"Ha! Randall didn't get to where he is today by being timid or indecisive."

On the dirt path in front of them, leggy, green-wing-tipped geese squawk exclamation points to their conversation. Lena speeds up a small incline, stomps her feet at the top, and yields the right of way to a gaggle of the ubiquitous geese on the graveled path. She sidesteps to her left and away from the bird droppings, and Cheryl steps with her. Any day, rows of downy ducklings will waddle across this same path to the water's edge. Spring has crept in; bougainvillea buds are fat and primed to burst in sprays of red. Already several new mothers, waists thick with baby fat, determinedly push their newborns in three-wheeled strollers to exercise away their pregnancy weight.

"I'll help any way I can, but you knew that when you called. You could have told me outright about you and Randall. You didn't have to make up any excuses."

"I'm embarra.s.sed."

"Girl, I knew you when you were still a virgin. Please. Divorce is simply another phase of life."

"We're not getting divorced."

"You sure about that?"

Lena gives the only answer she can: a heavy-shouldered shrug.

Cheryl has had two husbands and no kids. Even though her marriages were short-lived-the first one twenty months, the second three years-she once told Lena that marital bliss was an ideal state. Lena thought so, too. She kicks stones from the path, stoops to pick one up, and tosses it at the geese, dispersing them in all directions. Don't blame us, their squawks seem to say, it's not our fault.

"I missed you. We can hang out again, even though..." Cheryl waves her hands around her and stops at the promenade where they started. "At our age you better think seriously before you step back into the single life."

"What's age got to do with it?"

"We've pa.s.sed men, and not one of them has looked at us, said h.e.l.lo, or, G.o.d forbid, flirted. We're in our fifties. We're invisible. And while I don't give a d.a.m.n about that, you might, if you were single."

"I'm not the kind of woman that men have ever fallen over themselves for." She snickers, her broad shoulders relax. Not fat. Not skinny. b.r.e.a.s.t.s Randall still calls, called, perky, hands without dark spots or lines. "I don't care. Age is just a number, right? At least that's what you used to say when we were forty, and you hit on thirty-year-olds."

"Still do!" Cheryl grins. "Just like you say art ignores color, I have to believe believe art, and possibly thirty-year-olds, ignore age. That said, do you really want to be single and start over in photography or anything else at fifty-four? It's going to take hours and hours, maybe years of hustle." Cheryl looks Lena straight in the eye. "Bottom line: is he really all that bad?" art, and possibly thirty-year-olds, ignore age. That said, do you really want to be single and start over in photography or anything else at fifty-four? It's going to take hours and hours, maybe years of hustle." Cheryl looks Lena straight in the eye. "Bottom line: is he really all that bad?"

"If I believed he was bad then I would have to question why I've been with him all these years. He's not good or bad; he's Randall." From the arches Lena catches a glimpse of the older couple outlined in the distance, they walk arm in arm now, their pace steady and a.s.sured.

"Find another way to find find yourself. I a.s.sume, unless he's got someone on the side, that he loves you. So what if he doesn't say it. He gives it, which ain't bad, sweetie. I could use a bit of loving like that myself. Go screw his brains out and tell him to come back home." yourself. I a.s.sume, unless he's got someone on the side, that he loves you. So what if he doesn't say it. He gives it, which ain't bad, sweetie. I could use a bit of loving like that myself. Go screw his brains out and tell him to come back home."

"I wouldn't do it because of the money."

"(a) It's your money, too. And (b) you'd better get a lawyer, because money, my dear friend, is what Randall is all about. Call me when you're ready; I've got tons of recommendations."

Chapter 14.

The mail has collected in its metal box for six days. Camille stopped her daily trips to the mailbox after her early acceptance letter from Columbia arrived. Her agreement letter went back twenty-four hours later. An oversized envelope stands out among the business-sized ones, the catalogs, the magazines. TIDA's blue and white logo, the label clearly inscribed in her full name, Lena Harrison Spencer. After packs of coupons, credit card solicitations, and real estate brochures go straight into the recycle bin, Lena trudges back to the house.

She clutches the envelope in her hands, turns it over once, then once more for a clue to its contents. In the six days since she last saw Randall, they have not spoken. Through short, snippy emails, he told her that he would pick up the rest of his clothes and some furniture as soon as he finds a place. Kendrick has shuttled Randall's belongings and toiletries back and forth between home, the corporate condo, and a hotel suite that Randall has taken in San Francisco.

