Chapter 18.

With a scone and her purse in her right hand, her extra-large latte in her left, and a speckled notebook under her arm, Lena heads for the counter in front of the window. The window bar of the Magical Cafe is empty save for the freckled man next to Cheryl who sips his coffee from a stainless steel mug. Cheryl is short, and her cowboy-booted feet dangle under the high, granite-topped coffee bar. She measures three teaspoons of sugar into her cappuccino and stirs the creamy brew while Lena gulps from her hot drink without hesitation.

"Let's get to it, Lena." Cheryl's tone is like that of a mother to a child. "I won't let you belabor this decision or turn it into a different kind of discussion."

Lena picks at the crumbs that tumble around her scone in the way that she wishes to pick away at time and slow it down. She rests her face in her hands and sobs inaudibly. The two women sit that way for a moment: silent against the hiss of the espresso, the clatter of coins against the granite counter, the orders for new beverages with and without foam. The freckled man's eyes follow Cheryl's hand into her red handbag. She pulls out her address book and begins.

"First, here are the names of three gallery owners. I've spoken to them, and they're waiting for your call. All of them are looking for help. They may not pay much, but something is better than nothing."

Lena opens her notebook. DIVORCE is written in block letters on the front. She writes down the names and numbers and promises to call as soon as she gets home. Until she understands family law better, and the Internet has helped, she knows there's no harm in having extra money.

"Lawyers. I have at least ten." Over the years, Cheryl has given Lena the names of florists, cleaning ladies, caterers, restaurants, stockbrokers, and window cleaners. When Lena once asked how Cheryl gathered all of this info, she explained that it was a habit she'd picked up from her mother, who was raised in a small town without access to a phone directory and kept the names of people she knew she could count on close at hand. "Elizabeth Silvermann is more your style. She's sharp and a bit egotistical, but she knows what she's doing.

"Now, I want you to memorize these four rules-they'll help you deal with your lawyer and with Randall. They worked for me, and the least I can do is pa.s.s them on."

Lena holds her pen tightly in her hand, poised and ready to write.

"Lesson number one: time is money. If your lawyer won't give you her time, then she won't get your money. Lesson number two: even if muscle remembers, the heart must forget. You understand?"

The man boldly looks over Cheryl's shoulder. She gives him a cold MYOB smile. "Do you need a lawyer, too?"

"Oh, no, ma'am. Been there, done that."

Cheryl whispers. "He's fascinated that a black woman knows this stuff. Happens all the time. Lesson number three: the only color that matters is green. Our friend here just proved that. And lesson number four-this one may be hard for you, Lena-let Randall think think he has the upper hand. Let his ego get him in trouble. Now, questions for the lawyer." he has the upper hand. Let his ego get him in trouble. Now, questions for the lawyer."

"You're no fun today."

"Work now, lots of fun later. I've got plans!"

Lena turns the page and writes her questions in outline form: what am I ent.i.tled to, lawyer fees, options, support-who pays for the apartment once we have separate accounts, the house, art and furniture she still wants but had to leave behind, how long does it take, next steps.

The freckled man chimes in again in that effortless way Californians have of b.u.t.ting into strangers' conversations. "If you haven't acknowledged receipt of your divorce notice you should take money from joint accounts."

"Now that," Lena says, extending her hand to the man, "is good advice."

"Timing," he finishes, beaming at the flattery. "It's all a matter of timing."

Lena let go of her white voice when she gave Elizabeth Silvermann all the details on the phone-she a homemaker, Randall the successful businessman-so that Elizabeth could occupy herself with the facts and not the mystery of how two black people got to be where they are. Still, the lawyer's eyes widen briefly when Lena walks into her office, and Lena can tell by Elizabeth's quick double-take that she is not what the lawyer thought she would be either. On the phone Elizabeth's voice was forceful, and Lena imagined the lawyer would be masculine and broad shouldered. Not that it matters, Lena thinks. The white lawyer is lithe, skinny as a rail with full head of black hair. Her exaggerated stride and firm handshake hint that she will do well by Lena.

Lesson number three: the only color that counts is green.

