Searching for Tina Turner

by Jacqueline E. Luckett

  Jean-Pierre motions to Philip. The two men leave the table and step into the kitchen. Through the open door, both Cheryl and Lena watch them; their hands fly through the air, punctuating their rapid French.

  “What is the matter with you?” Cheryl pouts. “Look at them. I’m sure they’re talking about you. You’re rude.”

  “Good. Maybe he’s getting my message. Give me the car keys.”

  “Jean-Pierre is all talk. You have to learn to ignore men like that. The more you resist, the more they pursue.”

  “He’s a little talk and a lot of pawing, Cheryl. I want to go back to Nice.” Lena holds her hand out. Cheryl shakes her bag and the keys to the rental car clink. If they were in the States, Lena would have snatched the keys from Cheryl’s bag and let her find her own way back.

  “What if I ask Philip to tell Jean-Pierre to get lost? We’ll have a nightcap and then head back to Nice. Just do it for me.”

  Lena stands by the table, grateful that the restaurant is now empty. The night Randall gave her the yellow diamond flashes in her head—a different situation, but the plea is the same. While she waits for Cheryl to come to her senses, the voices of the two men discreetly arguing are still the loudest sound in the room. It is no surprise to either of the women when Jean-Pierre huffs out of the kitchen and heads straight to the front door without saying goodbye.

  “Please, please, please, pay my impetuous friend no mind,” Philip says, returning to the table. His face is half smile, half know-it-all. “He has another engagement. Let me make it up to you. I invite you, mes amies, to my house for a petite nightcap before you head back to Nice.”

  “I’d love to see a real French home. Well,” Cheryl says looking at Philip, “an almost-real French home.”

  If they were in Oakland, Lena would have fussed at Cheryl and perhaps put distance between the two of them. At home she would still be married. No, at home and in France she is less than one hundred twenty days from being truly divorced. This anger comes from a place she has had enough of: fear.

  A fake smile freezes on Cheryl’s face while she whispers in Lena’s ear so close that only the two of them know what is being said. “What is the matter with you? We are not nineteen, and you cannot be mad at me for doing something you think is wrong. Get it together, Lena. This is the single life. Enjoy.”

  She shouldn’t care what Cheryl does or who she does it with. “I know.” Lena stands, arms limp at her sides, eyes blink rapidly to keep back tears, and considers the question she has not thought of before: is this what being single again is going to be like? Backward instead of forward when she needs to move ahead. Here, she guesses, her options are the same: to leave or stay; but she would never forgive herself if something happened to her friend. Fifteen minutes later they arrive at the door of a small building outside the walled city.

  “Permit me to give you a tour of my apartment.” Philip uses French pronunciation: ah-par-tuh-MAWN. “Small by U.S. standards, but good-sized for this part of the world. Non?” The place is barely half the size of his restaurant; the kitchen is narrow and neat, with nothing on the single stone counter except a speckled canister, two espresso cups, and a bouquet of yellow daisies. An orderly stack of French, American, and Spanish cookbooks sits atop the small refrigerator. Philip opens the door to his bedroom. “This, as you can see, is the bedroom.” He tickles Cheryl, presses his leg into her thigh, his lips to her lips. When he pulls away his lips are tinged with Cheryl’s red lipstick.

  “Make yourself comfortable, Lena.” Cheryl giggles. “I’m going to visit with Philip for a while.”

  “Fuck on your own time, please. Like you said, we are not teenagers.”

  “The French are so much more civilized about this kind of thing.”

  Lena cuts her eyes, hoping that her friend will understand that she is serious. “He’s not French.” Isn’t this like being with Randall? Lena muses as she catches a glimpse of a neatly made bed with a white duvet before Philip closes the door behind them. Following somebody else’s agenda instead of her own?

