A Pinch of Ooh La La (22 page)

Everybody whooped and yelled at once.

He then screamed at the top of his voice:
“Oaklaaaaaaand!”

And with that, he banged his guitar and he and his bandmates kicked into a fast-paced rock song that had us all pogo-sticking up and down and thrusting our heads and arms like mad people.

Jason and I shouted in each other's faces every now and then, laughed and jumped. This went on for two more songs until we were out of breath. By the fourth song, we were hunched over and gasping.

“Fuckin' hell, I'm old,” Jason said, clutching his stomach.

“All the beer and food we ate didn't help.”

We made our way back to the bench and plopped down like two people no longer in their twenties.

“They're a fun band, though, no?”

“They are.”

“They aren't jazz . . .”

“. . . but they're fun.”

Then it hit me.
Why hadn't I thought of it sooner?

“You okay there?”

“Yeah.” I stood up. “Jason?”

“Abbey?”

“You wanna meet my dad?”

“Don't kid a guy, Abbey.”

“I'm serious.”

His mouth fell open as he stared up at me and pressed his hand to his heart. “It would mean the world.”

•   •   •

I
called Aiko before we left Art Crawl to be sure he was home. (That Dad never answered his cell or the phone at the house was a running joke in our family.) She told me to come on over.

Jason's luck continued to rise. Dad was giving a private concert to a few out-of-town jazz students. He'd be finished playing soon, so she told me to get there quickly.

Jason called Gina and explained what was going on while we rushed back to my car. I called Samuel and was glad to find him too distracted to ask any questions.

•   •   •

W
e could hear Dad as soon as we walked through the door. I led Jason to the practice room, where a crowd of twenty or so people sat listening. The only person I recognized other than Dad was Aiko, who gave a small wave when she saw me.

Jason and I found seats in the back. I thought it was pretty funny when I recognized that the song Dad was playing was “Lady Be Good
.
”
We were able to hear only a few bars before he finished. He took a sip of water and announced his next song, “Stairway to the Stars
.
” He played slowly at first, with the focus on the melody. As the song started to build, however, so did his speed, and four minutes in, his fingers were a scrambled blur as they moved up and down the keyboard. His body arched back when he reached a crescendo, then fell in on itself when he moved into an unexpected pianissimo. As Theo would say, Pops was on fire.

I looked over at Jason, whose eyes were glistening. When he felt me staring, he turned.
Thank you,
he mouthed.

I reached over and gave his hand a firm squeeze, then let go.

•   •   •

T
he room burst into applause when Dad finished. When he saw me, he pointed and clutched at his heart. “Looks like my daughter is here. Everyone, the one and only Abbey Lincoln Ross.”

The small group turned and I gave a shy wave.

“Baby, I'm about to do my last encore. What can I play you?”

I fanned my hands toward Jason. He looked at me curiously. “Go ahead,” I told him. “Pick a song.”

“I—” He choked and cleared his throat. Everyone stared. I nudged him with my elbow. “How—” His voice broke like a teen's going through puberty. A few people, including myself, laughed lightly. He cleared his throat again. “‘How Deep Is the Ocean.' Please. Sir.”

Dad paused but then grinned as if charmed. “You got it.”

The room fell quiet. Dad played in a straightforward manner but then began to coax the melody as if trying to wake the song from a deep sleep, each note pulled and tugged into something altogether new, each measure adding a more soulful layer. He leaned back with his eyes closed. The intensity with which he played blurred the lines between music and musician: He was the song and it poured out of him.

When the song ended, we all rose to our feet and applauded wildly. I glanced at Jason, who wiped tears from his cheeks and sniffled. When he felt me staring, he reached over and gave me a quick sideways hug, pressing his cheek on top of my head. He then let go and stuck his fingers between his lips and whistled.

We took pictures with Dad before leaving, and Dad chatted with Jason briefly and autographed his Moleskine notebook. Jason had to catch his train, however, so we didn't stay much longer.

He stared out the car window as we drove back down the hill. I guessed he was reliving his night with the one and only Lincoln T. Ross. Once we reached BART, he leaned over and gave
me a long, hard hug, hard enough that I could feel his fingers gripping into my back and the warmth of his body against mine.

I saw pixie dust momentarily and Billie Holiday floating down from jazz heaven.
It had to be you,
she started to warble, but I closed my eyes and willed her away. I was too sad for jazz heaven. Plus, Billie was wrong to try to play matchmaker. Jason was for Gina.