Elizabeth's confidence oozes across her ma.s.sive wooden desk as she brags about her successes for fifteen minutes nonstop: how many cases she has won, how many clients she has, the settlements. Her voice is full of ego, self-a.s.surance, and challenge. Slowly it becomes clear to Lena that this is the lawyer's prologue, her curriculum vitae to back up one of the most important pieces of advice Lena has ever received.

"I have no doubt that this is a painful time for you." Elizabeth stops to call to the outer office, where an aide shuffles papers, to hold her calls for twenty more minutes. "Divorce may not be what you want, may not be what you end up with, but you have to decide. This could be the best thing that happened to you, or the worst. Do you want to be a victim or do you want to make this an opportunity for a fresh start? Your chance to rediscover yourself and what you want out of the rest of your life."

This, Lena thinks, is undirected direction. "So what you're saying is that I should take advantage of change?" Elizabeth's concept or Vernon's foresight? "Divorce as a second chance?"

"It's the only way to look at your situation, and I don't represent victims."

Lena nods her agreement.

"Do you have a plan?"

Elizabeth listens carefully while Lena explains the details of Randall's proposal. The lawyer takes his note and chuckles. "He may know his way around a corporation, but he doesn't have a d.a.m.n idea of how family law works. I hope you didn't say yes."

"I moved into an apartment. Randall says he won't pay for it."

"Moving was probably not the wisest choice, especially if you have to worry about money, but we can fix that." Elizabeth pauses to read the rest of the letter. "Oh, he's in for a surprise. A few surprises, I'd say. What's the rest of your plan?"

"A friend is helping me look for work at a few art galleries. My photography. Other than that, I have no plan."

"Are you waiting for your husband to tell you what to do? You do do understand that he relinquished that privilege when he served you with divorce papers, don't you?" Elizabeth's chunky tortoisesh.e.l.l eyegla.s.ses slip down her thin nose. She pushes them back with the heel of her hand-something she will do every five minutes or so this and every time they meet-and washes down bite-sized chocolates with diet soda. "If your husband is as savvy as you say, then you better make sure you retain representation that can help you put a good plan together." understand that he relinquished that privilege when he served you with divorce papers, don't you?" Elizabeth's chunky tortoisesh.e.l.l eyegla.s.ses slip down her thin nose. She pushes them back with the heel of her hand-something she will do every five minutes or so this and every time they meet-and washes down bite-sized chocolates with diet soda. "If your husband is as savvy as you say, then you better make sure you retain representation that can help you put a good plan together."

Lena considers Cheryl's rules. She chooses to stop counting the days since Randall's been gone. Yanking her checkbook from her purse, she reminds herself of the most important rule: let Randall think he has the upper hand.

"I may have been some kind of victim before this," Lena slaps a ten thousand dollar retainer check on Elizabeth's desk. "But I'll be d.a.m.ned if that's what I'll be from now on."

Hours after meeting with her new lawyer, Lena sits at her desk ready to follow Elizabeth's suggestion. Her business plan, loose family photos, scissors, and magazines are stacked in front of her. Tina's book lies open, once again: I was looking, I was looking, Tina wrote, Tina wrote, for a truth of a future that I could feel inside of me. for a truth of a future that I could feel inside of me.

Lena writes those words in broad letters across the top of a sixteen-inch square board. She picks up the scissors and begins: a camera, a bouquet of white rubrum lilies, the word MOM, a snapshot of Bobbie, Columbia's campus from one of Camille's brochures, Kendrick at five displaying his kindergarten diploma, his high school graduation picture, and a printout of a postcard with a scrub of bushes high on a hill encircled with the words Tina Lives Here Tina Lives Here; a ski lodge in Switzerland, Agra, and the Taj Mahal. She pastes the letters S-T-R-E-N-G-T-H across the bottom. This reminder shapes her plan and, she figures out, as she pastes on the last touch-a picture of Tina performing-that somewhere, somehow Tina Turner will be part of it.

When the first tingle of discontent began to nag at her, perhaps two years ago or more, Lena hired a feng shui consultant-an energy cleaner. The consultant emphasized the importance of keeping a living s.p.a.ce positive regardless of negative interactions. In this new s.p.a.ce, the only negativity is in whatever she has brought with her. Lena steps into the hallway, flexing her fingers all the while, and practices the motion she forgot to use when her relationship with Camille soured, when Randall began to favor early sleep over conversation, when Kendrick avoided her.

