Searching for Tina Turner by Jacqueline E. Luckett Page B

Black Power. Fist. Palm. Black side. Fist.
    Camille perches on the bed. Kendrick plops onto the chaise near the windows. To Lena, the large room seems crowded with the
     four of them in it; everyone seems adult and oversized; funny, the way time changes everything. So different from the Saturday
     mornings Kendrick and toddler Camille tiptoed into this bedroom and begged to watch cartoons, while she and Randall pretended
     to complain about the invasion of their privacy.
    “Tell us about your trip.” Lena motions to Randall to hold off his answer while she ducks into the bathroom to adjust the
     faucets so that the hot water will slowly fill the oversized tub and cool to a comfortable temperature by the time she and
     Randall get in.
    Randall opens his suitcase and waits for Lena to return. The first layer is organized into sections: toiletries, clothes cleaned
     and laundered before he left the hotel. When Lena reenters the bedroom, Randall condenses three days into one concise description.
     In Bali, he and Charles saw buildings unlike any in Western architecture: stone temples nestled in mountain crevices or perched
     above a roiling sea, bald-headed monks draped in yards of orange cloth who tended to the grounds and prayed for the world.
    He pulls packages out of the suitcase one at a time and with practiced flourish. “In a few of the temples, men could wear
     orange wraps like the monks. I thought I’d spare you that.” He tosses a plastic bag to Kendrick, who catches it with one hand,
     and waits for Kendrick to open his bag of designer-rip-off shirts.
    “Hella cool. Thanks, Dad.”
    “And you, Camille, should know that some people consider dance and drama the very essence of culture in Bali. Since we all
     know what a drama queen you can be…” Camille feigns offense with a look half smile, half pout. Randall grabs her hand, dances
     a one, two cha-cha-cha, like they did at the cotillion months earlier, and hands Camille a pouch. “I bought these to help.”
    Camille pulls the plastic apart and slips bangles onto one arm then her other until the bag is empty. “Thanks, Dad. I love
     this stuff.” There are at least a hundred of them: silver and gold, colored rhinestones glitter from some, others are painted
     in vibrant blues, reds, and yellows; they ping and clink when she shakes her arm. The bangles complete her outfit; a long,
     ruffled skirt, homespun scarf around her head, her bare feet.
    “I bought traditional outfits—one for Sharon and one for my secretary.” Randall removes two flattened, white paper bags tied
     with rough string from his suitcase and stuffs them into his leather bag. “They worked hard for me on this end. They kept
     me on track and the local wolves at bay. I couldn’t have gotten my work done without them.”
    “Where’s Mom’s gift?” Camille rummages through Randall’s suitcase.
    “If I recall, you’re not into material things anymore.” Randall stretches and saunters to the bedroom window. He yawns and
     looks directly at Lena without a hint of a smile or grin or taunt of possibilities to come. “You have everything you need.
     Right?”
    The smile on Lena’s face is telltale; her jewelry box is crowded with expensive trinkets and intricate charms from every trip
     that Randall has ever taken. She gets Randall’s mockery and understands his message. “That’s right. I am truly blessed.”
    “Aw, he’s kidding.” Kendrick gives Randall an all-knowing wink. “Give her the goods, Pops.”
    Camille looks from her father to mother and back to her father’s face for a sign that Randall is indeed teasing, is indeed
     about to pull some shiny bauble from one of his pockets. “Have these, Mom.” Camille tugs a few bracelets from her wrists and
     slides them on to Lena’s arm. “Give her the outfit you said was for Sharon, Dad.”
    “It’s just a token, not something your mom would like.” Randall’s short, urgent sigh, Lena tells herself, is