“I don’t intend to.”
I snorted. “You are a good stepmother.”
“I know it. I was petrified when Lincoln said he had three boys, but we got along famously, mostly because they liked coming here and making a mess of things and having me boss them around like they were my little helpers. Phineas could’ve been a sculptor if he’d wanted to—had a real eye, that boy.” She leaned back against the couch. After a minute or so, she said, “You’ll have kids, Abbey. You mustn’t worry.”
“I’m not sure that I am worried anymore.” As soon as the words drifted from my mouth, I knew it was true: I didn’t care if we had a baby together or not. I didn’t like what trying to have a baby was doing to our relationship. I then wondered if it was right to blame a non-baby on our problems. Wouldn’t they exist whether we had a kid or not? I still wanted to try, but if it didn’t happen, I honestly didn’t mind adopting.
Joan sat up again and began searching my face. Satisfied that I was telling the truth, she gave a nod. “Good. It’s really not the end of the world if you don’t conceive. Your father has certainly made sure that the Ross clan will go on.” She gave my thigh a slap. “What do you say we hit the rink? I wanted to go earlier but talked myself out of it. Now that you’re here, I’m sure it’s a sign.”
Besides her walks and hikes, Joan loved to go ice-skating. She’d been skating since she was a kid. “Can I see if Bendrix wants to come? He’s off today.”
“Bendrix?”
I didn’t blame her for the reaction. Over the years, Bendrix had always refused to join us for ice-skating. But since getting back together with Anthony, he was doing his best to try new things. So far he and Anthony had gone rock climbing, which didn’t go over all that well; tried bowling, which Bendrix said he’d be willing to try again, if not for the hideous shoes; and tried Vietnamese cooking—too much work for the result. He’d already made a point of telling Anthony he was never going to attend gay square-dancing night. Like, never.
• • •
An hour later, Anthony and I stood on either side of Bendrix, carefully holding him at the elbows like two nursing aides assisting a patient. He wobbled across the ice, threatening to fall every few seconds.
Bendrix said, “This is the last time I’m trying anything new; I’ll tell you both that much. I can’t believe I’m out here trying to be a part of the damn Ice Capades.”
“If you’d stop complaining and focus, you might enjoy yourself,” Anthony quipped.
“That’s impossible. I don’t see what’s fun about falling on my ass.”
Joan, skating backward, tried her own brand of encouragement. “I’m sure your ass can take it, Bendrix.”
His upper body began to collapse like a wilting flower. “Look up,” I told him. “You’re falling over.”
“Stop pulling me and I will.”
“We’re not pulling,” Anthony countered.
“We’re trying to help.” I gave him a hard tug forward and giggled.
“Stop it!”
Skaters whizzed by, laughing and holding hands. Two boys raced each other. A young girl of about eleven skated past executing a perfect arabesque; once she saw she had enough room, she twirled in the air and landed in a tight spin.
“Show-off,” Bendrix muttered.
Joan slowed after her second or third loop. “Let go of him, you two. It’s the best way to learn. You need to learn to stand on your own, Bendrix.”
Anthony and I did as we were told and Bendrix began rocking back and forth, as unsteady as a drunk. “Oh . . . my . . . God.” His arms jutting out one way and his butt the other, he looked like an umpire calling a play.
“You can do it, Benny!” I called.
But just then—he kicked a foot. “Whoa!” He kicked again. “Whoa!” And again. Three more speedy kicks and—“No!”—down he went.
Anthony knelt over him, doing his best not to laugh. “Are you okay?”
Bendrix gazed up at his circle of onlookers and gritted his teeth. “I’m fine.”
Anthony and I burst into laughter.
“Would you two stop laughing and help me up?”
“No!” Anthony laughed some more.
Joan extended her hand. “Don’t mind them, Bendrix. Anthony, come on and help me.” They pulled him to his feet and he began dusting ice from his pants.
After making sure Bendrix was okay, Joan skated off. I joined her after Anthony said he’d look after “our charge.”