With one easy tug, Lena rips off the top of the TIDA envelope and yanks out the loose pages of typed correspondence. The cover letter is typed on TIDA's bold letterhead. Randall's secretary's initials are printed in a small font in the lower left-hand corner. He dictates his letters, he doesn't type, and Lena knows that he would not spend his precious time on a hunt-and-peck search around a keyboard to type a letter to her. If she wasn't a priority before, why would she be one now?

Ms. Lena Inez Harrison Spencer Ms. Lena Inez Harrison Spencer3567 Rockhead RoadOakland, CA 94602Lena:Enclosed are Dissolution of Marriage papers my attorney will file next week with the Alameda County Family Court. These doc.u.ments require your acknowledgment and immediate action. I am not interested in any more drama. You need a lawyer. Please direct future communication on this matter to my attorney. His information is located on the pet.i.tion. The cost of divorce and attorney's fees can be ridiculously high. Stay in the house, and I'll find other lodging. Be prepared to sell the house within the next 90 days, unless you want to cut a deal before the lawyers get involved. It would be to your benefit to do this, since my expectation is that you start to provide for yourself immediately. The cost of divorce and attorney's fees can be ridiculously high. Stay in the house, and I'll find other lodging. Be prepared to sell the house within the next 90 days, unless you want to cut a deal before the lawyers get involved. It would be to your benefit to do this, since my expectation is that you start to provide for yourself immediately. I propose that you keep the house and, with a few exceptions, its contents. The appreciation will offset my stock options, annual bonuses, and a reasonable portion of our joint portfolio. In return, I would expect your written agreement to release any other or future claims on my income, pensions, or IRA. I propose that you keep the house and, with a few exceptions, its contents. The appreciation will offset my stock options, annual bonuses, and a reasonable portion of our joint portfolio. In return, I would expect your written agreement to release any other or future claims on my income, pensions, or IRA. By waiting to file the dissolution paperwork, I have given you sufficient time to consider my proposal. This is a generous offer. I suggest you take it. By waiting to file the dissolution paperwork, I have given you sufficient time to consider my proposal. This is a generous offer. I suggest you take it. Cordially, Cordially,K. Randall Spencer Cordially?

"d.a.m.n you, K. Randall Spencer," she yells, noting her husband of twenty-three years has signed the letter like he would any other legal doc.u.ment written to a stranger.

"Mom?" Camille b.u.mps into Lena as she rushes into the kitchen. The house had been so quiet, she forgot her youngest was home. Camille's question is urgent, the tone she would use in an emergency. "Is everything okay?"

"Don't you have school?" Lena's voice is harsher than she intends.

"Relax. Teachers' meetings. No cla.s.ses until after lunch."

Lena turns away from Camille. The distinctive pleadings paperwork, its margins lined and the sentences numbered, is scattered on the counter and the floor.

"What's wrong?" Camille pushes aside the envelope and scans the divorce doc.u.ments. "Are you crying?"

Lena s.n.a.t.c.hes the papers from Camille's hand. "This is not your business."

"So this is it, huh? My parents are getting divorced. s.h.i.t."

"Don't curse."

"Don't do this to me." Camille's eyes tighten.

When Lena reaches out for Camille's hands, her daughter steps away. "Know that this is not about you."

"Well, Dad already warned me and Kendrick anyway." Camille smacks her hands together.

d.a.m.n, Randall. Lena's hands shake with the adrenaline rush. She s.n.a.t.c.hes the TV remote, throws it on the floor, and jams it with her foot into the counter's wooden toe kick until it breaks apart.

"Mom! Stop!" Camille dashes to the opposite side of the kitchen, waits for her mother's furor to pa.s.s, and covers her eyes with her hands. "He says you gave him no choice. What's up with that? Don't you care about our family? Don't you care about me or Kendrick?" Her voice booms across the room.

Lena laughs. A crazy laugh, like the mad wife in Jane Eyre Jane Eyre whose barmy laughter echoed through Rochester's mansion. Her laughter is so loud, so hard, that fear widens Camille's eyes and nostrils. Lena prays that daughter understands what mother finds so hard to understand: Randall won't talk to her, but he has the nerve to tell his daughter and son, before he tells his wife, what will happen to her life. Lena steps close, and Camille freezes when Lena embraces her. "I love you, Camille. Go to school. This is my fight, not yours." whose barmy laughter echoed through Rochester's mansion. Her laughter is so loud, so hard, that fear widens Camille's eyes and nostrils. Lena prays that daughter understands what mother finds so hard to understand: Randall won't talk to her, but he has the nerve to tell his daughter and son, before he tells his wife, what will happen to her life. Lena steps close, and Camille freezes when Lena embraces her. "I love you, Camille. Go to school. This is my fight, not yours."

