Searching for Tina Turner Read online

  That night was romantic, one of a kind. There was a shadow of beard on his chin then, like the one there now, but that was the silky shadow of a young man not in need of the daily use of a razor. Lena slides her fingers down Randall’s cheek and over his prickly overnight stubble. “Tired?”

  “Bushed.” He stretches his empty hand and wavers momentarily; his hand stuck between handshake and hug, between peace offering and affection. His lips form a tight smile; fatigue or disinterest Lena cannot tell. Her hand goes up while his goes down, brushing only at that point, that fulcrum of mismatched timing, capturing only electricity and knobby knuckles.

  Sadness and sameness run from her heart to her stomach to her toes. She picks up the lighter of his two bags, a leather duffle she gave to him one Christmas, and heads for the parking lot. “That’s all?”

  “If I said anything more, I’d have to sing, and I thought you said I should leave the falsetto to Smokey.” He chuckles and stretches his arm around her shoulder; the airport, the exiting passengers, the gigantic monitors and patrolling security guards, anything but her eyes 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 four words are as close to prayer as he gets. Luggage in hand, he wanders past green granite countertops, a sleek stainless steel refrigerator, and a three hundred dollar toaster to hallway to living room to sunroom to his office. Once there, he rifles through his mail and grabs the latest issue of Audiophile Quarterly. Less than a minute later, he raps on Kendrick’s door and hugs him when the door swings wide open.

  “Looking good, Junior.”

  “What’s with the Junior, Senior? That stopped in eighth grade. Not getting that over-the-hill disease are you?”

  There it is. Lena pauses on the stairs to listen—the sound of harmony. Family. Home.

  They prop themselves against the doorframe, father to the left, son to the right. Kendrick’s smooth face echoes Randall’s. They are similar in many ways: their legs cross left over right, the intensity in their eyes and language, words emphasized with their hands.

  “Not much to report, Dad. Therapy. Looking for part-time work. Ready to go back to school. Still not driving—boring.”

  Randall fakes a cuff to Kendrick’s chin and motions to him to follow down the hall. “I think we may be able to do something about that.”

  “Camille!” Kimchee meows as if Randall is calling him; a loud salutation, Lena knows, to its second master. Forever and a day she will despise cats. If Kimchee were human, Lena would tell the cat not to take it personally. Camille skips down the hall, Kimchee cuddled in her arms. The open door behind her releases the smell of the sour litterbox.

  “Hello, kitty,” Randall smoothes the scruff of Kimchee’s neck. “Hey, Camille, how’s my big girl?”

  “Starless, Dad, Starless. And I’ve been a ‘big girl’ for a long time.”

  “Two things: one, I named you Camille, and that’s what I’ll call you.” Randall busses Camille’s cheek. “And two, I’m sad to report that I know you’re a big girl—the reminder’s for me, not you, Miz Smart-aleck.”

  “Then I guess I can make an exception. This time.” Like the little girl she once was, Camille leans into her father’s open arms and thrusts an oversized envelope into his hands. “Columbia, Dad! The letter came yesterday.” Her hands punctuate her words, too, and Randall embraces her again.

  Lena halts mid-step on the staircase’s last step. “Congratulations, honey!” She shouts the only response she can. This news is new to her. Though she should have known weeks ago that Camille would keep her acceptance to herself when, nervous to hear from colleges, she demanded her right to pick up the daily mail without having to compete with Lena. She was tired of Lena’s over-mothering, her nagging to wear practical clothes, to stick to deadlines, to help with the mountain of essays and paperwork throughout the whole college application process. She wanted to get the acceptance—or rejection—letters first.

  “And what about your brother here?” Randall asks. “Is it time to give him back the keys to his car? Have you kept an eye on him?”

  “Kendrick’s doing really great, Dad! He’s ready.” Camille slaps Kendrick high five. “And what little goodies did you bring your wonderful offspring this time, hmmmm?” The two follow their father down the hallway past Lena’s framed photos of the famil
y in various stages of life—baptism, kindergarten, chicken pox—their faces as full of anticipation as they were when he first began to travel. A younger Kendrick and Camille fought to carry Randall’s suitcase, fought to open it. Now they stroll behind their father with the presumption of gifts in their stride.

