Searching for Tina Turner Read online

  “Teamwork is what got us here and what will keep us here,” became their motto, their mantra. Randall practiced his speeches; Lena corrected, edited, offered feedback that he made his own. She hobnobbed with executives’ wives—picked their brains for insight into what their husbands thought of Randall and encouraged them to share TIDA pillow-talk gossip. She was Randall’s behind-the-scenes ears, and her public relations skills sold Randall to them, so that they would do the same to their husbands.

  But that was Randall, she thinks now, tucking the stationery and business plan back inside the drawer and locking it. When he committed, he went all the way. Home. Family. Work. If he had thoughts about giving up, he never told Lena, and, at the time, she felt blessed knowing his loyalty extended past TIDA to her and their family.

  Once the computer awakens, ten hasty keystrokes yield 11,200 hits and 952,000 Tina Turner mentions: flawless skin and charismatic smiles, albums, song lyrics, an international fan club, the location of Tina’s star on St. Louis’s walk of fame. The official fan club site is filled with one-line blurbs of adoration and appreciation.

  So much information, so much tiny print. Each mouse click directs her to different links and websites, each portal leads to more information: a home in Zurich, another in the south of France. Lena scribbles the album titles on a monogrammed tablet, crosses off duplicates. Scroll. Flip. Click. Buy, buy, buy: thirty-eight albums with and without Ike, five DVDs. At another site the lyrics to Tina’s songs are available for free.

  PRINT PRINT PRINT. Pages spew from the printer with repeated taps on the button in an erratic rhythm of whoosh and whine, then flutter across the floor. Lena stoops to pick up a page and sinks back into the chair, overwhelmed by the wisdom and specificity of her random selection: the song, “I Don’t Wanna Fight”; the line, “This is time for letting go.”

  Chapter 4

  The phone rings for the first time all day. Either Kendrick or Camille will answer it. Lena is unsure until she hears Camille’s voice. Kendrick never liked talking on the phone, and now, more than ever, he avoids it.

  “Hey, Dad.” Camille paces the hallway and responds to what Lena assumes is her father’s litany of questions. Her voice is conspiratorial. “School’s okay… my senior project… any day now. Get ready. It’s either Columbia or NYU… in the bed… in his room. Yes, Dad, I’m taking care of Kimchee. I miss you, too.” Camille pounds on Kendrick’s door—the pesky little sister she pretends to be. “It’s Dad.”

  Kendrick’s deep pitch is barely distinguishable from Randall’s. Like Camille, he paces the hallway, too, allowing Lena to overhear fragments of his conversation: Dr. Miller, car, the fellas. He walks into the master bedroom, hands the phone to his mother as if she cannot use the one beside her bed, and pauses long enough to take a pair of sunglasses from the top of Randall’s dresser.

  Lena greets Randall in what she hopes is a version of Camille and Kendrick’s light, happy tone.

  “Today’s been a fiasco.” Randall yawns. “Thompson fucked up the terms for a critical section of the contract. He forgot federally regulated language that could have blown this whole deal wide open.”

  The negotiation for TIDA’s acquisition of another high-tech communications company has taken most of the past eleven months. So long that Lena wonders how his veteran assistant could have made such a grave error.

  “He’s on his way home.” The irritation in Randall’s voice is unmistakable, although Lena can’t decide if it’s because of the error or his fatigue. “I had to postpone my return. So, I’ll be home Tuesday night instead of Sunday. The limo service will pick me up.”

  Lena winces. The next photography class is Tuesday night. “Other than that, what’s it like over there?” Her intention is not to trivialize his return. What’s it like over there? Stupid. Maybe the connection will soften her words, soften him.

  “Hong Kong is just another big city with signs I can’t read. I can’t wait to meet up with Charles. I hear Bali is beautiful.” When Randall found out Charles would be in Bali at the same time he was in Hong Kong, he took his best friend up on his suggestion to tag on a short vacation at the end of his trip. Randall snickers and yawns again. “You’d love it—except, of course, for the spiders.”

