A Pinch of Ooh La La

by Renee Swindle

  “I—”

  “Let him speak, Abbey.”

  Samuel chuckled to himself as he glanced over to my side of the couch. “I feeeeel she could do better. She grew up with no responsibilities—breaking the law painting graffiti and hanging out. Her family thinks life is about playtime.” He paused and looked at me. “It’s no wonder Carmen thanks me all the time for helping her with school. She says it’s the first time she’s ever felt any sense of normalcy. I don’t blame her.” He turned back to Pamela. “Her sister was pregnant and unmarried when we met. I guess that’s what happens,” he added, as if the idea had just come to him. “You have all these kids with different mothers. . . . No parental guidance.”

  I said coolly, “So why don’t you tell Pamela about the parental guidance you grew up with?”

  “My parents were strict. Very strict.”

  “His father beat him and his mom had no problem locking him in the closet.”

  Pamela didn’t bother trying to hide her concern. “You want to tell me more, Samuel?”

  “No, I don’t, Pamela. My parents did the best they could. Abbey won’t let it go, but I’m fine with it.”

  Pamela’s voice dropped. “It sounds like you were ill-treated. This could have serious ramifications. We—”

  Samuel was already intently shaking his head. “I’m not going there. It’s in the past. I see no need to discuss something that happened years ago.”

  Pamela turned to me, but I only shrugged. Now maybe you see what I have to put up with.

  She said, “Blah blah blah.”

  Samuel said, “Blah blah blah blah.”

  My way of saying, I checked out. If therapy was helping me learn anything, it was that I loved Samuel—I did—but I didn’t like him all that much. And the sad fact was that deep down, I wasn’t sure Samuel liked me much either.

  Pamela gave us a homework assignment: a list of exercises intended to help us take baby steps toward each other instead of pushing each other away.

  We drove home in silence and spent the night being polite but not really talking. After dinner and a long, hot shower, I sat at the dining room table with tea and Bill Evans playing in the background. It was some time before my temper cooled and I began talking myself down from the ledge of giving up.

  Brain: Do you want to be the divorced woman who makes wedding cakes? How’s that going to look?

  Heart: Don’t give up! You have a handsome, successful man who women would kill to marry! You don’t want to be alone again, do you? Please! Let’s not be alone again!

  Gut: I’d rather be alone than miserable.

  I went around in circles a few more times. Eventually Samuel came out and joined me. He began massaging my shoulders. I tensed at his touch but didn’t pull away.

  “I’m sorry about earlier. I want to keep trying, Abbey. I know I was an ass in therapy today, but I was upset.” He knelt down next to my chair and peered up at me. “Don’t give up. Listen, I’ll even consider adoption. Not right away—I want to keep trying, but I won’t rule it out.”

  I could feel my heart swell. That pull. We were two people stuck in a dance, and we knew the choreography inside and out. Push, pull. Push, pull. Backward. Forward.

  He sat next to me. He was going to fight hard enough for both of us. He loved me. But did he? Sometimes it felt we were focused on the marriage more than on each other. He stared at me and then I saw his eyes well. I touched his cheek.

  “Please don’t give up.”

  I wiped near his eye. I couldn’t stand seeing him like this and leaned over and kissed him. “I won’t,” I said.

  He smiled and dropped his head.

  “You want to try one of Pamela’s exercises?”

  “Sure.”

  18

  Yes, I Know When I’ve Had It

  Over the next few weeks, I have to say that Samuel tried to be more present. He stopped bringing the laptop into the bedroom and had flowers delivered to the bakery. I tried, too. I met him at work one day and took him to lunch. I started cooking more. I hated every minute of it, but I tried. I never knew how much I hated cooking until I convinced myself to do it more often. There was magic in baking—things like yeast and rising dough, the design of a perfect rose on top of a wedding cake—but with cooking, eh. Why bother when you could order in or eat out? But I tried.

