A Pinch of Ooh La La

by Renee Swindle

  “Dahlia lost yet another job. That’s right. Another job. How many is that? I lost track. I keep telling your father he needs to cut her loose; otherwise, she’s never moving out of the guesthouse. Why should she? At this rate she’s gonna get free room and board till she dies.”

  Dahlia turned when she felt us staring. Bailey raised her glass and smiled gaily and waved. “Hussies,” she muttered under her breath.

  I stifled a laugh. I wanted to honor my father’s wishes, but I had to agree with Bailey: The exes had a way of taking advantage—especially Dahlia.

  Bailey turned and stared at me. “Four years, Abbey?”

  “Four years what?”

  “If I had known you were going without that long, I would have forced you to start dating years ago. Who goes that long without sex? I could see if you were my age, but you’re still young!”

  Crap, I thought. “You spoke with Bendrix.”

  “Yeah,” she mocked. “I spoke with Bendrix. He’s upstairs. You are young and beautiful and it’s not right to go that long without sex.”

  A man I didn’t recognize brushed past. “Will you lower your voice?”

  “Are you sick?”

  “No, I’m not sick. I just haven’t met anyone I like.”

  “Like? Like? What does liking a person have to do with anything? You see somebody who looks like he can handle you, and after you make sure he’s not married, you climb into bed and do what comes natural. It’s easy, baby. Liking has nothing to do with it. It’s a crime and a sin to be as young as you are and go without for four long years!”

  “Bendrix has a really big mouth.”

  “He cares about you. Anyway, he was just showing us that computer dating Web site, and wait until you see who he found for you.”

  “Wait a second . . . What?”

  “Yeah, he found somebody for you. A very good-looking somebody.”

  Visiting the LoveMatch site made me feel like I was shopping for a man, which I found completely unromantic and nauseating, so I let Bendrix vet profiles for me and forward any possibilities my way. I certainly hadn’t wanted him to tell one of the wives—or anyone. “This is embarrassing.”

  “He’s upstairs waiting to show you.”

  “Well, let him wait. Dad’s cakes should be here soon.”

  “Don’t try to get out of it. Someone will let you know when the cakes are here.”

  I sighed.

  “You won’t be making that ugly face when you see the man Bendrix picked out.”

  We continued to make our way through the house. Dad had finished playing and I could hear my younger sisters, Ella on the violin and Billie on guitar. Their bandmate, Sam, played clarinet. They made a sweet trio and were enjoying a growing popularity after a recent appearance on a late-night TV show.

  Rita, an ex-wife, walked up and grabbed my hand just as I snatched a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. She kissed me on each cheek, European style. She was stunning in a deep purple sari with gold trim. Her hair was short and coiffed and she wore long dangling earrings. Where Bailey liked short, tight skirts and low-cut blouses, Rita was all glamour and high style. “Did Bailey tell you Bendrix found someone for you?”

  “Yeah. Whoopee.”

  “Oh, don’t be like that. Wait until you see him. He’s wonderful. Reminds me of a young Marquis Jones, a man I danced Firebird with years and years ago. He was so gifted. Anyway, let’s all go up so you can see. And I love the Web site. Makes looking for a man as easy as shopping for a dress.”

  “Hardly.”

  Rita’s grandparents were Afro-Cuban, but Rita was born and raised in the States. She’d danced with Alvin Ailey for several years and met Dad when he was commissioned to write a piece for the troupe. Rita was Dad’s third wife and together he and Rita had Dinah. Rita was a stickler for rules and propriety. While others prayed for world peace, Rita prayed for a world that had better fashion sense and etiquette.

  We joined Bendrix upstairs in the library, which was one of the best rooms in the house, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the bay. It wasn’t a library, per se, but had taken on the genteel moniker after Dad started sending us there to read when we were being punished or making too much noise. Over time it became the wives’ hangout, and the ex-girlfriends knew to keep out.

  “Perfect timing,” Bendrix said. “Now, I will admit that the first three men didn’t work out—”

  “Didn’t work out?” I turned to Bailey and Rita. “Did he tell you about the guy who showed up dressed like a mime?”

  Rita crossed her long legs, and a jeweled gold sandal peeked out from beneath her sari. “Never mind all that. Show her, Bendrix.”