Without a hug, a wave, a "see ya later," Camille slams the door. Lena hopes that one day Camille will understand how incapable and powerless her mother is at this moment. How she wants to kick and scream and hold her daughter tight, protect her, and show her how to be strong. When the time is right, when her head is right, Lena will sit Camille down and make sure she never ends up this way. There isn't one word she can think of that would have made these past ten minutes easier. d.a.m.n Randall for putting that on Camille, for putting her in the middle, for putting her on his side.

As clear as the view through the windows of this metal- and granite-filled kitchen, she tries to see the lesson in divorce, wants it to open out like the landscape before her: garden, trees, streets, sky, sun, clouds, stratosphere, heaven. Everything happens for a reason. She knows what Randall doesn't: she has to be free to fulfill her destiny. How could he explain that to Camille?

Beyond the windows, the day is brilliant. It feels like black inside Lena's head. Like midnight and death. Perhaps ninety minutes focused on her body; a release of her mind to its inner energy is what she needs. Stretch, downward facing dog, sun position, hands over heart, warrior pose; meditation for a restless mind that cannot stop. But the lethargy, the heavy weight of gloom, sends her one sluggish step at a time up the stairs.

Randall offers no option. Randall is not the option. Every single part of her body feels dead: her head lolls, her shoulders slump, her hands hang, her body sinks deeper into the bed until she feels that she is on the floor. Already, her body aches for the old days, the joy, the joking, sitting together without the need for words, body heat, the pride in her family and what she worked so hard to build: the promise of happily ever after.

She reaches for the telephone. It takes an eternity to lift it from nightstand to ear. She pushes eleven numbers. If she can hold on through the sales staff, the canned music, the minutes until her call is transferred to Bobbie's office, then she can cry.

"What's up?" The keys of Bobbie's computer keyboard click in the background.

"I got divorce papers." Lena explains Randall's proposal. She knows she's done the right thing. It is the anger at being spineless that hurts the most; the realization that, having given her all to marriage and family, the person she loves more than herself could let go as quickly as he did his ill-fated a.s.sistant. "Maybe I should call Randall-"

"Stop! Don't let him bully you into something you haven't thoroughly investigated. Run the numbers. Get a lawyer."

"A woman. Black."

"Divorce isn't about gender, color, or emotion. It's business."

"A black woman might understand how another black woman feels."

"Pain doesn't know color. Divorce is no more difficult emotionally for a black woman than it is for a white one. The difference is the shock on the lawyers' faces when they've spoken to you on the phone and heard your very white-sounding voice and then see what they didn't expect walk through their door. When they see your black face drive up in your gaudy Mercedes-Benz; when you list your a.s.sets-more than their own-and they want some explanation of why you've got it and they don't."

"So, how do I decide?"

"Pick the best, the sharpest. The most experienced lawyer will do what it takes to win." Bobbie's sigh is long. "There's a big difference between cynicism and racism. Understanding how much of either one you will take is how you decide who you'll work with and who you won't." The tap, tap of Bobbie's pencil or fingernail against the phone makes Lena feel like a poor student about to give a wrong answer to the teacher's question.

"I failed."

"You stood up for yourself. Did you think if you threw down the gauntlet Randall would sweep you off your feet, make pa.s.sionate love to you, and promise to value you for what you do for him and your family? Please."

"This is the most thoughtless, thought-full decision I've ever made." Lena pulls the covers over her head to shut out the radiant sun and what was a wonderful view of the neighborhood trees and their speckled shadows, San Francisco, and two bridges before she opened that envelope. "I should have spoken up sooner."

"I can't hear you. Where are you, Lena?"

"I'm in h.e.l.l. At least he could have given us us more thought-it's only been six days. It's like I'm no good... something that needs to be gotten rid of quickly. Like the garbage or... a big black spider." more thought-it's only been six days. It's like I'm no good... something that needs to be gotten rid of quickly. Like the garbage or... a big black spider."

"Can you finish what you started?"

"I can't breathe." Tina started over at forty-five. Now she has to start over, too. "What will I do? I feel like something is stuck in my throat. I can't breathe." Under the weight of the covers Lena feels like a ten-year-old hiding from the bogeyman, waiting for her big sister to rescue her with a flashlight.

