He’s not like Bobby, though. Deep down, she knew who Bobby was and what he was capable of when they first met. Bobby was a trend. Henry is a staple. Henry is an evolved ham and cheese sandwich, what you long to come home to when you slip out of your dress and into a big T-shirt.
Mele takes a deep breath, feeling a tightening, a sweet heat, and moves her leg back next to his.
What are your goals for this book?
I’m not dead down there! I want to have sex! I masturbated for the first time in maybe a year! Seriously, this is huge!
That isn’t the goal for this book, but I have to say that maybe writing this has led to something, which is why I embarked upon this hogwash in the first place—to lead to something, to simultaneously take me away and bring me back. I’m such a better parent when I’m happy. I have a sense of humor! But not a sarcastic humor. A Barney-ish one. I’m a Barney!
So. Today I got my hair done—up there and down there, too, just because. I’m feeling like a woman again, and I really wanted to get all girly and smooth, and I even danced a little naked in front of the mirror, making sexy faces, my hair blown out, my privates all porno, and I have to say, when Ellie went down for a nap, I gave a little somethin’ somethin’ back to myself—again! I haven’t thought about sex in so long. I felt like a twenty-two-year-old! Kinda sad, but besides Bobby I never really had adult relationships, just youthful encounters that filled me with dread.
I remember enduring conversations like this:
Guy: Take off that skirt, girl. They call me the plumber ’cause I can fix it.
Me: I’m not wearing a skirt.
Or this:
Dude: Look at that. My mojo is rising.
Me: Wow.
Or this:
Boy: Have you ever done it wheelbarrow style?
Me: No.
Boy: What about tractor?
I tried to envision this, but couldn’t. “No. But I’ve done it big-rig style,” I lied, having no idea what I was talking about.
Last:
Drunk Man: Do you want to sit in the cockpit?
Me: That’s so lame. (Bottle of wine later) Ready for takeoff, Captain.
I could fill a book with romance. I never thought I wanted to add to this book; I thought I was okay being done with the chapters on sex and wannabe love, but something is bubbling all right, and yes, Henry is the catalyst, but it’s the concept of him, the belief that I can move forward that brightens my day and my vagina. It’s not like I’m expecting something to happen with him, but the flirtation is enlivening, like a cool night and the sight of stars.
Tonight, I made Pad Ma Coeur just like the last time when I got my wax, but now it has such better connotations. A Brazilian no longer equals Bobby, loneliness, and humiliation. It no longer harkens to Ellie and our insulation. A Brazilian wax equals hope, happiness, and possibilities, and just maybe it equals Henry Hale.
So, the goals for the cookbook. Of course I hope that the dishes turn out well. I hope they make you happy. My goal is that you like the food, and that you like us, I guess. My playgroup. Here we are—family-style.
My goal is to reduce our lives into something tangible, edible. How can we bake our joys and complications into something someone will want to pick up and put in their mouth? Eat me. That’s what I’m saying with this book. Bite and savor me.
There’s something else, too. This happened months ago and I hate thinking about it. I was so angry with my Ellie. I don’t remember why. She ran away when I was trying to leave Annie’s house. She made it impossible to leave. Something small that seemed big at the time. Yelling always makes it worse, but sometimes I just give in to the anger because it’s exhilarating to feel. She cried in the car, rattling me into a tizzy, and this awful adrenaline was electrifying me. I reached back and slapped her hand. Then I told her I was going away and wouldn’t come back. She started to cry, and a part of me was so satisfied, so happy that the thought of my leaving was making her sad. It’s the worst thing I have ever done to her. But hours later, blank slate. She ran to me after her nap, hugging my legs. “Mommy.”
Whenever I have a hard time with her, whenever I feel sorry for myself that I’m going at it alone, I think, This time right now will be over. Gone. She used to wrap her legs around me and do a little humping motion on my hip. Gone. She used to sit in her high chair and screech, then look around as if she didn’t know where the sound was coming from. Gone. She used to sleep with her arms up like a football goal. Gone.
