"Do you think it was some kind of omen?" Some kind of omen that means the opposite of wealth and good luck, she wonders.

"It was a spider, Lena. I'm my own omen-I make the s.h.i.t happen." Randall laughs. Not the hearty laugh that brushed her cheek those Sunday mornings they used to sleep in, nestled eye to eye, full of gossip and plans for what they will do-play poker, visit Tahiti, romp in the sand in the south of France-when Randall retires. His laugh is cool and distant; the one reserved for clients, the one that makes him appear noncommittal, more than competent. Controlled. "Have you made any decisions?" make the s.h.i.t happen." Randall laughs. Not the hearty laugh that brushed her cheek those Sunday mornings they used to sleep in, nestled eye to eye, full of gossip and plans for what they will do-play poker, visit Tahiti, romp in the sand in the south of France-when Randall retires. His laugh is cool and distant; the one reserved for clients, the one that makes him appear noncommittal, more than competent. Controlled. "Have you made any decisions?"

"Decisions?"

"You heard me. I won't put my life on hold until you figure out how good you've got it."

Months after his promotion, in a trendy San Francisco restaurant, Randall spoke to Lena of how being the only black man in the inner circle, where no one made less than a seven-figure salary, made him watch his every step. The double stress plagued black men, he told her, especially where the fraternity of black power brokers was limited and fragile.

"Success is a game-aka the black man's burden-act white, fight white to get to the top. Then fight, any way you can, to prove that you deserve to be there."

Lena watched Randall, with barely a blink or a breath, while he described, not for the first time, the need to fight stereotypes that could turn a black man into something less than whole and accusations that lacked substance: forgetting where one came from and selling out; smart but not smart enough, the expectation of failure. The pressure he felt from all sides was palpable, but he remained determined to do whatever it took to be successful.

At the next table, a man held a match to his cigar and puffed madly until the chubby stick of tobacco caught the flame. Lena inhaled the strong, bitter scent that reminded her of Sat.u.r.day night chats with John Henry when she was a teen, reminded her of the puffs he let her take when Lulu wasn't watching.

"I won't be around as much as I'd like. I know how much you do. And I appreciate it." Randall took a slender, black box from his jacket, slid it across the table, and opened it. Couples to the left and right stared when Lena gasped at the large, radiant yellow diamond attached to a delicate, narrow platinum chain. The stone glistened in the candlelight in that way that only a clear diamond can. Randall stepped behind Lena and fastened the necklace around her neck while the same couples applauded and asked if it was their anniversary or her birthday.

She turned and pressed her lips to his, the promise in her eyes of more than that to come. "Thank you, sweetie. I love you, and I'm behind you one hundred percent."

Randall raised his gla.s.s in a toast. He waited until she finished her wine and poured a little more into their gla.s.ses and reminded her that none of the other executives' wives worked. "I know you're ready to launch your business. Put your plans on hold. For a while. Forever if you want. At least until I'm established, more trusted at TIDA."

His scattered and disjointed phrases were so unlike him that Lena wondered if he was nervous. She watched his face, the clear skin, the absence of wrinkles that made so many people mistake him for much younger than his then fifty-three years. His eyes focused on the stone on her chest. His expression affirmed his satisfaction in the incline of his head, the angle of his neatly clipped mustache, and she wondered what other sacrifices she would make for the sake of his career.

The diamond pulsed with the rapid beat of Lena's heart. Randall's lips moved but she could not hear what he said. She fingered the yellow stone and smiled. "Is this a bribe or a thank-you?"

"Both." Randall grinned. "You'll have more time. You can come with me on my trips. We'll see the world on TIDA's dime. When the time is right, I'll help you start again. I promise."

The cigar smoke wafted closer to their table. Her second, deep breath brought back John Henry and the white smoke that had streamed from her father's lips between sips from his Sat.u.r.day night gla.s.s of Jack Daniel's on the rocks. He had doled out advice on life while she tried to figure out racism or Catholicism or problems as simple as boys and dating; and later, how hard she had to fight for the life she wanted. "What the h.e.l.l did you expect, Lena Inez?" John Henry fussed one night. "You want the life, you got to pay the price."

"Maybe we we could get away when you come home." could get away when you come home."

