Searching for Tina Turner

by Jacqueline E. Luckett

  “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 mother, who was raised in a small town without access to a phone directory and kept the names of people she knew she could count on close at hand. “Elizabeth Silvermann is more your style. She’s sharp and a bit egotistical, but she knows what she’s doing.

  “Now, I want you to memorize these four rules—they’ll help you deal with your lawyer and with Randall. They worked for me, and the least I can do is pass them on.”

  Lena holds her pen tightly in her hand, poised and ready to write.

  “Lesson number one: time is money. If your lawyer won’t give you her time, then she won’t get your money. Lesson number two: even if muscle remembers, the heart must forget. You understand?”

  The man boldly looks over Cheryl’s shoulder. She gives him a cold MYOB smile. “Do you need a lawyer, too?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. Been there, done that.”

  Cheryl whispers. “He’s fascinated that a black woman knows this stuff. Happens all the time. Lesson number three: the only color that matters is green. Our friend here just proved that. And lesson number four—this one may be hard for you, Lena—let Randall think he has the upper hand. Let his ego get him in trouble. Now, questions for the lawyer.”

  “You’re no fun today.”

  “Work now, lots of fun later. I’ve got plans!”

  Lena turns the page and writes her questions in outline form: what am I entitled to, lawyer fees, options, support—who pays for the apartment once we have separate accounts, the house, art and furniture she still wants but had to leave behind, how long does it take, next steps.

  The freckled man chimes in again in that effortless way Californians have of butting into strangers’ conversations. “If you haven’t acknowledged receipt of your divorce notice you should take money from joint accounts.”

  “Now that,” Lena says, extending her hand to the man, “is good advice.”

  “Timing,” he finishes, beaming at the flattery. “It’s all a matter of timing.”

  f f f

  Lena let go of her white voice when she gave Elizabeth Silvermann all the details on the phone—she a homemaker, Randall the successful businessman—so that Elizabeth could occupy herself with the facts and not the mystery of how two black people got to be where they are. Still, the lawyer’s eyes widen briefly when Lena walks into her office, and Lena can tell by Elizabeth’s quick double-take that she is not what the lawyer thought she would be either. On the phone Elizabeth’s voice was forceful, and Lena imagined the lawyer would be masculine and broad shouldered. Not that it matters, Lena thinks. The white lawyer is lithe, skinny as a rail with full head of black hair. Her exaggerated stride and firm handshake hint that she will do well by Lena.

  Lesson number three: the only color that counts is green.

  Elizabeth’s confidence oozes across her massive wooden desk as she brags about her successes for fifteen minutes nonstop: how many cases she has won, how many clients she has, the settlements. Her voice is full of ego, self-assurance, and challenge. Slowly it becomes clear to Lena that this is the lawyer’s prologue, her curriculum vitae to back up one of the most important pieces of advice Lena has ever received.

  “I have no doubt that this is a painful time for you.” Elizabeth stops to call to the outer office, where an aide shuffles papers, to hold her calls for twenty more minutes. “Divorce may not be what you want, may not be what you end up with, but you have to decide. This could be the best thing that happened to you, or the worst. Do you want to be a victim or do you want to make this an opportunity for a fresh start? Your chance to rediscover yourself and what you want out of the rest of your life.”

  This, Lena thinks, is undirected direction. “So what you’re saying is that I should take advantage of change?” Elizabeth’s concept or Vernon’s foresight? “Divorce as a second chance?”

  “It’s the only way to look a
t your situation, and I don’t represent victims.”

  Lena nods her agreement.

  “Do you have a plan?”

  Elizabeth listens carefully while Lena explains the details of Randall’s proposal. The lawyer takes his note and chuckles. “He may know his way around a corporation, but he doesn’t have a damn idea of how family law works. I hope you didn’t say yes.”

  “I moved into an apartment. Randall says he won’t pay for it.”

  “Moving was probably not the wisest choice, especially if you have to worry about money, but we can fix that.” Elizabeth pauses to read the rest of the letter. “Oh, he’s in for a surprise. A few surprises, I’d say. What’s the rest of your plan?”

  “A friend is helping me look for work at a few art galleries. My photography. Other than that, I have no plan.”

  “Are you waiting for your husband to tell you what to do? You do understand that he relinquished that privilege when he served you with divorce papers, don’t you?” Elizabeth’s chunky tortoiseshell eyeglasses slip down her thin nose. She pushes them back with the heel of her hand—something she will do every five minutes or so this and every time they meet—and washes down bite-sized chocolates with diet soda. “If your husband is as savvy as you say, then you better make sure you retain representation that can help you put a good plan together.”

  Lena considers Cheryl’s rules. She chooses to stop counting the days since Randall’s been gone. Yanking her checkbook from her purse, she reminds herself of the most important rule: let Randall think he has the upper hand.

  “I may have been some kind of victim before this,” Lena slaps a ten thousand dollar retainer check on Elizabeth’s desk. “But I’ll be damned if that’s what I’ll be from now on.”

  f f f

  Hours after meeting with her new lawyer, Lena sits at her desk ready to follow Elizabeth’s suggestion. Her business plan, loose family photos, scissors, and magazines are stacked in front of her. Tina’s book lies open, once again: I was looking, Tina wrote, for a truth of a future that I could feel inside of me.

  Lena writes those words in broad letters across the top of a sixteen-inch square board. She picks up the scissors and begins: a camera, a bouquet of white rubrum lilies, the word MOM, a snapshot of Bobbie, Columbia’s campus from one of Camille’s brochures, Kendrick at five displaying his kindergarten diploma, his high school graduation picture, and a printout of a postcard with a scrub of bushes high on a hill encircled with the words Tina Lives Here; a ski lodge in Switzerland, Agra, and the Taj Mahal. She pastes the letters S-T-R-E-N-G-T-H across the bottom. This reminder shapes her plan and, she figures out, as she pastes on the last touch—a picture of Tina performing—that somewhere, somehow Tina Turner will be part of it.