"The choice has been made-move on, sister."

In the bathroom, Lena stares at the cabinet shelves lined with amber vials of leftover prescriptions for the insomnia that comes from menopause and the aches that come with aging. She s.n.a.t.c.hes seven amber vials from the mirrored cabinet and folds them carefully into the bottom of her pajama top. With her free hand, she rearranges what is left behind-aspirin, a box of cotton swabs, alcohol, peroxide, dry-eye solution, tea tree oil, and a box of estrogen patches-around the shelves, then walks back into the bedroom. What would Randall say if she did it? What would he do if she swallowed these pills? One by one, she empties the vials onto the bedspread; pills tumble, bead-like, left and right into piles. They should have held on to simple things, said I love you. Let's try.

Her pajamas are wet, her pillow is soaked, her gla.s.s filled with Drambuie. She sips and holds the liquid in her mouth. Would he be sorry that he didn't try to understand how much she loves him, how much she needs to be herself? Does he understand that she will never be able to get back what has been broken? She swallows hard and waits for the liquor to go down her throat and dissolve in her stomach juices. Stupid Randall. Stupid Lena.

Lena rolls the caplets between her fingers, watches them crumble with the heat of her hand. She gulps more Drambuie, lets it take its last slow ride down her throat. Sleep used to be sweet. If only she could sleep. Forever. If she had taped that Tina Turner interview she would watch it now. Lena reaches for her book and settles for Tina's image on the cover.

There is hope in Tina's eyes and the knowledge that life goes on, and it is good. Tina looks into the camera, looks straight into Lena's soul. The book falls open, the words are underlined: I knew that change had to come from the inside out-that I had to understand myself, and accept myself before anything else could be accomplished. I knew that change had to come from the inside out-that I had to understand myself, and accept myself before anything else could be accomplished.

Tina reinvented herself.

Tina survived.

Chapter 15.

Lena swerves into the underground parking lot of the new apartment building on the western side of Lake Merritt. She has watched its skeleton rise above the lake from the hill her house sits on and pa.s.sed it more than once on her walks. Its multistory reflection on the water makes the structure look taller and whiter than it is. Signs posted on the building's windows boast great views of San Francisco and the hills, a gym, a swimming pool, and enticing leases.

The marbled entryway is high-ceilinged and full of tall palm trees. The lobby resembles a five-star hotel-luxurious, comfortable, and welcoming. The advantage, Lena thinks, as she strolls toward the reception desk, of being married for twenty-three years is the knowledge the spouses have: they know one another. What Lena knows about Randall is this: whenever he cuts a deal he makes sure he is on the winning end. Years of watching him barter with humble vendors, cut business deals over dinner, and recap his victories have shown Lena what her soon to be ex-husband is capable of when he wants something. She a.s.sumes that if Randall wants her to keep the house, he-no they-must be worth more than he has let on.

Today everything is different. She knows it is better to be less controlled by Randall, to be out of the place that no longer feels like home. Even though, physically, Camille and Kendrick are around, the house has lost its soul.

"I'd like to see a three-bedroom apartment." Lena stands before the guard at the desk, impressive in his black uniform, as he dials the leasing office.

A gawky agent steps into the lobby from behind a door with a sign that reads: STAFF ONLY. The young man begins with a tour of the lobby, the workout room, and a small library area for the use of all the tenants.

Lena waves off his canned spiel and presses her hand to his arm-the same calming gesture she would have made to Kendrick or Camille. "All I want to see are the available units. I can't take a sales pitch today. Sorry."

They head for the two banks of elevators and tour several vacant units until she sees the apartment she wants: one with a view of the lake and the hills so that she can see where she lived from where she will live.

The apartment will do fine for her and Camille, and hopefully Kendrick, until Lena decides on a permanent place to call home. She will miss her house: scrub jays trilling at five in the morning, rock doves cooing, rain pelting against the tiled roof; chirping crickets and dancing b.u.t.terflies; the full moon through the bedroom window-luminous and mysterious; the crunch of autumn leaves, winter wind singing through the trees; the secret compartment behind the fuse box where a four-year-old Kendrick stored his rubber dinosaurs; a six-burner gas stove, blueberry pancakes on Sunday mornings.

