Searching for Tina Turner by Jacqueline E. Luckett

Author:Jacqueline E. Luckett
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: FIC000000
ISBN: 9780446542951
Publisher: Grand Central Pub Mass Market
Published: 2011-10-15T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

Each stark white wall of this square room is covered with paintings from the baseboard along the cement floor to the top of the eighteen-foot ceiling. Red, bright turquoise, cerise, and purple. Bold strokes of gouache form thick paint waves. Black-and-white photographs—thick lips, kinky and straight hair, kneecaps, noses, crusty heels—are spread like collages between the canvases. Some of the paintings are words outlined underneath layers of color. None of the paintings clash; instead of creating a frenetic, jarring sensation, they are ordered in a way that imparts control.

“See, getting out is a good thing.” Though Marcia is Cheryl’s client and not a close friend, she hugs Lena warmly. “Make yourself comfortable, walk around, meet somebody, and take them home.” Her invitation is throaty and sexy.

Randall and Lena first met Marcia on the wooden bench in front of a Diane Arbus photograph, “A Young Negro Boy,” at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. Marcia squeezed onto the bench, uninvited, and talked about the photographer’s work, her hands gesturing rapidly the whole time, without any signal from Randall or Lena.

“Diane Arbus once said or wrote that she believes that there were things nobody would see unless she photographed them.” Marcia offered her interpretations of the artist’s intentions—“She wanted to capture life and give meaning to everyday existence” —that continued over dinner at the restaurant next door.

When Marcia discovered that Lena was a long-time friend of Cheryl’s, she insisted on paying the check. With Cheryl’s help they bought two pieces of Marcia’s art the following week. Marcia encouraged Lena to take a photography class with her on the one occasion they’d gone for coffee. The class, Marcia emphasized with her hands more than her words, was a way to stretch to the next level and, if Lena was really interested in taking pictures, the class would help to make her photography art.

f f f

“Your work is lovely, Marcia,” Lena says.

If there had been a paintbrush in Marcia’s hands for her dismissal of Lena’s flattery, it would have feathered large circles around the room and touched every painting. “This is my home and my gallery.”

“Thanks for remembering me,” Lena calls to Marcia’s back. There haven’t been any invitations in Lena’s mailbox for a long time, despite the change of address notices she sent to all of their friends. No dinners or movies, weddings, or parties. Marcia forgot—or Cheryl forgot to tell her—that Lena and Randall were no longer a couple: her metallic envelope was addressed to the two of them. The familiar unfamiliar sight of their two names together set off a sudden burst of tears. Lena promptly accepted Marcia’s invitation, not so much out of fear that it might be retracted but with the knowledge that if she let it sit she would change her mind and Marcia might not think of her the next time around.

Lena breathes in the scent of cumin and curry and maybe nutmeg or mace. The house smells like home. Old home. She wanders around the condo.

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