Standing in the middle of the living room, boxes still piled high against the walls, Lena rests her thumbs on the tips of the middle fingers of her left and right hands and considers the gesture she is about to make. The motion symbolizes a casting-off: doubt, fear, insecurity, disrespect-all those forces that threaten her well-being. Lena flicks those fingers, gently at first. Over the boxes, the couch, the few pieces of furniture haphazardly arranged around the room.

Through the entryway, the kitchen and bedrooms. To Kendrick's new room, then Camille's to banish their pain. Are they asking their father why?

Flick. Faster. Through the master bedroom. She can make it on her own.

Flick. Flick. Harder. To her desk and into every nook, every corner where frustration might hide. Lena blows out a long sigh and snaps to attention. Energy shifts. She is ready to fight.

Chapter 19.

The waiting room is plain and without a distinct personality. There are no knickknacks, no university diplomas or certificates of merit, no a.s.sembly line or ma.s.s-produced landscape art. Randall enters the small area, sits on the chair perpendicular to Lena's, and utters a terse "Good morning." He scans a magazine while Lena stares at the words she wrote when Elizabeth spoke them this morning: victims let let things happen; victors things happen; victors make make things happen-you are a victor, Lena. things happen-you are a victor, Lena.

A husky, dimpled man steps from an inner office and introduces himself as Harry C. Meyers. His face, straight and serious, indicates his neutrality. He gestures toward a conference room and the two follow him into it. Reflex courtesy takes over as Randall signals that Lena should enter first. They choose the same sides of the table as the bed they used to sleep in together: Lena to the left, Randall to the right.

Mr. Meyers is a piler. His hands rest on top of the evidence of his obsession before him at the head of the table: two reams of 8 x 11 paper, five 8 x 14 yellow legal pads, two boxes of paper clips, two pads of forms, cell phone atop electronic planner atop calculator, and two containers of breath mints-the kind that rattle when they shake free of their plastic container.

Under the table Lena crosses and uncrosses her legs, wipes the palms of her hands against her black dress, and wonders if it's too early to ask for a bathroom break. Instead, she opens her speckled notebook to the page where her rules are written and reads rule number four-let Randall think he has the upper hand.

Randall sets the leather briefcase Lena gave him when he started at TIDA on the table. The inside of the briefcase is inscribed: I'm with you through thick and thin. Congrats on the thick I'm with you through thick and thin. Congrats on the thick. Love, Lena Love, Lena. The gold latches spring open with one touch of Randall's thumbs. He pauses, looks at Mr. Meyers and then his watch, and pulls out three clipped sets of papers. If asked, Lena would swear there is a Cheshire cat grin on his face. "Since Kendrick and Camille are of age, their support and tuition will not be an issue. We put away enough to cover their education, so this should be a fairly straightforward transaction." Randall pushes papers to the mediator and Lena. "I've outlined what I think is a reasonable and equitable division of property."

"Your papers may be useful later, Mr. Spencer." Mr. Meyers cuts Randall off before he can respond with a hand gesture that says stop and pops a couple of breath mints. Lena watches the mints go from his hand to his mouth. He pops one red, one yellow, one white.

"However, in these sessions both both parties will determine the division of all community a.s.sets to include personal and real property. With the statutory guidelines mandated by the state of California in mind, my job is to a.s.sure that the settlement is fair and equitable for both parties and, if necessary, to propose alternatives if it appears the two parties have difficulty reaching agreement." parties will determine the division of all community a.s.sets to include personal and real property. With the statutory guidelines mandated by the state of California in mind, my job is to a.s.sure that the settlement is fair and equitable for both parties and, if necessary, to propose alternatives if it appears the two parties have difficulty reaching agreement."

Lena listens closely to Mr. Meyers, rests her hands in her lap, and wipes them on her dress. She steadies her eyes on the evenness of the gold bands on the ochre law books behind him so that her gaze doesn't move to Randall's. She doesn't want to look at him, doesn't want to acknowledge the anger she sees in the small jerky motions of his right hand.