  When the first tingle of discontent began to nag at her, perhaps two years ago or more, Lena hired a feng shui consultant—an energy cleaner. The consultant emphasized the importance of keeping a living space positive regardless of negative interactions. In this new space, the only negativity is in whatever she has brought with her. Lena steps into the hallway, flexing her fingers all the while, and practices the motion she forgot to use when her relationship with Camille soured, when Randall began to favor early sleep over conversation, when Kendrick avoided her.

  Standing in the middle of the living room, boxes still piled high against the walls, Lena rests her thumbs on the tips of the middle fingers of her left and right hands and considers the gesture she is about to make. The motion symbolizes a casting-off: doubt, fear, insecurity, disrespect—all those forces that threaten her well-being. Lena flicks those fingers, gently at first. Over the boxes, the couch, the few pieces of furniture haphazardly arranged around the room.

  Through the entryway, the kitchen and bedrooms. To Kendrick’s new room, then Camille’s to banish their pain. Are they asking their father why?

  Flick. Faster. Through the master bedroom. She can make it on her own.

  Flick. Flick. Harder. To her desk and into every nook, every corner where frustration might hide. Lena blows out a long sigh and snaps to attention. Energy shifts. She is ready to fight.

  Chapter 19

  The waiting room is plain and without a distinct personality. There are no knickknacks, no university diplomas or certificates of merit, no assembly line or mass-produced landscape art. Randall enters the small area, sits on the chair perpendicular to Lena’s, and utters a terse “Good morning.” He scans a magazine while Lena stares at the words she wrote when Elizabeth spoke them this morning: victims let things happen; victors make things happen—you are a victor, Lena.

  A husky, dimpled man steps from an inner office and introduces himself as Harry C. Meyers. His face, straight and serious, indicates his neutrality. He gestures toward a conference room and the two follow him into it. Reflex courtesy takes over as Randall signals that Lena should enter first. They choose the same sides of the table as the bed they used to sleep in together: Lena to the left, Randall to the right.

  Mr. Meyers is a piler. His hands rest on top of the evidence of his obsession before him at the head of the table: two reams of 8 ½ x 11 paper, five 8 ½ x 14 yellow legal pads, two boxes of paper clips, two pads of forms, cell phone atop electronic planner atop calculator, and two containers of breath mints—the kind that rattle when they shake free of their plastic container.

  Under the table Lena crosses and uncrosses her legs, wipes the palms of her hands against her black dress, and wonders if it’s too early to ask for a bathroom break. Instead, she opens her speckled notebook to the page where her rules are written and reads rule number four—let Randall think he has the upper hand.

  Randall sets the leather briefcase Lena gave him when he started at TIDA on the table. The inside of the briefcase is inscribed: I’m with you through thick and thin. Congrats on the thick. Love, Lena. The gold latches spring open with one touch of Randall’s thumbs. He pauses, looks at Mr. Meyers and then his watch, and pulls out three clipped sets of papers. If asked, Lena would swear there is a Cheshire cat grin on his face. “Since Kendrick and Camille are of age, their support and tuition will not be an issue. We put away enough to cover their education, so this should be a fairly straightforward transaction.” Randall pushes papers to the mediator and Lena. “I’ve outlined what I think is a reasonable and equitable division of property.”

  “Your papers may be useful later, Mr. Spencer.” Mr. Meyers cuts Randall off before he can respond with a hand gesture that says stop and pops a couple of breath mints. Lena watches the mints go from his hand to his mouth. He pops one red, one yellow, one white.

  “However, in these sessions both parties will determine the division of all community assets to include personal and real property. With the statutory guidelines mandated by the state of California in mind, my job is to assure that the settlement is fair and equitable for both parties and, if necessary, to propose alternatives if it appears the two parties have difficulty reaching agreement.”

  Lena listens closely to Mr. Meyers, rests her hands in her lap, and wipes them on her dress. She steadies her eyes on the evenness of the gold bands on the ochre law books behind him so that her gaze doesn’t move to Randall’s. She doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to acknowledge the anger she sees in the small jerky motions of his right hand.

  “You’ve chosen mediation, I assume, because it avoids the costliness of a court case. In mediation, both parties will come to a mutually acceptable resolution. Neither party may end up with all that he or she has requested. In this room, compromise is the operative word. Typically, the process takes five to six sessions.” Mr. Meyers reads from a document atop the pile, in a clear and practiced manner, what they will accomplish in the sessions. He explains the rules and tells them their lawyers may be present but can only advise, not advocate for them.

  “In this case, because the wife is not currently employed, temporary spousal support must be set. That is what we will determine today. How much the supporting spouse—in this case y
ou, Mr. Spencer—pays the non-working spouse on a monthly basis is defined by California Family Code and a computer formula. And, by each party’s income and expense declaration supplied by both of you prior to today.”

  Mr. Meyers turns to his laptop and types. He tabulates numbers on an old-fashioned calculator with one hand. The calculator shakes like a miniature locomotive; paper billows from the top like steam. When he is done, the mediator writes a five-figure number on two separate yellow pads and passes them to Lena and Randall at the same time.

  Just as Lena has a new mantra, so, she thinks, does Randall.

  “Shit,” he whispers under his breath.

  Lena hears him loud and clear. He snatches a red pen from the mediator’s pile and strikes a bold line through the figure that will be the above-the-line, tax-deductible amount of spousal support the state of California requires he pay.

  “This is a non-negotiable number,” Mr. Meyers insists.

  “I see no reason why I have 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.”