Searching for Tina Turner - By Jacqueline E. Luckett Page 0,9
to the normal hour her daughter would come home from school. For seven months Camille has been searching for answers. This new name, Starless, Camille told her parents, signified her preparation for college and separation from them. Her given name, she constantly reminds them, no longer reflects who she is. She is without a fixed point: one foot almost in college, one foot at home.
Camera in hand, Lena kneels on the floor and unscrews the lens cap. She points the camera upward at Camille’s heart-shaped face, plays with the f-stop, and adjusts the shutter speed. Snap. Wind. Snap. Camille shrugs, seemingly equating the prospect of Lena’s class and the possibilities of Chinese food equally dull. Her resemblance to Lena, save for her demonstrative hands and round eyes, lessens each year. But still, Camille resembles Lulu’s side of the family more than Randall’s: small bones, an imperceptible smatter of freckles between her eyebrows, clear skin, and oversized teeth that fit well with her lips when she smiles.
“I think I’ll puke if I have to eat Chinese food again.” Camille’s hint of a grin slips quickly to a pout. “You’ve hardly cooked since Dad left. Kendrick and I have to eat, too.”
“I’ll rustle something up before I leave. Maybe I’ll bring back ice cream.”
Camille turns her back and heads down the hall. “And I need cat litter.”
The almost nine months since Randall gave her Kimchee on her birthday have made Camille more demanding, not responsible. Her room is a mess, and she rarely makes it to school on time. Tomorrow Lena will chauffeur Camille to the store because she refuses to learn how to drive and complains when she has to carry sacks of cat litter on the bus. Camille will take the two twenty-dollar bills Lena will hand her to buy cat litter and a few extra items for her pet, and perhaps wander beyond that store to buy something for herself. Lena will sit in the car and read about Tina while Camille considers which of the fourteen generic and specialty brands of cat litter is the best for her precious Kimchee.
Ba-boom, ba-boom.
“Kendrick!” If she could remember where her cell phone is, she would call Kendrick because she would have a better chance to reach him that way. Lena grabs two tall containers from her purse and jams them into her pocket. She walks down the staircase, a half-circle of seventeen regular and five pie-wedge stairs that end at the front hallway, and continues to a second, shorter, and straight flight that stops at the open door of the family room. “Turn that down, please.”
Eight of Kendrick’s friends loll on the floor, the couch, and the recliner. They greet Lena in unison, while their eyes focus on the TV and two wrestlers in skimpy underwear entangled in the ring.
“Chill, Moms. This is the no-nag zone.” Kendrick is at the door in two lengthy strides. His body is lanky like his father’s once was. He is tall, taller than Randall is now. He has his father’s thick curly hair, high and sunken cheekbones passed down from Choctaw ancestors, a narrow forehead. His large ears, his dimples, his smooth brown skin are his father’s. At twenty, his face is still like the boy who used to cry when he saw a dead bird or squirrel in the yard. “My friends want to stay for dinner.”
Lena searches the corner of Kendrick’s eyes for their old impish crinkle. She can’t decide if he wants to impress his friends or shame her. His eyes are clear and brighter now than when he came home from college at the end of last semester, but they still lack spark.
“I don’t have much time.” With a hasty glance at her watch, Lena takes a mental inventory of the freezer and pantry. “I’ve got a photography class tonight.”
“Aw, Moms, nobody can teach you a thing. Your photographs are already great.” Kendrick stares at Lena with the look of a neglected puppy. “How’s about a little soul food? Fried chicken, cornbread on the side, a sweet treat…”
Eight sets of eyes peer at Lena as if to say, “We love your fried chicken, Mrs. Spencer.” As if their votes count.
“Yeh, Moms, it’s been a while.”
Lena checks her watch and calculates the twenty minutes it will take Kendrick to get to the grocery store, shop, and return home—if there isn’t any traffic, if the store isn’t crowded. She guestimates before she commits: “The first part of the class will probably be introductions