Searching for Tina Turner (16 page)

“Ma’am?” The agent is tentative, but Lena does not need to be sold. “Excuse me, but this is the last apartment I have to show
you.”

“Where do I sign?” With no thought to where the money will come from, Lena decides a six-month lease makes the most sense,
requires the least obligation for such a tenuous situation. The last time she rented an apartment she was twenty-five and
three years away from buying the stucco house—a half-mile from Lulu and John Henry—that she lived in until her marriage.

While the gleeful agent completes the paperwork, Lena returns to the place she will call home. The apartment is simple: the
ceiling meets white walls in sharp angles without the crown molding in every room of her house, a gas fireplace, wall-to-wall
carpeting. This new place fourteen floors above street level is lovely but sterile.

“Hello, hello,” she calls out, waiting for her echo to repeat her words like children do in empty rooms. When she moved into
her first apartment, there were friends there to help. It was a party: a celebration of independence, a joyful adjustment
to living without parents, sister, or roommates. The process begins again. Same but different. The period of adjustment. The
vocabulary change from
we
to
I
. She walks from the open kitchen to the bedrooms and the small balcony. Who will greet her but these walls when she comes
home? Who will she ask about their day? Who will say goodnight?

Twenty-three years of hard work: for her children, her husband, her marriage. Twenty-three years of sowing the seeds for a
good life. Lena crosses her heart and whispers, “Dear God, I know my life will never be the same again. Please bless me and
let new seeds sow themselves here.”

f   f   f

“This is the easiest commission I’ve ever made.” The agent is excited when she returns. Lena imagines that he has spent part
of that time computing, if the calculator next to her paperwork is any indication, his commission.

Up to the time she rented that first apartment years ago, the biggest check she had written was for her car. That check for
five hundred dollars was small compared to the one for the security deposit and first and last month’s rent she will write
today. Her hand trembled when she signed that lease and handed over her check. Her hand trembles now; this time, she understands,
for a different reason. The checkbook inside her Louis Vuitton is the one for their joint equity cash fund. The one she supposes
she can still draw funds from. It has not dawned on her until this moment, in front of this nervous young man, that, like
a husband from the movies, Randall may have cut off her access to their joint accounts or, worse yet, taken all of their money.
She has no idea of how this divorce thing works. But she knows that she better find out soon. If he has a lawyer, then he
has one up on her. Up his.

If Randall has dared to pull out all of their money, she will make a few phone calls, the first to Candace, to assure that
the whole world knows. If the balances have not been touched—what an odd salute to her trustworthiness—Lena cannot help but
think how funny, for all his formality, that Randall still leaves managing the household funds to her.

If her change, like Tina’s change, means taking the best from who she was to form who she wants to be, then Lena must accept
and move on. She signs the new lease, effortlessly writes a check, and reminds herself to transfer funds to a separate bank
account in her name.

“You really know what you want.” The agent grabs Lena’s hand and pumps enthusiastically, and she hopes, from the look of his
frayed cuffs, that his commission will be spent on a new shirt. Let Randall worry about the cable bill, the PGE, the crack
in the living room’s bay window, the ashes in the fireplace, weeds in the patio cement, the cedar armoire, Kendrick’s baptismal
gown, Camille’s first Easter dress, his great-grandmother’s Bible.

She will move into this apartment and live here until the divorce is over and done done done.

f   f   f

In the car, Lena dials Bobbie’s home number and listens to the latest greeting on her sister’s voicemail: “You know what the
deal is, and you know what to do. So, unless this is an emergency, leave a quick one.”

“I’ve told you about that message, Bobbie. What if Lulu calls, what kind of message is she supposed to leave?” Lena is tired
of being ombudsman between the two women she loves most in the world. She sighs and tries not to let out all the sadness her
stomach is having a hard time keeping down. “I’m glad you’re out. You need to do that more often anyway.” Lena pauses long
enough to compose herself but not long enough for the machine to turn off automatically. “I signed a lease for an apartment.
I feel like shit—but good shit. If you have any suggestions for telling our mother, let me know or, better yet, I don’t suppose
you’d do that for me? Would you?” She can hear Bobbie’s voice in her head as clearly as if she had picked up the phone: no
way.

f   f   f

Cell phone pressed to her ear, Lena peers through a crack in the curtains. Her mother sits at the table, a cup in front of
her and a book in her hand. The television set is on, but Lena can’t hear it, and she guesses the volume is probably muted.
Sometimes, Lulu keeps the TV on for the company the images, not the sound, offer. “I’m outside the back door, Lulu. Open up.”