  “Ha, ha. Very funny.” Through the window, thin fog curls like smoke in the cone of light under the street lamp. The wind carries the sound of a train whistle, and Lena is astonished at how the warbled echo travels from the station five miles below and beyond their house. “There was a big black spider on your pillow the other day.” She flinches with the recollection and glances around the room.

  The silence between them is so loud that Lena taps the handset to see if they are still connected.

  “I’m ten thousand miles away, Lena, with more on my mind to worry about than a little spider.”

  “I’m sorry… I know you’re busy.”

  “Call the exterminator. Have him spray outside the house, the windows, and the attic. That should take care of it.”

  “Do you think it was some kind of omen?” Some kind of omen that means the opposite of wealth and good luck, she wonders.

  “It was a spider, Lena. I’m my own omen—I make the shit happen.” Randall laughs. Not the hearty laugh that brushed her cheek those Sunday mornings they used to sleep in, nestled eye to eye, full of gossip and plans for what they will do—play poker, visit Tahiti, romp in the sand in the south of France—when Randall retires. His laugh is cool and distant; the one reserved for clients, the one that makes him appear noncommittal, more than competent. Controlled. “Have you made any decisions?”

  “Decisions?”

  “You heard me. I won’t put my life on hold until you figure out how good you’ve got it.”

  Months after his promotion, in a trendy San Francisco restaurant, Randall spoke to Lena of how being the only black man in the inner circle, where no one made less than a seven-figure salary, made him watch his every step. The double stress plagued black men, he told her, especially where the fraternity of black power brokers was limited and fragile.

  “Success is a game—aka the black man’s burden—act white, fight white to get to the top. Then fight, any way you can, to prove that you deserve to be there.”

  Lena watched Randall, with barely a blink or a breath, while he described, not for the first time, the need to fight stereotypes that could turn a black man into something less than whole and accusations that lacked substance: forgetting where one came from and selling out; smart but not smart enough, the expectation of failure. The pressure he felt from all sides was palpable, but he remained determined to do whatever it took to be successful.

  At the next table, a man held a match to his cigar and puffed madly until the chubby stick of tobacco caught the flame. Lena inhaled the strong, bitter scent that reminded her of Saturday night chats with John Henry when she was a teen, reminded her of the puffs he let her take when Lulu wasn’t watching.

  “I won’t be around as much as I’d like. I know how much you do. And I appreciate it.” Randall took a slender, black box from his jacket, slid it across the table, and opened it. Couples to the left and right stared when Lena gasped at the large, radiant yellow diamond attached to a delicate, narrow platinum chain. The stone glistened in the candlelight in that way that only a clear diamond can. Randall stepped behind Lena and fastened the necklace around her neck while the same couples applauded and asked if it was their anniversary or her birthday.

  She turned and pressed her lips to his, the promise in her eyes of more than that to come. “Thank you, sweetie. I love you, and I’m behind you one hundred percent.”

  Randall raised his glass in a toast. He waited until she finished her wine and poured a little more into their glasses and reminded her that none of the other executives’ wives worked. “I know you’re ready to launch your business. Put your plans on hold. For a while. Forever if you want. At least until I’m established, more trusted at TIDA.”

  His scattered and
disjointed phrases were so unlike him that Lena wondered if he was nervous. She watched his face, the clear skin, the absence of wrinkles that made so many people mistake him for much younger than his then fifty-three years. His eyes focused on the stone on her chest. His expression affirmed his satisfaction in the incline of his head, the angle of his neatly clipped mustache, and she wondered what other sacrifices she would make for the sake of his career.

  The diamond pulsed with the rapid beat of Lena’s heart. Randall’s lips moved but she could not hear what he said. She fingered the yellow stone and smiled. “Is this a bribe or a thank-you?”

  “Both.” Randall grinned. “You’ll have more time. You can come with me on my trips. We’ll see the world on TIDA’s dime. When the time is right, I’ll help you start again. I promise.”

