A Pinch of Ooh La La (5 page)

The guy was
fine
. Truly. But I was skeptical. The other three guys had all looked fine in their pictures, too, but they'd turned out to be freaks.

Bendrix read from his profile. “Six feet one. No kids. Enjoys long walks, cycling, and dining out. Stanford grad. Corporate law.”

Rita noticed the horror in my expression: “There's nothing wrong with law, Abbey. Doug studied law.” Rita and Doug had married years ago, after her divorce from Dad.

“Yeah, but corporate law? I bet he's a bore.”

“Oh, and you're just a thrill a minute,” said Bendrix.

I ignored him and went back to reading. Under the topic
Why You Should Get to Know Me
, he replied that he'd lived abroad for a year and knew how to make the best marinara sauce this side of Italy. In response to
What I'm Looking For
: “I'd like to meet a woman with a kind heart, sharp mind, and deep soul. A best friend I can share my life with.”

“Doesn't he sound fabulous?” Rita sang. “Abbey, if this works out like I think it will, I'd love for you to have your engagement party at Doug's club. You could have the top floor. The views of San Francisco are spectacular.”

“Engagement?” Bailey said. “Now who's talking nonsense? They haven't been out on a
date
yet.”

“I'm optimistic. I have a
very
good feeling.”

“I'd like to meet him first, at least,” I said.

Bailey replied, “Of course you want to meet him. I don't care how all this ends except that I want you to get what's yours. And if this guy can give it to you, I'm all for it.”

“All for what?” Enter Joan, wife number four. Joan was the only wife who'd already known about my dry spell with men and told me not to worry; I'd start dating again when I felt like it. Born in Sussex, England, Joan had moved to the States when she'd turned twenty-one. She was now a sculptor who exhibited internationally
.
Straightforward and laconic, she was the only wife who'd never had kids; maybe that was why we had struck a bond. When I was young she'd toss books my way and ask me what I thought.
The Bluest Eye
,
Their Eyes Were Watching God
,
The Lord of the Rings
,
The Catcher in the Rye
. I'd sit in her studio and read, or she'd listen to me ramble about my teenage woes. She wore women's suits and leather gloves and hats as though there were a 1940s motorcade waiting.

Bendrix gave her a tour of the dating site while she looked on. “Love and romance as algorithm. Interesting.” When he showed her Relaxin's photo she said, “A photo doesn't mean much until you meet a person and can look him in the eye.”

“She's not looking for a conversation,” cracked Bailey.

“Joan's right,” said Rita. “But if you're going to look him in the eye, Abbey, you need to contact him. Right, Bendrix?”

“Yes,” said Bendrix. “We need to make contact and send him a note. See what he says.”

I looked around the room. “Do I get a say in any of this?”

“Not really,” Bendrix said.

“Write and tell him Abbey hasn't had a good lay in four years,” said Bailey. “That should get his attention.”

I leaned back against the couch. “I don't know,” I moaned. “He's cute, but—”

“Buuuuut . . .” Bailey dragged her mouth for all it was worth. “This is exactly what happens when you stop having sex. You become a whiner, bringing everybody down.”

“You only live once,” offered Rita.

“And your life is passing you by,” said Bendrix. “I have no idea who you're looking for if not someone like this. As far as I can tell, the only thing wrong with him is that he's straight.”

“I guess.” I looked at Joan.

“Do what you want.” She shrugged. “Doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. This is your life, not ours.”

I gazed around the room until Bailey sat up and sighed. “Goodness, child, you're not marrying the guy. Just send him a damn note.”

“Okay, okay! Forgive me for wanting to think this through.” I wiggled my fingers at Bendrix and he handed me the tablet. “What should I say?”

Bailey laughed. “Tell him he's fine as hell and you want to fuck his brains out.”

Rita clicked her tongue. “Even after all these years . . .” She crossed her legs, looking peeved. Bailey's loud mouth, in other words, still riled her at times.

