A Pinch of Ooh La La

by Renee Swindle

  We simultaneously exchanged half smirks, half smiles.

  Anthony said, “I’m not saying this because I’m a therapist—hell, yes I am: You two could use a check-in. With in-law issues, no-baby issues, and technology-addiction issues”—I’d complained how Samuel was always on his laptop or phone—“it would not hurt.”

  “We’ll be okay,” I said. I was feeling guilty about being so negative. “I wouldn’t say he is addicted to his laptop.”

  “Sounds to me like he uses it to zone out.”

  Bendrix raised his wineglass. “No laptops in the bedroom,” he intoned. “The bedroom should be a techno-free zone; so says our couples counselor.”

  I explained that things weren’t as bad as I made them out to be. I told them about Carmen doing so well in school and how Samuel never complained about my work schedule. I added, “And he always makes sure the oil is changed in my car.”

  “Sounds romantic,” said Aunt Nag. She licked cream from her fingers with tiny smacks.

  Bendrix said, “You know, Abbey, instead of talking to us, you would probably benefit from speaking to a well-trained, impartial professional who can help you express any subconscious fears in the safety of his or her office.” He grinned. “I must say I, personally, love therapy.”

  Anthony said, “Don’t mind him. He really does love it. Admit it.” He gave Bendrix a nudge. “Go on.” Another nudge.

  Bendrix gave in. “It’s true. It’s helped us. A lot.”

  “Maybe you can talk to Samuel for me,” I ventured. Right off, though, I heard how needy and immature I sounded. “You could play it off like the idea came from you.”

  Aunt Nag said, “You don’t need no therapist, child. Sounds to me like what you need is a damn backbone. Why you thinking about having a kid when you can’t even talk to your damn husband like a grown woman? Ain’t you and Bendrix the same age? But you trying to get Benny to do your dirty work. Don’t you bring my nephew in this mess when what you need to do is talk to your husband on your own. Hell, you married him. Use your damn voice. That’s what God gave it to you for.” Her cream puff long gone, she went about dabbing at her plate with the tip of her finger.

  When I looked over at Bendrix and Anthony, they stared back with wide-eyed grins. She told you, their faces said. Mmmm-hmm.

  • • •

  I went home with Aunt Nag’s words stinging my ears. I told myself that I had to talk to Samuel. It might take another year before I became pregnant, and we couldn’t let our happiness depend on whether we had a kid or not. Counseling wouldn’t hurt, either.

  I opened the door and noticed a pair of tapping sneakers poking out from one end of the sofa. Carmen and Samuel sat at the dining room table. A pizza box was opened and books were everywhere.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey,” they called.

  I assumed the tapping feet belonged to Jake.

  I kissed Samuel hello. He was on his laptop and raised his arms and yawned. He asked if I’d had a nice time at Bendrix’s and I told him yes. “What time did you get home?” I asked.

  “We finished earlier than expected. I didn’t feel like socializing. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, rubbing his back.

  He glanced at Carmen. “This one here thinks she’s ready for the LSAT, so I was running her through her paces.”

  Carmen looked at him and smirked. “I’ll be ready. Just watch me.”

  Dad, no surprise, thought Carmen should take a year off to travel before she entered law school, but she was anxious to start right away.

  Jake, from the couch: “Hi, Abbey!” He sat up and I saw the massive speakers on his head. He’d gone from wanting to be a music producer to working as a landscape designer. He’d been out of school for almost two years and was as devoted to Carmen as ever. I was surprised they were still together after all this time, except Carmen, to my surprise, was still gaga over Jake. She’d once told me, “He’s my best friend. I love him.”

  Carmen yawned. “I should get going. Jakey-Jake? Come on. Let’s get.”

  She gave me a hug. She was growing more confident and more beautiful. She’d lost a few pounds, but I think the main difference was that she no longer tried to hide her body behind sweats or dumpy outfits.

  Jake came over and took us both in his arms. “Group hug! Ahhhhh!”

