Searching for Tina Turner - By Jacqueline E. Luckett Page 0,55

scan the shelves. “I’m getting a divorce, and it’s so hard to sleep.”

“Me, too. I do nothing but cry. All of the time. And look at me…” The woman’s voice is edged with controlled hysteria. Her hair and dingy outfit give the impression that no one who cares has looked at her in a long time.

A bleach-stained sweatshirt and Randall’s good-luck shorts hang from Lena’s hips, slimmer now from the stress of separation. “I came looking for a little inspiration. Have you ever seen this?” She points to What’s Love Got to Do with It on the last row of the wall-to-wall shelving. “If you can get past the violence, there’s a message.”

Pink Slippers shivers and stares like Lena is crazy.

“Think about it. She found her inner strength and left a terrible relationship. In her forties. With nothing but her name and her talent.”

A light of recognition brightens the woman’s reddened, blue eyes. “And then she turned into a superstar, and he was never heard of again.”

“Maybe there are other movies like this one.” Lena walks up the aisle, her new friend behind her, to the clerk barely awake behind the counter. The woman appears to be over fifty, if the lines in the corner of her eyes and mouth mean anything. “We’re looking for movies to inspire us. We’re getting divorced.”

“From our husbands,” Pink Slippers chimes in.

The clerk points to her unadorned ring finger and scribbles titles on a tablet.

“Oh, look! Waiting to Exhale.” Pink Slippers shouts.

If a café were open they could collect their movies and go there to guzzle gallons of coffee and cry. She would have told Pink Slippers that if she had watched that movie sooner she would have slit Randall’s tires or burned his clothes or sold all of his stuff and that he probably would have had her arrested.

“Mostly, I want to watch Tina’s movie,” Lena says. “That’s all I need right now.”

Outside, Pink Slippers digs in her pockets and pulls out a cigarette. She opens what appears to be, in the brightness of the white neon sign, an expensive lacquered lighter. “I don’t know about you, but this is the most fun I’ve had in a hell of a long time.” She sucks in a long drag and extends the cigarette to Lena, who takes it, coughing as she, too, inhales deeply.

“Thanks.” Lena snickers. “I hope it was as good for you as it was for me.”

Chapter 18

With a scone and her purse in her right hand, her extra-large latte in her left, and a speckled notebook under her arm, Lena heads for the counter in front of the window. The window bar of the Magical Café is empty save for the freckled man next to Cheryl who sips his coffee from a stainless steel mug. Cheryl is short, and her cowboy-booted feet dangle under the high, granite-topped coffee bar. She measures three teaspoons of sugar into her cappuccino and stirs the creamy brew while Lena gulps from her hot drink without hesitation.

“Let’s get to it, Lena.” Cheryl’s tone is like that of a mother to a child. “I won’t let you belabor this decision or turn it into a different kind of discussion.”

Lena picks at the crumbs that tumble around her scone in the way that she wishes to pick away at time and slow it down. She rests her face in her hands and sobs inaudibly. The two women sit that way for a moment: silent against the hiss of the espresso, the clatter of coins against the granite counter, the orders for new beverages with and without foam. The freckled man’s eyes follow Cheryl’s hand into her red handbag. She pulls out her address book and begins.

“First, here are the names of three gallery owners. I’ve spoken to them, and they’re waiting for your call. All of them are looking for help. They may not pay much, but something is better than nothing.”

Lena opens her notebook. DIVORCE is written in block letters on the front. She writes down the names and numbers and promises to call as soon as she gets home. Until she understands family law better, and the Internet has helped, she knows there’s no harm in having extra money.

“Lawyers. I have at least ten.” Over the years, Cheryl has given Lena the names of florists, cleaning ladies, caterers, restaurants, stockbrokers, and window cleaners. When Lena once asked how Cheryl gathered all of this info, she explained that it was a habit she’d picked up from her