A Pinch of Ooh La La (3 page)

“Feels like yesterday.” I glanced around the bakery. By now the tables were filling up and a line was snaking to the screen
door in the front. My bakery was a success, but the article made me feel like a complete failure. He had a baby—a son. During all those years with Avery, I had dreamed of starting a family with him. Avery was making a comeback and had a kid and a girlfriend, while I was spending my life making cupcakes. Where was my child? Where was my family?

“You of all people know how much that man hurt me,” I said.

“I also know that you're letting your fear take over. I also know you're so afraid, you've stopped trying.” He looked up from his tablet. “What are you going to do? Spend the rest of your life hanging out with your best friend?”

“Yes?”
I said weakly.

“Abbey, you're not getting younger. Life is short. There are no guarantees. You're the star of your own show.” He was on a roll now and enjoying himself. “The driver of your own car. Only
you
can make it happen.”

I rolled my eyes.

Thankfully, Noel called over that one of my suppliers was on the line, saving me from breaking out into tears on the spot. My life sucked!

I told Noel I'd take the call in my office and rose from the table. “Thanks for the morning pep talk and news about my ex. I feel much better about life. You are a fine friend, Dr. Henderson. Thanks. Heading home yet? You must be exhausted.”

He eyed me from over his espresso cup before holding up his tablet with a grin, and the online dating site flashed before my eyes.

Jerk.

Let's Face the Music and Dance

A
quote from
New Yorker
art critic Charles Rappaport: “Avery Brooks's artwork speaks on a level outside the realm of abstraction and encapsulates the vitality of the mean streets where he grew up and the irony of his generation. Even at his young age, his work stands with that of the great artists he once studied.”

I was twenty-eight when I met Avery and working at
Contemporary Art Now
as a staff writer. I'd been following his career since grad school and lucked out when I was assigned to interview him at his opening at Kerr Gallery in San Francisco.

I'd recently earned my master's degree in art history, my thesis on Kyrah Hegl, an artist who'd worked with mixed media before her suicide in the early 1980s. I was never an artist myself and not nearly as talented as my musically and artistically inclined siblings, but Bendrix and I had earned a name for ourselves back in high school as graffiti artists. We were serious enough that we were getting commissioned gigs by the time we
were seniors. (Oh, how I was tempted at times to tell people that the one and only Dr. Bendrix Henderson was once known as Benz to the graffiti world.)

Bendrix had felt even more trapped in high school than I had and was always coming up with oddball ideas: “Let's go to a hockey game!” “Hockey? Who goes to hockey? We live in Oakland.” Or, “Let's go see Pearl Jam!” “They're in town? Where are they playing?” “Oregon! We could take the train!”

He'd been going through some of my art books one night (I was obsessed with graffiti art back then, especially that of Barry McGee and Shepard Fairey), and he looked up from one of the books and suggested that we find an abandoned building and make graffiti art just as easily as you might say,
We should take a walk
. I was hardly paying attention because I was struggling through my algebra homework. Bendrix had been whisked off to gifted and Advanced Placement classes two weeks into freshman year and was already taking trig, but math remained my nemesis. “What do you think?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you listening?”

I tried the formula I was working on for the millionth time.
X minus Y . . .
“Yeah. Graffiti. God, I hate algebra. Who cares about Y? I hate Y. I hate Z. I hate all these stupid formulas. And why are we using letters with math?”

At this point Bendrix sighed, climbed down from my bed, and grabbed my book. “Here, child.” He took my pencil and began marking up my page like Zorro signing his signature with masked flair. “There.”

I stared at the answer.

“Now will you pay attention?”

Neither Bendrix nor I could really draw, per se, so we made abstract portraits of our favorite artists instead. Van Gogh riding
a skateboard. Paul Klee bungee jumping. Or we'd spray-paint a poem or haiku.

Daddy was big on three rules: Be honest, be yourself, and stay out of jail. So when I told him I wanted to try my hand at graffiti art, he made me promise to make my mark only on abandoned buildings and freight trains—as if we knew where to find a freight train. Our odd creations caught on, and at the height of our “fame” an indie rock band took a picture of one of our designs and used it on the cover of their CD. Later, the owner of a skateboard shop in Alameda asked us to come out and paint the side of his building. Thanks to those early years in high school, I hadn't merely
studied
art like my colleagues in grad school; I'd also created it. I'd learned in some small way what it was like to feel a creative spark, to experience the aliveness and elation that come from creativity.

