Searching for Tina Turner - By Jacqueline E. Luckett Page 0,4
estate agent’s car nineteen years ago. It reminded her of Lulu’s recollections of stately southern homes that black folks could only walk by, not live in: huge white flowers that attracted more beetles than bees, the earthiness of the double-colored leaves, scent like strong citrus perfume.
Her dreams blossom in this home framed with purple hydrangeas, leggy oleander and this magnolia tree. The memories flash in her mind: her children, now grown past the days of tumbling across the sprawling lawn, fearless and eager to show off; brilliant Fourth of July fireworks beyond the silhouette of downtown Oakland and San Francisco’s foggy skyline; the smell of cut grass on Tuesdays and Saturdays.
She does not want to think about the orchids in her sunroom wilting from lack of water. Nor the jars of homemade apple chutney, bottles of olive oil, and tins of spices in the pantry that await her creative hand. Nor does she want to focus on the jade lion that guards the front door, the photography books stacked on the coffee table—Parks, Arbus, DeCarava, Weems—or the gold-flecked Venetian glass ball that all sit covered with the fine dust of disuse.
Presence was the word the Italian-accented agent used when they first drove up the winding driveway. “This house fits you and Mr. Spencer well. You both have presence, too.”
Randall may still have presence after all of these years, but what Lena feels right now is the complete opposite. Her ability to create the future diminishes each day: yesterday she could not raise her arms to shower or comb her hair, this morning she could not keep food in her stomach, minutes ago she could not explain to her husband what is in her heart without sounding whiny or spoiled, and now she can barely stand.
In the scheme of things, twenty-seven days is not a long time. A flower can bud, bloom, and die in twenty-seven days. At this very minute, Lena is overwhelmed by indecisiveness, incapable of moving her fifty-four-year-old body. The odds of her leaving or staying are as unpredictable as that skittering spider’s path. Call it unhappiness, menopause, midlife crisis, lack of respect, fear of losing who she is, fear that she no longer fits in this dream. Whatever.
Pick one.
Chapter 2
Lenaaaaaa Spencer!”
Lena cringes at the scratchy, off-key intonation of the familiar voice and tiptoes around the lofty shelves toward the hand-painted FICTION/TRAVEL/PHOTOGRAPHY sign at the back of the store. Ducking in front of the K through P shelf, she closes her eyes and breathes in the dust and must of The Big Black Dog bookstore, her special place to spend time on an overcast day like this one. Candace asks questions—so many and so fast—that, in the past, it has been easy for Lena to be lulled by the woman’s insatiable thirst for scandal in the guise of concern. And she’ll be damned, Lena thinks, if she’ll let Candace spoil her afternoon.
Lena scans the shelves. These days she feels like one of these used books: in good shape, full of excitement, yet no longer appreciated. Instead of a worn spine, the cover of a misplaced paperback, I, Tina, catches Lena’s eye. Tina Turner crouches, fish-netted legs tucked beneath her, hair as wild as it was in that Mad Max movie. Her smile implies a question: Where is your joy? Something audible clicks inside Lena’s chest like the tumblers of an opening lock.
The kids’ first nanny asked the same question nearly every day that Lena drove from the bus stop and up the steep, winding hill that Letty was too overweight to walk. “Where’s your joy today, Miz Spencer? Mine is right here.” Letty held her Bible upright in her lap and let it fall open with the car’s swerving motion. Then she would drop her forefinger onto a random passage and softly thank Jesus for his inspiration.
Lena lets the paperback fall open and points to a paragraph. “People look at me now,” Tina writes, “and think what a hot life I must’ve lived—ha!” Right on.
“There you are!” The voice breaks the bookstore’s silence once more at the same time that a heavily jeweled hand grabs Lena’s shoulder. “What in hell are you doing on the floor? Didn’t you hear me calling you?” Candace’s gold bangles jingle when she leans toward Lena. “I haven’t seen you since that handsome husband of yours went out of town. When is that luscious man coming home anyway, and why haven’t I seen you at any Circle Club meetings?” Her clothes are coordinated: