Searching for Tina Turner (11 page)

Lena emerges from the closet wrapped in a wool coat better suited to a winter freeze than this spring night. Her lipstick
is smeared, her face wrenched as tightly as the handkerchief she still holds on to. “I would expect that my husband would
side with me, not with his
colleague
.” She avoids Randall’s eyes, his seeming nonchalance when she crosses in front of him and snatches Tina’s book from the nightstand
drawer. “How can I sleep beside someone who won’t stand up for me? Who gives me an ultimatum that could change my life but
doesn’t even bother to ask what I decided?”

“I take it the fancy gym bag means you’ve decided.” This is the icy tone that makes Randall the great businessman sought after
by corporations looking for more than just a black face to fill some arbitrary affirmative action slot. Lena shivers in the
doorway, her back to Randall. Stay. That is all he has to say, and she will put down her bag. Get up from the chair and hold
her tight is all he has to do, and she will stay.

“I’d think twice if I were you, Lena. You’re the one who’s got everything to lose.”

“Maybe it all stops here.”

“Maybe it all stops. Period.”

Lena prays that her keys are in her purse, her purse in the kitchen so that she does not have to go back into that room or
look at Randall. She pauses, then sets one foot ahead of the other in the same thoughtful way she did when John Henry walked
her down the aisle, all the way down the stairs and to the garage to give Randall time to act. Night camouflages her car while
she watches her bedroom window from the driveway. After ten minutes the bedroom lights darken, and Lena drives away.

A
t the grand hotel on the Oakland-Berkeley border a rosemary bush hedges the front of the building and releases its savory
fragrance when Lena brushes up against it. Fresh rosemary is the herb she loves most, a pleasure for the tongue and the nose.
Sure she looks like a hooker, all dolled up with no place to go, she hands the night clerk her platinum credit card and demands
a room. He examines her from head to toe, this young man ensconced behind the well-oiled, wood-paneled counter in a pin-striped
suit and gold badge, his name and place of birth engraved on it in two lines: Ali from Kenya. His eyes are shadowed by a furrowed
brow as if she should be ashamed of checking in to his high-ceilinged, Oriental-carpeted hotel by herself at midnight, as
if she should be ashamed of her fuzzy slippers, the pooled mascara under her light brown eyes, and her thousand-dollar designer
tote.

Lena grunts from the doubt that cramps her insides; she has no place to go. She has no plan—her tote is evidence of that.
Whether she charges this hotel for one night or a thousand, she cannot pay the bill. She has no real money. Snatching her
upscale credit card back from Ali, Lena turns around and stalks out the lobby; her back dares him to say one more word to
her so that she can scream, “Fuck you and Randall, too.”

When the valet hands Lena her keys, she sits in the car under the poorly lit portico until he goes back into his little booth.
Lena picks through her bag and pulls out her book and lets it fall open to a random page for guidance.

“
Some of these people read cards, some read the stars… Some of them weren’t for real but others gave me something to hold on
to, some insight into what was going on in my life.”

Tina visited readers, psychics, for a hint that a better life was in her future. Images crowd into Lena’s head of places she
has seen without seeing when she is out and about. There is a reader on Piedmont Avenue, a familiar street where Lena gets
her nails done, does her banking, and lunches on Kung Pao beef. The words
Psychic Healer & Palm Reader Always Open
are pasted in careful strips of preformed block letters on the sandwich board in front of the small house. She has walked
by the sign a hundred times, more fearful than curious to drop in.

By the time she gets to Piedmont Avenue, the streets are still crowded. Who are the rest of these night-owl drivers, she wonders?
Nurses on late-night duty, philanderers and bar-hoppers, singles on their way back home reluctant to spend the night in a
lover’s messy bed? Other wishy-washy women who cannot make up their minds what to do with their lives?

She swerves into the short driveway beside the clapboard house. Clay pots full of red and white geraniums line the four stairs
and lead to the glow-in-the-dark stripes painted on the wooden porch. Tiny moths dance around the pale overhead light, drunk,
perhaps, on the geraniums’ grassy perfume. Lena presses the doorbell; the scratch of soft soles against a hardwood floor follows
the strident buzz. A short, bald man opens the door; his complexion is swarthy, but clear. The line between the top of his
upper lip and his neatly clipped mustache reminds her of old military pictures of her father. Lena steps away from the door.

“Come on in; I won’t bite.” His husky voice reassures. The older man extends a sunburned hand and introduces himself as Vernon
Withers. Like the southern gentleman his drawl makes him out to be, Vernon leaves the front door open as if the geraniums,
crickets, and fluttering moths could offer help, if she needed any.

“I’m Lena.” Her mind hesitates where her feet do not as she approaches the front room where low flames crackle in the sooty
fireplace.

“Chamomile tea, Lena?”

Her left, then right eyebrow arches at this first hint of Vernon’s insight. Chamomile is the tea she loves to drink when she
is tired or stressed.

“I know, you’re wondering, ‘Now how in the hell does he know that’s the tea I like?’” Vernon winks at Lena and waddles toward
the kitchen looking more like a rascally elf than a man who is supposed to know about the future. “No need to answer, dahlin’,
just accept.”

Unsure of the psychic process, Lena accepts Vernon’s offer of tea and walks to a small wood-paneled area beyond the living
room where two brocade-covered chairs face one another, a small round table between them. The room’s walls are the soft yellow
of fading daffodils; the house smells like lavender sachet and old people. Water splashes, the microwave beeps.

“You have questions?” Vernon sets a cup and saucer painted with red-lipped geishas by her left hand. “Ask the first thing
that comes into your head.”

“I’m only here because…” Lena figures if Vernon is true to his title he should know why she’s here and what her questions
are. “I’m here because a friend recommended I see a reader.”

“
Reader
is confusing. I prefer
psychic,
like my sign outside says, it’s more… specific. So?”

Questions are not her problem; they frolic like curious monkeys in her head. It’s answers that have her stuck. When she entered
the house, she didn’t bother to check it out or ask if there was anyone else present. Lena squirms under Vernon’s expectant
stare and glances back at the door. He spreads her palms open, then rests his on hers. His touch fills her with a peace she
hasn’t felt in a long time. He stares at her eyes, in almost the same way John Henry did when she misbehaved as a child, then
examines the jagged, interlaced lines across her palms.

“The palm, my dear, is simply a reflection of our lives. Yours are beautiful. Youthful.” He stares at her left hand, pushes
and presses the Mount of Venus beneath her thumb. “The lines on the dominant hand vary across the span of one’s life, because
of the changes in life’s path. This section of your hand tracks midlife. See? A Y. The Y represents choice and change.”

“Everybody has that.” Lena wonders if this is what the psychics saw in Tina’s hands.

“But,
everybody
isn’t here.” Vernon opens his hands. His right hand is without a little finger. Any other time she would have asked the story
of this missing digit. Better to see this odd injury instead of something, like a sixth finger, he claims enables second sight.
She searches for the Y. Nothing on his palm resembles that letter.

“Say what you want, dahlin’, but you’re the one willin’ to plop down your husband’s hard-earned money in the middle of the
night, fuzzy slippers and all, for me to tell your future. You rang my doorbell. This isn’t the time to be indecisive. Look
where that got you this evening.”

Lena jerks her hands away from Vernon and pushes back from the table. “What would you know?”

“It’s not what I know, but what I sense: you can’t keep letting people push you around. Sit still and let me have your hands
so you can get your money’s worth.” Vernon sips his tea and peers around the room as if to search for scones and crumpets.
His face is playful and serious. He pulls a gold watch on a chain from his pocket and sets it on the table. “Now, take your
watch and set it beside mine.”

“
You’re
pushing me around just like everybody else.”

“Like I said, Lena, you rang my doorbell. Don’t fight me; I’m not the one you need to show your strength to. Trust.”

Lena looks around the room and through the open kitchen door. The house is quiet; the chirring of night insects outside the
door is the only other sound she hears. She stares at her watch, another gift from Randall, another expensive gift from Randall.

The night he gave her the watch, he insisted that she stretch out her arms and look away. She flinched when the cold metal
touched her skin but kept her eyes averted from her wrist. It was the same night she discovered she was pregnant with Kendrick,
but not ready for a baby. He hugged her, held her there in the middle of their bathroom; convinced her she would be a wonderful
mother. They would be wonderful parents. Trust.