  “Didn’t have time to shop. Too busy closing my deal.” Randall turns both thumbs upward. “Your old man kicked ass, if I do say so myself.” Kendrick extends a fist to give his dad the secret handshake they invented when he was nine—Randall’s salute to the good old days, Kendrick’s to a newly found discovery of Black Power. Fist. Palm. Black side. Fist.

  Camille perches on the bed. Kendrick plops onto the chaise near the windows. To Lena, the large room seems crowded with the four of them in it; everyone seems adult and oversized; funny, the way time changes everything. So different from the Saturday mornings Kendrick and toddler Camille tiptoed into this bedroom and begged to watch cartoons, while she and Randall pretended to complain about the invasion of their privacy.

  “Tell us about your trip.” Lena motions to Randall to hold off his answer while she ducks into the bathroom to adjust the faucets so that the hot water will slowly fill the oversized tub and cool to a comfortable temperature by the time she and Randall get in.

  Randall opens his suitcase and waits for Lena to return. The first layer is organized into sections: toiletries, clothes cleaned and laundered before he left the hotel. When Lena reenters the bedroom, Randall condenses three days into one concise description. In Bali, he and Charles saw buildings unlike any in Western architecture: stone temples nestled in mountain crevices or perched above a roiling sea, bald-headed monks draped in yards of orange cloth who tended to the grounds and prayed for the world.

  He pulls packages out of the suitcase one at a time and with practiced flourish. “In a few of the temples, men could wear orange wraps like the monks. I thought I’d spare you that.” He tosses a plastic bag to Kendrick, who catches it with one hand, and waits for Kendrick to open his bag of designer-rip-off shirts.

  “Hella cool. Thanks, Dad.”

  “And you, Camille, should know that some people consider dance and drama the very essence of culture in Bali. Since we all know what a drama queen you can be…” Camille feigns offense with a look half smile, half pout. Randall grabs her hand, dances a one, two cha-cha-cha, like they did at the cotillion months earlier, and hands Camille a pouch. “I bought these to help.”

  Camille pulls the plastic apart and slips bangles onto one arm then her other until the bag is empty. “Thanks, Dad. I love this stuff.” There are at least a hundred of them: silver and gold, colored rhinestones glitter from some, others are painted in vibrant blues, reds, and yellows; they ping and clink when she shakes her arm. The bangles complete her outfit; a long, ruffled skirt, homespun scarf around her head, her bare feet.

  “I bought traditional outfits—one for Sharon and one for my secretary.” Randall removes two flattened, white paper bags tied with rough string from his suitcase and stuffs them into his leather bag. “They worked hard for me on this end. They kept me on track and the local wolves at bay. I couldn’t have gotten my work done without them.”

  “Where’s Mom’s gift?” Camille rummages through Randall’s suitcase.

  “If I recall, you’re not into material things anymore.” Randall stretches and saunters to the bedroom window. He yawns and looks directly at Lena without a hint of a smile or grin or taunt of possibilities to come. “You have everything you need. Right?”

  The smile on Lena’s face is telltale; her jewelry box is crowded with expensive trinkets and intricate charms from every trip that Randall has ever taken. She gets Randall’s mockery and understands his message. “That’s right. I am truly blessed.”

  “Aw, he’s kidding.” Kendrick gives Randall an all-knowing wink. “Give her the goods, Pops.”

  Camille looks from her father to mother and back to her father’s face for a sign that Randall is indeed teasing, is indeed about to pull some shiny bauble from one of his pockets. “Have these, Mom.” Camille tugs a few bracelets from her wrists and slides them on to Lena’s arm. “Give her the outfit you said was for Sharon, Dad.”

  “It’s just a token, not something your mom would like.” Randall’s short, urgent sigh, Lena tells herself, is exasperation not exhaustion. “But, I can always treat Sharon to an expensive meal.”

  Whenever Randall comes home from his trips, Lena unpacks his suitcase. A habit turned expectation that grew into its own ritual over the years and gave them time alone; like picking him up from the airport before he became a bigwig. Sometimes he sat on the side of the bed or in the chaise and regaled her with road gossip. Sometimes he waited for Camille and Kendrick to leave their room to tell her how much he missed her, or shut the door and showed her.

  Now Lena takes I, Tina from the nightstand and walks past their king-sized bed, the rectangle of his open suitcase, and into her office. He is punishing her, she knows, punishing her for questioning the life he wants for her: be the good girl, follow the rules. She reads her email, goes onto the official Tina Turner site and resists the temptation to rush to the stereo, to turn off Coltrane’s saxophone just now beginning to drift through the house and exchange it for Tina’s music as loud as the speakers will permit.

