A Pinch of Ooh La La

by Renee Swindle

  The brunette, Charlotte, looked like she belonged in a silent picture, a modern-day Mary Pickford with her coiled hair and pencil-thin eyebrows that exaggerated her perfectly oval face. She stared directly into the camera as Larsen asked when her affair with Avery began. “Like, maybe, like, a year after he and Abbey got engaged. I know this is supposed to make me the bad guy in all of this, but I believe when there’s true love between two people, no one can come between them. I mean, like, if I could so easily come between those two, it wasn’t love.”

  Larsen (offscreen): So what happened?

  Charlotte (shrugging): We’re both Scorpios, so it was crazy! We were all, like, so hot for each other; then things played out. It’s like those—what do you call ’em?—those meteors in the sky. We burnt out. He didn’t want to hurt Abbey either, so we stopped. I know he must seem like a player or whatever, but he’s just very passionate.

  I turned to Bendrix, my mouth agape. Even in the darkened theater I could see that his eyes were as big and wide as mine.

  “Do you know her?” he whispered.

  “Of course not! I’ve never seen her before in my life!”

  Someone from behind shushed us.

  The blonde appeared next. Already she looked like she had more of a brain than the first bimbo. She wore glasses; her long braid was an accessory that draped over one shoulder. Her name appeared at the bottom of the screen: Josie.

  Larsen: When did your relationship with Avery start?

  Josie: We met at a party. He said he wanted to draw my hands. I know that sounds corny, but that’s exactly what he did. He was very respectful and drew my hands all night while we talked. I’m an artist myself. I design jewelry.

  Close-up shot: Josie fingering her necklace, made of what looks like icicles held dangling from a thin silver chain.

  Larsen: And how did the relationship end?

  Josie: Well, to be honest, it hasn’t. I’m not proud of how we started, but we’re very much in love. Avery Brooks is the love of my life.

  Larsen: You know he’s engaged.

  Josie: Abbey is more like his business partner at this point. What Avery had for Abbey died a long time ago. He loves her more like a sister.

  Cut to: Josie and Avery strolling through Golden Gate Park. He picks Josie up and throws her over one shoulder like a sack of flour, then twirls her around. Cue cheesy-sounding classical music.

  Cut to: Larsen (offscreen): Do you ever worry about infidelity?

  Cut to: Me (smiling into the camera—like a gullible idiot!): Oh, no. Never. Avery and I have our ups and downs like any couple, but I know Avery is as faithful to me as I am to him. Besides, I wouldn’t know where he’d get the time to sneak around behind my back. His art and his career are all consuming.

  The word idiot flashes on and off at the bottom of the screen.

  Okay, it didn’t, but it may as well have.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Bendrix said.

  “No, I need to see this.”

  “You’ll have to fight me off, then. There’s no way I’m letting you torture yourself.”

  He grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the theater.

  I considered suing Larsen but let the idea go since it was Avery who’d hurt me. Or was I to blame? How had I missed not one but two women? And when exactly had his love for me “died”?

  I was devastated. Hurt enough that I wanted nothing more to do with men—in particular artists and musicians and anyone in the performing arts industry. And Scorpios.

  • • •

  In the meantime, however, I still had Bendrix to deal with and that dreaded article in the New York Times, dredging up old memories. After Noel mentioned I had a call, I went to my office and spoke about fruit with my apple supplier. When I hung up, I remained in my chair and took in the pictures of my nieces and nephews covering my desk. My brother Theo was the first in the family to have a child, and I’d fallen instantly in love with my nephew and wanted to be the best aunt ever. As our family grew (and grew), I couldn’t keep up with all the recitals and baseball games, but I always sent a gift every birthday and over the holidays, and I attended their school plays and activities whenever I could.

  Yes, Daddy had babies by women he never married, but he made sure to remain in all his children’s lives. He hated the words step and half and wanted us to treat one another as brothers and sisters. Period. As the oldest female, I’d learned to potty train, diaper, and entertain toddlers and babies as well as a professional nanny could. I was a kid who liked to please, and I never grew tired of all the snot and dribble and phlegm that came with looking after my younger siblings. My long way of saying I always knew I wanted to be a mother. I always knew it was something I wanted to do.