The arena played songs only from the sixties to early nineties. At that moment, Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” was playing and a couple began imitating zombies.
Joan picked up her speed, forcing me to keep up. We skated past Bendrix and Anthony. Bendrix was trying to make his way back to the railing and safety, but they hadn’t moved very far.
I let out a yelp and raised a fist into the air as Joan and I skated around the rink faster and faster. Joan’s face remained serious, but at one point, she turned backward and forward in a split second, while pulling wisps of hair from her face. She smiled a little—her own way, I was sure, of letting out a yelp. Around and around we went. I called out to Bendrix, who was already sitting in the viewing area: “Hey, Dr. Henderson, how’s your ass?”
Joan and I continued to skate. I had to admit that I didn’t miss having Samuel with us. I didn’t want to hear him complain or watch him occupy himself on his phone. The thought saddened me, though. It seemed plain old sad that I wouldn’t want my husband around when I was having so much fun.
Noticing that my pace had slowed, Joan skated alongside me. She took my hand and we slowed to half our speed. A sixties girl group sang. You never knew what they were going to play at the rink, which was part of the fun. “Never talk yourself out of what you’re feeling, Abbey,” Joan said after we’d circled together. “We have our feelings for a reason and mustn’t be afraid of them.”
I wasn’t sure what she was getting at.
“That’s something Katherine taught me. And your father. We feel things for a reason and there’s no need to fear what we feel. Just some unasked-for advice.”
I nodded. “Thanks, Joan. I’m fine.” To prove it, I moved in front of her and gave her a wink before speeding off.
• • •
I joined Bendrix and Anthony in the sitting area at the side of the rink after a few more rounds. When I heard “Hey Jude” start to play, I went to the railing and sought out Joan. She loved the Beatles. “Come here. You guys have to see this.”
I looked through the crowd until I found her. Joan, eyes closed, raised her leg behind her while lifting her arms up and down along with the music. Her arabesque was low to the ground and slightly bent, but she was all grace and elegance. People began to make way as the music swelled and her movements became larger. Some of her movements were stiff, but it didn’t matter. She was in her own world.
“She’s amazing,” I heard Anthony say.
“Yep.”
“Are they allowed to play the Beatles?” Bendrix asked. “Isn’t that some kind of copyright infringement?”
“Bendrix,” Anthony said shortly. “Who cares? Are you watching this?”
Joan quickened her pace as the music began to crescendo. Faster and faster. As the song went into its popular chorus, several skaters sang along—“Na-na-na, Na-na-na-na! Na-na-na-na! Hey Jude!” Joan turned to the side and began to skate sideways, preparing for a jump. She kicked up her leg and leaped, and the momentum of her landing sent her into a tighter spin. A guy began to skate alongside her, but he had to make room when she went up again, flying through the air. They were the jumps and twirls of a sixty-year-old woman, awkward and imperfect, yet pure gold.
• • •
It turned out that my in-laws weren’t just paying a visit that evening; Phyllis had decided to make dinner. I came home from ice-skating happy an
d excited, only to find her in the kitchen wearing one of my aprons and standing at the stove stirring a large pot.
“We discussed going out to eat when you got here,” Phyllis explained, “but Samuel mentioned you two have been eating out a lot.” She lowered her voice. “I think it was his way of saying he wanted a home-cooked meal.”
“But you didn’t have to do it. I could’ve put something together.”
“I wanted to. I like to make myself feel useful.”
She began dancing about the kitchen singing a cheerful song about the joys of cooking and cleaning. Her faithful birdie friends landed on each shoulder and joined her in the chorus. The best place for a woman is the kitchen, tra-la-la!
Not that there was anything wrong with cooking for your husband. God no. It irked me that Phyllis bought into the belief that every woman should love to cook and clean as much as she did, especially if that woman was her daughter-in-law.
Samuel walked in and poured himself a glass of water. “It’s our lucky night, babe. Mom’s making her special chili.” He kissed me, then his mom. “Father wants to know how long before we eat.”