All this is to say, while I wasn't model gorgeous like the women Avery usually dated, I was able to meet him in a place other women couldn't—that place where we could spend hours on end at MOMA gazing at a piece of art or sitting at a café discussing favorite artists and evaluating their work. I also introduced him to artists he'd never heard of, mostly female, who were ignored in academe and the art world. I knew a bit more about art criticism and history than he did, only because he was mostly self-taught. He once told me he thought one of the sexiest things about me was my love and knowledge of art. He proposed a year after we met while we were traveling together in Italy.

•   •   •

L
ike Pollock and his alcoholism, Frida and that pole (!), van Gogh and that ear (!), Avery also came with the requisite Artist's Story, his involving a drug-addicted mother and a series of foster parents. It also didn't hurt that he was
fine
, as my stepmother Bailey noted more than once. Years of climbing the art
world's ladder led to a two-page spread in
Vanity Fair
that catapulted him into the national spotlight. Even readers not interested in art stopped short when they saw Avery standing next to one of his drawings, barefoot and wearing a clean white T-shirt and jeans. Oh, those light brown eyes and that caramel-like skin; those muscles, and that grin starting at the corner of his mouth. Ladies on Park Avenue sitting in gold-plated chairs turned the page of
Vanity Fair
, saw Avery Brooks, and sucked in a breath of air.

Hollywood came next. Larsen, a documentary filmmaker, asked if he could make a movie about Avery's creative process and life. Avery and I were three years into our relationship and had already formed an impenetrable bubble around us against the ever-mounting requests for his time and attention. Larsen seemed trustworthy, though, and the opportunity of a rising documentarian filming Avery's life was too good to pass up. We said yes, and the camera crew began following Avery around.

Sometime during the filming of
Avery B
, it was discovered that Avery had forged his last series of paintings off a former assistant. Admittedly, he was already heading into territory where artists begin to copy old ideas. Think Factory Warhol and those tired stills, or late Keith Bosworth and those dreaded cartoons. When Avery's assistant took him to court, he eventually admitted that he'd copied “a few ideas.” He was sentenced to pay damages and was sued on all fronts by people who'd bought paintings from his last series of work and by other patrons and gallery owners who feared they'd been scammed. He put the loft in San Francisco on the market, as well as his New York City studio. Everything had to go. Larsen changed the title of his documentary from
Avery B: His Rise and Genius
to
Avery B: His Rise and Fall.

I watched movers come in and take everything from our loft.
I watched Avery try to work his smile on his manager, curator, patrons, and press as he did his best to explain his way out of the shithole of lies into which he'd dug himself. I'd had to defend myself as well.
Did you know about the forgery, Ms. Ross?
No, I hadn't. I hadn't known a thing. I could have added that there'd been a time when Avery had told me everything and asked my opinion on whatever project he was working on, but that had ended months before—as had the sex and most of his attention.

So, yes, I was as surprised as anyone. I mean, forgery? Cheating is no surprise in places like Wall Street or the government, but in the art world—where creativity,
your
creativity, your insight, is your absolute treasure—to forge, to cheat another artist . . . it was unthinkable. Naturally his crime was the talk among critics, reviewers, and other artists. Charlie Rose dedicated a segment to the scandal, and when the movie premiered, Larsen was invited to speak about his movie and Avery on
Fresh Air.

About a week after the scandal broke, I told Avery off and moved in with Bendrix for a while. Avery knocked on the door a few days later and asked if we could talk. He told me he was going to Mexico because he needed time to think. The documentary was showing at Sundance that month and he didn't want to have to “deal” when it opened. When I said I'd think about going to Mexico with him, he told me not to bother because he was going alone. That's when I knew we were finished and tugged off my engagement ring. He refused to take it back, though. He loved me, he said, and he was “deeply sorry.” I deserved the ring and should keep it. He told me he'd be in touch, and then he turned and walked away.

Since I had tickets to the festival, I went with Bendrix to see
Avery B
. We pointed out actors and directors and acted like kids. We sat in the back of the theater during the showing, and I gripped his hand, humiliated every time I appeared on camera;
my nose alone looked six feet tall. All in all, though, I had to say, it was an excellent documentary, just as much about the creative process and the importance of art as a story about Avery's life. I started to relax and enjoy myself. Until the nymphs appeared: one blond, one brunette, both thin boned and wide-eyed and full lipped.

