Searching for Tina Turner - By Jacqueline E. Luckett Page 0,7
on the floor, the way Lena lies in her bed unable to figure out how to tell her husband that honoring herself does not mean dishonoring him. Once on the floor, she knows, Candace would take action: yell for help with her wretched, squeaky voice, or devise a case to sue, courtesy of pictures taken with her rhinestone-encrusted cell phone.
“Stop frowning. You take everything too seriously. We all have our bad days.” Candace harrumphs in a way that means she’s never had a day as bad as the one Lena seems to be having and shoves a business card into Lena’s purse. “My personal shopper.”
f f f
Outside the pharmacy, a sullen-faced woman steps back from the sidewalk and stares like she would at an escaping shoplifter as Lena rushes to her car. In Montverde—a hillside shopping district that is called by a different name to distinguish it from the flatlands of Oakland but is still Oakland—white people act like they are not used to seeing black people in fancy cars. As she steps into the car, Lena assumes that the contrast between what she is wearing and what she is driving is so great that it raises the question: does the car belong to her?
“Come on now, I don’t look that bad.” Lena waves to the woman. “Can’t a black woman have an expensive car and a bad hair day, too?”
Lena negotiates her sleek car between the broken lines on the freeway’s asphalt and ponders Candace’s focus on possessions. In that way, Candace is like Randall. And, she supposes, how she used to be. How many times can she tell Randall?
Last November, Randall asked Lena what she wanted for her birthday. “A weekend,” she’d said without missing a beat. A weekend together—just the two of them—no laptop, no BlackBerry, like they used to. A simple celebration. A shared, uninterrupted soak in the tub. Maybe in Sonoma or Napa—taste new wines, ride bikes, take pictures, laze in the sun.
She should have suspected something when Kendrick stayed home longer than usual after Thanksgiving. The evening of her birthday, Randall slipped off his silk tie, blindfolded her with it, and escorted her to the back door. Camille and Kendrick, obviously in on whatever surprise Randall had in store, giggled as the three of them led her out of the house to the driveway. Lena giggled, too, stepping carefully into the brisk twilight.
When Randall loosened the tie, Lena screamed at the top of her lungs. There, in the driveway, sat a low, red Mercedes SL convertible with shiny alloy wheels, buttery leather seats, and keys dangling from a red ribbon tied around the rearview mirror.
Lena eased behind the steering wheel, while Randall, Kendrick, and Camille faked a silly squabble over who would be the first to ride with her in the two-seater. Randall claimed his right, having paid for the car, Kendrick claimed his as first-born, and Camille claimed hers as the only daughter. In the end, a giggling Lena made them pick a number between one and ten and drove down the driveway with the same enthusiasm and high speed each time one of them buckled themselves into the passenger seat.
Two days later she thanked Randall again for his extravagance and explained that she loved the car, but she really wanted more of him, not material things, while his voice rose louder and louder. “Just keep the damn thing.” Lena knew he didn’t understand, knows he doesn’t understand.
Speed is the excitement in her ordinary errands. Zip. Grocery store—milk, juice, bread, peanut butter. Zip. Hardware store—light bulbs, batteries, that thingamabob for the stereo that Randall drew a picture of before he left.
The radio is off. After Candace’s frenetic proclamation, all Lena wants is the hum of the engine, the alternate whine—like ascendant chords—of the gears, the constant attention required to handle the car. She avoids pillows of exhaust; manipulates, teases, plays in and out of the gaps in the afternoon traffic. Her foot presses down on the accelerator: 300+ horsepower. Her biceps tighten with the thrill of the push past fear and carbon fumes. Gravity takes over with the increased speed; it forces her back into the cushy seat, pumps adrenaline through her body, moistens her palms. A little more, a little more. She moves from the fast to the slow lane, eases up on the accelerator, and exits the freeway.
In the ten minutes between the pharmacy and home, Lena works herself into a state of disgust—with herself, with Candace. She swerves into her