Searching for Tina Turner - By Jacqueline E. Luckett Page 0,18
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.
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