoritative, yet strangely soft and melodic as well. “The first is a praline pecan bundt cake. This is an easy cake to create, and it’s a wonderful gift to take to a neighbor who’s feeling unwell, to a holiday potluck party, or even to the school bake sale. The cake’s buttery center is delectably moist and the praline icing simply cascades over the hills and ridges created by the mold. Lastly, the rim is covered by toasted and candied pecans. The result is that this dessert is just as easy on the eye as it is to eat!”

The host, a tall woman wearing a red suit, took a small bite of the praline pecan cake. “Delicious!” she exclaimed, and then she asked Ruth, “In your opinion, how many calories are in a single slice?”

“About one thousand,” Ruth answered calmly.

“One thousand? That’s nothing!” Paulette flicked a dishtowel in dismissal. “A slice of this cake is worth every calorie! Remember, my fellow food lovers, real food tastes like real food. It might contain fat and calories and butter and cream, but you shouldn’t put anything less onto your tongue!” Paulette theatrically threw her arms out wide. “This is a season of celebration! We should be enjoying this special time with our loved ones, and part of that tradition is sharing homemade foods. I ask you !” She pointed a spatula at the men and women seated on the other side of the counter. “Would you rather eat this lemon meringue layer cake with a filling of cream and strawberries or a rubber chicken from Lean Cuisine? Would you rather count calories or gather around the table, slice this cake, pour some coffee, and make some Christmas memories?”

Someone in the audience shouted, “I’d like some of that there cake right this minute!” and more requests followed.

Paulette issued a tinkling laugh that sounded extremely false to James’s ear and pointed at the lemon meringue cake. “People often reserve meringue cakes for the warmer months, but I love this cake in the winter because the stiff peaks of meringue remind me of miniature mountains covered with a layer of fresh snow.” She pivoted the cake so that the camera could focus on the slice she was cutting. “Look at the interior of this gorgeous confection. The lemon cake is so moist that it will feel like a cloud inside of your mouth. Next, the tart sweetness of the strawberries will make you close your eyes and moan. This cake is like mistletoe. The object of your desire cannot resist you if you offer them a slice of this heaven.” She handed the cake wedge to the show’s host. “You find me a person who would rather eat a bran muffin, and I’ll show you someone who is, quite simply, afraid of experiencing pleasure.”

Ruth shook her head in vigorous disagreement. “That’s an unfair-”

“And if you’d rather your sweet packed a little punch, then might I suggest my Eggnog Cake with Butter Rum Frosting?” Paulette completely ignored the nutritionist’s protest and, unfortunately, so did the show’s host. “And I don’t use rum extract. I use the rum that comes from a large bottle with a handle! Yes, mes chéries , dark rum and plenty of it, so if you’re on the wagon, stay away from this cake!”

The audience tittered appreciatively. Paulette began to cut slices of the eggnog cake while emphasizing that it could be made at any time of the year, as the batter didn’t actually contain an ounce of eggnog.

“Though eggnog happens to be my secret vice,” Paulette whispered into the microphone attached to her apron. “I can drink gallons of the stuff. Especially when I’m whipping up one of my triple-tiered chocolate mousse cakes. If I’m drinking eggnog, then I can’t drink the cake batter!” The audience laughed harder and issued a hearty round of applause.

“She really knows how to work a crowd.” James couldn’t help but be impressed.

Lucy nodded. “That’s why I was excited to meet her. She’s totally charismatic on her television show, and just look at those cakes! I’d love to get my hands on all three of them.”

James eyed his pudding cup. “I know this is a healthy dessert, but I’d much rather have a slice of that ten-layer chocolate fudge cake Paulette made for us a few nights ago. She’s a nasty piece of work, but she’s almost tolerable when she’s baking.”

Paulette described the smooth, buttery frosting while deftly stepping directly in front of Ruth’s more diminutive figure. As she watched the camera zoom in toward the nutmeg-flecked icing, Gillian asked, “How does one create ten layers? They must be thin as a fingernail; delicate as a butterfly wing.”