"I'm not going anywhere any time soon. Unless I have to." If punctuation marks could be heard, Lena thinks, exclamation points would have banged like a firecracker at the end of Randall's sentence. Fatigue and irritation slip from his voice. "As a matter of fact, right now, I'm sick of hotels, of people who don't look or sound like me. I'm sick of the stares. I need a dose of black people. I want a party when I get home. Ten, maybe twelve people, that standing rib roast you make." At their last party months ago, their guests refused to leave until well after three in the morning. Reluctant to let go of the good feeling, Randall opened another bottle of wine. Lena retrieved the remains of dessert, and they stayed up until the rising sun tinted the sky pinkish yellow.

"I'd really like to wait until the situation is... smoother between us?" Or, she thinks, until her funk moves on.

"Make sure you invite Candace. I get a kick out of her theatrics."

"I saw her the other day. She had some sad news."

"Don't tell me: she needs more jewelry."

Lena cannot read the signs of his strong voice. There is no strain, although she can't deny its edginess. "It's not always about what you can buy, Randall. Dana and Carl are getting divorced."

"Well, scratch them off the list. It'll be good to see our friends."

"Please, Randall, can we decide about the party when you come home?" Three. Lena counts on her fingers, three more days.

"Nothing to decide. Just handle it."

Almost as soon as Lena presses the seventh digit of the number written on the bottom of the enrollment slip, a man answers the phone. The instructor's voice is tw.a.n.gy and aged when he answers with his full name instead of h.e.l.lo. She offers an explanation for missing the first cla.s.s with a very adult excuse: "For personal reasons."

"Are you a serious photographer?"

The instructor listens without comment while Lena takes five minutes to summarize why she wants to hone her rusty skills.

"There are Sat.u.r.day labs. You can develop your film at home. I'm not interested in people who need to fill their empty schedules."

If she thought he would care, Lena would tell the cranky instructor that she has plenty to fill her schedule; it's the hole in her spirit she needs to fill. "I'm serious. I'll do whatever I have to, but I won't be able to make the second cla.s.s either. Can you give me your notes and the a.s.signment so that I can keep up?"

"My policy's simple: skip one cla.s.s, you're okay. Skip cla.s.s twice, you gotta problem." He presses on with more terse words about dedication and continuity that Lena tunes out. "It's up to you, but the more you miss, the more behind you get."

The phone clicks off before she can tell him anything more. Sinking back into the bed, Lena lets sleep take over. Snakes and water. A man's hand beckons her into a gently breaking black surf, and she slips below. Her fishlike mouth opens to swallow people-plankton drifting by: Randall entwined in a headless woman's arms, a baby Kendrick morphing into a man, Camille crowned with stars, Candace's hand covered with pinky rings. Lena twirls, the reverse of falling into the sucking liquid, yet able to watch herself, hair swirling in slow motion, shrunk to its beloved nap. Diamond earrings glimmer in shrinking lobes, vibrant red fingernails. Wedding bands float past like dazzling schools of fish.

Beside an open coffin Tina Turner wears a zoot suit. Lena belches bubbles full of a merry Randall, Kendrick, and Camille. Each bubble rises past schools of silver fish, past coral and seaweed and thrusts her up, up, up. Lena rises to the surface, naked before G.o.d's bluest sky and Tina Turner's outstretched arms.

The sheets are soaked when Lena awakens. The room is neither hot nor cold, yet she shivers as if it is the middle of winter and tries to understand her dream. Listen to Tina. Be the good girl-a girl at fifty-four. Follow the rules. Consider the blessings. Randall wants a party. He's tired. What's a little att.i.tude in exchange for the life he has given her? And she has more than enough: this house, clothes, no worries, and diamonds on her fingers, neck, and ears.

The pictures, the memories spill from the planner when Lena picks it up. How innocent Kendrick looked in his Halloween costume, his first one. He was a puppy. When Lena explained that animals didn't make good costumes, he looked at her with a serious face and insisted. Camille liked ballet, liked dressing up and being the center of attention. She posed for hours in the mirror practicing pirouettes and plies.

The account withdrawal slip is thin and narrow. Randall and Lena's full names are imprinted in block letters in the upper left-hand corner. On the photography enrollment paperwork her name is written in the same way and, looking from one piece of paper to the other, it seems odd to see hers by itself. Taking the two pieces of paper in her hands, Lena tears and tears until they blend into an unrecognizable heap atop the sheets.

Chapter 5.