"You've chosen mediation, I a.s.sume, because it avoids the costliness of a court case. In mediation, both parties will come to a mutually acceptable resolution. Neither party may end up with all that he or she has requested. In this room, compromise is the operative word. Typically, the process takes five to six sessions." Mr. Meyers reads from a doc.u.ment atop the pile, in a clear and practiced manner, what they will accomplish in the sessions. He explains the rules and tells them their lawyers may be present but can only advise, not advocate for them.

"In this case, because the wife is not currently employed, temporary spousal support must be set. That is what we will determine today. How much the supporting spouse-in this case you, Mr. Spencer-pays the non-working spouse on a monthly basis is defined by California Family Code and a computer formula. And, by each party's income and expense declaration supplied by both of you prior to today."

Mr. Meyers turns to his laptop and types. He tabulates numbers on an old-fashioned calculator with one hand. The calculator shakes like a miniature locomotive; paper billows from the top like steam. When he is done, the mediator writes a five-figure number on two separate yellow pads and pa.s.ses them to Lena and Randall at the same time.

Just as Lena has a new mantra, so, she thinks, does Randall.

"s.h.i.t," he whispers under his breath.

Lena hears him loud and clear. He s.n.a.t.c.hes a red pen from the mediator's pile and strikes a bold line through the figure that will be the above-the-line, tax-deductible amount of spousal support the state of California requires he pay.

"This is a non-negotiable number," Mr. Meyers insists.

"I see no reason why I have to pay for her apartment. I told her to stay in the house. This was her choice."

"By law, Mr. Spencer, regardless of where Mrs. Spencer has chosen to live, this," the mediator says, rewriting the number on Randall's pad, "is what you're required to pay until you and Mrs. Spencer reach your final agreement."

"Then we better get done quickly, because I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'm going to pay for her life of leisure."

For the rest of dinner the night those years ago that Randall gave her the diamond, Lena was in a fog. Between the wine, the food, and his surprise, he'd caught her off guard. At home, in bed, she climbed on top of him, a bottle of almond oil in her hand.

"I'll do everything I can to support you. I believe in your dream."

"It's not just my my dream." Randall sucked in a deep breath and tried to hold on to his train of thought while Lena's fingers ma.s.saged his legs and thighs. "It's dream." Randall sucked in a deep breath and tried to hold on to his train of thought while Lena's fingers ma.s.saged his legs and thighs. "It's our our future." future."

She rubbed him, stroked him, tasted him until he moaned. "But," she said, letting her hair drop over her face and onto his shoulders, "I don't want to lose my my dream." Before he lost his concentration, she quieted and let him release, let the feel of him run from her thighs to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, let it sing in her head. dream." Before he lost his concentration, she quieted and let him release, let the feel of him run from her thighs to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, let it sing in her head.

Afterward, she cuddled into him. "I don't want to be a stereotype. The man makes the money, while the little woman takes care of the house and the kids." They had had this discussion before: black people changing stereotypes, breaking the barriers, creating a new norm. "So, I'll accept the diamond; if if you agree that I'll get back to my plan after one year." you agree that I'll get back to my plan after one year."

He admitted with all of the changes he wanted to implement at TIDA, it would take at least eighteen months to two years to gain full acceptance. "Two. For me."

Lena thought of partnership and sacrifice, the two words John Henry had stressed before he walked her down the aisle. The biggest question in her mind as Randall ran his fingers over her body, the diamond above her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, was what would stop Randall, once the two years were over, from another promotion, another big deal, another giant career step to becoming the black king of the world. What would his sacrifice be in this partnership? She pressed two fingers to his mouth.

"Deal."

His smile was easy to hear in the dark. He took her fingers into his mouth and sucked. Lena pointed to her diamond with her free hand. "Then, we'll renegotiate."

The allure of Randall's promise was seductive. Lena subst.i.tuted being the successful woman for being the supportive woman behind the successful man. By the end of Randall's second year at TIDA he'd been given more responsibility, and she slipped deeper into her cashmere coc.o.o.n.