After we separated, I kept my eyes locked on his. I wanted to tell him things that were entirely inappropriate:
I think it's beautiful that you cry. Thanks for reminding me what it's like to have fun. You have beautiful eyes. I don't want to go home.
I was surprised when my eyes began tearing up.

“Hey,” he whispered.
“Hey . . .”

I looked up again and I was suddenly crying full on—tears bursting, snot, all of it.

“Hey . . . hey . . . Abbey, what's wrong?” He took me in his arms, and that made it worse. I cried for what felt like hours.

I didn't want to go home to my husband. I didn't want to make a baby with him. I shook the thoughts away. I'd never cheat, unlike some people I knew (Avery Brooks), but my tears spoke volumes. I was miserable.

Jason was kind enough to let me cry on his shoulder. He then gave me time to pull myself together.

“You want to tell me what's going on? I've been told I'm a good listener.”

“I'm sure you are, but it's just life stuff. I'll be okay.”

“You sure?”

I nodded.

The speaker system announced his train, but he didn't budge.

“You should leave,” I said.

“I'll catch the next one,” he said. We sat together, not talking, just watching people pass.

He looked out toward the BART station. “You're going to be okay. You're Lincoln T. Ross's daughter.”

I smiled.

We fell silent again. To be honest, I just wanted to sit there and be with him. After a moment he said, “You know, under different circumstances—say, we met a hundred years from now in the future, I'd ask to see you again. If you were a guy, I'd ask right now. But you're not a guy. You're clearly not a guy.”

We grinned at each other. “Thanks for saying that, Jason. I understand.”

He stared out at the street again as if he wanted to say more but then let out a breath. “I should go.”

I nodded.

He climbed out and closed the door but then slapped his hand against the window to get my attention. I rolled it down.

“Thanks for tonight. You'll be okay, Abbey. You're too special not to get what you want.”

“Thanks.”

He hit the roof of the car as his good-bye. I watched him walk away. When he was near the entrance, he turned and gave a wave.

I didn't turn on my stereo until I reached the first stoplight. I searched for the song I wanted and the singer—Ella, “But Not for Me.”

I told myself I'd listen and let myself think of the what-ifs until I reached my home; but afterward, no more. I hit “play” and continued to drive. I drove slowly and took the longest possible way back.

A Simple Matter of Conviction

T
hat very next day I told Samuel I wanted to see a marriage counselor. He guffawed and went through his usual spiel about how we didn't need a therapist and that we were fine, but I held my ground. I didn't know how to save us on my own, and we were in sore need of a rescue. Anthony gave me a few referrals. In the end I chose Pamela Watson, based on her reviews and a brief talk over the phone.

During our first two meetings we sat on the couch with the distance of the Atlantic Ocean between us, and we remained that way through the third session, even though by that time Samuel's body language indicated he was finally willing to open up. He sat on the far end of the couch and clasped his hands like a man deep in thought.

Pamela watched him closely. She had the long limbs of a dancer and wore her hair like Mom's, except her Afro lacked any gray; and where Mom rarely wore jewelry, Pamela wore bracelets and necklaces with chunky beads and long earrings. She
crossed her long legs and rested her hand under her chin. “Samuel, you have something on your mind?”

He gestured a thumb my way. “She complains how unhappy she is, but she has no idea what I go through in life.”

“If you can, please speak from a place of
I
. I feel . . . Give it a try
. I feel
 . . .”

He started to roll his eyes but stopped himself.
“I feeeel . . . ,”
he repeated. “I feel resentful that Abbey says she's unhappy when she has nothing to be unhappy about. I'm going to work and having to prove myself every single day; meanwhile, all she does all day is make cookies.”

My eyes shot open at hearing this.
Make cookies all day? Was he serious?
I started to respond, but Pamela held up her hand. “So you're saying you feel pressured. How does that affect your relationship with Abbey?”

“A man needs to feel he's appreciated. He wants to come home to a clean house and have a meal waiting; not all the time, I'm not that needy, but at least most of the time.”

I turned. “You put pressure on yourself, Samuel. You're doing fine at work; you just got a huge bonus. You're competitive; that's the problem. If the next person is billing one hundred hours a week, you have to bill a thousand.”

“That's not humanly possible.”

“You get my point.”

“He's allowed to feel what he feels,” said Pamela.

He looked at her. “If I'm competitive, Abbey gives up too easily. She wants everything to be easy.”

“Are you nuts? You think Scratch made itself?”

“Yeah, you work hard with your bakery, but not with this marriage. I don't think you know what it means to be a normal wife. She practically grew up in a commune. With all her father's women coming and going.”

“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.”