“Dahlin’,” Vernon’s is a voice reserved for church. “If I was gonna steal from you, I’d’a conked you on the head by now, taken
your watch, and that big ole diamond ’round your neck, and tossed you down the front steps. Give me your hands.”

Lena picks at the double-locked clasp and puts her wristwatch next to his, then her palms in his hands again while Vernon
explains that the metals throw off their magnetic fields. The dimple in his chin—an uncanny resemblance to John Henry’s, along
with the same soft edge to his words—sinks deeper into itself when he laughs.

“I feel an energy surge coming from your watch. What’s your husband’s name?” Vernon reaches for a thick green book that resembles
a Bible, a ribbon bookmark sewn into its gilded binding. “And his date of birth?”

“Randall’s name is Randall. Birthdate: July 24, 1945.”

Vernon shuffles through the pages. The gray hairs at the top of his head wiggle as he scans a lengthy paragraph. “Your husband
is a dogmatic Leo. He is pragmatic. Is that the word? This is his approach to life. He doesn’t understand any other way.”

Lena shudders at Vernon’s truth and inches to the edge of her seat. Pictures, books, furniture, and Vernon spin around her,
a blurry montage of color and light.

The pitch of Vernon’s voice raises for the first time since she arrived; he folds his stubby hands over Lena’s palms and pauses,
looking more through her than at her. Lena feels the emptiness of his absent finger. “These intertwined lines, see? Independence
and forward progression. These movements clash with his. But, forget him. You’re not a delicate woman, but convenience makes
it easy to pretend. You are meant to be powerful. Follow your creativity.”

Lena focuses on the small blood spot beside the iris of Vernon’s right eye. She shuts her eyes and processes Vernon’s words.
His stare says that he is waiting for her; he will only guide not lead. Tina’s psychics gave her a direct notion—that she
would be successful; they offered direction and promise. “Tell me what to do.”

“You have found the star who shines for you; she leads the way. Begin your journey with her. Reconnect with the past. Someone
you closed yourself off from is waiting for you.” Vernon beams and points to a bold line in her right hand. “As for me telling
you what to do: you already know.”

“Yep, I’m a fool in love.” Lena leans back in the chair. “And I need to accept my life or move on.”

“Don’t indulge in what might have been. Delight in what can be.” Vernon squeezes her hands; his grip is tingly and rough.
“You’re stubborn, and you don’t always listen to advice: even your mother has something to offer. Just like the silver ball
in a pinball machine spins, moves at the whim of someone else, you move backwards before you understand how far you can go
with just a little push.”

“Go ahead. Push me.”

“You don’t need me.” Vernon releases her hands, pulls a monogrammed handkerchief from his shirt pocket, and pats his forehead
where perspiration threatens to fall into his eyes. “Step into your power.”

W
hat smells so good?” Camille plucks a strip of sautéed chicken from a bowl and dips it in the peanut sauce beside it. She
is a nibbler, like her mother, though the empty soda cans and candy wrappers in her room attest to her unhealthy choices.
“And low lights, too? Hmm.”

“Take this.” Lena feigns a blush and hands fifty dollars to Camille. If only she could send the kids to bed early after a
fast food treat of hamburgers and pasty french fries. Compromise with Randall was less complicated when the kids were young.
“Dinner and a movie. And where’s your brother?”

Camille tickles Lena’s shoulder. “Glad you and Dad are getting back to normal.”

“Out!” Lena flushes at her daughter’s insight, shooing her out of the kitchen, even as Kendrick walks in to meet them. Lena
doesn’t have the slightest idea whether or not her son shares his sister’s insight. Silent meals, Randall’s late hours, her
clothing piled in the guestroom for three days—her kids are no fools.

The tension between mother and son is palpable. She fans herself with both hands, a gesture meant to clear the air, and hopes
that Kendrick gets her hint. “I do trust you, Kendrick, I hope you know that.” She speaks as if their confrontation was moments
instead of days ago and points to his keys on the counter with a wide smile.

“Thanks, Mom.” Kendrick ruffles Lena’s hair and then juggles his keys between both hands, like the metal Slinky he had as
a kid. As nosy as his sister, he heads to the stove, lifts a lid from a saucepan, and dips a finger into the curry. “Food
works for us, too, Mom, in case you forgot.”