In this kitchen, three times smaller than the one she has now, she thinks of how she will manage Thanksgiving dinner and Christmas, too, if she is lucky, and in a few weeks a cake for Camille's graduation. Lena will do whatever she must to make Camille's celebration normal. Let Randall do it. There's more to raising a child than signing checks. Let him hire a caterer, handle the details of the graduation party. Ha! Let him make sure Camille roams among family and old friends, collects envelopes of money and gift certificates, and pretends, if only for one day, that nothing in her life has changed. Let Lena be a guest in what was her own home.

"Ma'am?" The agent is tentative, but Lena does not need to be sold. "Excuse me, but this is the last apartment I have to show you."

"Where do I sign?" With no thought to where the money will come from, Lena decides a six-month lease makes the most sense, requires the least obligation for such a tenuous situation. The last time she rented an apartment she was twenty-five and three years away from buying the stucco house-a half-mile from Lulu and John Henry-that she lived in until her marriage.

While the gleeful agent completes the paperwork, Lena returns to the place she will call home. The apartment is simple: the ceiling meets white walls in sharp angles without the crown molding in every room of her house, a gas fireplace, wall-to-wall carpeting. This new place fourteen floors above street level is lovely but sterile.

"h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo," she calls out, waiting for her echo to repeat her words like children do in empty rooms. When she moved into her first apartment, there were friends there to help. It was a party: a celebration of independence, a joyful adjustment to living without parents, sister, or roommates. The process begins again. Same but different. The period of adjustment. The vocabulary change from we we to to I I. She walks from the open kitchen to the bedrooms and the small balcony. Who will greet her but these walls when she comes home? Who will she ask about their day? Who will say goodnight?

Twenty-three years of hard work: for her children, her husband, her marriage. Twenty-three years of sowing the seeds for a good life. Lena crosses her heart and whispers, "Dear G.o.d, I know my life will never be the same again. Please bless me and let new seeds sow themselves here."

"This is the easiest commission I've ever made." The agent is excited when she returns. Lena imagines that he has spent part of that time computing, if the calculator next to her paperwork is any indication, his commission.

Up to the time she rented that first apartment years ago, the biggest check she had written was for her car. That check for five hundred dollars was small compared to the one for the security deposit and first and last month's rent she will write today. Her hand trembled when she signed that lease and handed over her check. Her hand trembles now; this time, she understands, for a different reason. The checkbook inside her Louis Vuitton is the one for their joint equity cash fund. The one she supposes she can still draw funds from. It has not dawned on her until this moment, in front of this nervous young man, that, like a husband from the movies, Randall may have cut off her access to their joint accounts or, worse yet, taken all of their money. She has no idea of how this divorce thing works. But she knows that she better find out soon. If he has a lawyer, then he has one up on her. Up his.

If Randall has dared to pull out all of their money, she will make a few phone calls, the first to Candace, to a.s.sure that the whole world knows. If the balances have not been touched-what an odd salute to her trustworthiness-Lena cannot help but think how funny, for all his formality, that Randall still leaves managing the household funds to her.

If her change, like Tina's change, means taking the best from who she was to form who she wants to be, then Lena must accept and move on. She signs the new lease, effortlessly writes a check, and reminds herself to transfer funds to a separate bank account in her name.

"You really know what you want." The agent grabs Lena's hand and pumps enthusiastically, and she hopes, from the look of his frayed cuffs, that his commission will be spent on a new shirt. Let Randall worry about the cable bill, the PGE, the crack in the living room's bay window, the ashes in the fireplace, weeds in the patio cement, the cedar armoire, Kendrick's baptismal gown, Camille's first Easter dress, his great-grandmother's Bible.

She will move into this apartment and live here until the divorce is over and done done done.

In the car, Lena dials Bobbie's home number and listens to the latest greeting on her sister's voicemail: "You know what the deal is, and you know what to do. So, unless this is an emergency, leave a quick one."

"I've told you about that message, Bobbie. What if Lulu calls, what kind of message is she supposed to leave?" Lena is tired of being ombudsman between the two women she loves most in the world. She sighs and tries not to let out all the sadness her stomach is having a hard time keeping down. "I'm glad you're out. You need to do that more often anyway." Lena pauses long enough to compose herself but not long enough for the machine to turn off automatically. "I signed a lease for an apartment. I feel like s.h.i.t-but good s.h.i.t. If you have any suggestions for telling our mother, let me know or, better yet, I don't suppose you'd do that for me? Would you?" She can hear Bobbie's voice in her head as clearly as if she had picked up the phone: no way.