Searching for Tina Turner - By Jacqueline E. Luckett Page 0,59
to pay for her apartment. I told her to stay in the house. This was her choice.”
“By law, Mr. Spencer, regardless of where Mrs. Spencer has chosen to live, this,” the mediator says, rewriting the number on Randall’s pad, “is what you’re required to pay until you and Mrs. Spencer reach your final agreement.”
“Then we better get done quickly, because I’ll be damned if I’m going to pay for her life of leisure.”
f f f
For the rest of dinner the night those years ago that Randall gave her the diamond, Lena was in a fog. Between the wine, the food, and his surprise, he’d caught her off guard. At home, in bed, she climbed on top of him, a bottle of almond oil in her hand.
“I’ll do everything I can to support you. I believe in your dream.”
“It’s not just my dream.” Randall sucked in a deep breath and tried to hold on to his train of thought while Lena’s fingers massaged his legs and thighs. “It’s our future.”
She rubbed him, stroked him, tasted him until he moaned. “But,” she said, letting her hair drop over her face and onto his shoulders, “I don’t want to lose my dream.” Before he lost his concentration, she quieted and let him release, let the feel of him run from her thighs to her breasts, let it sing in her head.
Afterward, she cuddled into him. “I don’t want to be a stereotype. The man makes the money, while the little woman takes care of the house and the kids.” They had had this discussion before: black people changing stereotypes, breaking the barriers, creating a new norm. “So, I’ll accept the diamond; if you agree that I’ll get back to my plan after one year.”
He admitted with all of the changes he wanted to implement at TIDA, it would take at least eighteen months to two years to gain full acceptance. “Two. For me.”
Lena thought of partnership and sacrifice, the two words John Henry had stressed before he walked her down the aisle. The biggest question in her mind as Randall ran his fingers over her body, the diamond above her breasts, was what would stop Randall, once the two years were over, from another promotion, another big deal, another giant career step to becoming the black king of the world. What would his sacrifice be in this partnership? She pressed two fingers to his mouth.
“Deal.”
His smile was easy to hear in the dark. He took her fingers into his mouth and sucked. Lena pointed to her diamond with her free hand. “Then, we’ll renegotiate.”
The allure of Randall’s promise was seductive. Lena substituted being the successful woman for being the supportive woman behind the successful man. By the end of Randall’s second year at TIDA he’d been given more responsibility, and she slipped deeper into her cashmere cocoon.
f f f
Randall whips out his PDA and punches the screen with the metal stylus. “Let’s schedule all of the sessions now.” Every one will be the same: a single step forward, two or three back.
“You are not in charge here.” Lena snaps. “And don’t use that tone with me.” In this instant, she leers at Randall and assumes his expression mirrors hers. They are, after all, an old married couple. No stranger, not even Mr. Meyers, knowing full well their circumstances, would ever have guessed these two people had once been giddy lovers or shared a bed or parented two children or lived together for twenty-three years.
“Mr. and Mrs. Spencer! Please leave the hostility outside.” In every meeting from this first one to their ninth, Lena and Randall will pout and argue unconcerned about the mediator’s cautions and his piling, un-piling and re-piling of the items around him, until their lawyers attend the sessions and assist in settling who gets what and the amount of permanent spousal support that Randall will pay Lena until she remarries, cohabitates, or dies.
Mr. Meyers presses a finger to a lone droplet on his left temple. He glances at his watch and suggests they stop here. Lena sympathizes with the man; her own armpits are damp. She stares at Randall and wonders if, underneath what looks like a cool, poker face, he is straining to hold back his own sweat. She wonders if he has another compartment, called cool, that helps him maintain this demeanor. Probably. Someday, if they can ever sit together calmly again, she will ask him about that ability and perhaps he will teach her how to do