  About a month after we regrouped and started working harder on our marriage, I stopped by Dad’s before going home. Samuel said I’d been cooking so much, he thought I deserved a break and was planning the meal for the night. We’d had spice cake on the menu that day and Aiko’s favorite, green tea cupcakes, so I thought I’d surprise them before heading home.

  I found Aiko in the kitchen standing at the stove. Bud was seated at the table and Ornette in his high chair. I could hear Dad in his practice room; otherwise, the house was surprisingly quiet.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked.

  She looked over her shoulder. “You know the silence won’t last long.”

  I gave her the desserts and we hugged hello.

  I went to Ornette and kissed his cheek. He was big enough now to do things like sit up on his own and drink from a sippy cup and hold a spoon. He ignored me when I buried my nose in his head of black curls, and continued to reach for the dry cereal on his high chair, his chubby arm and hand working like a crane on a construction site. I kissed him again, wondering if it was possible for me to finally get pregnant now that I was trying so hard to be a good wife. The idea seemed immediately ridiculous, but I was ready to hold on to anything by that point. I sat next to Bud at the table. He dangled string cheese high above his head before chomping down. “If I eat everything, I can watch cartoons.” He brought a piece of broccoli to his eye and studied it as if it were a tree that he could never harm, then tossed it and stuck out his tongue.

  As if she had eyes behind her head, Aiko caught him in action. “Bud, don’t throw your food like that. And stop sticking out your tongue; it’s rude.”

  I picked up a piece of broccoli and took a bite. “It doesn’t taste very good, but I hear it makes you strong.”

  “You want tea, Abbey? Something to drink?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She grabbed a box of macaroni from the counter and dumped the contents into boiling water. She then took a sip of beer from the bottle on the counter. Now that the boys were older and she was getting sleep, she was back to her old self—slim-fitting jeans, T-shirt—and her hair was cut in a pixie and shaved in the back. She was forty-eight but looked easily ten years younger.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” She spun around and brought the bottle to her lips again, her eyes bright. “So . . . guess who has an interview with Midori Takase next month?”

  “No way! Congratulations!”

  I stood and gave her a hug. A musical pioneer, Midori Takase had helped prove to the industry that a female keyboardist could attack and shape sound with the best of them. She was one of the early musicians to use silence and dissonant chords back when people didn’t know what to make of her more modern aesthetic. She’d moved to Berlin several years ago and was now a recluse in her seventies. Since Takase never granted interviews, Aiko’s news was indeed a very big deal.

  “How did you get her to agree to talk to you?”

  “I basically stalked her. I kept sending e-mails, and I sent several of the articles I’ve written on other musicians. And speaking the little Japanese I know helped, too.” She rested her elbows on the center island while sipping her beer. “And I did it all without dropping your dad’s name a single time. The magazine that wants the story is pretty big in Europe. They’re already talking about sending out a photographer. When I finally told Midori whom I was married to, she said she’d love to meet him, so your dad and the boys are coming with me. I’m pretty excited.”

  “You should be. Now I wish I
’d brought champagne with the desserts. This is great, Aiko.”

  She remembered the pasta and turned off the burner. She took out a white packet and emptied orange powder into the pot. “I swore when I had kids I’d never resort to string cheese and boxed macaroni and cheese: I was going to have my kids learn to eat whatever I ate. Now look at me.”

  She held up an eggplant from a stack of vegetables piled on the counter. “Your dad went crazy over the eggplant at the farmers’ market today. He’s in charge of the grown-up dinner.” She sliced into her apple with a paring knife. “You staying? Phineas is stopping by with Laticia. And Megumi and Curt are coming over.” Laticia was Phineas’s girlfriend. Megumi was Aiko’s younger sister and Curt her husband.

  “No. I can’t stay, actually.” I ran my hand through Bud’s hair until he pulled away.

  “Stop it!”

  I watched Aiko move about. “Did the age difference between you and Dad ever worry you?” I asked.