  Carmen and I laughed.

  Samuel drank from a half-empty bottle of beer. “Car, if you stick with this guy, you’ll probably have to be the breadwinner.”

  “Hello! I’m standing right here, man.”

  “Hey.” Samuel shrugged. “I call ’em like I see ’em. Who’s prepping for law school and who’s—what are you doing, anyhow?”

  “I’m still working on my music and doing landscape design. Abbey, have you heard Monk’s ‘Evidence’? Carmen played it for me. Imagine Monk over some electronic with some rap thrown in.” He started moving his shoulders in torturous poses.

  Samuel pursed his lips at Carmen. “You really plan on taking him to law school with you?”

  “Like I said, man, I’m standing right here.”

  I pressed my nose between Samuel’s shoulders. “Ease up on him, babe.”

  “You don’t have to defend me, Abbey.”

  “You don’t,” said Carmen. She held her books and purse in her arm. “Jake’ll go back to school.”

  “How do you know?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You want me to help clean up?”

  “I got it,” said Samuel.

  “Cool.” She gave Jake a shove, then grabbed at his shirtsleeve. “Let’s go.”

  “It’s hard out here for an idiot savant,” he said, letting Carmen drag him off.

  “Use protection!” I called.

  “Abbey!” Carmen cried. “Damn!” She added solemnly, “No one has to worry about that. Ever. Like never, ever.”

  Jake clapped his hands and stuck each foot out from side to side like a cowboy doing a jig. “Ain’t got time for babies. Only the ladies. I don’t act shady or crazy. The girl’s gotta use the pill if she wants her fill—”

  “All right, all right,” I said, frowning. “There’s absolutely no way you’re smart.”

  “Ahhhhh!”

  “Bye!” Carmen called, pushing Jake out the door. “Love you guys!”

  When I turned, Samuel was already leaving the room, carrying the empty pizza box and as many plates as he could hold.

  • • •

  In remembrance of my single days, I climbed into bed a few minutes after Samuel in a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. I wanted nothing to do with lingerie or anything sexy. I wanted comfort. Good, old-fashioned sweats-and-a-T-shirt comfort.

  As soon as Samuel saw me, he gave me a sideways glance. “The wife in sweats,” he murmured. “We haven’t even hit the two-year mark.”

  “I want to be comfortable. Sue me.”

  “You forget who you’re talking to,” he deadpanned.

  He opened his laptop.

  “Hey.” I was becoming a real master at talking with Samuel, all right. I nudged him. “Hey.”

  He sighed. “Now what?”

  “Bendrix and Anthony are in couples counseling. Anthony says it’s like getting a checkup.”

  Samuel started typing.

  “Are you listening?” I asked.

  “Bendrix and Anthony are in couples counseling,” he repeated flatly.

  “They call it getting a checkup. Maybe that’s something we could do.”

  “A checkup for what?”

  “I don’t know, Samuel. I mean, look at us. Sometimes I feel I can’t talk to you.”

  “You’ve been saying that since we met. Trust me, we talk all the time.”

  “I still think it would be a good idea if we went to see someone.”

  “
Why? We haven’t been married two years.”

  “Time shouldn’t matter. It couldn’t hurt. We could talk about—”

  “First of all, we have no issues. Nothing that we can’t handle ourselves. And second, you need to think about the word itself. The. Rapist. Get it? Therapists exist like everyone else—to make money and get what they can out of innocent people willing to pay a stranger to listen to them whine.”

  “Bendrix and Anthony aren’t like that, and they say it helps.”

  “Good for them. We’re not them. You need to stop comparing, Abbey.” He leaned over and kissed my shoulder. “Sweetie, we’re fine. Think about it. We’re just busy; nothing more. Everything can’t be love and romance twenty-four/seven. You love me, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “See there? We’re fine. If you look for problems, you’ll find them. You have to stay positive.” He started typing again. “You know what would really help our relationship?”

  “What?”