I took a moment to gather my thoughts. “Let's see . . . ‘Dear RelaxinbytheBay, in the world of online dating, you seem like a find. I hope you like my profile and I hear from you soon. Sincerely, Abbey.'”

“I love it,” said Rita.

“Short, sweet, and to the point,” said Bendrix. He moved my hand aside and clicked “send” before I had a chance to reread the
note, edit the note, or otherwise chicken out. “That's that. Now, what do you say we join the party?” He rose from the couch and extended his hand to Rita.

“We need to work on you next, Benny,” she said. “We can't let your good looks go to waste. It's time you started thinking about settling down.”

“Yeah, Bendrix,” I said sarcastically. “How long has it been since Anthony?”

He stood erect as soon as I dropped the A-bomb. He pulled his shoulders back and tilted his chin upward like an aristocrat speaking to his servants; sometimes Bendrix could be so haughty he seemed best suited for coat, tails, and a monocle over one eye. “This isn't about me,” he said, going for his tablet.

“It should be,” I said. “Word on the street is that you only live once.”

“Well, I . . . at least I—”

Bailey shot up from the couch, saving him from having to finish with the bull. “Dinah is ruining my song,” Bailey shot out. “You all hear that?”

My sister's voice seeped up through the floor. She sang “Trouble Is a Man” in a slow, breathy voice. “Why is she singing it like she's at a funeral? She needs to speed that shit up. She should know better.” Dinah was Rita's daughter, but Bailey had taught her everything she knew about music.

“Go easy on her,” Rita said lightheartedly.

“I'm gonna show her what's what; that's what I'm going to do. Messin' with my song like that.”

We followed Bailey downstairs to Dad's large practice room. Dinah stood at the mike singing while my dad, Uncle Walter, and Uncle Dex backed her.

Guests sat in chairs or stood against the walls or in any space they could find, with more guests flowing out into the
hallway. Dad had knocked out two walls to enlarge his practice room. Albums lined the shelves and there were photos everywhere of artists he'd played with. Growing up, I'd spent hours and hours in Dad's practice room. Sometimes I'd surround the piano with stacks of his LPs, then crawl in through a tiny opening and tell him I was hiding out in my fort, where I would occasionally watch Daddy's feet pressing the pedals as he worked on a song.

Dad gave a nod and Uncle Dex went into his solo. They were brothers in spirit, and in all their thirty-plus years together, they'd never once talked about disbanding.

The room erupted into applause when everyone saw Bailey make her way up to Dinah. She grabbed a second mike, and—“Baby, I love you like you were my own, but it's time I schooled you on how to sing my song!” Everyone laughed and applauded, including Dinah. She took an exaggerated bow. “Give it up for Momma Bailey, everybody.”

Bailey snapped her fingers high in the air, faster and faster. Dad and my uncles doubled, then tripled their speed until “Trouble Is a Man” was no longer a torch song but a snappy tune that had us all tapping our feet and clapping our hands. “Aw right. Y'all feel that?”

Bailey sang “Trouble” as only she could. Dad closed his eyes and sent his fingers crisscrossing over the keyboard in a race of snazzy agility. Uncle Dex let out a shout and slammed the cymbals.

I felt Bendrix give my shoulder a bump. “It's too bad your family throws such boring parties.”

“It is, isn't it? We're a sad bunch when you get down to it.”

“Yes, and don't get me started on the lack of talent.”

I said, “You're not forgiven, by the way, for showing everyone my online profile.”

He continued staring at the stage. “And you're not forgiven for bringing up a certain someone I'd prefer not to hear about.”

At that, we smirked at each other and went back to clapping along with the rest of the crowd of friends and family.

Say It Isn't So

O
ne of my employees, Nico, who helped with deliveries and assisted in pretty much everything, sent a text during Bailey and Dinah's second number: He'd arrived with the cakes and was waiting in the kitchen. I'd made three cakes for the night: almond, finished with almond dacquoise; chocolate cake with rum-laced buttercream; and a spice cake made with freshly shaved ginger. The cakes were covered with a marbleized background softened by a burst of lilies and hibiscus made from gum paste. I'd decorated the bottom cake with Dad's initials, each letter made to look like embroidered silver.