Phyllis popped open the stove and told him the bread would be ready in a minute or two.
When he was gone, Phyllis gave her chili a taste, then reached for the salt. “Just a pinch more. We have to watch Joseph’s high blood pressure. It’s down to a good number.”
“I’ll set the table.” I started taking down plates and silverware.
“You know, Abbey, you should think about passing on responsibility at the bakery.”
I kept my back turned so I could properly roll my eyes.
“You show your man you love him by cooking a good meal for him. That old adage about the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach is very true.”
“The way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach, too,” I quipped. “We love food just as much as men do.” She turned, looking both surprised and piqued by my remark. Remembering to smile, she said, “Samuel grew up in a home where he knew he was looked after. He didn’t expect to have to fend for himself once he was married.” She glanced inside the stove. “Hurry and set the table if you’re going to do it. I’ll bring out the chili.”
Phyllis was already out the door with glasses in hand, while I was still trying to think of what to say. I hated that I was so slow to speak when caught off guard. Why couldn’t I be like Bailey when it came to the art of rapid-fire comebacks?
• • •
I sat eating chili in silence. At least I was finally used to the fifteen minutes of no-talk eating. Another positive was that Esther and Ruth weren’t there.
As usual, Mr. Howard broke the silence by complimenting Phyllis’s cooking. (After Samuel and I were married, Mr. Howard had told me I could call him Joseph, but in my mind he was and would always be Mr. Howard.) He then continued the dinner ritual by holding court on some subject. That night he told us in detail about a news program he’d seen on PBS dealing with genetically modified foods. Samuel apparently knew enough about the subject to keep up with his father, or at least try to.
I took a nap with my eyes open.
The topic of GMOs exhausted, Samuel asked me how Joan was doing. Before I had a chance to respond, Phyllis said, “Now, which one is Joan? There are so many of them, I get them mixed up.”
I didn’t bother trying to hide my impatience. “Joan is from England. As a matter of fact, we went ice-skating together.”
“Today?”
I gave a nod.
“Well, I’ll say!” Phyllis said, gazing around the table. “Must be nice to go off and ice-skate while your husband is working hard at his job.”
Mr. Howard wiped his mouth with his napkin. “What Abbey does with her time isn’t our concern, Phyllis. Would someone pass the garlic bread?” Samuel gave him the bread, then jumped in with news about his job and how well he was doing.
“Glad to hear it, son,” Mr. Howard said. “Now, if we could just get some grandbabies around here, you’ll really make your mother and me happy.”
Samuel and I exchanged looks.
“We’re doing our best, Father. Might have to try IVF. Whatever it takes. Right, Abbey?”
I smiled while widening my eyes at him: Do we really have to discuss this over dinner—in front of your parents?
He ignored me and dug into his chili. “I’d like to give it a few more months, and then we’ll move to the next step.”
“I’d like to adopt,” I said. I touched my glass with the tips of my fingers.
“Abbey,” Samuel started. He placed his hand on mine. “We’re not giving up. Adoption isn’t even on the table right now.”
Mr. Howard said, “You don’t know what you get when you adopt. Those kids come with all kinds of problems.”
I could feel anger rising in me. Joan had told me not to be afraid of what I was feeling. Well, I was feeling pissed. I hated this family. And I hated the way Samuel was looking at me like I was a little pet to be quieted.
I looked at Mr. Howard. “Whether we adopt or not, you better not lay a hand on my kids.”
If Mr. Howard was surprised by my comment, he didn’t show it. He didn’t falter for a second. He picked up his glass. “Samuel, I suspect you need to control your wife.”
“You see . . . Abbey’s been . . . ,” Samuel started to explain, to at least try to stand up to his father, but he couldn’t do it and he turned to me. “Abbey, you need to apologize.”
“That’s not gonna happen.”
Phyllis’s eyes darted about the table. “I think we all need to calm down.”
