Searching for Tina Turner (2 page)

“This is the same conversation we had last week, the same conversation we keep having. It’s circular. It hasn’t gotten us
anywhere and, quite frankly, if I have to hear it again…” Randall made finger quotes in the air. “I’m going to lose
my
mind.”

f   f   f

On TV speeding police cars in the midst of a freeway pursuit replace Tina’s interview. Their shrill sirens mask the space
the phone static fills. Lena switches the phone to her right ear and measures two fingers of Drambuie into her empty glass
with her left hand.

By the end of that session Randall offered Lena an ultimatum, and now she shudders under the pressure, the urgency to make
a decision. She opens her planner and darkens another dated square of the calendar. That square, and twenty-six others recklessly
colored in with black ink, creates a stark disparity between what was, what is, and the five white squares left in this month.
Five days left to get her act together. Five days to decide if she even wants to get her act together.

“I wish…,” Lena says, wanting Randall to understand her change of direction, her altered focus. Not away from him, just closer
to herself. “I love you. You
know
that, don’t you?”

“I
know
there are plenty of women who would be very happy given the same set of circumstances.” Randall huffs, and Lena imagines
his body twitching like it does when he gets mad. Legs first, then arms, then left eyebrow. “I did what
you
asked. I sat in front of that wimpy-assed therapist while you complained about how unhappy you are, how I won’t let you play
with your photography. I told you. If you’re so unhappy, take the time that I’m gone to figure out what you want.”

“I want us, and I want
me
.”

“It’s almost dawn. I’ll talk to you later. And don’t forget Kendrick’s prescription.”

In the second it takes to realize the phone call is over, Lena’s armpits dampen with icy sweat as a quarter-sized spider skitters
across the pillow where Randall’s head should be. She worries where this damn thing has come from and questions if this is
a sign her husband will never nestle his head in that spongy spot again. The spider’s blackness, its scampering pace, forces
a frantic search for newspaper, tissue, or shoe. She snatches the daily planner beside her, holds it so the contents won’t
spill, and whacks the spider again and again; lets the up and down motion, the dull slap of leather against pillow, do what
her husband would if he were there.

Her parents poked fun at her when she was young. Said their California-born girl was city-spoiled. Sky-splitting lightning,
the Great Dane around the corner, the creak in the closet at night—those fears they understood, but not of pests so small
that, even as children, her parents smashed without thinking. Back in Mississippi, they told Lena, black folks thought spiders
in the house were omens of wealth and good luck.

Omen, confirmation, or sickening fluke, Lena collects the squished black dot with tissues. Holding the wad at arm’s length,
she shoves Randall’s pillow to the floor and stumbles into the bathroom, where she pitches the tissue into the toilet and
slams the lever. At the sink, she scowls in the medicine cabinet mirror, not caring for what she sees: one of Randall’s undershirts
hangs loosely from her round shoulders, puffy eyelids, lopsided bed hair, flaky patches on her nose. If Randall could see
her, he would not be pleased. She sticks out her tongue at her reflection, reaches for a can of window cleaner underneath
the sink, and sprays a thick coat of foam on the mirror’s surface. “You can’t run, but you can hide.”

Two shakes of the bedcovers and tissues, magazines, bras, and panties flip in all directions. Lena grabs Randall’s pillow,
wraps her arms around it like she would his body if he were there, and tries to understand when her ability to be on her own
diminished, and how she slipped from self-sufficiency to comfortable reliance. With one turn to the left, her body readjusts
to the groove she’s worn into her side of the mattress. The headboard rattles as she falls back against the smooth upholstery
and ponders this loss of self that can’t be brushed aside by Randall like a toe stubbed in the dark.

The squat bottle of Drambuie on the nightstand has replaced the alabaster pot full of bottle caps that a then three-year-old
Camille gave to Lena. Lena assumes that gifts of words or anything else must not be hip for teenagers anymore. These days,
if her daughter—or son, for that matter—were to bestow such kindness, Lena would be grateful. She reaches for the bottle and
splashes the liquid into her glass. She swirls the sweet, golden Drambuie liqueur around in her mouth and holds it, not quite
accustomed to the burn at the back of her tongue, and lets it slide from throat to stomach.

