Searching for Tina Turner - By Jacqueline E. Luckett Page 0,17
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.”