  Near the end of her time with Ike, Tina visited a friend who practiced Buddhism. The visual of the woman, though not her name, is still in Lena’s head: the woman, and soon afterward Tina, made a small altar before which they could sit and chant and mold a ritual to soothe their spirits and make them strong.

  Two stubby candles still sit on her desk. With a candle on either side, and a stack of Tina’s CDs atop the paperback, Lena reminds herself to pick up incense and a holder, perhaps a crystal, tomorrow. Her ritual, she thinks, does not have to be elaborate. The process of lighting the candles, of slowing down her thoughts, of scanning random passages from I, Tina helps her to gather, little by little, the sum of all the parts—good and not—to help her to press on.

  f f f

  By the time she steps into the bathroom, Randall is already soaking in the tub. Two glasses of wine, his nearly empty, sit on the marble-tiled ledge. He slurps his wine and, eyes closed, rests his head against the tiled wall behind him. “Ahhhh. I needed this. Thanks, hon.”

  Lena kneels beside the tub so that her face looks directly at his and drags her hand through the scented water, forcing steam and the odor of musk to drift in the air between them. “I can’t help but wonder, Randall, how keeping you on track makes your secretary and your assistant more worthy of your thoughtfulness than your wife.”

  “It’s no big deal, Lena. You don’t like cheap stuff anyway. I’ll take you to San Francisco next week. You can pick up something then.”

  “That’s not the point, Randall.”

  “The point is I’m home, not with them, and I’m tired.”

  Her boots come off slowly, as do her cashmere sweater and tight jeans. She tosses them next to the four pairs left on the floor from earlier this evening before she settled on the French ones, to show off her hips. Randall did not notice her hips or the jeans at the airport, just as at this minute, eyes closed in a trance of concentration, he doesn’t notice her nakedness.

  The water sloshes against the sides of the long tub when Lena stirs it with her foot. When she steps in, Randall opens his eyes and leans forward. He cups her breasts and massages them in that way that always makes her moan. Lena pulls away before she does, before she starts something even her momentary meditation has left her still too upset to finish.

  “I’m already feeling the jet lag.” Randall scoops hot water over his chest and head and repeats this motion two more times. Wrinkled eyebrows keep the rivulets from his eyes. “I’m ready to sleep in my own bed.” He swallows the rest of his wine with one quick swig, steps out of the tub, and dries himself roughly before going off to bed.

  f f f

  The rasp of Randall’s snores matches the
sawing sounds of the final minutes of a movie on TV. Sleep is the only time that anyone would label Randall peaceful. If she is awake, when he lies motionless in the middle of the night like this, Lena often pokes his shoulder, his neck, his thigh in anticipation of the slightest movement: proof he is still alive and well. Half-open eyes tell Lena he is somewhere between dream and arousal.

  Randall tugs her close, tickles her with his tongue in a new place, and she gasps from the sensation. They blend together in their familiar way. She surrenders to his touch, the bristle of his mustache, a hint of musk oil. There is no urgency to his movement, yet he comes swiftly, leaving Lena wanting more.

  Chapter 6

  Lulu and John Henry’s dream house looks the same as the day they bought it in 1965. The house is painted a pale color somewhere between beige and rust; a lamp that switches on at 4:30 p.m. and off at 7:30 a.m. every spring, summer, winter, and fall. Year round Christmas lights, more fragments than bulbs, loop under the eaves and around the three-sided bay window that dominates the front of the house.

  Whenever Bobbie and Lena complained of how embarrassed they were by the lights and the hideous, old-fashioned paint, John Henry told them he didn’t have a problem with change as long as it stayed away from him. The biggest change he’d made in his life, he told his daughters every time, was coming to California, and, since he wasn’t a risk taker, he saw no need to push his luck.

  “Lulu? You in the backyard?” Lena ducks around the low branches of the California oak where she and Bobbie always wanted John Henry to build a tree house. The limbs of snowball hydrangeas straggle over the path; low pink azaleas, in ironic harmony with the painted red cement, ramble below. Two garbage cans filled with dead leaves sit in the middle of the path. This Wednesday, like every Wednesday of the eighteen months since John Henry passed, Lena feels like she has become her father. She lugs the trash to the curb where neighbors’ cans jaggedly line the street up one side and down the other like whole notes in a measure of music.