  “For you to take off those sweats.” He laughed lightly. “They remind me of gym class.”

  • • •

  Paul stretched Jenny’s head and kissed her fully on the lips. When he felt Jenny’s body relax, his tongue parted her lips as though they were the doors to a great party circa 1979. Given the era, his tongue wore a white disco suit and just enough gold chains to keep things classy. Upon entering his fiancée’s mouth, his tongue sought out Jenny’s tongue and they began dancing to a catchy disco hit by the Bee Gees.

  From my perspective, across the table from where they sat, Paul looked as though he were giving Jenny pornographic CPR.

  I cleared my throat loudly.

  Paul turned, his face red and marked by splotchy white imprints at his jaw where Jenny had held him. She was flushed as well. Their chests rose and fell.

  “So”—now that the porn show is over—“shall we finish discussing your wedding cake?”

  “Yes, yes. What were you saying?” Paul asked. He waved to Noel, who walked over. “Hey, man, can I get another espresso and another latte for my girlfriend?”

  “Fiancée.”

  “Yes, my fi-an-cée.” He started kissing her again.

  Noel and I raised our brows at each other. “Sure thing,” he said. “Be right back.”

  I waited patiently while they made out. I’m sure they kissed for only a few seconds, but PDAs can feel like a lifetime when you don’t know the couple—and sometimes even when you do.

  Paul was a good thirty years older than Jenny, give or take a decade or two. A spry five-eight or five-nine, with spiky hair and a graying soul patch, he wore yellow-tinted glasses and a thick silver bracelet on each wrist. Jenny was a pixie of a woman with a close-cropped hairdo that brought out her big, luminous blue eyes. She looked like she belonged in a land of fairies and hobbits, riding a white horse and speaking Hobgoblin.

  Coming up for air, Paul tapped his finger on the table and stared at me. “I’m sorry. What was that? What were you saying?”

  “We were choosing the last cake.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  I didn’t mind that Paul and Jenny were taking forever to finalize their order—it was their money—but I did have concerns. There was the age difference, not helped by the fact that Paul treated her like a child, going so far as to make all the decisions about the cake in his own manipulative way: “Are you sure you want chocolate, honey? Not everybody likes chocolate. Are you sure you want caramel filling? What about something more traditional, like, say, vanilla?” Added to that, after Noel returned with their drinks, they proudly announced that they’d been dating for only three months.

  I knew it wasn’t my place to offer advice—I was there to make cakes and wish them well—but I was feeling sensitive since my conversation about couples counseling with Samuel a few weeks before—if you could call it a conversation. I had tried to talk to him about it again, but after a certain point, I knew I was wasting my breath. What did it mean, though, that he wouldn’t even consider it? I was worried and I knew I had a reason to be: It was not the best situation when you wanted to try counseling and your partner refused. And once I really thought about it, we weren’t all that happy. I wasn’t happy. Samuel wasn’t happy. Anthony had called it: Samuel was zoning out, and I was, too. I was actually looking for excuses to go in to work early and leave late. And I didn’t have to look very hard, since there was always something to do.

  Anyway, if Samuel and I were having problems so early in our marriage, what of Jenny and Paul? I normally didn’t give advice, but now that I was on the other side, so to speak, I felt I should warn them that marriage was about a hell of a lot more than sexual attraction, something Paul should’ve known, given his age, but he was obviously thinking with an organ other than his brain—or heart—if you get my drift.

  I looked at them both. “Three months? That’s not very long.”

  “Three months, eight days,” Paul said, turning to Jenny for a kiss.

  “Still,” I said, “why the rush?” I tried to smile, even as Paul began to glower as if catching on to what I was up to. “Why not get to know each other more? Take it from me,” I said, fanning my wedding ring. “Marriage comes with its ups and downs.”

  “We know each other,” Paul said defensively.

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah.” He started tapping his finger. “We know each other well enough that we’re here for a wedding cake. Isn’t that right, love?”