  “Not really. Seems so long ago now. I think I remember dating.” She smiled. “To be honest, I knew right away I was going to spend the rest of my life with him.”

  “How?” From the way she stopped to stare at me, I must have sounded borderline desperate for an answer. She grabbed a small handful of cereal and tossed it onto Ornette’s high-chair tray.

  “Your father got me. I knew he really got me. And I got him. I’m Aiko with him, and he’s who he is, and he’s not just the musician; he’s Lincoln. Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “You and Samuel okay?”

  “Yeah. We’re fine.”

  She sliced into an apple, keeping a wedge for herself and giving one each to the boys. “Look, if you guys are getting stressed about babies, take it from me, everybody is lying about how great it is. It is great. I love my boys, but it’s hard work. Enjoy your honeymoon phase and try not to sweat it. Seriously.”

  I leaned over and rested my head on top of Bud’s before he had time to push me off. “I should say hi to Dad before I take off.”

  I left as she muttered something about a misplaced fork she’d been holding only a second ago.

  Daddy sat at the piano, jotting down notes. I paused in the doorway. The last time I’d been in Dad’s practice room, I’d been with Jason, and the memory of sitting with him while Dad played, the look he gave me, his eyes glistening with tears as Dad performed—well, it almost knocked me over with sadness. I’d been managing just fine not to think about him. It wasn’t as though I missed him. I hardly knew him, so how could I miss him? But I’d felt something with Jason, and talking with Aiko, I now realized, had helped me to see what that something was. I’d been myself. There’d been no sense of making an effort. We’d been together for only a few hours, but I knew, I just knew it . . . He got me.

  “Hey! Look who’s here!” Dad startled me from my thoughts. I went over and gave him a big hug and sat next to him on the piano bench.

  “That husband of yours with you?”

  “No, I’m just stopping by. I brought you some spice cake.”

  “That’s my baby. Aiko tell you her news?”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty exciting. I’m happy for her.”

  “It’s Aiko’s show. I’ll be there to watch the boys. But it’ll be nice to pop in and say hello to the legendary Midori Takase. Can you stay for dinner? I don’t know what I’m making, but I promise it’ll have eggplant and it’ll be gooood.”

  “I’m sure it will. But I can’t.” In truth I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to stay and have dinner with Aiko and her sister and my brother.

  When I felt Dad staring, I blurted, “I’m fine.”

  He pulled back, puzzled. “I didn’t ask how you were doing. But since you’re acting so strange, you wanna tell me?”

  “Not really. I think I have a tendency to overthink things.”

  He kept his eyes locked with mine as he played a few bars of “Down with Love” and afterward the chorus of “Trouble Is a Man.” Two songs and he proved he knew exactly what was on my mind. He grinned.

  “Funny, Daddy.”

  He gave me a nudge. “You know why I named you after Abbey Lincoln?”

  From time to time, he liked to tell me why he’d named me after the quirky, idiosyncratic singer. He did the same with my other siblings. The thing is, he always knew the right moment to remind me. He played with a few keys, a disjointed melody that came together in the last chord. “You were my first girl and I wanted you to be like her. Her voice was off-key just enough and she was sometimes a note or two behind, a beat or two in front. In the early days she’d wear the tight gowns and all that, but one day she took a match to one of her dresses, tossed it in the trash, and never wore a gown again. Started wearin’ suits and hats. Wore her glasses with pride.” He chuckled to himself. “Yeah, Ms. Lincoln was a true original. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  I nodded.

  We could hear Aiko’s sister’s voice coming from the kitchen, followed by Phineas coming through the front door. “Lucy, I’m home!”

  Dad hit the opening chords to Beethoven’s Fifth: the iconic da da da daaaaa!

  I rolled my eyes but smiled. I so wanted to stay.

  “I guess I better figure out what to do with all those eggplants I bought or Aiko is going to get on me something fierce. She told me not to buy so many. You sure you don’t want to stay, baby? Call that husband of yours and tell him to come over.”

