Searching for Tina Turner - By Jacqueline E. Luckett Page 0,51

Turner songs on her MP3 player and stops wherever there is inspiration. She searches for the tunes she imagines Tina, onstage, strutting her stuff to and dials.

“Randall. This is Lena.” She knows he knows who it is. She needs to distance herself from him this way. This is business. “I leased an apartment. I’m moving out.”

“My offer is reasonable. I gave you enough time to evaluate it.”

“Well, it’s this way,” Lena mutters Randall’s prayer. A false cough covers her unsteadiness. She doesn’t want Randall to know how off balance she is. “I’m thinking there might be more to it than you’ve let on.”

“Think what you want, but you’d better get a job. I won’t pay for an apartment when you should stay in the house.”

“Oh, but you will pay for one for yourself? I have that right?” Had she planned better Lena would have taken money out of the bank—no, taken money out of the household funds, ignored monthly bills; if needed, hidden a ton of money so that she wouldn’t have to deal with Randall.

“Stay in the house, Lena. Don’t make it any harder on Kendrick and Camille than it already is.”

If the blame-game gauntlet were something she could see, touch, or feel, it would be coming at her hard and heavy like a brick through a glass window of this lovely house; she would take it and throw it back. “It already is, Randall, and that’s not all my fault.” Breathing brings Lena back to her business mind-set. One. Two. Three. “I have room for them, and I’ll make sure they understand that wherever I am is home. You make sure there’s money in the bank.”

f f f

Like a dancer, Lena moves around the kitchen at a frenzied pace grabbing plates, silverware, and napkins, ignoring the flush of perspiration across her forehead. The table is set as it was for the last meal Lena prepared now more than two weeks ago. That day marked an end. Tonight has to be peaceful. A time to savor and enjoy.

The back door opens with Kendrick’s familiar entrance; a couple of inches at first, as if he needs to peek in, then a full swing. His profile is trim and still borders on skinny. He is not close to his normal weight, though his arms look muscular through the long sleeves of his shirt. His brown-red complexion is finally clear and free of the acne brought about by drugs or his final bout with adolescence.

“Wassup, Moms?” Kendrick’s greeting is a gift. Conversations over the past few days have been brief, as if he has been hiding his life from her. Lena leans against Kendrick’s chest and rests her head against the flat ridge of his sternum. His backpack makes a soft thud when he lowers it to the floor. “Smells good in here. Camille,” he shouts, pulling away from Lena to sit at the table. “Get your butt down here!”

Any other day, Lena would have fussed over what she considers impolite shouting. Camille’s reply is equally loud. Their voices are welcome: a call and response, a kind of jazz breaking the silence that has permeated the house since the separation.

“I emailed my scholarship paperwork. They renewed starting fall semester.”

“Yea, Kendrick! I knew you could do it. We should celebrate.”

“We’re celebrating?” Camille distracts Kendrick from the details Lena wants to hear. Sister slaps brother’s back. Kendrick raps Camille’s shoulder, and she yelps with fake pain at what she describes as a hard knuckle-hit, not brotherly affection. They are their old selves: kids who know they are loved. Lena crosses her heart, thankful for this one second that makes her world seem like nothing has changed.

The house feels warmer with their banter; it feels like home. They eat and gossip about friends, as if Lena is not within earshot, while she dishes hearty portions of food onto their plates. Tonight, she feels like an observer. She leans against the upholstered bench, picking at the cherry tomatoes in the salad, nibbling on the crunchy corners of the macaroni-and-cheese casserole, hearing without listening until they bring up the subject of their father. Kendrick went with Randall to look at condominiums in San Francisco. He’s pushing for the unit with eighteen-foot ceilings, a view of the East Bay, and bedrooms for him and Camille complete with flat-panel televisions.

Because the sound of their laughter is so sweet, because she learned from that last meal with Randall, Lena holds her tongue. She wants to shout from the ceiling that