  So yes (okay, okay, okay!), Bendrix was right about my fear, and the clock inside my uterus ticked and tocked all the louder as I stared at the pictures on my desk.

  With a heavy sigh, I walked back to the front of the bakery, feeling envious of Avery and alone and lonely. A rain cloud formed above my head as I walked past Beth, rolling out piecrust; when I stepped into the bakery itself, the storm cloud burst and dumped pellets of hard rain. I donned a black scarf and continued to drag myself around tables as thunder boomed and lightning flashed. I was woman—watch me mope.

  Bendrix was working on a second cup of espresso by then. He didn’t bother looking up from what he was reading, even after I stood in front of him and thanked him for ruining my day with his news.

  “Hey, I’m just trying to help. Just doing my part to wake you up.”

  He swiped and turned his tablet toward me. I stared at a picture of Avery and the Danish Pippi Longstocking holding their son.

  “Wow, you really are a jerk.”

  He snickered.

  Noel came over. “Your eight thirty is here.” He jutted his chin toward a couple near the front of the bakery, holding hands and grinning at each other.

  “Thanks, Noel. Will you tell Beth to bring out the cakes?”

  “Sure thing.”

  I said to Bendrix, “I wouldn’t mind if you were gone by the time I’m finished.”

  “Love you, too.”

  • • •

  For obvious reasons I had to let go of my foul mood before talking weddings and wedding cakes with the couple I was meeting with. By chance, Rosemary Clooney sang “Pick Yourself Up” on the stereo. I listened for a few bars while willing the rain cloud over my head to go away.

  The couple, twentysomething Google employees, pointed at the taster cakes Beth was setting out.

  My bakery was popular, but my reputation and expertise lay in so-called wedding cake artistry. The couple I was about to meet had discovered me after seeing one of my cakes at their coworkers’ wedding. Their coworkers Adhitya and Minu were more artsy than techie and had wanted an eye-popping cake with a contemporary design. They’d been to Scratch a few times, and after trying several bakeries in the Silicon Valley, they thought they’d see if I could come up with anything. I knew that having the opportunity to make a wedding cake for a pair of Google techies could be a boon if I played it right, and thanks to my background in art I felt ready for the challenge.

  My first Google cake, as Bendrix and I called it, was an abstract creation based on Henry Lair’s Flamingo. I knew Minu would be wearing a red-and-gold sari, so I’d covered the cake in a deep red fondant that matched her dress. On the top tier I created gold leaves and abstract shapes that also harkened back to Lair’s work. The cake was a success and generated enough buzz that my name was taking hold not only throughout the Internet behemoth but in other tech giants in Silicon Valley as well.

  Hence the Google couple sitting across from me. “So, are you ready to discuss your wedding cake?” I could only hope that my smile and overly bright tone hid my sense of hopelessness: My vagina is drying up! I’m the wedding cake designer who�
�s never had a wedding of her own!

  “We’re very excited!” said the future bride. She kissed the future groom in a burst of youthful happiness and Google money and optimism. “We’re so in love!” she exclaimed.

  “We just had sex in the car!” said the future groom.

  “We have sex four times a week!”

  “And we make a shitload of money!”

  “In exactly one year we’re going to start making a baby!” admitted the future bride.

  The future groom to me: “If you want a baby, I suggest you start soon. You look old!”

  “Yes,” agreed the future bride with added concern, “you look very old!”

  They turned to each other and burst into laughter: “We’re so rich!”

  Actually, I’m not sure what they said. Their mouths moved, but I was somewhere else. Rosemary Clooney droned on while I stared into one of the mini-cakes I’d made, a delicate yellow cake, iced in lemon rolled fondant, as if I were gazing into my future. I saw myself making wedding cakes until I was old and gray; Avery, meanwhile, would be surrounded by his grandchildren and latest girlfriend.