Lulu flips back the flowery curtain from the kitchen door window before opening it. Her hair is covered with a blue slumber
bonnet, her cheeks and lips are bare, her housedress is faded and worn at the elbows. The kitchen sink is full of dishes and
pots. At the sink, Lena runs water into the rubberized dishpan. She searches under the cabinet for dishwashing soap hidden
between assorted half-full bottles of cleansers and squeezes the blue liquid over the dishes.

The running hot water steams up the window above the sink while she washes the dishes and rinses them one by one. Lulu picks
up a dishtowel and dries the plates and bowls and places them on the counter instead of onto their shelves because she likes
them air-dry not just towel-dry. “Randall served me with divorce papers, and I’ve decided to move out.” Lena says matter-of-factly,
surprised at how even her voice is.

“Oh, my God, look what you’ve gone and done. I told you not to bother Randall with your problems.” The soft scent of her dusky
perfume floats between mother and daughter. Lulu backs into the kitchen table and lowers herself into her chair. “You never
listen, do you, Lena?”

“Oh, Lulu… I feel bad enough as it is.” Lena scans the kitchen. It is messier than normal: five soda cans and three empty
gallon water containers sit, along with newspapers, beside the refrigerator. She pulls a folded grocery bag from underneath
the sink, snaps it open, then drops the cans, papers, and containers into the bag.

“You better keep yourself in that house. Don’t let him take it away from you.”

What, she thinks, is the point of telling Lulu about Randall’s manipulative offer? “I’ll feel better in neutral territory.”

“I hope you put some money away.” Lulu purses her lips and sips from a cup she has had since Lena and Bobbie were little girls.

“I’ll sell my car if I have to.” Lena pulls the broom and the dustpan from the tall cabinet beside the stove and begins to
sweep the floor in hurried, choppy strokes. “I’m sure he has to pay me alimony or something…”

“Even
I
kept a secret stash, baby girl.”

Whenever Lena joked that Lulu encouraged her to hide a little something on the side, Randall chortled and told Lena that if
she was, he hoped it was a lot of something because, with her expensive tastes, there was no way a little would ever do.

“These things don’t happen in my family.” The volume rises suddenly on the TV as if Lulu senses her daughter’s breakup can
be masked by the sound.

Standing on the other side of the kitchen, Lena thinks of at least two of her aunts and a cousin who should let it happen
to them. Divorce or separation, that is. She sweeps the dust and dirt into the dustpan and empties it into the trash. Lulu
points at a corner underneath the cabinet, and Lena sweeps there as well.

“I’m sure Randall still wants you, Lena. He’s a good man. He just works too much.” Lulu fumbles with the slumber cap and pushes
the lacy edges behind her ears. “What can you do without him? How will you take care of yourself?”

“I don’t know why I’m here. I didn’t want you to have a heart attack if I told you over the phone.” Lena shoves the broom
and dustpan back into the little closet and reminds herself to buy Lulu one of those handheld vacuums for spot-dusting and
spills. Lulu believes in forever and so did Lena until almost twenty-four hours ago. Tina believed in herself, and Lena has
to hold on, too, or she will wilt like one of Lulu’s short-blooming azaleas. She steps past Lulu to the back door and pulls
it wide open, letting a chilly breeze into the overheated house.

Lulu hobbles to Lena and yanks at the elbow of her sweatshirt just like Camille and Kendrick did when they were kids and wanted
her full attention. “Your Aunt Fanny left your Uncle Johnny two or three times before he finally straightened up. They made
it through forty years of marriage before she died.” A rare stern look crosses Lulu’s face, the kind that would have stopped
Lena in her tracks if she were thirty years younger. “Get yourself together, and don’t leave that house. Make Randall take
you back before he finds another woman to take your place.”