  The cigar smoke wafted closer to their table. Her second, deep breath brought back John Henry and the white smoke that had streamed from her father’s lips between sips from his Saturday night glass of Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. He had doled out advice on life while she tried to figure out racism or Catholicism or problems as simple as boys and dating; and later, how hard she had to fight for the life she wanted. “What the hell did you expect, Lena Inez?” John Henry fussed one night. “You want the life, you got to pay the price.”

  f f f

  “Maybe we could get away when you come home.”

  “I’m not going anywhere any time soon. Unless I have to.” If punctuation marks could be heard, Lena thinks, exclamation points would have banged like a firecracker at the end of Randall’s sentence. Fatigue and irritation slip from his voice. “As a matter of fact, right now, I’m sick of hotels, of people who don’t look or sound like me. I’m sick of the stares. I need a dose of black people. I want a party when I get home. Ten, maybe twelve people, that standing rib roast you make.” At their last party months ago, their guests refused to leave until well after three in the morning. Reluctant to let go of the good feeling, Randall opened another bottle of wine. Lena retrieved the remains of dessert, and they stayed up until the rising sun tinted the sky pinkish yellow.

  “I’d really like to wait until the situation is… smoother between us?” Or, she thinks, until her funk moves on.

  “Make sure you invite Candace. I get a kick out of her theatrics.”

  “I saw her the other day. She had some sad news.”

  “Don’t tell me: she needs more jewelry.”

  Lena cannot read the signs of his strong voice. There is no strain, although she can’t deny its edginess. “It’s not always about what you can buy, Randall. Dana and Carl are getting divorced.”

  “Well, scratch them off the list. It’ll be good to see our friends.”

  “Please, Randall, can we decide about the party when you come home?” Three. Lena counts on her fingers, three more days.

  “Nothing to decide. Just handle it.”

  f f f

  Almost as soon as Lena presses the seventh digit of the number written on the bottom of the enrollment slip, a man answers the phone. The instructor’s voice is twangy and aged when he answers with his full name instead of hello. She offers an explanation for missing the first class with a very adult excuse: “For personal reasons.”

  “Are you a serious photographer?”

  The instructor listens without comment while Lena takes five minutes to summarize why she wants to hone her rusty skills.

  “There are Saturday labs. You can develop your film at home. I’m not interested in people who need to fill their empty schedules.”

  If she thought he would care, Lena would tell the cranky instructor that she has plenty to fill her schedule; it’s the hole in her spirit she needs to fill. “I’m serious. I’ll do whatever I have to, but I won’t be able to make the second class either. Can you give me your notes and the assignment so that I can keep up?”

  “My policy’s simple: skip one class, you’re okay. Skip class twice, you gotta problem.” He presses on with more terse words about dedication and continuity that Lena tunes out. “It’s up to you, but the more you miss, the more behind you get.”

  The phone clicks off before she can tell him anything more. Sinking back into the bed, Lena lets sleep take over. Snakes and water. A man’s hand beckons her into a gently breaking black surf, and she slips below. Her fishlike mouth opens to swallow people-plankton drifting by: Randall entwined in a headless woman’s arms, a baby Kendrick morphing into a man, Camille crowned with stars, Candace’s hand covered with pinky rings. Lena twirls, the reverse of falling into the sucking liquid, yet able to watch herself, hair swirling in slow motion, shrunk to its beloved nap. Diamond earrings glimmer in shrinking lobes, vibrant red fingernails. Wedding bands float past like dazzling schools of fish.

  Beside an open coffin Tina Turner wears a zoot suit. Lena belches bubbles full of a merry Randall, Kendrick, and Camille. Each bubble rises past schools of silver fish, past coral and seaweed and thrusts her up, up, up. Lena rises to the surface, naked before God’s bluest sky and Tina Turner’s outstretched arms.

  The sheets are soaked when Lena awakens. The room is neither hot nor cold, yet she shivers as if it is the middle of winter and tries to understand her dream. Listen to Tina. Be the good girl—a girl at fifty-four. Follow the rules. Consider the blessings. Randall wants a party. He’s tired. What’s a little attitude in exchange for the life he has given her? And she has more than enough: this house, clothes, no worries, and diamonds on her fingers, neck, and ears.