  I mentioned something to the couple about the first cake but my head remained elsewhere. Bendrix was right. I’d given up. I’d given up on finding love because I was afraid of getting hurt. The future bride took a bite of the cake. “Oh my gosh, honey, this is delicious!”

  I thanked her while thinking that they were a concrete reminder that love was possible, and even though we failed at it at least fifty percent of the time, it was worth the effort, right? Yes! Yes, it was!

  I stood abruptly. “I’m so sorry, but would you give me one second, please?” I was already backing away. “I’ll be right back. Forgot something.”

  I marched over to Bendrix. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Online dating! I’ll give it a try.”

  “Good, because I’ve already created your profile.”

  “You what?”

  He clicked a few times and turned his tablet. I stared at a picture he’d taken of me last year at my sister’s birthday party. At the top of the picture I saw my profile name.

  “Abbey Lincoln Ross, say hello to JazzyGirlinOakland.”

  4

  Pent-up House

  I hugged my nieces and nephew in the foyer of my dad’s house. It was about a month since Bendrix had signed me up for online dating, and I was there along with family and friends to celebrate Daddy’s sixty-fifth birthday.

  My nephew Duncan was seven and his sister Bessie, five. Hope was three. When I picked up Hope, Bessie jumped up and down and begged that I pick her up, too. My older brother Dizzy, their father, watched from a few feet away, then told them to give their aunt Abbey some space. “It’s fine,” I replied.

  “Where’s the cake?” Duncan asked. He thought I had cookies or cake on me at all times.

  “Don’t worry, Duncan, it’s being delivered. It should be here within the hour.”

  “Is there chocolate?” Bessie asked.

  “Yep. I’ve got everyone covered. I made cookies, too.”

  They both threw their hands in the air and kicked their feet like shadow puppets on speed. Yay! Our sugar dealer has arrived! We want sugar!

  Dizzy waved the bright red chicken leg in his hand, and the spicy scent of tandoori wafted in the air. “Hey, hey, you two, calm down. No cookies if you keep acting like you have no sense.” He bit into the chicken and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Welcome. The house is packed.”

  I wiped the wet spot with my hand. “Really, Diz?”

  He licked his tandoori-stained fingers. “Aw, a little grease’ll do you good. Works like moisturizer.” He took another bite and rubbed his shiny lips together as proof.

  I gave Hope a bounce and she threw her head back as if taking an Olympic dive off a high board, arms splayed. I supported her back until she touched water, then drew her back in for a hug. “Again!” she said.

  Dizzy pointed toward the ceiling. Over the din of party noise, I heard a loud succession of chords on top of the thump of bass. The piano picked up speed and cymbals tinged and clanged. Dizzy nodded to the beat. “Dad is on fire tonight. Phin and Miles were foolin’ around, and Dad sat down at the piano and started schoolin’ ’em. I stood to the side and watched—I’m no dummy. They’ve been at it for the last five minutes. Listen to Pops go, man.” He closed his eyes briefly.

  Dizzy played in a jazz quartet with my two older brothers Miles and Theo and my younger brother Phin. Dad called my three older brothers and me the full-bloods because our mothers were African American, while all of our younger siblings were biracial—a veritable “We Are the World” of races and colors. There were thirteen of us in all, and we were all named after jazz musicians and singers. Dizzy’s full name, for example, was Dizzy Gillespie Ross and Theo’s full name, Thelonious Monk Ross. I was named after the jazz singer Abbey Lincoln. All my adult siblings were musicians or artists of some kind, with many living beyond the Bay Area and even out of state. Everyone had made a point of coming to Daddy’s party, though. Even when it meant canceling gigs and changing schedules.

  Dizzy and I listened to Phineas strum the bass as he did his best to save his solo, but his counter was behind and he was threatening to throw the song. Dizzy laughed and shook his head. “Man, Dad is all over Phin. He sounds like an ox. He sounds like an ox pulling a cart. An ox pulling a cart uphill.” He listened for another bar. “And backward!” He laughed and bit into the chicken.

  “Don’t give him too much s-h-i-t about it,” I said.

  “Oh, you know I will.” He grinned.