  “I found him last night,” he said. “I thought I’d wait to show you.”

  “Yeah, me and everyone else. Thanks for keeping my dating life private, Bendrix. Did you have to show them the guy before you showed me?”

  “Child, hush up with all that whining,” Bailey snapped. “Bendrix is grown and he can do whatever he wants. Now, show her the damn picture.”

  I sat next to Bendrix and he turned his tablet toward me. “JazzyGirlinOakland, let me introduce you to RelaxinbytheBay.”

  I stared at a man walking away from the camera while laughing over his shoulder as if someone had said something funny and caught him off guard. He wore a leather jacket with a wool scarf and had nice eyes and an actual cleft chin, as deeply pronounced as Cary Grant’s.

  I heard Bailey: “Yeah, who’s whinin’ now? He’s fine, isn’t he? Hell, if you don’t want him, I’ll take him!”

  Rita said, “Bailey, would you hush, please?”

  The guy was fine. Truly. But I was skeptical. The other three guys had all looked fine in their pictures, too, but they’d turned out to be freaks.

  Bendrix read from his profile. “Six feet one. No kids. Enjoys long walks, cycling, and dining out. Stanford grad. Corporate law.”

  Rita noticed the horror in my expression: “There’s nothing wrong with law, Abbey. Doug studied law.” Rita and Doug had married years ago, after her divorce from Dad.

  “Yeah, but corporate law? I bet he’s a bore.”

  “Oh, and you’re just a thrill a minute,” said Bendrix.

  I ignored him and went back to reading. Under the topic Why You Should Get to Know Me, he replied that he’d lived abroad for a year and knew how to make the best marinara sauce this side of Italy. In response to What I’m Looking For: “I’d like to meet a woman with a kind heart, sharp mind, and deep soul. A best friend I can share my life with.”

  “Doesn’t he sound fabulous?” Rita sang. “Abbey, if this works out like I think it will, I’d love for you to have your engagement party at Doug’s club. You could have the top floor. The views of San Francisco are spectacular.”

  “Engagement?” Bailey said. “Now who’s talking nonsense? They haven’t been out on a date yet.”

  “I’m optimistic. I have a very good feeling.”

  “I’d like to meet him first, at least,” I said.

  Bailey replied, “Of course you want to meet him. I don’t care how all this ends except that I want you to get what’s yours. And if this guy can give it to you, I’m all for it.”

  “All for what?” Enter Joan, wife number four. Joan was the only wife who’d already known about my dry spell with men and told me not to worry; I’d start dating again when I felt like it. Born in Sussex, England, Joan had moved to the States when she’d turned twenty-one. She was now a sculptor who exhibited internationally. Straightforward and laconic, she was the only wife who’d never had kids; maybe that was why we had struck a bond. When I was young she’d toss books my way and ask me what I thought. The Bluest Eye, Their Eyes Were Watching God, The Lord of the Rings, The Catcher in the Rye. I’d sit in her studio and read, or she’d listen to me ramble about my teenage woes. She wore women’s
suits and leather gloves and hats as though there were a 1940s motorcade waiting.

  Bendrix gave her a tour of the dating site while she looked on. “Love and romance as algorithm. Interesting.” When he showed her Relaxin’s photo she said, “A photo doesn’t mean much until you meet a person and can look him in the eye.”

  “She’s not looking for a conversation,” cracked Bailey.

  “Joan’s right,” said Rita. “But if you’re going to look him in the eye, Abbey, you need to contact him. Right, Bendrix?”

  “Yes,” said Bendrix. “We need to make contact and send him a note. See what he says.”

  I looked around the room. “Do I get a say in any of this?”

  “Not really,” Bendrix said.

  “Write and tell him Abbey hasn’t had a good lay in four years,” said Bailey. “That should get his attention.”

  I leaned back against the couch. “I don’t know,” I moaned. “He’s cute, but—”

  “Buuuuut . . .” Bailey dragged her mouth for all it was worth. “This is exactly what happens when you stop having sex. You become a whiner, bringing everybody down.”

  “You only live once,” offered Rita.

  “And your life is passing you by,” said Bendrix. “I have no idea who you’re looking for if not someone like this. As far as I can tell, the only thing wrong with him is that he’s straight.”