  Moving through the apartment, Lena peeks into the bathroom. A pitcher on the bathroom counter is heavy with sprigs of dried lavender. Lavender-scented candles edge the basin. Two thin towels hang over a small heating rack beside the sink and, on the shelf beneath it, an unmistakable square box of tampons. In the corner, a shelf in the glass-enclosed shower holds two bottles of shampoo and a shower cap. Tampons, shower cap, the abundance of lavender: Lena figures Philip is cheating on his wife or a woman who spends a lot of time in this ah-par-tuh-mawn. Lena storms back into the kitchen. The thick-planked floors deaden the sound of her shoes. Pulling open cabinets and drawers, Lena searches until she finds a wide-blade knife that, if Philip turns out to be a madman, can protect her and Cheryl. Philip does not seem to be crazy, but, Lena knows, men can get crazy when they’re denied a roll in the sack.

  “Cheryl? I’m going.” Would Tina ever allow herself to be in such a stupid predicament? “And I suggest you do the same, since it looks like Phil-leep has a better half who may return at any minute.”

  Chapter 24

  The attendant in navy shorts and a snug boat-necked tee opens the umbrella behind Lena, adjusts it so they are protected from the midday sun, hands them more towels, and sets bottled water and glasses filled with lemon and cucumber slices on the small table beside her.

  “Just like home.” Cheryl drops her tote onto the lounge chair and motions to the people around the pool. “We’re the only blacks around this pool.”

  The hotel pool, shaped like a long kidney bean, is meant more for dipping than swimming laps. Several bare-chested women stand in the shallow end and drip handfuls of cool water on their shoulders. Sun worshippers recline atop the striped lounge chairs randomly scattered across the marble deck and lawn circling the pool.

  “When you’re black,” Lena reminds her friend in a low voice, “it’s just the way it is.” Lena adjusts her sunglasses. Through them the pale sapphire sky is clear, and the sunlight is bothersome even with dark lenses. “And, I might add, isn’t that bikini a bit risqué?”

  “There you go again.” Cheryl clasps her hands together like she is about to pray, before plopping onto the striped lounge chair. “Do I have to beg your forgiveness for acting like a grown woman?”

  “I told you last night. Pull that kind of act again… no. Don’t pull that kind of shit again. Period. Dot. End of conversation.” Lena gathers her hair and tucks it under her broad-rimmed raffia hat. “Trust me. I’m getting good at leaving people.”

  With the slightest shake of her head, Cheryl acknowledges Lena’s challenge. “Don’t get crazy. I guess I could say I had too much to drink, but that’s not really the truth. I’m used to doing what I want, when I want, and I didn’t give you much thought.” Cheryl leans over to Lena and gently pulls her sunglasses away from her face. Without protesting, Lena sighs and looks at Cheryl. “I get it. I’m sorry, so let’s not let this ruin our vacation. Now we know the rules.” Cheryl lets the straps of her bikini fall down her shoulders and slathers sunscreen on her face, neck, and chest. “Just don’t be so damn judgmental… and for the record, I look good in this bikini.”

  “I’m going to be who I am. I thought you understood.” Lena adjusts the top of her one-piece bright orange and turquoise floral swimsuit—a maillot, the saleslady called it.

  “This is all I’m going to say, and then can we please move on?” Cheryl picks up a hotel magazine for tourists and flips through it. “I know the concept of dating all over again is going to be hard for you, Lena, and I’m sorry. But in my mind it simply means you need to loosen up. Randall’s ghost isn’t lurking in the shadows; you’re not obligated to him anymore.”

  Lena pushes her sunglasses back onto her face and lets Cheryl’s words soak in. “If I’ve learned anything over the last few months…” Lena pauses until Cheryl lowers the magazine in front of her face. “If I’ve learned anything from Tina Turner, it’s that I’m the boss of me. But, I
’m sorry, too.” She relaxes into her chair and into the thought that somewhere, under this Mediterranean sun, Tina is basking as well: two black women from Oakland, Tina, and all the white people in the south of France.

  f f f

  “I’ll be damned. Looks like we got a party going on.” Splashing and flat slaps of stomach against the water rouse Cheryl from her hour-long nap. She nudges Lena’s leg: black people alert.

  From beyond and to the far side of the pool voices drift in their direction. A man stands at pool’s edge. He is long and tall and a shade darker than desert sand. He extends his arms and arcs his back like he knows what he is doing, then dives and swims toward his buddy, in the only square corner of the pool.

