A Pinch of Ooh La La

by Renee Swindle

  I wasn’t sure if I was more surprised to hear about this prophet or that Samuel would mention something so important just minutes before we were to arrive.

  My Family

  Samuel’s Family

  “Did you hear about that senator and that video they found?”

  Tick

  “When are these fools gonna learn that everything’s recorded these days?”

  Tock

  “Dad, I think I got that gig up in Saratoga. Five nights out in the open-air theater.”

  Tick

  “Somebody take Ornette so Aiko can eat in peace!”

  Tock

  “I love me some gumbo, but it gives me gas.”

  [Cough]

  “Uncle Walt!”

  “It’s not a big deal.” He was always repeating this refrain in this tone, and I’d long ago gathered that he thought I turned everything into a big deal.

  He explained that his parents had converted when he was a baby. The family even flew to Trinidad, where his father was born and where the prophet lived, for the ceremony of “commitment and transformation.” He assured me his parents were strictly Christian; believers in the prophet simply had a more intellectualized view of the Bible. “They believe in evolution, that women can be as successful as men, all of that,” he said. “The prophet teaches that the followers of Christ should become engaged in intellectual rigor. I mean, that’s one reason Father was so hard on me. He believes we should be the best we can be.”

  “Do you believe in—Hadah—Hadah . . . How do you say his name again?”

  “Hadad . . . Rimmon . . . Jaha-leel Hach-a-liah.”

  Whoa.

  I attempted to repeat the name but became exhausted somewhere around Rimmon.

  Samuel’s parents still lived in El Cerrito, only a fifteen- or twenty-minute drive from Oakland. I asked him to tell me more—quick.

  “Look. I’m not trying to scare you. I just wanted to give the heads-up. I don’t want you to freak out or have you thinking they’re in a cult or anything crazy.”

  I tried not to freak out or start to think they were in a cult or anything crazy, but it sounded crazy—and like they were in a cult. Samuel exited the freeway. I felt my body tensing as we passed the El Cerrito BART station. I wanted to give Samuel’s family the benefit of the doubt, but I’d already lined up too many points against them.

  After that night in Yountville, we’d never discussed the beatings he’d received as a child, but I’d sometimes trace the keloid scar on his lower back and think about the strap of a belt. I didn’t ask about it, though, because I didn’t want to pressure him into talking about something that would make him uncomfortable. He’d made it so clear, after all, that he didn’t want to discuss his childhood. I leaned against the window, wishing I could talk to Bendrix. I could already hear the blow by blow I’d give later. “They worship some prophet I’ve never heard of! And Samuel didn’t want me to wear the dress I chose! I wore a gray skirt and a white blouse. I looked like I was going to a business meeting.”

  “Where are you?” I heard Samuel ask. He reached over and took my hand. “What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing.”

  He gave my hand a squeeze and returned it to my lap. “They’re going to love you, Abbey. Try not to be nervous.”

  • • •

  Samuel’s father greeted us at the door. He was much as I expected—dignified and hardened, a man who would look at home striking a pose in a colonial uniform with his rifle while standing next to his kill. I doubted I would have had the same impression if I hadn’t known anything about him. He was actually tall and handsome. Fairer in complexion than Samuel but with the same cleft chin.

  When we shook hands he stood so far away he looked as though he were bowing. “Nice to meet you, Abbey.”

  “You, too, Joseph.”

  “Mr. Howard, if you don’t mind.”

  I cringed slightly. “Yes, of course. Apologies.”

  Samuel introduced his mother, who sang a hello and fidgeted her hands in the air and kissed my cheek. “You can call me Phyllis. Don’t mind my husband.” Her voice dipped and twirled and did a pirouette. She made me think of fairy godmothers and sugarplum fairies and all things nice. Her face was round and she had small bright eyes with a mole near the right eye and another on her cheek. “We’re so happy you’re here, Abbey. Ruth? Esther? Say hello to Samuel’s friend.”

  Samuel’s sisters stepped forward. They were both nurses in their mid-twenties, just a year apart in age. Like me, and their mother, too, they wore skirts and blouses. I extended my hand but they remained stiff and frozen. Esther, the oldest, glued her eyes on me as though she were casting a spell, and Ruth kept glancing at Esther as if seeking guidance on how to treat me and what she should do next. I said hello and they mumbled hello in return.

  Phyllis clasped her hands to her chest. “I see pink boxes!” She started to reach for the cake boxes Samuel was holding but then stopped herself. “I’m very temped to see what you brought, Abbey, but I think I want to be surprised instead.”

  “My wife has a real sweet tooth,” Mr. Howard said.

  “I aim to please,” I said, not recognizing my voice.

  There was a moment of silence. The sisters—Evil One and Evil Two—glowered.

  Okay, I thought, this is going great.