Ten after eight. Step fast, faster. Randall hates waiting, especially after a long trip. This afternoon Lena cleaned the house from top to bottom, right alongside the housekeeper. She cancelled Randall's car service and decided to pick him up like she did when his business trips first began to take him around the world. The Drambuie is back in the liquor cabinet; fresh linens envelop the bed. Run, Lena, run. Past people speaking in French, Spanish, and a myriad of Asian languages all intoned with joyous inflections that need no translation. Past a smattering of kohl-eyed Indian women swathed in silk saris, Filipino men in embroidered linen barong shirts, and Asian businessmen in conservative sharkskin suits.

Run, Lena, run. Pa.s.sengers exit customs through two cordoned-off hallways. TV monitors flash weary and preoccupied faces to watchful loved ones and chauffeurs with handwritten signs. Randall's image crosses the screen. His trademark heavy-heeled gait is slow. Lena giggles; a surprise to herself and the man next to her.

Nearly fifty-eight, Randall is handsome in a way Lena knows women envy men for, the good looks that seem to get better with age. His head bobs to a rhythm only he can hear; maybe Miles or Charlie Parker or one of the little-known jazz artists he loves to discover. Scrunched forehead, heavy eyelids and tight lips; yet clean-shaven and crisp. How he manages to keep his clothes wrinkle free after long drives and even longer flights is a mystery that Lena appreciates but cannot understand. Thirty-four days of meals in fancy restaurants have left his stomach with a slight paunch that Lena knows he'll work off with his trainer. He looks good, as good as he did all those years ago when she spotted him on the dance floor, and her heart commanded him to look her way.

Lena was twenty, and Randall just turned twenty-four, that summer she walked into the party and noticed him. It was the c.o.c.k of his head, the ba.s.s in his voice, and the confidence in his hands as he gave the high sign to his buddy, Charles, that first attracted her. She walked to his side of the room, lingered close to where he stood, and popped her fingers to the music. She figured he was bright, or she obvious, when he turned to talk to her and flaunted his credentials like an Easter litany: almost done with his MBA at Wharton, new GTO, the only summer intern in an all-white corporate communications firm, just shy of being a token, because he was smart. His stance, his articulation, a.s.sumed she would swoon over his budding potential.

Instead she told him a joke. A stupid joke. "Knock, knock." She tapped on his arm and made him ask who's there. "Orange," she answered. "Orange you glad I came over here?"

Lena sashays to the end of the customs exit corridor and lifts onto her toes to meet Randall's face four inches above her five-eight frame. "Welcome home!" She sniffs: pepper, cinnamon, and a hint of the fifteen-hour plane ride. He is her first love. Her love is centered in that place of emotion, not words; she will always love him. At this moment, she longs for that old heart-to-stomach-to-toes tingle she used to feel with the very thought of him. She angles her head in what she hopes is a seductive tilt and stretches her arms around his neck.

"Well, this is a surprise." Randall makes a smacking mmm-wha mmm-wha sound as he brushes her lips. "What got into you?" sound as he brushes her lips. "What got into you?"

"You!" Lena grins and lowers herself, but not her expectations, for there is a bottle of Duckhorn merlot in a sterling silver wine bucket at the foot of the six-foot bathtub at home. The Gentle Side of Coltrane The Gentle Side of Coltrane, one of Randall's beloved alb.u.ms-a compilation much like the one that played after the memories of the Tina Turner concert faded, and he seduced her-is on the stereo queued and ready to play.

That night was romantic, one of a kind. There was a shadow of beard on his chin then, like the one there now, but that was the silky shadow of a young man not in need of the daily use of a razor. Lena slides her fingers down Randall's cheek and over his p.r.i.c.kly overnight stubble. "Tired?"

"Bushed." He stretches his empty hand and wavers momentarily; his hand stuck between handshake and hug, between peace offering and affection. His lips form a tight smile; fatigue or disinterest Lena cannot tell. Her hand goes up while his goes down, brushing only at that point, that fulcrum of mismatched timing, capturing only electricity and k.n.o.bby knuckles.

Sadness and sameness run from her heart to her stomach to her toes. She picks up the lighter of his two bags, a leather duffle she gave to him one Christmas, and heads for the parking lot. "That's all?"

"If I said anything more, I'd have to sing, and I thought you said I should leave the falsetto to Smokey." He chuckles and stretches his arm around her shoulder; the airport, the exiting pa.s.sengers, the gigantic monitors and patrolling security guards, anything but her eyes the focus of his attention.