Maybe my objective is to have this book as a keepsake, knowing that this time will disappear like today and yesterday. Like handprints on a cold glass window. Here’s some proof that she was my little baby, my little girl. Here’s evidence that I had these friends that kept me company and let me get to know them. Here are these friends, and one night I fed them at Henry’s house.
What is your proudest moment?
The day I gave birth. No, not really. I’m sure everyone is going to say that, but when I gave birth I didn’t feel proud. I was scared shitless. I wasn’t sure how to hold her, and she made my boobs hurt so bad. The pain was worse than the actual birth. Why doesn’t anyone tell you that you need a goddamn epidural to breast-feed? Each tug that gives your baby sustenance makes you cry in agony. No husband holding my hand and feeding me ice chips. Bobby was at work for most of the labor. No parents holding my hand or a mirror so I could see the birth. I held the mirror myself and was not proud of what I saw in the reflection. And then when she was out and placed on my deflated belly I still wasn’t proud, necessarily. I’m sorry, Ellie. You are beautiful, but when I first held you, you were slimy, red, and wet and you mewed like a kitten.
But the epidural—that was amazing. I want one right now. There’s nothing worse than those moms who brag about their epidural-free childbirths. They’re probably the same ones who get molds of their bellies or have professional photos taken of them while they’re pregnant strolling down the beach in translucent skirts, using their fingers to make the shape of a heart around their belly buttons, totally blissed out when really they’re probably passing gas and thinking about pork rinds.
Last night I made my friends a few of the dishes inspired by them, and I guess I was proud that I pulled it off.
It was the first time any of us had seen Henry’s house.
Annie and I arrived at the same time.
“This is insane,” said Annie, who has a gorgeous home in her own right, but this was a bit beyond. This was a freestanding home on a quiet, wide street, with the city at its feet. The home had a brick facade, a deep portico entry, and in the front swath of lawn there was a towering sculpture of a cheetah on its hind legs, water spouting from its mouth into a birdbath. I sort of thought it was a disclaimer saying, “Yes, this house is huge, but we’re not like our parents. We have money, but we’re ironic!” I remember Henry once told me that on their block, the neighbors fought via yard art.
We hobbled up the path to the front door, both of us sore from yesterday’s workout. Annie has recruited me to the Bar Method. She has found a babysitter with a pierced nose, vocal fry, and who calls Max “bro” and “M-dog,” so she’s happy. The class is ridiculous—you just move your pelvis back and forth and do pliés, and by the end you’re groaning and your legs shake rapidly like a wet Chihuahua’s. Then you lie on your back and basically hump the sky while listening to elevator rap.
Henry opened the door. There was that wide smile and expression that seemed to be holding back laughter.
“Ladies,” he said. “Welcome. Come on in.”
We came on in, walked through a wide hall, and past a staircase. “Rooms,” he said, pointing up. “Kitchen,” he said, pointing to the right as if that was all there was to see.
The home was beautiful, carefully curated, but warm and lively with colorful furniture and artwork. He didn’t give us a tour, thank God. One, because it would take so long, and two, there’s something awkward about tours, being led from room to room and feeling obligated
to comment on everything.
He got Annie a glass of wine, then led me to the kitchen.
“Can I help?” he asked.
“You just go enjoy yourself,” I said, but he stayed anyway, orientating me. He’d step out to talk to the others, then come back to check on me. It felt like we were hosting a party together. It was more intimate than our legs touching under the table. When I was done he carried out one of the dishes: Blue Cheese Greens, inspired by him.
“Serve immediately before your marriage is over,” he said.
I found myself smiling long after he was gone. I was so comfortable in the kitchen, so cool, dark, and clean. White kitchens are the trend, but I like the ones that harken back. I like the grays and browns, the stone and beams. I filled another bowl with salad. This used to be a favorite of Bobby’s as well, back when he cooked for me. God, I thought he was so dick-napped back then, so whipped you could spread him on toast, but of course he was. I was a mistress, a secret. I know I need to watch out with Henry. It’s possible that both of us aren’t seeing very clearly. We’re responding to something, flying like pinballs and colliding into one another. I don’t care though. I’m in a place where I need to collide and make mistakes and masturbate. I won’t know if it’s a mistake until I try.