  “I guess.” I looked at Joan.

  “Do what you want.” She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. This is your life, not ours.”

  I gazed around the room until Bailey sat up and sighed. “Goodness, child, you’re not marrying the guy. Just send him a damn note.”

  “Okay, okay! Forgive me for wanting to think this through.” I wiggled my fingers at Bendrix and he handed me the tablet. “What should I say?”

  Bailey laughed. “Tell him he’s fine as hell and you want to fuck his brains out.”

  Rita clicked her tongue. “Even after all these years . . .” She crossed her legs, looking peeved. Bailey’s loud mouth, in other words, still riled her at times.

  I took a moment to gather my thoughts. “Let’s see . . . ‘Dear RelaxinbytheBay, in the world of online dating, you seem like a find. I hope you like my profile and I hear from you soon. Sincerely, Abbey.’”

  “I love it,” said Rita.

  “Short, sweet, and to the point,” said Bendrix. He moved my hand aside and clicked “send” before I had a chance to reread the note, edit the note, or otherwise chicken out. “That’s that. Now, what do you say we join the party?” He rose from the couch and extended his hand to Rita.

  “We need to work on you next, Benny,” she said. “We can’t let your good looks go to waste. It’s time you started thinking about settling down.”

  “Yeah, Bendrix,” I said sarcastically. “How long has it been since Anthony?”

  He stood erect as soon as I dropped the A-bomb. He pulled his shoulders back and tilted his chin upward like an aristocrat speaking to his servants; sometimes Bendrix could be so haughty he seemed best suited for coat, tails, and a monocle over one eye. “This isn’t about me,” he said, going for his tablet.

  “It should be,” I said. “Word on the street is that you only live once.”

  “Well, I . . . at least I—”

  Bailey shot up from the couch, saving him from having to finish with the bull. “Dinah is ruining my song,” Bailey shot out. “You all hear that?”

  My sister’s voice seeped up through the floor. She sang “Trouble Is a Man” in a slow, breathy voice. “Why is she singing it like she’s at a funeral? She needs to speed that shit up. She should know better.” Dinah was Rita’s daughter, but Bailey had taught her everything she knew about music.

  “Go easy on her,” Rita said lightheartedly.

  “I’m gonna show her what’s what; that’s what I’m going to do. Messin’ with my song like that.”

  We followed Bailey downstairs to Dad’s large practice room. Dinah stood at the mike singing while my dad, Uncle Walter, and Uncle Dex backed her.

  Guests sat in chairs or stood against the walls or in any space they could find, with more guests flowing out into the hallway. Dad had knocked out two walls to enlarge his practice room. Albums lined the shelves and there were photos everywhere of artists he’d played with. Growing up, I’d spent hours and hours in Dad’s practice room. Sometimes I’d surround the piano with stacks of his LPs, then crawl in through a tiny opening and tell him I was hiding out in my fort, where I would occasionally watch Daddy’s feet pressing the pedals as he worked on a song.

  Dad gave a nod and Uncle Dex went into his solo. They were brothers in spirit, and in all their thirty-plus years together, they’d never once talked about disbanding.

  The room erupted into applause when everyone saw Bailey make her way up to Dinah. She grabbed a second mike, and—“Baby, I love you like you were my own, but it’s time I schooled you on how to sing my song!” Everyone laughed and applauded, including Dinah. She took an exaggerated bow. “Give it up for Momma Bailey, everybody.”

  Bailey snapped her fingers high in the air, faster and faster. Dad and my uncles doubled, then tripled their speed until “Trouble Is a Man” was no longer a torch song but a snappy tune that had us all tapping our feet and clapping our hands. “Aw right. Y’all feel that?”

  Bailey sang “Trouble” as only she could. Dad closed his eyes and sent his fingers crisscrossing over the keyboard in a race of snazzy agility. Uncle Dex let out a shout and slammed the cymbals.

  I felt Bendrix give my shoulder a bump. “It’s too bad your family throws such boring parties.”

  “It is, isn’t it? We’re a sad bunch when you get down to it.”

  “Yes, and don’t get me started on the lack of talent.”

  I said, “You’re not forgiven, by the way, for showing everyone my online profile.”

