Searching for Tina Turner - By Jacqueline E. Luckett Page 0,19
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