It’s not just her; Randall needs to get his act together, too. Lena punches the phone pad with the international code plus
8 and 6 and his phone number again to tell him she will schedule a second appointment with Dr. Brustere. Randall’s phone rings
and rings, and when his recorded voice, his proper English, instructs callers to leave a message, she pitches the phone and
watches it skid across the hardwood floor.

Drambuie or reality, the pages of her red leather planner seem to gawk at Lena and demand action. She owes a call to the woman
she tutors, an apology for missed sessions so her student will understand that neglect is not her intention. Save for the
blackened squares, April is empty. Manicures, meetings, the hairdresser, luncheons, and volunteer work have disappeared. In
all of the twenty-seven days since Randall has been away—the longest time they have ever been apart—she has ignored invitations,
requests for donations, and callers who say in singsong voices, “Just checking in.”

Assorted pictures are jammed between the planner’s thin pages: Kendrick, at two, beaming in a Halloween costume; Camille,
all of five, posed in a novice arabesque; a Jamaican vacation five years ago—she and Randall hand-in-hand in the midst of
a dive off the cliff at Rick’s Negril Café. He’d held her hand all the way down and into the turquoise water. Her hand tingles
now with the memory of the security, the assurance of Randall’s solid grip. There is also a withdrawal slip from their joint
checking account, confirmation of enrollment for a Tuesday evening photography course that starts tomorrow night, and Kendrick’s
most recent prescription.

Outside the windows beyond her bed floodlights cast shadows on the house and the undersides of the trees and their leaves.
Lena walks to the window and looks down on the magnolia tree spiking in anticipation of a mid-spring bloom. The tree sold
Lena on the house when they first saw it from the real estate agent’s car nineteen years ago. It reminded her of Lulu’s recollections
of stately southern homes that black folks could only walk by, not live in: huge white flowers that attracted more beetles
than bees, the earthiness of the double-colored leaves, scent like strong citrus perfume.

Her dreams blossom in this home framed with purple hydrangeas, leggy oleander and this magnolia tree. The memories flash in
her mind: her children, now grown past the days of tumbling across the sprawling lawn, fearless and eager to show off; brilliant
Fourth of July fireworks beyond the silhouette of downtown Oakland and San Francisco’s foggy skyline; the smell of cut grass
on Tuesdays and Saturdays.

She does not want to think about the orchids in her sunroom wilting from lack of water. Nor the jars of homemade apple chutney,
bottles of olive oil, and tins of spices in the pantry that await her creative hand. Nor does she want to focus on the jade
lion that guards the front door, the photography books stacked on the coffee table—Parks, Arbus, DeCarava, Weems—or the gold-flecked
Venetian glass ball that all sit covered with the fine dust of disuse.

Presence
was the word the Italian-accented agent used when they first drove up the winding driveway. “This house fits you and Mr.
Spencer well. You both have presence, too.”

Randall may still have presence after all of these years, but what Lena feels right now is the complete opposite. Her ability
to create the future diminishes each day: yesterday she could not raise her arms to shower or comb her hair, this morning
she could not keep food in her stomach, minutes ago she could not explain to her husband what is in her heart without sounding
whiny or spoiled, and now she can barely stand.

In the scheme of things, twenty-seven days is not a long time. A flower can bud, bloom, and die in twenty-seven days. At this
very minute, Lena is overwhelmed by indecisiveness, incapable of moving her fifty-four-year-old body. The odds of her leaving
or staying are as unpredictable as that skittering spider’s path. Call it unhappiness, menopause, midlife crisis, lack of
respect, fear of losing who she is, fear that she no longer fits in this dream. Whatever.

Pick one.

L
enaaaaaa Spencer!”

Lena cringes at the scratchy, off-key intonation of the familiar voice and tiptoes around the lofty shelves toward the hand-painted
FICTION/TRAVEL/PHOTOGRAPHY
sign at the back of the store. Ducking in front of the K through P shelf, she closes her eyes and breathes in the dust and
must of The Big Black Dog bookstore, her special place to spend time on an overcast day like this one. Candace asks questions—so
many and so fast—that, in the past, it has been easy for Lena to be lulled by the woman’s insatiable thirst for scandal in
the guise of concern. And she’ll be damned, Lena thinks, if she’ll let Candace spoil her afternoon.