At the exit of the crowded parking lot, Lena pulls onto the freeway and floors the accelerator until the speedometer twitches close to ninety and the gray marble facade of San Francisco International Airport looms far behind them. The last time she dropped Randall off, he chided her, all the way to the airport, for her racecar antics and the three or four hundred dollar moving violation that the highway patrol would issue to a black woman in a very expensive, very red convertible.

This evening, silence is a third pa.s.senger in the car. Lena rehea.r.s.ed the scene, this ride home, in her head: she would say she missed him, he would say he missed her, too, and that he wants her to have the sense of self-reliance she seeks. No decision necessary.

Tina's voice rings out from the radio's speakers. Like the lyrics that slipped off the printer, this song is perfectly timed. Tina sings what Lena wants to say: Two people gotta stick together Two people gotta stick togetherAnd love one another, save it for a rainy day Lena looks from the road to her husband's profile; his broad nose and full lips-the thick salt-and-pepper mustache above them-are fixed in a stern pout. The car is a finely tuned instrument, as controlled and syncopated as the melody. The gears switch to the music's beat, and Lena steers in and out of the choppy Highway 101 traffic, back to the Bay Bridge and to Oakland.

"I missed you."

"It's been a long time." Randall turns off the radio and pats her thigh. "The woman next to me on the plane wouldn't shut up. The quiet suits me just fine."

They pa.s.s San Francisco's skyline to the west-the thin pyramid skysc.r.a.per and its stair-step sisters compete with one another in their stretch to the sky-the blue-black waters of the bay to the east. New York, Rome, Barcelona, Lena thinks-no matter where she goes in the world, this view of tall buildings and twinkling lights, stars under stars, is as beautiful as any place else she has ever seen.

Their house perches on a low knoll fifty feet back from the sidewalk. It is not the biggest house on the block, but it has the most curb appeal. There is no moon this evening to light the wide front porch, the square edges of its overhang, and the well-groomed lawn. Headlights cast a halogen glow on the white petunias bordering the curb. Cl.u.s.ters of redwood and oak trees on either side of the house form immense shadows around the yard.

"Frank does a great job with the lawn." Randall unbuckles his seat belt as Lena eases into the garage beside their stucco house.

Lena points out the tree drooping beside the garage. "He says the lemon tree is dead, and we have to decide what to replace it with." She will make this decision without Randall. The gardener will bow deferentially to Lena, as he has on other occasions, when she tells him to replace the forty-year-old tree with a younger, healthier one. It will take the sapling years to develop before the sweet fragrance of a mature tree can once again perfume a summer's night.

Loud music blasts from the house-more ba.s.s than words. Kendrick's stereo booms a rapper's version of a tough life their son has never known and connects Randall and Lena where their airport reunion did not. Together their heads shake in disapproval of the hard-edged music. Lena tolerates rap, at least those songs whose lyrics she can understand. Randall has said repeatedly that it's a waste of time, and his face says so now. But his face also says he's happy to hear the familiar sounds that confirm all is normal.

"Well, it's this way," Randall says, his version of prayer, his thanks for a safe trip home. Early in their marriage he explained his appreciation for shortened prayers: too much of his youth spent in all-day Sunday school. With the exception of funerals-his mother, John Henry, and a college cla.s.smate-he avoids church. For now these four words are as close to prayer as he gets. Luggage in hand, he wanders past green granite countertops, a sleek stainless steel refrigerator, and a three hundred dollar toaster to hallway to living room to sunroom to his office. Once there, he rifles through his mail and grabs the latest issue of Audiophile Quarterly. Audiophile Quarterly. Less than a minute later, he raps on Kendrick's door and hugs him when the door swings wide open. Less than a minute later, he raps on Kendrick's door and hugs him when the door swings wide open.

"Looking good, Junior."

"What's with the Junior, Senior? That stopped in eighth grade. Not getting that over-the-hill disease are you?"

There it is. Lena pauses on the stairs to listen-the sound of harmony. Family. Home.

They prop themselves against the doorframe, father to the left, son to the right. Kendrick's smooth face echoes Randall's. They are similar in many ways: their legs cross left over right, the intensity in their eyes and language, words emphasized with their hands.

"Not much to report, Dad. Therapy. Looking for part-time work. Ready to go back to school. Still not driving-boring."

Randall fakes a cuff to Kendrick's chin and motions to him to follow down the hall. "I think we may be able to do something about that."