T
ime to do it. Time to pick up the phone and call that stupid Randall. She tried to erase him from her thoughts during the
purgatory of hours since she signed her lease. When Lena picked up his shirts—wishing she had the guts to burn them—she lied
to the two chatty proprietors behind the counter that she would no longer bring in Randall’s shirts because they were relocating
to another state. The state of no-longer-married. Randall’s absence is an ache that deepens when she least expects: while
she balances the checkbook, completes change of address forms, changes the bed linens.

Lena lights the candles on the corner of her desk. Music, music, music will help. She scrolls through 173 Tina Turner songs
on her MP3 player and stops wherever there is inspiration. She searches for the tunes she imagines Tina, onstage, strutting
her stuff to and dials.

“Randall. This is Lena.” She knows he knows who it is. She needs to distance herself from him this way. This is business.
“I leased an apartment. I’m moving out.”

“My offer is reasonable. I gave you enough time to evaluate it.”

“Well, it’s this way,” Lena mutters Randall’s prayer. A false cough covers her unsteadiness. She doesn’t want Randall to know
how off balance she is. “I’m thinking there might be more to it than you’ve let on.”

“Think what you want, but you’d better get a job. I won’t pay for an apartment when you should stay in the house.”

“Oh, but you
will
pay for one for yourself? I have that right?” Had she planned better Lena would have taken money out of the bank—no, taken
money out of the household funds, ignored monthly bills; if needed, hidden a ton of money so that she wouldn’t have to deal
with Randall.

“Stay in the house, Lena. Don’t make it any harder on Kendrick and Camille than it already is.”

If the blame-game gauntlet were something she could see, touch, or feel, it would be coming at her hard and heavy like a brick
through a glass window of this lovely house; she would take it and throw it back. “It already is, Randall, and that’s not
all my fault.” Breathing brings Lena back to her business mind-set. One. Two. Three. “I have room for them, and I’ll make
sure they understand that wherever I am is home. You make sure there’s money in the bank.”

f   f   f

Like a dancer, Lena moves around the kitchen at a frenzied pace grabbing plates, silverware, and napkins, ignoring the flush
of perspiration across her forehead. The table is set as it was for the last meal Lena prepared now more than two weeks ago.
That day marked an end. Tonight has to be peaceful. A time to savor and enjoy.

The back door opens with Kendrick’s familiar entrance; a couple of inches at first, as if he needs to peek in, then a full
swing. His profile is trim and still borders on skinny. He is not close to his normal weight, though his arms look muscular
through the long sleeves of his shirt. His brown-red complexion is finally clear and free of the acne brought about by drugs
or his final bout with adolescence.

“Wassup, Moms?” Kendrick’s greeting is a gift. Conversations over the past few days have been brief, as if he has been hiding
his life from her. Lena leans against Kendrick’s chest and rests her head against the flat ridge of his sternum. His backpack
makes a soft thud when he lowers it to the floor. “Smells good in here. Camille,” he shouts, pulling away from Lena to sit
at the table. “Get your butt down here!”

Any other day, Lena would have fussed over what she considers impolite shouting. Camille’s reply is equally loud. Their voices
are welcome: a call and response, a kind of jazz breaking the silence that has permeated the house since the separation.

“I emailed my scholarship paperwork. They renewed starting fall semester.”

“Yea, Kendrick! I knew you could do it. We should celebrate.”

“We’re celebrating?” Camille distracts Kendrick from the details Lena wants to hear. Sister slaps brother’s back. Kendrick
raps Camille’s shoulder, and she yelps with fake pain at what she describes as a hard knuckle-hit, not brotherly affection.
They are their old selves: kids who know they are loved. Lena crosses her heart, thankful for this one second that makes her
world seem like nothing has changed.

The house feels warmer with their banter; it feels like home. They eat and gossip about friends, as if Lena is not within
earshot, while she dishes hearty portions of food onto their plates. Tonight, she feels like an observer. She leans against
the upholstered bench, picking at the cherry tomatoes in the salad, nibbling on the crunchy corners of the macaroni-and-cheese
casserole, hearing without listening until they bring up the subject of their father. Kendrick went with Randall to look at
condominiums in San Francisco. He’s pushing for the unit with eighteen-foot ceilings, a view of the East Bay, and bedrooms
for him and Camille complete with flat-panel televisions.