“It’s pretty incredible, actually,” James said. “I saw her remove three cake pans from the oven. After they had cooled, she overturned the cakes from the pans and stacked all three layers on top of one another other. She then started measuring from the bottom to the top with a ruler. She’d stick a toothpick into the cooked cake every half inch or so and then swivel it around and repeat the process.” He gestured at the screen. “The cake was about the same height as that eggnog cake on TV, but it looked like a porcupine with all the toothpicks sticking out of it.”

“Let me guess,” Lindy said. “The Diva then cut the cake layers using a serrated knife, right?”

James shook his head. “Incorrect. She used dental floss. It slid right through the cake and each layer looked absolutely even.”

“Mighty clever.” Bennett cast an admiring glance at the television.

As the five friends watched, the camera focused on Paulette’s head and shoulders as she took a bite of her cake and smiled in satisfaction. “Scrumptious! Now, why would you want to live a life that doesn’t include cakes such as these? Forget spending your money on diet food or weight loss centers. They’re just going to suffocate you with rules and restrictions. Enjoy life. Instead, run out to the bookstore, buy my latest release, Holidays with the Diva of Dough, and forget about the gym and the nutritionist. Do you want to be skinny and miserable or do you want to be happy and eat cake?”

The audience burst into spontaneous applause and the camera returned to the studio anchor desk. “Following the conclusion of the Good Morning segment,” the anchorwoman stated mechanically, “Madame Martine signed copies of her new cookbook and then left the studio. In the parking lot adjacent to the Fix ’n Freeze location where the show had taken place, Ms. Martine was cornered and, according to witnesses, harassed by Ruth Wilkins’s three sons.”

The camera switched to a street scene and James recognized the lavender front door belonging to Milla’s cooking school. A woman clutching two of Paulette’s books against her ample chest stood on the threshold, doing her best to look appropriately shocked and outraged.

“They blocked her path!” The woman declared as though a grievous crime had been committed. “Those three boys! And they were yellin’ all sorts of off-color stuff at Madame Martine. I’m a God-fearin’ woman, so I won’t repeat any of the ugly words they said, but one of them told the Diva she should get out of town. They were definitely threatenin’ her!”

“She ain’t lyin’ either,” a man standing nearby raised his voice in agreement. “The biggest one, the Wilkins boy who plays nose tackle for the Hokies, he told Miss Paulette that she was gonna pay for messin’ with his mama’s business. Said it’d be her fault if they couldn’t finish up at school ’cause no one was gonna wanna make appointments after the word got ’round that it’s okay to eat cake.” The man shrugged. “Shoot, that Paulette woman just said what we all wanna hear anyhow.”

“Poor Dr. Ruth,” James murmured as photographs of her three sons wearing football pads, numbered jerseys, and fierce scowls were displayed for the viewing audience.

“Those pictures made them look like thugs!” Lindy exclaimed. “This is silly. Boys always try to look all sorts of tough for their sports photos. The media is trying to influence public opinion against the Wilkins family!”

“Welcome to the twenty-first century,” Bennett muttered darkly.

The final video clip showed two of the Wilkins brothers pounding on the passenger window of Paulette’s rental car. The third had his arm around his mother as she shouted at her other sons to stop, Ruth’s normally radiant face eclipsed with anxiety.

The members of the supper club watched with growing dismay as the largest brother abruptly shoved his handsome face, twisted by anger and humiliation, against the glass separating him from Paulette. As the footage had been captured from behind the car, it was impossible to see what the Diva of Dough’s reaction was to the young man’s wrath, but when he dragged his index finger slowly against the exposed skin of his throat, all of the supper club members gasped aloud.

“Oh my,” Gillian breathed. “That young man needs to learn how to control his baser emotions.”

“Too late for that.” Bennett reached for a second helping of pudding. “Those boys are already in a whole heap of trouble.”