Randall whips out his PDA and punches the screen with the metal stylus. "Let's schedule all of the sessions now." Every one will be the same: a single step forward, two or three back.

"You are not in charge here." Lena snaps. "And don't use that tone with me." In this instant, she leers at Randall and a.s.sumes his expression mirrors hers. They are, after all, an old married couple. No stranger, not even Mr. Meyers, knowing full well their circ.u.mstances, would ever have guessed these two people had once been giddy lovers or shared a bed or parented two children or lived together for twenty-three years.

"Mr. and Mrs. Spencer! Please leave the hostility outside." In every meeting from this first one to their ninth, Lena and Randall will pout and argue unconcerned about the mediator's cautions and his piling, un-piling and re-piling of the items around him, until their lawyers attend the sessions and a.s.sist in settling who gets what and the amount of permanent spousal support that Randall will pay Lena until she remarries, cohabitates, or dies.

Mr. Meyers presses a finger to a lone droplet on his left temple. He glances at his watch and suggests they stop here. Lena sympathizes with the man; her own armpits are damp. She stares at Randall and wonders if, underneath what looks like a cool, poker face, he is straining to hold back his own sweat. She wonders if he has another compartment, called cool, that helps him maintain this demeanor. Probably. Someday, if they can ever sit together calmly again, she will ask him about that ability and perhaps he will teach her how to do the same.

"We will begin the division of a.s.sets in our next session," the mediator says.

There is a clue, Lena thinks, an intimation in his tone that suggests that Mr. Meyers is no more looking forward to it than she is.

Angela Ba.s.sett spins and lip-synchs on TV. Pink Slippers is right: the violence is hard to take. Lena concentrates on Angela Ba.s.sett's biceps, her forceful performance-her angst, the slow trust in self, a Buddhist chant: nam myo ho renge kyo. nam myo ho renge kyo. Bottom line, the movie is depressing. Every time Larry Fishburne fake-pops Angela, Lena cringes. But thankfully, with one click of the remote she can skip those scenes and focus on the message, not the violence. Bottom line, the movie is depressing. Every time Larry Fishburne fake-pops Angela, Lena cringes. But thankfully, with one click of the remote she can skip those scenes and focus on the message, not the violence.

Tina's message is about getting away. Anywhere. Far. Fast.

Lena picks up the autobiography, leaves where it opens to fate:... that trip changed my whole life. I felt like I had come home-like I had never known my real home... I loved France-loved the ambience of it... on that first trip to France, that's when I began to feel, deep down inside, that maybe I was French, too. that trip changed my whole life. I felt like I had come home-like I had never known my real home... I loved France-loved the ambience of it... on that first trip to France, that's when I began to feel, deep down inside, that maybe I was French, too.

France!

Lena skips to the computer. Connects to the official Tina Turner website. Tina lives in the south of France. It was one of those places that Randall and Lena planned to visit when they talked about the world and seeing as much of it as they could. They promised to lie nude on the beach, to learn French, to extend their trip westward and sip Bordeaux in Bordeaux.

A performance schedule for this year and the next is imposed over pictures of Tina and international celebrities. Lena selects "concerts" from the top left margin. One, two, three clicks. Lena scrolls through dates and places and stops on the final entry: October 8th. Nice, France.

Moving to the computer once again, she selects a travel website and dials Bobbie.

"I have to meet Tina!" Lena shouts, happy that her sister can pick up a conversation in the middle of her slumber. One day she will thank Bobbie with more than words for talking to her, listening to her any time of the day or night.

"Go for it."

"Tina loves France. She lives in the south of France. We..." Lena swallows hard. "I mean I I always wanted to go to the south of France." always wanted to go to the south of France."

"As long as you're going for the right reasons. Seeking, not running away."

"I want to meet Tina. I want her to sign my book." Yes, that's what she wants. She thumbs the pages of Tina's story like a deck of cards. "And I'm going to take pictures, hundreds of pictures."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"Randall demanded, and the mediator acceded, that I find work. Which I'll do, with Cheryl's help. But, he has approval over any large expenditures I make until the final division of property." Lena accepted the condition with an exception to the furniture she needs for her apartment. "... And what about Lulu?"

"Why does he get to call the shots?"