The few people in the kitchen oohed and aahed as Nico and I finished assembling the cakes. Once we were done, I asked Nico if he wanted to stay, but he opted for a plate of food to go. He was taking classes at Laney Community College and said he had a paper due on Monday.

After watching him drive off, I caught sight of my sister Carmen sitting on the wide wraparound porch of the guesthouse
next door, smoking a cigarette as though it were part of her everyday routine.

I marched over. What the hell was she doing, smoking? And so brazenly.

I stood over her with my hands on my hips. “
What
are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” She put the cigarette between her lips and inhaled like a TV actress—hardly inhaling at all but making a show of blowing a long stream of smoke from between her lips.

Carmen was Dahlia's daughter (Dahlia
Whoredeen
as Bailey liked to call her). After Carmen started junior high school, Dahlia had convinced Dad to let them move into the guesthouse until she was on her feet. Dahlia was still there now, even though Carmen was in college and living in the dorms.

I bent over and snatched the cigarette before Carmen could take a second puff. “You look ridiculous.”

“I have a pack, you know.” She held up the carton and cut her eyes.

I sat next to her and we listened to the music coming from next door and the steady sounds of laughter and merriment. I asked Carmen what was going on and was met with a flat “Nothing.”

“Why aren't you at Dad's?”

“Don't feel like it.” She snatched the cigarette I was holding and took a hit. When she coughed, I grabbed it again, broke it in half, and tossed it into the yard. “You shouldn't smoke, Carmen. What's wrong with you?”

She clicked her tongue and leaned back on her elbows. “Whatever. I'll have one when you leave.”

I stared at her briefly in disbelief. I was closer to Carmen than to any of my other siblings because we were the only two in the Ross clan who didn't show a natural ability toward music or
art. Sure, I'd had my days as a graffiti artist, but they were long gone, and regardless, I never had the talent to seek out a full-blown career in the arts. Carmen, too, had seemed adrift amid all the family talent, and after disastrous attempts to study the French horn, and later drama, she had settled on majoring in business with the goal of going to law school, two decisions that were as odd to the family as if she'd announced she planned to walk through the Ozarks while reading Greek philosophy. I always kept a special eye out for her because I could tell early on that she wasn't getting the support she needed. Dahlia was only twenty-two when she had Carmen and never seemed all that interested in being a mother. Since the wives had long since moved on by the time Carmen was born, she seemed to flounder more than the rest of us.

My relationship with my own mother helped me relate to Carmen's situation. Karen, wife number two, taught musicology with an emphasis in ethnomusicology. She and Dad had divorced soon after she'd earned her doctorate, and when I was ten, she was hired to teach at a private arts college in Connecticut, where she and I relocated. I hated Connecticut, though, and was beyond miserable—the snow, the boredom, the shock of leaving behind a loud, messy household with people coming and going in order to live with Mom in her small apartment, were too much. (Just thinking about those days put me in a mood.) I missed seeing my older brothers every day, and I missed roughhousing and looking after my younger siblings; I missed hearing my dad's music and seeing his face. I missed Bailey's cooking and Joan and Rita. I begged Mom to let me move back home. She agreed when I started showing signs of depression—for instance, sleeping all weekend and losing most of my appetite. She finally let me return only after discussing the situation with the wives, who promised to look after me as though I were their own flesh and
blood. It was agreed I'd live with Mom in the summers and visit for Christmas—which was too bad, since Christmas at the Ross house was crazy fun.