  Cheryl sits up straight in her chair, strains her neck and stares. His chest heaves after his short swim. “You won’t believe who that man looks like.” She pushes at Lena again. “That’s Harmon Francis!”

  The two men, arms stretched over the edge of the pool, chat as much with their hands as their voices. The swimmer appears taller than the average Frenchman, giving Lena another reason, beside his skin color, to be able to see him. Harmon Francis. Definitely. He crossed her mind when she watched the last of a man’s familiar walk turning a corner in Vence. Now, the van outside the Matisse museum makes more sense. And here he is again. Harmon Francis. She hasn’t seen him in almost twenty-six years, not since the day he’d told her he wanted to get married.

  f f f

  He was the same but different from Randall: street smart. Lena didn’t watch Randall’s love of designer suits and fancy accessories evolve while he lived on the East Coast, but she enjoyed their benefits when they dated the second time around. Harmon was already grounded in his expensive habits when they met. Unlike Randall, he loved hats—baseball cap, porkpie, beret—and hated jewelry except for the gold watch still hanging from his wrist. Back then he had his hair cut at a salon instead of a barbershop. He collected first editions and world maps; had a great sense of humor, a keen eye for good deals, and a key to an exclusive social club. Within a month of their first date, Lena was in love with Harmon. In the fifth month of their eight-month relationship Harmon told Lena he was tired of being single.

  They sat together on the cushy sofa of the restricted club surrounded by football players and real estate tycoons. Under low lights, they sipped Dom Perignon from hundred-dollar champagne flutes and watched the parade of bachelors and flirtatious women on the dance floor. “I’m the kind of man who does better with a woman by his side,” he said. Lena figured he was looking for a mother for his two boys. “I’ve been honest about dating other women.” His voice was confident, picking up tempo as he went along; the faster he spoke the faster Lena’s heart pumped in anticipation. “I’ve narrowed my marriage prospects down to two—you and someone else.”

  Armed with the insight that he was about to pop the question, over the months that followed Lena did what she thought she was supposed to: never let him see her without makeup, introduced him to her parents, had sex with him every day of every other week—her share of him—wowed him with her budding domestic skills. She met his seven-year-old twins. Harmon told her about their difficult mother, revealed his personal finances, took her on a business trip to Las Vegas, introduced her to his law partners.

  Harmon was handsome, upwardly mobile, and available. She loved him but never understood that sharing her love with him was her choice, not just his. He broke her heart when he decided to marry her competition, Natalie. It broke her heart even more when she went to his best friend and sobbed on his shoulder, asked why not me, and his best friend said because Harmon thought Natalie was better in bed.

  f f f

  Harmon Francis. Of all the people to run into.

  “Let’s go over there,” Cheryl pulls a makeup bag from her plastic tote and freshens her lipstick. “I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he sees you.”

  “Nope! Stay here. Maybe I did learn a thing or two from you last night.” Lena drops her wide-brimmed sun hat onto her chair. Her swimsuit’s colors set off her even brown skin, the suit cuts across the tops of her breasts, like a strapless prom dress, and accentuates the dark mole centered above her cleavage, her favorite. At fifteen, Lena counted the moles on her body, afraid they would multiply into the hundreds like those that dotted her Auntie Inez’s face and hands. “But, I’m doing this my way.”

  f f f

  In the short distance from deck chair to pool, Lena relaxes her hips in a rhythmic sway that is slow and easy. Rolling. From behind her, a long, low whistle signifies someone’s appreciation. She lowers herself on one long leg and dips the other into the warmish water. Eyes focused on the deep blue as if hypnotized by its rippling motion, she pulls her leg out slowly, then squats, dips her cupped left hand into the water, and drips a bit onto her right arm.

  As she descends into the shallow end of the pool, pausing after each step, the tiny waves climb her calves, her thighs, her waist. She gazes straight ahead, letting the water envelop her body, then arcs her arms into an inverted V and slips under the surface. Her gentle breaststroke guides her across the pool until she is close to the two men. In one smooth motion, Lena rolls over on to her back, stretches her arms out, and floats like a suspended cross.