When I walked into Henry’s living room, I stood back for a moment, observing everyone talking in front of the huge arched windows with views of the terrace and beyond that, the bay, Golden Gate Bridge, and Alcatraz. Barrett and Annie were eating the Sloppy Joe trumpet mushroom sliders. The kids were swarming over the s’mores cake. It was the blue hour of night, where everything was hushed and vivid, the bay a dark sheet between us and the lights from Belvedere. His house was spectacular, but it was more spectacular seeing Henry in it, as opposed to the Panhandle, and how he fit both settings. Both were his realm.
Georgia and Chris, her older son, were in the corner of the room, sitting on cushions in front of a low circular table. They were eating the artichoke dish, inspired by her story of his stint in jail. I walked over to them, and they were laughing at something.
“What’s funny?” I asked.
“The artichokes,” Chris said. “My mom and I ate at this lookout once and she thought the artichoke gang was coming to take us down. Effing classic.”
Georgia looked at me, with a funny grin, a closed smile that ran horizontally. Chris had no idea he was eating his story.
Barrett’s son, Jake, walked over to Chris with a piece of the s’mores cake. He was so cute, I couldn’t imagine him getting all o.g. in the basement. Chris looked at the huge piece of cake. “That’s my kind of salad,” he said.
“I love this,” Georgia said, holding up the hors d’oeuvre.
And I loved that disappointment had become an adventure. Her son’s mess was now an artichoke, and a moment in a beautiful living room with his mother. If nothing else went right this week, this year even, there was always this. Georgia picking something from his hair, Chris cringing, then seeing what it was. I felt like I was watching a most unimportant moment that was somehow momentous.
Barrett saw me watching everyone. It was weird that I knew all the backstories to the dishes; the others knew only theirs, and only their versions.
“Supergood, Mele,” Barrett said. I walked toward her. “We’re rooting for you.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking that to mean more than the competition. They were rooting for me to succeed as a mother, a writer, and a woman who wanted so many things.
At the end of the party I told Henry I’d clean up even though he said someone was coming in the morning. I rolled my eyes and went to the kitchen, putting leftovers into Tupperware. When I came out, he was on the couch with Tommy and Ellie.
“We should get going,” I said.
He got up and walked us to the front door. Ellie almost escaped me to run up the staircase, but I caught her. I did not want to see bedrooms.
“Come on,” I said and held her hand. “Stay the course.”
There wasn’t any evidence of children. Everything was put away, sort of like at Betts’s house. The entry was spare and modern with herringbone floors, two iron sculptures framing the front door. I could imagine a designer telling Kate to step out of her comfort zone and embrace bold neutrals. I never wanted to leave.
“Thanks so much for doing this,” I said.
Henry stood close. “Thank you,” he said. “I liked my salad. And my sandwich, good God. It’s exactly what I wanted. What I want every time I go out.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
Oh, how I wanted a nanny right then to whisk the children away.
Then I heard a door from the kitchen opening, the splash of keys on a counter. It wasn’t my fairy nanny—it was Henry’s wife.
She came into the hall and looked me over. “Oh. Hello,” she said.
She turned to Henry and leaned in for what looked like a staged kiss, or maybe it was real. Had God told her to come back to him? I felt both protective and naïve.
I noticed Tommy stayed by his dad, holding his leg.
“So you’re the one in my parking spot,” Kate said and laughed.
“Oh sorry, I . . .” I felt spotlit like one of the sculptures.
“It’s totally fine,” she said. “I forgot your playdate thing was today. I’m Kate. Are you the chef?”
“Of sorts. This is Ellie. I’m Mele. Nice to meet you.”
“Molly?”
“Mele,” I said. “Like . . . Mele. Not to be confused with Melee, though that suits me, I guess. I’m a state of tumultuous confusion. Anyway. It’s Mele. Hawaiian for ‘song.’ Rhymes with Pele, the goddess? Or the soccer player?” I cleared my throat. “Molly works too.”