  I didn’t have time to respond beyond, “No, thank you.” Phineas and his girlfriend walked in and soon we were hugging one another, and I was saying my good-byes. I needed to get home.

  • • •

  I had to wonder if my resistance to going home had been a premonition, because as soon as I opened the door, I saw Esther and Ruth sitting on the couch. If that wasn’t bad enough, they were watching—to my horror!—Avery B: His Rise and Fall.

  They hadn’t heard the door open, and I found myself standing frozen in the entryway, watching along with them. I hadn’t seen the documentary since Bendrix and I had watched it a few months after its release on DVD. We’d watched it in its entirety, safe and snug at his house while drinking straight from a bottle of tequila.

  On the screen, Avery was painting a seven-foot-high canvas in jeans and no shirt. Believe it or not, he wasn’t playing it up for the camera. I remembered how hot it had been that day, especially with the added lights in the studio.

  After so many years, I guess I’d forgotten how beautiful he was. And I do mean beautiful, by the way. Not handsome. Not hot or fine. Beautiful. He was a man you wanted to stare at and study as if he was the piece of art. He moved his arms up, and his muscles glistened under a thin veneer of sweat.

  Avery, I thought. Avery. He had done me in, all right. Took my heart and bounced it around like it was nothing more than a toy.

  The camera zoomed in on his painting and I remembered it wasn’t just his beauty; he’d been blessed twice—his looks and his artwork. The camera panned over the painting, an acrylic-and-oil paint stick in blues of every shade, all vying for the audience’s attention.

  Cut to: A shot of Avery and me at the Met. Avery taking my hand as we study Jacques-Louis David’s Death of Socrates. I point to the top of the painting and Avery laughs.

  Larsen (offscreen): Why do you think you and Avery hit it off so well?

  Me (on-screen): We both love art, for one thing. We can both spend hours in a museum and we like to discuss things about design and architecture. We live in the same world that way.

  Cut to: Larsen (leaning in as he looks at me): But other women can talk art, as you say. Why you?

  Me (on-screen): I get Avery. I’m his confidante. We’re soul mates.

  Remaining dead still, I stared at my gullible younger self. How could I have missed so many other women? Why hadn’t I known he was cheating?

  Cut to:
Avery and me at a café having coffee. Cut to: Avery and me leaving the café, holding hands.

  I noticed how gaga I looked as I stared at him. Maybe I was wrong for putting myself down so much for not knowing about the women. I didn’t know much about myself back then either. I’d been a so-so art critic at a small magazine, and from there, I’d fallen into another man’s life. I’d been young and ready to shape myself into anyone else’s life, any man’s life, rather than my own. Why should I blame that young woman on camera for missing the signs? She was too busy losing herself in another person’s life to begin with. She didn’t want to see any signs.

  I shook away my thoughts and must have made a noise, because Esther and Ruth turned and said hello, then went right back to watching.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t know he was cheating!” Esther said.

  Ruth laughed. “She was blinded by his beauty.” Esther stared at her briefly.

  I found the remote and clicked off the TV.

  “We were watching that,” Esther complained.

  “Not anymore.”

  They both called out for Samuel as though they were still kids in need of their big brother.

  Samuel walked in, feverishly whisking the contents of the bowl he was holding. He gave me a perfunctory kiss. “How ya doin’?”

  “She turned off the documentary,” Esther complained.

  “And we haven’t finished watching it,” said Ruth.

  “I told you this would happen.”

  “Why does it bother you?” Esther asked me. “It shouldn’t. It happened a long time ago.” She nudged Ruth, who actually had the nerve to pick up the remote and turn the TV back on.

  I gave Samuel a look: Would you do something about your sisters, please?

  He resumed whisking. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t see the harm.” He’d watched the documentary after we’d started dating. He’d called Avery a loser and we’d left it at that. “Check it out,” he said, showing me the contents of the bowl he held. I stared into a yellow and red concoction. “I found a recipe online I’m pretty excited about.” He started toward the kitchen.