  Jenny tucked herself under his arm and stared at me with her big dopey eyes. “I don’t think you understand. Paul and I are soul mates. We knew instantly.”

  Paul kissed her forehead. “Yes, soul mates. She is the light of my life.” He looked at me and snorted. “And even if we aren’t soul mates, this little cutie here is only twenty-three, with the body of a . . . twenty-three-year-old! And I’m going to marry her and keep shagging her until she matures enough to realize I’m an egotistical old prick. Yippee!”

  Okay. So no, he didn’t say that—per se. But that was the gist. He added, “So as you see, we are very much in love and we’re getting married and we’re here to order a cake from someone who’s getting paid to make us a cake.”

  Point taken. I returned his chilly smile and picked up my pen.

  He was right, after all. It was a good reminder that by the point the couple was at the cake-buying stage, it was time for me to wish them my absolute best and make the cake of their dreams.

  I made myself a cappuccino after the couple left and sat and watched people coming and going and sitting at tables enjoying their cakes and pies, cupcakes and tarts. Several regulars smiled. It was Saturday, and since Mr. and Miss Delusional were my last appointment of the day, I didn’t have any reason to stay at the bakery. There was always plenty to do, but nothing pressing, and we’d be closing in a couple of hours. I told Beth I’d be leaving and asked her to close. I then went to my office to get my things. Samuel was at his office working. Even though I’d have the house to myself, I didn’t want to go home. I was getting my purse when I saw he’d left a text:

  Mother & Father coming to visit tonight. 7:00pm. See you then.

  Crap. Now I definitely wanted time to myself. I checked my watch: a little after three.

  The great thing about having so many stepmoms was that I could pick and choose among them depending on my mood. Shopping? Rita. A drink and live music? Bailey. Joan, though—Joan was for lazing around. Comfort, I’d guess you’d say. I called to see if she was home.

  • • •

  Joan lived near the border of the Berkeley Hills, a few curvy miles down from Dad’s house. I found her in her studio, a rectangular building separated from her house by a grove of evergreens. She spent as much time in her studio as in her home, and she’d set up a comfy corner at one end with a Persian carpet, two couches, a desk, and a small fridge and electric tea
pot. While lying on my back on one of the couches, I watched her work on a new piece. She was creating a series of eight statues, each about twenty inches tall and made from clay and beeswax. The statues were of little girls in various poses, all perfectly sweet except for the horns coming from their heads, the pointy devilish tails sticking out from their skirts, and the sword each girl aimed at the doll or flower she held. I could already hear the critics describing the pieces as Joan’s commentary on gender inequity, but I knew Joan and guessed she simply felt like putting horns on little girls.

  She walked around the table, taking time to study each figure. She paused now and then to futz with a skirt or foot. She wore her smock and clogs; her bifocals teetered on the tip of her nose. After several moments she looked at me and allowed her gaze to linger before walking over and plopping down. “Scoot,” she ordered. I moved my legs over to give her room. She kicked off her clogs, then stretched out with her head on the opposite armrest from mine. I moved my hand over my eyes to block out the light coming through one of the large skylights. We listened quietly to the whir of the ceiling fans. The great thing about Joan—if you didn’t want to talk, she wasn’t going to press you.

  The couches may have changed over the years, but our facing position stayed the same. I thought back to when Joan’s lover Katherine was alive. She was always coming and going and chattering away. After she died, Joan spent weeks working through her grief in her studio. I tapped my foot against her shoulder. “Do you miss Katherine?”

  “Now, there’s a silly question.”

  “You’re right. Sorry about that.” I sat up. “Do you ever date?”

  “Those days are over. I had two great loves. I’m not one to be greedy.”

  “Why didn’t you ever have children?”

  “You’re full of questions today.” She pulled herself up onto her elbows so she could meet my gaze. “Never wanted any. Not every woman wants children. Some of us are meant to be aunties or stepmums. I make a terrific stepmum.”

  “Don’t hold back, Joan.”