“Have you seen the mark you left on his back?”
“Abbey!” Phyllis yelled. “Samuel?”
“Abbey.” Samuel tossed down his napkin and shot up from the table. He held me by the arm. “Come on, you’re upset.”
“Of course I’m upset!”
Samuel started to drag me from the table. He leaned in. “Abbey, please?” I could see the alarm and hurt in his eyes.
I stared down at my arm and he let go. I went to the bedroom and shut the door.
• • •
I lay flat on my back and closed my eyes. I caught snippets of the conversation. Samuel, mostly, explaining that I was upset that we weren’t pregnant.
After growing tired of eavesdropping, I turned on my side and closed my eyes. I’m not sure how long I stayed there, except I heard water running and then the house finally grew quiet.
I kept my eyes closed when I felt Samuel crawling into bed. I waited for the lecture about how I’d embarrassed him and how his parents deserved respect and blah-blah. But he surprised me by putting his arms around me and not saying a word.
He inhaled with his nose pressing into the back of my neck. “You don’t have to worry, okay? They know that you’re upset about not being pregnant. Father even wanted to tell you that he’s sorry. He didn’t mean to push your buttons.” Samuel gave me a shake. “Abbey, are you listening? They mean well. They do.” He waited, then said, “Babe, you have to stop taking everything so personally. It’s just upsetting you.”
He gave me another shake.
I rolled over just to get him to shut up. I stared into the ceiling, thinking about the sensation of rushing past the other skaters earlier with Joan. I thought about how elegant she’d looked twirling to music by the Beatles. In the meantime, my husband went on and on and on. I listened. Sort of. I didn’t want to talk. I was sick of talking. We were so stuck. I didn’t know why he didn’t see it, but we were. I listened to him breathing next to me. I thought about the advice Joan had given me earlier, about allowing myself to feel what I felt. I knew I was angry, but as I lay there following the in and out of my breath, the rise and fall of Samuel’s head on my stomach, my eyes started to glisten. Lonely, I thought. I feel really lonely.
16
But Not for Me
Almost two weeks later, I met with Gina Kendrick, a prospective bride who worked for a dot-com in the city that had recently been bought out by another dot-com behemoth and was now worth triple its original price. She’d seen the article in Brides and liked that I could work with ideas inspired by fine art. After an initial meeting, she’d e-mailed links to several works by Matisse and asked that I come up with a few ideas based on the paintings. She’d also sent a list of the cakes she wanted to try at the tasting. She was never bridezilla demanding and always polite, but she was an executive at a multimillion-dollar company and a woman who knew precisely what she wanted. Women like Gina were actually as exciting to work with as women who wanted more of my input: I enjoyed proving myself and giving them more than they expected.
She was talking rapidly as I approached the table. A man who I assumed was her fiancé sat next to her. It wasn’t until I was sitting in front of them that I realized Gina had a phone clipped to her ear and was talking to someone on the other end. A gifted multitasker, she began typing into her tablet while managing a silent hello and shake of my hand. Her fiancé smiled politely and tossed his head toward Gina in a way that said, She’ll just be a second. He bobbed his head to the music on the stereo, Art Tatum playing “Give Him the Ooh-La-La.”
After another minute or so, Gina told whoever was on the line that she needed to call them back. I guessed her age to be thirty-two or thirty-three. She had a liveliness about her that made me think she was a former cheerleader, or leader of her high school’s debating team, or probably both. She was gymnast petite and solid, with a whistle of a nose and huge white teeth that made up for their largeness whenever she smiled. Because when she did, you went, Whoa, wow, what a smile.
She placed her phone down. “I am so sorry about that. Abbey, this is my fiancé, Jason. Jason, Abbey.”
Jason reached across the table and we shook hands. Where Gina had the plucky spirit of a morning talk-show host, he gave off the impression that he wasn’t one for agendas and as of now was happy to enjoy the music and the company of his future bride.
A Pinch of Ooh La La Page 20