My bookish, academic mom was in no way, shape, or form as wacky or loose as Dahlia, but she had a way of ignoring me that was similar to the way Carmen's mother treated her. Mom did her best, but she had a passion for her work and her students that sometimes left me feeling envious. We managed—or I grew up and expected less, I wasn't sure which—and maybe I was projecting my stuff onto Carmen, because truly, her situation was much worse. But I did feel the need to look after her, let her know, as the wives had let me know, that she was loved and that I was there for her whenever she needed anyone to talk to.

My way of saying, I did not understand what was up with all the attitude, or what the hell was going on.

I touched my shoulder to hers. She had Dahlia's large round eyes, dark brown instead of green. A trail of faint freckles trekked across the bridge of her nose, and she had Dad's full mouth and lips. She was nineteen and hadn't a clue she was beautiful. She was always ten to fifteen pounds overweight, and even when Carmen was a child, Dahlia had harped on her size . . . and everything else about her daughter she thought needed improvement.

“What's going on?” I asked.

Carmen flung herself forward and buried her head in her arms. “You'll hate me.”

“If you say so.”

She sat up and started bouncing her leg rapidly; her body began to shake as though she had a chill.

“What is it?”

She looked toward Dad's house, then drew her hands over her face. She kept hidden when she spoke: “I think I'm pregnant.”

My first reaction was to scream.
Pregnant?! You cannot be pregnant!
I was prepared for anything except pregnancy.
Give me an STD over pregnancy! I'd take syphilis or gonorrhea, but not pregnancy! No!

I had to bite my tongue to stop from yelling. I was her go-to adult and I needed to stay calm or risk losing her confidence. One breath. Two.
Okay, take it slow, Abbey.

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as an over-the-counter pregnancy test.”

“But those aren't always accurate. Maybe you're late.”

“I took four tests, Abbey. I'm pregnant.”

Shit!

She picked up the cigarettes and matches. “I am positively with child,” she said. “I'm preggers. I'm carrying a bun in the oven. A pea in the pod. I'm knocked up.”

“Okay, Carmen, I get it.”

“I'm a walking incubator.” I watched her light up and take one of her pseudo puffs.

“You shouldn't be smoking.”

“Why not? It's not like I'm gonna keep it.”

I snatched the cigarette before she could take another drag and placed it between my lips. There was a time when Bendrix and I would sneak a cigarette after finishing one of our pieces, and for the time it took for me to show my little sister what a real drag looked like, the time it took the smoke to trickle down my throat and fill my lungs, I left my pregnant sister and relived those moments as a graffiti artist.

Carmen stared wide-eyed while I took one more drag. Fate was a bitch: I didn't want Carmen to be pregnant;
I
wanted to be pregnant.

I took one last drag from the (delicious) poison stick before burying it underfoot. “How did this happen? I mean, I know how
it happened, but who? Do you have a boyfriend I don't know about?”

She took out her phone and scrolled until she found what she was looking for—a picture of herself and a few friends. In the center of the photo stood a clean-cut guy wearing a jacket and loose-fitting tie.

“He looks decent enough. Does he know?”

“Not him,” she said, “the guy on the right.” I shifted my gaze and stared at the guy wearing his glasses upside down with a paper hat on his head. He had raised a gallon of generic whiskey in the air and was pretending to slug it back. “Oh boy.”

“I know. My baby daddy is a goofball.”

“I thought we discussed using protection.”

“Yeah, we did.”

“So why didn't you use it?”

“No lectures, please. It's too late. I'm already being punished as it is.”

“We should make an appointment and find out for sure if you are or not. Have you told your mother?”

She looked at me like I was crazy.

She had a point, although I knew what I was supposed to say: “Car, she should know so she can be there for you.”

“Yeah, right. You're the only one I've told. Will you go to the clinic with me?”

I leaned over and forced a hug on her. I wouldn't say it aloud, of course, it was too early, but I already thought that I could help her by looking after the baby while she finished school. Maybe RelaxinbytheBay would be as great as his profile made him out to be and
we
would raise my sister's baby. “It's going to be okay, Carmen. I can—”

“Abbey?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm not going to have it. I'm just not. I want to go to law school. I've got things I want to do, and having a baby isn't one of them. But I'm afraid if I get rid of it, I'll regret it. Like, I'll never be able to forgive myself.”