  The men’s voices are clear, their words jumbled. She knows black folks attract black folks, especially when there are only a few around, especially when there are men and women. She figures they’re deciding who will approach her first. Or perhaps, in all the time she took to get to their end of the pool, Harmon has recognized her.

  “Always said you had the best legs in the world.” Her body bobbles with the tiny swell Harmon’s approach creates. He dog-paddles closer. “And here you are in the heart of the French Riviera proving it.”

  Harmon looks as good as he did in 1978. Full face and body, crinkled forehead, shaved head. When he grins his chipped front tooth peeks between his parted lips.

  Still sexy.

  “Don’t talk to me.” Even strokes send her spinning away.

  “Stop moving.” His gaze travels the length of her body, lingers on her breasts, her thighs, her bright red toenails.

  “We’re in the middle of the pool; floating is my only choice.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Lena drifts toward Harmon, refuses eye contact. Once upon a time she thought she would scratch his eyes out if she ever saw him again. Time and a good marriage, or what used to be a good marriage, mellowed her anger.

  “I guess I should be grateful; I wouldn’t have met my husband if it hadn’t been for you.” People around them laugh at Harmon’s raucous response. Lena grins, lets him think that her great life is payback.

  “Everything’s turned out good for you?”

  “Yes.” Success is the best revenge. That was what Elizabeth said at their final meeting. Lena never thought it would apply to such an accidental reunion. She spins a half-truth and tells him about her life the way it was when her marriage was good, when she was truly Mrs. K. Randall Spencer and Camille and Kendrick’s mother in more than name only.

  “Married, children, community work, nice house, fancy car, adoring husband.” She pieces together happiness from memories because she wants Harmon to be jealous. “Someone who loved me for who I was…”

  “I should have married you.”

  Any smart-mouthed comment Lena could make about his decision is unimportant, doesn’t matter anymore; but she finds it comforting to realize that the past can become so insignificant and can hardly wait until that happens with Randall. “That’s a stupid thing to say to somebody who couldn’t care less. What are you doing in this part of the world anyway?” She splashes the water between them, spins and swirls so that the rolling circles eventually smack against him.

  “Don’t be so mean.” He puckers his lips in an unconvincing pout. “Up until this morning I was traveling with a biking group across the south of France. Bruce and I broke off from them. Too much hassle.” He pa
uses, the lines in his forehead crinkle tighter. Lena remembers that face: it is serious, pondering. “I used to ask Jessie about you from time to time. I talked to my buddy about everything. You remember him, don’t you?” She acknowledges the man who told her what Harmon would not and lets the sweeping motion of her hands move her around him.

  “I talked to Jessie about Natalie, too,” Harmon says. “How great she was in bed, how she drove me crazy.” Now Lena recalls her biggest disappointment in Harmon: he couldn’t keep his business to himself.

  “So I heard.” Lena slaps the water hard with the palm of her hand so that it splashes onto Harmon’s face. “Well, Harmon, it’s been good to see you.” She starts to swim away. He grabs her leg so that Lena is forced to fold herself into an uncomfortable treading position.

  “Don’t go.” His front tooth shows again.

  f f f

  Harmon announced his marriage plans to Lena the night they took his boys to the circus. The high-energy twins fidgeted all night long while the elephants dumped in front of their prime-dollar seats, while a tiger jumped through a fiery hoop, while the horses pranced with twirling acrobats atop them.

  The night was one of those when the Oakland skyline was as clear and twinkling as San Francisco’s. He told her his decision while they were on the freeway, headed back to his place—he was going to marry Natalie. After all, she had a son as well.

  The car swerved into the next lane when Lena’s hands flew to her face. Harmon grabbed the steering wheel until Lena recovered seconds later. She had volunteered to drive because Harmon had had a long day. Why the hell hadn’t he told her before she went to the circus? Before she wiped cotton candy from the boys’ sticky fingers, let them share her soda, all the time hoping that Harmon would appreciate her maternal instincts. When they arrived at his house, the kids jumped out of the car. Harmon tried to apologize; she put the car in park and kicked at him until he jumped onto the cement to get away from her spiked heels, then sped off, car door swinging as she drove down the street, leaving him and his whining boys in the middle of his driveway.