  My brothers were so used to perfection, any sign of weakness gave them an excuse to tease one another. Phin’s solo may not have been his best, but he was one of the top bassists in the country, and even when his playing was “off” he was damn good, and Dizzy and I knew it.

  Bessie took my hand and asked for a glass of water. Dizzy told me he’d take care of it and that I should enjoy the party. I sent Hope for another free-falling dive before handing her over to her father. When she reached for Dizzy’s chicken, he gave her the leg so she could help herself. Dad had trained my brothers that when they were home from the road they needed to spend as much time with their families as possible. “Don’t make the same mistakes I once made,” he liked to say.

  I watched Dizzy trot off with his family, my heart sinking a little. I was officially dating again, but so far the dates had been disastrous. I’d had a drink with Ronald Reagan at a bar in SOMA and listened while he espoused the glories of the Republican Party. Marcel Marceau had showed up for my second date in a striped red-and-white shirt and red beret. He hadn’t talked much, just grinned at me. Finally, there had been Mr. Throwback—relatively good-looking but instead of using my name, he preferred to call me dollface and babe. And when other women passed our table, his head craned to follow.

  Dating sucked.

  I started to make my way through the living room. Since Dad loved Indian food, we’d decided on an Indian-themed party. Caterers roamed the room dressed in saris and tunics while serving the crowd platters of chaat and curry. Every inch of the high ceiling was covered with Indian fabric, and an ornate oriental lamp hung from the center, all of it giving me the feeling that I had accidently stepped into a massive tent owned by a nomadic tribe of artsy partiers.

  I greeted, kissed, and hugged my way through the crowd. Even though many of my siblings had arrived a week before and we’d already spent time together, we still hugged and said hello like it had been months.

  I noticed Bailey making her way around a server and marching toward me, her mouth contorted in its usual frown. Bailey was Dad’s first wife and mother to Thelonious, Miles, and Dizzy. She’d been making the circuit as a jazz singer when she met Dad. Later, she became a backup singer; now, thanks to her early, hard-core fan base, she was
having a resurgence and sang in different clubs throughout the country. She had never learned the difference between dressing for a gig and dressing for regular life. For Bailey, all the world was a stage. She liked to dye her hair one bright color or another, and that night it was the same magenta as her dress, which looked a size too small and was currently giving up the struggle to cover her thick thighs. She’d tug at the sides of the dress, but sooner or later it would inch back up.

  She gave me a hug and helped me with my coat. She then motioned toward the corner of the room where I saw two of Dad’s ex-girlfriends, Leslie and Dahlia, talking with each other.

  Bailey started in right away. She was one who didn’t avoid gossip, especially when it involved Dad’s ex-girlfriends. “Leslie had the nerve to ask your father for a bigger allowance so she can switch Louis to a better school. He already goes to one of the best private high schools in Oakland. Gold diggers, every last one. And that Dahlia Whoredeen! Don’t even get me started on her.” Dahlia’s last name was Wardeen, fuel for Bailey’s fire.

  There were four ex-girlfriends or baby mommas in the family. Dad had other ex-girlfriends, but we considered only the baby mommas part of the family. I often imagined the wives, as we called them, and the ex-girlfriends in a musical in which Dad’s four ex-wives danced on one side of the stage and his four ex-girlfriends danced on the other in a Sharks-versus-Jets fashion. I didn’t include his fifth (and final?) wife, Aiko, in my musical because she was busy raising my three-week-old brother, Ornette, and nineteen-month-old brother, Bud.

  Who knew if the wives would have remained as close as they were if Bailey hadn’t suffered from colon cancer while I was in high school. She had no family to speak of, so the wives had pitched in, transporting her to chemotherapy appointments and taking turns looking after her when she was sick in bed. Their bond became stronger than ever during the ordeal.

  The wives resented the ex-girlfriends, or exes, because while they’d married Dad, for however long, and had committed themselves to him, the exes basically got knocked up and were then able to take advantage of Dad’s blind devotion to his children and cash in on his money. But Dad insisted that we all get along, and for his sake, and presumably for the sake of the children, the wives and ex-girlfriends smiled and were polite—if only on the surface.