Searching for Tina Turner (6 page)

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.

T
en 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.

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
family 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.