"Camille!" Kimchee meows as if Randall is calling him; a loud salutation, Lena knows, to its second master. Forever and a day she will despise cats. If Kimchee were human, Lena would tell the cat not to take it personally. Camille skips down the hall, Kimchee cuddled in her arms. The open door behind her releases the smell of the sour litterbox.

"h.e.l.lo, kitty," Randall smoothes the scruff of Kimchee's neck. "Hey, Camille, how's my big girl?"

"Starless, Dad, Starless. And I've been a 'big girl' for a long time."

"Two things: one, I named you Camille, and that's what I'll call you." Randall busses Camille's cheek. "And two, I'm sad to report that I know you're a big girl-the reminder's for me, not you, Miz Smart-aleck."

"Then I guess I can make an exception. This time." Like the little girl she once was, Camille leans into her father's open arms and thrusts an oversized envelope into his hands. "Columbia, Dad! The letter came yesterday." Her hands punctuate her words, too, and Randall embraces her again.

Lena halts mid-step on the staircase's last step. "Congratulations, honey!" She shouts the only response she can. This news is new to her. Though she should have known weeks ago that Camille would keep her acceptance to herself when, nervous to hear from colleges, she demanded her right to pick up the daily mail without having to compete with Lena. She was tired of Lena's over-mothering, her nagging to wear practical clothes, to stick to deadlines, to help with the mountain of essays and paperwork throughout the whole college application process. She wanted to get the acceptance-or rejection-letters first.

"And what about your brother here?" Randall asks. "Is it time to give him back the keys to his car? Have you kept an eye on him?"

"Kendrick's doing really great, Dad! He's ready." Camille slaps Kendrick high five. "And what little goodies did you bring your wonderful offspring this time, hmmmm?" The two follow their father down the hallway past Lena's framed photos of the family in various stages of life-baptism, kindergarten, chicken pox-their faces as full of antic.i.p.ation as they were when he first began to travel. A younger Kendrick and Camille fought to carry Randall's suitcase, fought to open it. Now they stroll behind their father with the presumption of gifts in their stride.

"Didn't have time to shop. Too busy closing my deal." Randall turns both thumbs upward. "Your old man kicked a.s.s, if I do say so myself." Kendrick extends a fist to give his dad the secret handshake they invented when he was nine-Randall's salute to the good old days, Kendrick's to a newly found discovery of 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 Sat.u.r.day 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.

"h.e.l.la 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 exasperation not exhaustion. "But, I can always treat Sharon to an expensive meal."

Whenever Randall comes home from his trips, Lena unpacks his suitcase. A habit turned expectation that grew into its own ritual over the years and gave them time alone; like picking him up from the airport before he became a bigwig. Sometimes he sat on the side of the bed or in the chaise and regaled her with road gossip. Sometimes he waited for Camille and Kendrick to leave their room to tell her how much he missed her, or shut the door and showed her.

Now Lena takes I, Tina I, Tina from the nightstand and walks past their king-sized bed, the rectangle of his open suitcase, and into her office. He is punishing her, she knows, punishing her for questioning the life he wants for her: be the good girl, follow the rules. She reads her email, goes onto the official Tina Turner site and resists the temptation to rush to the stereo, to turn off Coltrane's saxophone just now beginning to drift through the house and exchange it for Tina's music as loud as the speakers will permit. from the nightstand and walks past their king-sized bed, the rectangle of his open suitcase, and into her office. He is punishing her, she knows, punishing her for questioning the life he wants for her: be the good girl, follow the rules. She reads her email, goes onto the official Tina Turner site and resists the temptation to rush to the stereo, to turn off Coltrane's saxophone just now beginning to drift through the house and exchange it for Tina's music as loud as the speakers will permit.

Near the end of her time with Ike, Tina visited a friend who practiced Buddhism. The visual of the woman, though not her name, is still in Lena's head: the woman, and soon afterward Tina, made a small altar before which they could sit and chant and mold a ritual to soothe their spirits and make them strong.

Two stubby candles still sit on her desk. With a candle on either side, and a stack of Tina's CDs atop the paperback, Lena reminds herself to pick up incense and a holder, perhaps a crystal, tomorrow. Her ritual, she thinks, does not have to be elaborate. The process of lighting the candles, of slowing down her thoughts, of scanning random pa.s.sages from I, Tina I, Tina helps her to gather, little by little, the sum of all the parts-good and not-to help her to press on. helps her to gather, little by little, the sum of all the parts-good and not-to help her to press on.