  The pictures, the memories spill from the planner when Lena picks it up. How innocent Kendrick looked in his Halloween costume, his first one. He was a puppy. When Lena explained that animals didn’t make good costumes, he looked at her with a serious face and insisted. Camille liked ballet, liked dressing up and being the center of attention. She posed for hours in the mirror practicing pirouettes and pliés.

  The account withdrawal slip is thin and narrow. Randall and Lena’s full names are imprinted in block letters in the upper left-hand corner. On the photography enrollment paperwork her name is written in the same way and, looking from one piece of paper to the other, it seems odd to see hers by itself. Taking the two pieces of paper in her hands, Lena tears and tears until they blend into an unrecognizable heap atop the sheets.

  Chapter 5

  Ten after eight. Step fast, faster. Randall hates waiting, especially after a long trip. This afternoon Lena cleaned the house from top to bottom, right alongside the housekeeper. She cancelled Randall’s car service and decided to pick him up like she did when his business trips first began to take him around the world. The Drambuie is back in the liquor cabinet; fresh linens envelop the bed. Run, Lena, run. Past people speaking in French, Spanish, and a myriad of Asian languages all intoned with joyous inflections that need no translation. Past a smattering of kohl-eyed Indian women swathed in silk saris, Filipino men in embroidered linen barong shirts, and Asian businessmen in conservative sharkskin suits.

  Run, Lena, run. Passengers exit customs through two cordoned-off hallways. TV monitors flash weary and preoccupied faces to watchful loved ones and chauffeurs with handwritten signs. Randall’s image crosses the screen. His trademark heavy-heeled gait is slow. Lena giggles; a surprise to herself and the man next to her.

  Nearly fifty-eight, Randall is handsome in a way Lena knows women envy men for, the good looks that seem to get better with age. His head bobs to a rhythm only he can hear; maybe Miles or Charlie Parker or one of the little-known jazz artists he loves to discover. Scrunched forehead, heavy eyelids and tight lips; yet clean-shaven and crisp. How he manages to keep his clothes wrinkle free after long drives and even longer flights is a mystery that Lena appreciates but cannot understand. Thirty-four days of meals in fancy restaurants have left his stomach with a slight paunch that Lena knows he’ll work off with his trainer. He looks good, as good as he did all those years ago when she spotted him on the dance floor, and her heart commanded him to look her way.

  Lena was twenty,
and Randall just turned twenty-four, that summer she walked into the party and noticed him. It was the cock of his head, the bass in his voice, and the confidence in his hands as he gave the high sign to his buddy, Charles, that first attracted her. She walked to his side of the room, lingered close to where he stood, and popped her fingers to the music. She figured he was bright, or she obvious, when he turned to talk to her and flaunted his credentials like an Easter litany: almost done with his MBA at Wharton, new GTO, the only summer intern in an all-white corporate communications firm, just shy of being a token, because he was smart. His stance, his articulation, assumed she would swoon over his budding potential.

  Instead she told him a joke. A stupid joke. “Knock, knock.” She tapped on his arm and made him ask who’s there. “Orange,” she answered. “Orange you glad I came over here?”

  Lena sashays to the end of the customs exit corridor and lifts onto her toes to meet Randall’s face four inches above her five-eight frame. “Welcome home!” She sniffs: pepper, cinnamon, and a hint of the fifteen-hour plane ride. He is her first love. Her love is centered in that place of emotion, not words; she will always love him. At this moment, she longs for that old heart-to-stomach-to-toes tingle she used to feel with the very thought of him. She angles her head in what she hopes is a seductive tilt and stretches her arms around his neck.

  “Well, this is a surprise.” Randall makes a smacking mmm-wha sound as he brushes her lips. “What got into you?”

  “You!” Lena grins and lowers herself, but not her expectations, for there is a bottle of Duckhorn merlot in a sterling silver wine bucket at the foot of the six-foot bathtub at home. The Gentle Side of Coltrane, one of Randall’s beloved albums—a compilation much like the one that played after the memories of the Tina Turner concert faded, and he seduced her—is on the stereo queued and ready to play.