Lena scans the shelves. These days she feels like one of these used books: in good shape, full of excitement, yet no longer
appreciated. Instead of a worn spine, the cover of a misplaced paperback,
I, Tina
, catches Lena’s eye. Tina Turner crouches, fish-netted legs tucked beneath her, hair as wild as it was in that
Mad Max
movie. Her smile implies a question: Where is your joy? Something audible clicks inside Lena’s chest like the tumblers of
an opening lock.

The kids’ first nanny asked the same question nearly every day that Lena drove from the bus stop and up the steep, winding
hill that Letty was too overweight to walk. “Where’s your joy today, Miz Spencer? Mine is right here.” Letty held her Bible
upright in her lap and let it fall open with the car’s swerving motion. Then she would drop her forefinger onto a random passage
and softly thank Jesus for his inspiration.

Lena lets the paperback fall open and points to a paragraph.
“People look at me now
,
”
Tina writes,
“and think what a hot life I must’ve lived—ha!”
Right on.

“There you are!” The voice breaks the bookstore’s silence once more at the same time that a heavily jeweled hand grabs Lena’s
shoulder. “What in hell are you doing on the floor? Didn’t you hear me calling you?” Candace’s gold bangles jingle when she
leans toward Lena. “I haven’t seen you since that handsome husband of yours went out of town. When is that luscious man coming
home anyway, and why haven’t I seen you at any Circle Club meetings?” Her clothes are coordinated: slim, tight pants under
a yellow, belted slicker, ankle-high rain boots match the slicker’s herringbone lining intentionally exposed on turned-back
cuffs. “And since when do you wear Kendrick’s clothes?” She pinches Lena’s sweatshirt between two fingers as if she is touching
something nasty or unclean.

Lena scolds herself for defying the rules: her mother’s “Pay attention to what you wear when you leave the house; you never
know who you’ll run into.” Even Randall’s: “Put gas in the car when it registers low so you won’t get stuck in the middle
of nowhere on an empty tank.” Sometimes things just happen: the car runs out of gas in the middle of nowhere, or somebody
like Candace shows up.

Lena stands and speaks her lie without hesitation. “I’m in the middle of a project.” For the last month she has left her trademark
starched white shirts, skinny-legged jeans, and high heels in her closet and exchanged them for clothes she should have taken
to the homeless shelter. She brushes lint from her pants, circles behind Candace, promises to call soon. Blah blah blah.

“A project in a bookstore?” Candace grasps Lena’s arm, looks from Lena to the books and back to Lena. “Give me a break.” The
petite woman follows her down the aisle to the old-fashioned cash register.

Sam Black and his big black dog sit side by side behind a massive antique English wooden table. The skinny owner and muscular
dog wear the same woolly look on their faces. Each time Lena visits the store she asks Sam who is in charge—owner or pet.
Today he responds with the same answer, “Depends on the day,” while he labors with a calligraphy quill over a receipt for
Lena’s seventy-five-cent book.

“Girl, get the DVD,” Candace says, thumping the paperback. She squeaks an off-key line from “What’s Love Got to Do with It”
and snaps her fingers. “I’ll tell you what: love doesn’t have a damn thing to do with anything. Have you heard about poor
Dana?” Candace pauses in anticipation of Lena’s reaction.

Sam raises his head. His brows protrude above his wire-rim glasses. Candace’s leer warns him to mind his own business. Lena
tosses a dollar bill on Sam’s desk and stuffs the receipt into her purse.

“Dana and Carl are getting divorced.” Candace scrunches her cheeks and eyes with the expression of someone who is about to
speak of doom. Lena shakes her head no, and Candace does the same for a long minute, reminding Lena of how her grandmother
shook her head and grumbled “unh, unh, unh” at sad news. “They say she’s had too much of her husband—he’s such a tease. There
was no way you could tell anything was wrong. I mean, a few months ago, they were flirting and smooching like lovers. Such
a pity.”

Lena remembers that extravagant holiday party: the dolefulness in Randall’s eyes that the loud celebration had precluded them
from pursuing, that left as swiftly as it had come. “Here’s hoping for a better year,” he had said, holding her as they glided
across the dance floor, and Lena, knowing even then her downward tilt, had hoped for the same.