She smiled and hum-laughed.
I kind of really hated her immediately. Her hair was sandy and warm, her eyes, a cold blue. She wore a blouse that could be hideous on someone else, but on her looked like art. Half of it was white, the other half was like a Rothko. Her pants were black, fitted; heels, black with gold cube studs.
Ellie was doing the pee-pee bounce, and I wanted to get out of there before she said anything. I did not want to ask this woman to use her bathroom.
“Say, hon,” Kate said, touching Henry’s hand. “We need to get going. Starts in half an hour. Tommy, Desiree is in the kitchen with your dinner.”
“I already ate,” Tommy said.
“Well, go on and say hello to Desiree.”
Tommy slumped toward the kitchen.
Henry gave me a look I couldn’t really interpret. “Thanks again.” He opened the door for me, patting my back when I was outside.
I couldn’t look at him. “Bye, Mr. Henry!” Ellie said. I let her do the farewell for me. We walked down the steps to the garden. There were frickin’ flowers everywhere. It smelled so good. This stand-alone-house thing was killing me. I thought of my mom, leaving my slacker dad to go find a ladder to climb up. Go for it, I thought. I mean, what the hell.
Whoops. I realize I was relating my proudest moment story and not my story of abashment. I guess I was proud for leaving with my head held high. Or fairly high. If you were looking at me from the back, I personified aplomb. I was aplomb shell. When Ellie started to exclaim she really, really had to pee, I did not go back to the castle and beg for plumbing. I told her to squat next to the cheetah.
If you could construct an interview for yourself, what questions would you want to be asked?
How do you keep in such great shape?
This isn’t a question, but I just wanted to say how slamming you are. You don’t look like a mother. I mean you could be in Maxim’s Hot 100.
Oh, thanks. That’s so sweet.
And one more question: Where did you get that beautiful belt?
* * *
Henry called yesterday, and asked me to meet at the park.
“The skate park,” he clarified. “In Pacifica.”
Ellie and I set off, and it was good to do something new. We wound down to the coast, the
dark sea with its raging whitecaps, such a different ocean than the one I was used to with its saccharine blues, the visible reefs and sand on the ocean floor. But I liked this Pacific, too, the moodiness of it, the dark mystery.
“You excited to see Tommy on his skateboard?” I asked E.
“Yeah,” she said. “I like Bob Marley music, too, sometimes.”
It was what we were listening to. She heard “Redemption Song” on the radio once. I told her who sang it, and now she demanded Bob Marley all the time.
“How come you like Bob Marley?” I asked.
“Because . . .” I looked at her in the rearview, watching her think—it’s so neat that she thinks, she considers and reflects.
“Because I like Bob Marley music sometimes,” she said.
“Me, too,” I said.
We pulled into the lot and saw Henry leaning against the gate. He was wearing a trucker hat, jeans, and a T-shirt, and had a skateboard, which made me laugh.
“What’s funny?” Ellie said.
“Nothing,” I said. “Look at Mr. Henry. He looks like a kid.”
We walked in the gate to the big cement bowl. I love the sound of wheels rolling over cement. The last time I was at a skate park was in Woodland Park, Colorado, watching my boyfriend and trying the little half-pipe myself when no one was looking. It was my senior year of college, and I was young enough to believe that fathers didn’t skate. There was a very clear line between a kid and a grown-up, and maybe I assumed you crossed this line in an instant, leaving youth behind. It would be like going through customs. But there was Henry, a forty-five-year-old socialite dropping into a cement pool. Socialite is the wrong word. Man. He was a man who smuggled his youth past customs.
I was angry when I left his house the other day, but then I thought it was a good reality check. There was nothing, really, to be mad at. If Ellie hadn’t been born, it would have been my obsession—how he felt, what was happening, were he and Kate back together? But now, with my daughter, my life wasn’t hinging on him.
I heard Henry yell, “Ow,” and then he trudged out of the pool with his board, Tommy following behind with a wide smile.
How to Party with an Infant Page 19