  He continued staring at the stage. “And you’re not forgiven for bringing up a certain someone I’d prefer not to hear about.”

  At that, we smirked at each other and went back to clapping along with the rest of the crowd of friends and family.

  5

  Say It Isn’t So

  One of my employees, Nico, who helped with deliveries and assisted in pretty much everything, sent a text during Bailey and Dinah’s second number: He’d arrived with the cakes and was waiting in the kitchen. I’d made three cakes for the night: almond, finished with almond dacquoise; chocolate cake with rum-laced buttercream; and a spice cake made with freshly shaved ginger. The cakes were covered with a marbleized background softened by a burst of lilies and hibiscus made from gum paste. I’d decorated the bottom cake with Dad’s initials, each letter made to look like embroidered silver.

  The few people in the kitchen oohed and aahed as Nico and I finished assembling the cakes. Once we were done, I asked Nico if he wanted to stay, but he opted for a plate of food to go. He was taking classes at Laney Community College and said he had a paper due on Monday.

  After watching him drive off, I caught sight of my sister Carmen sitting on the wide wraparound porch of the guesthouse next door, smoking a cigarette as though it were part of her everyday routine.

  I marched over. What the hell was she doing, smoking? And so brazenly.

  I stood over her with my hands on my hips. “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like?” She put the cigarette between her lips and inhaled like a TV actress—hardly inhaling at all but making a show of blowing a long stream of smoke from between her lips.

  Carmen was Dahlia’s daughter (Dahlia Whoredeen as Bailey liked to call her). After Carmen started junior high school, Dahlia had convinced Dad to let them move into the guesthouse until she was on her feet. Dahlia was still there now, even though Carmen was in college and living in the dorms.

  I bent over and sna
tched the cigarette before Carmen could take a second puff. “You look ridiculous.”

  “I have a pack, you know.” She held up the carton and cut her eyes.

  I sat next to her and we listened to the music coming from next door and the steady sounds of laughter and merriment. I asked Carmen what was going on and was met with a flat “Nothing.”

  “Why aren’t you at Dad’s?”

  “Don’t feel like it.” She snatched the cigarette I was holding and took a hit. When she coughed, I grabbed it again, broke it in half, and tossed it into the yard. “You shouldn’t smoke, Carmen. What’s wrong with you?”

  She clicked her tongue and leaned back on her elbows. “Whatever. I’ll have one when you leave.”

  I stared at her briefly in disbelief. I was closer to Carmen than to any of my other siblings because we were the only two in the Ross clan who didn’t show a natural ability toward music or art. Sure, I’d had my days as a graffiti artist, but they were long gone, and regardless, I never had the talent to seek out a full-blown career in the arts. Carmen, too, had seemed adrift amid all the family talent, and after disastrous attempts to study the French horn, and later drama, she had settled on majoring in business with the goal of going to law school, two decisions that were as odd to the family as if she’d announced she planned to walk through the Ozarks while reading Greek philosophy. I always kept a special eye out for her because I could tell early on that she wasn’t getting the support she needed. Dahlia was only twenty-two when she had Carmen and never seemed all that interested in being a mother. Since the wives had long since moved on by the time Carmen was born, she seemed to flounder more than the rest of us.

  My relationship with my own mother helped me relate to Carmen’s situation. Karen, wife number two, taught musicology with an emphasis in ethnomusicology. She and Dad had divorced soon after she’d earned her doctorate, and when I was ten, she was hired to teach at a private arts college in Connecticut, where she and I relocated. I hated Connecticut, though, and was beyond miserable—the snow, the boredom, the shock of leaving behind a loud, messy household with people coming and going in order to live with Mom in her small apartment, were too much. (Just thinking about those days put me in a mood.) I missed seeing my older brothers every day, and I missed roughhousing and looking after my younger siblings; I missed hearing my dad’s music and seeing his face. I missed Bailey’s cooking and Joan and Rita. I begged Mom to let me move back home. She agreed when I started showing signs of depression—for instance, sleeping all weekend and losing most of my appetite. She finally let me return only after discussing the situation with the wives, who promised to look after me as though I were their own flesh and blood. It was agreed I’d live with Mom in the summers and visit for Christmas—which was too bad, since Christmas at the Ross house was crazy fun.