“Well, it's for you to decide. You have to make the decision that's best for you. It's a very private, personal decision, and whatever happens, we're here for you. You have to believe that.”

My thoughts shifted from taking care of Carmen's baby to protecting her from pro-life zealots. I saw myself holding her close as I pushed her through a mob of hatemongers protesting in front of a nondescript women's clinic. If she wanted to terminate the pregnancy, it was no one's business. Not even mine.

“Let's find out if you're pregnant first. Maybe you're late.”

“Please. We both know I am.” She leaned back again. “Just what this family needs—another kid.”

I started to respond—to defend our big, bustling family—but the front door of the guesthouse slammed, and then someone's foot appeared: a man's foot, clad in shiny black. No, wait, a deep, dark blue shoe, landing right between Carmen and me as if we weren't sitting together at all. He took his time striding down each step like a Broadway performer making his entrance. I half expected him to snap his fingers to a show tune running through his head. He wore a blue suit and carried a garment bag over his shoulder. I guessed he was in his thirties, and when he hoisted his bag up, I saw he had the body of a man who spent hours in the gym, and I imagined jumping up and down on his taut stomach while he smiled up at me, not feeling a thing.

He paused and snapped his fingers as though he remembered something. When he grinned at us, the gold on his left incisor caught the light of the moon and gleamed. Okay, there was no gold tooth, but I could tell that's the kind of man he was: Every time he looked in the mirror, he pointed and said,
You look good.

“Who's that?” I asked.

Carmen remained indifferent. “Lamar? Shamar?” She leaned further back on her elbows. “Barbar?”

Still grinning, the man took a step toward Carmen. “You tell your mother I want my money back. Every cent. Six hundred dollars.”

“I'm not her go-between.”

He gave a huckster chuckle as he looked at Carmen. He reached down next to her and picked up the packet of cigarettes. “May I?” Before she could say anything, he gave the carton a couple of taps against his palm, then tilted the box. A cigarette slid out. “Haven't had one of these in years.” He lit up and took a long pull. On his exhale he looked over at the main house. “You know,” he said, blowing a stream of smoke, “I heard your father play live once back in 'ninety-two. Newport Jazz Festival. Good show.”

“Of course it was,” Carmen quipped.

“Yeah.” He kept his eye on the house and took a long, hard pull. “I don't know how he deals with all those women, though. Man must have some serious skills.” He laughed to himself and hoisted his garment bag farther up his shoulder. “Thanks for the cig, ladies. You all have a good night.”

We watched Lamar or Shamar walk to his maroon sedan.

“My mother sure knows how to pick 'em,” Carmen muttered.

We heard the door open behind us. “Is he gone?”

“Yes,” Carmen sighed.

“Who was he?” I asked.

“Nobody.” Dahlia stepped out. “Absolutely nobody.” She began fussing with her bushel of chestnut hair.

“Yeah,” Carmen said, “a nobody who says you owe him six hundred dollars.”

Dahlia snorted at the idea. She thumbed the gold chain
resting high atop her milky boobies and held it out for us to see. “He bought me this necklace and now he wants me to pay him for it. But he's nuts if he thinks I'm paying him back for a gift. Whoever heard of that?”

After I'd first met Dahlia, I immediately concluded that she and Dad, without talking much, had gone straight from making out in the corner of the club where they met to Dad's hotel room. I had to assume that if they'd had an actual
conversation
, an actual dialogue about anything in life, before he slept with her, her lack of brains would have made him change his mind. Dahlia hadn't even known anything about jazz! A friend had dragged her to Dad's concert. But his potent sperm went to work on her free-falling egg and—
bam!
—two months later, guess who's knocking on the door? A paternity test confirmed another baby momma had entered our lives, and soon I had another sister.