The brunette, Charlotte, looked like she belonged in a silent picture, a modern-day Mary Pickford with her coiled hair and pencil-thin eyebrows that exaggerated her perfectly oval face. She stared directly into the camera as Larsen asked when her affair with Avery began. “Like, maybe, like, a year after he and Abbey got engaged. I know this is supposed to make me the bad guy in all of this, but I believe when there's true love between two people, no one can come between them. I mean, like, if I could so easily come between those two, it wasn't love.”

Larsen
(offscreen): So what happened?

Charlotte
(shrugging): We're both Scorpios, so it was crazy! We were all, like,
so
hot for each other; then things played out. It's like those—what do you call 'em?—those meteors in the sky. We burnt out. He didn't want to hurt Abbey either, so we stopped. I know he must seem like a player or whatever, but he's just very passionate.

I turned to Bendrix, my mouth agape. Even in the darkened theater I could see that his eyes were as big and wide as mine.

“Do you know her?” he whispered.

“Of course not! I've never seen her before in my life!”

Someone from behind shushed us.

The blonde appeared next. Already she looked like she had more of a brain than the first bimbo. She wore glasses; her long
braid was an accessory that draped over one shoulder. Her name appeared at the bottom of the screen: Josie.

Larsen
: When did your relationship with Avery start?

Josie
: We met at a party. He said he wanted to draw my hands. I know that sounds corny, but that's exactly what he did. He was very respectful and drew my hands all night while we talked. I'm an artist myself. I design jewelry.

Close-up shot: Josie fingering her necklace, made of what looks like icicles held dangling from a thin silver chain.

Larsen
: And how did the relationship end?

Josie
: Well, to be honest, it hasn't. I'm not proud of how we started, but we're very much in love. Avery Brooks is the love of my life.

Larsen
: You know he's engaged.

Josie
: Abbey is more like his business partner at this point. What Avery had for Abbey died a long time ago. He loves her more like a sister.

Cut to: Josie and Avery strolling through Golden Gate Park. He picks Josie up and throws her over one shoulder like a sack of flour, then twirls her around. Cue cheesy-sounding classical music.

Cut to:
Larsen
(offscreen): Do you ever worry about infidelity?

Cut to:
Me
(smiling into the camera—
like a gullible idiot!
): Oh, no. Never. Avery and I have our ups and downs like any couple, but I know Avery is as faithful to me as I am to him.
Besides, I wouldn't know where he'd get the time to sneak around behind my back. His art and his career are all consuming.

The word
idiot
flashes on and off at the bottom of the screen.

Okay, it didn't, but it may as well have.

“Let's get out of here,” Bendrix said.

“No, I need to see this.”

“You'll have to fight me off, then. There's no way I'm letting you torture yourself.”

He grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the theater.

I considered suing Larsen but let the idea go since it was Avery who'd hurt me. Or was I to blame? How had I missed not one but two women? And when exactly had his love for me “died”?

I was devastated. Hurt enough that I wanted nothing more to do with men—in particular artists and musicians and anyone in the performing arts industry. And Scorpios.

•   •   •

I
n the meantime, however, I still had Bendrix to deal with and that dreaded article in the
New York Times,
dredging up old memories. After Noel mentioned I had a call, I went to my office and spoke about fruit with my apple supplier. When I hung up, I remained in my chair and took in the pictures of my nieces and nephews covering my desk. My brother Theo was the first in the family to have a child, and I'd fallen instantly in love with my nephew and wanted to be the best aunt ever. As our family grew (and grew), I couldn't keep up with all the recitals and baseball games, but I always sent a gift every birthday and over the holidays, and I attended their school plays and activities whenever I could.

Yes, Daddy had babies by women he never married, but he made sure to remain in all his children's lives. He hated the
words
step
and
half
and wanted us to treat one another as brothers and sisters. Period. As the oldest female, I'd learned to potty train, diaper, and entertain toddlers and babies as well as a professional nanny could. I was a kid who liked to please, and I never grew tired of all the snot and dribble and phlegm that came with looking after my younger siblings. My long way of saying I always knew I wanted to be a mother. I always knew it was something I wanted to do.

So yes (
okay, okay, okay!
), Bendrix was right about my fear, and the clock inside my uterus ticked and tocked all the louder as I stared at the pictures on my desk.