  Mr. Howard gestured toward the dining room. “Well,” he said, “let’s not stand here all day.”

  • • •

  After a few minutes of chitchat, we moved into the dining room, where Mrs. Howard told us to help ourselves to the meal she’d prepared. There was a platter of roast beef and bowls of asparagus and mashed potatoes. After we had helped ourselves, Mr. Howard explained to me that the family believed in eating in silence as a way of showing appreciation for God’s bounty. Once he said grace, we would concentrate on the meal without talking as a way of showing our gratitude. He added that we would eat this way for fifteen minutes.

  I guess I did a poor job of hiding the surprise on my face. Seeing my reaction, Mrs. Howard reached up and touched the cameo at her neck. “I know it must seem strange. But, you see, if you eat silently, you focus on the food, and that’s how you appreciate the food and God. Did Samuel tell you about Prophet Hadadrimmon Jahaleel Hachaliah?” She pointed to a photo on the wall in a gold frame with plastic flowers strewn on top. Hada Hada What’s His Name sat in a chair with a young woman, whom I assumed to be his wife, standing at his side.

  “Phyllis—,” Mr. Howard interjected. “There’s no need to explain. Abbey is a guest and she knows a guest has to put up with the hosts—whether she wants to or not.”

  He chuckled gaily, but only Samuel joined in. “Abbey understands,” Samuel said. “I’ve told her all about the prophet. She’s probably sick of hearing me talk about him.”

  He reached over and took my hand while I stared blankly. I remembered to move my lips upward. “Yes,” I said.

  “Very well,” said Mr. Howard. “Shall we bow our heads?

  “Dear Lord, we thank you for this meal and for our blessings. We thank you for your son and for his prophet, Hadadrimmon Jahaleel Hachaliah. We thank you for guiding our lives in heart, mind, and soul. For these things we are grateful. Lead us to do thy will, Father, and keep us and protect us. In thy son’s heavenly name, we all say amen.”

  We all said amen and silence fell over the table and over the entire house. Mr. Howard picked up his knife and positioned his wrists in the air for optimal meat cutting. When he moved, so did the evil sisters and Phyllis and Samuel. After he took his
first bite, everyone began eating.

  The room was so quiet I could hear my every bite. The ticktock of the grandfather clock in the next room sounded as though it were directly next to my ear.

  I stole a peek at Phyllis, who chewed with her lips locked, as if counting every bite before swallowing. As if her life depended on grinding whatever she ate to nothing before she consumed it.

  I let my gaze wander to the picture of the prophet. He wore a beige military uniform and hat. Otherwise, he was what you’d expect—a fat round stomach and fat round face that said life as a prophet was darn good. Not much to do except collect money and give a sermon now and then. No surprise, either, that the “woman” at his side appeared to be just out of high school.

  On one side of the portrait was a photo of a grinning Barack Obama and on the other was a Howard family portrait taken many years ago. An unsmiling Mr. Howard stood next to Samuel, who looked to be about ten, and adorable. Phyllis sat in a chair looking exactly as she did that night, same hair and basic blouse and skirt. Esther and Ruth stood next to her, grinning wildly, as they basked in the five minutes of fame granted by a one-man paparazzi.

  I took a bite of my asparagus and listened to myself chew. The grandfather clock ticked and tocked, ticked and tocked. Funny how time slowed when you ate in silence.

  I looked up from my plate when I felt the evil sisters staring at me from across the table. They bore their eyes into mine. In moments their eyes went completely red and their faces an odd green. I widened my eyes and raised my hands from the table in surrender. What? Why are you guys so weird? What have I done? You don’t even know me!

  In response, Ruth lifted the corner of her lip ever so slightly.

  I glanced at Samuel, hoping he caught what was going on and would tell his sisters to back off—albeit silently—but he was concentrating on his food. If I’d felt bad for him before, I felt for him even more now. I didn’t mean to pass judgment, but there was no warmth in the room at all. I reached over and let my hand rest on his knee. He let it stay there for a moment, then gave his leg a shake that indicated there was no touching at the dinner table, even in secret.

  Tick. Tock.

  Tick. Tock.

  I thought about sending Bendrix a clandestine text: Heeeeeelp!

  Could our families be any more different? I imagined a split-screen version of dinner with the Howards versus dinner with the Ross clan. My own split screen would look something like:

  I picked up my wineglass. Thank goodness Hada Hada What’s His Name approved of alcohol.

  “The roast beef is very good, Phyllis.” I practically jumped at the sound of Mr. Howard’s voice breaking through the silence.

  We all complimented Phyllis on the food. Time regained its normal pace once we were allowed to talk, and I started to relax. Phyllis began telling stories about Samuel and how cute he was and every award he’d earned. She added a couple of stories about Esther and Ruth.

  Mr. Howard smiled now and then. At one point he added, “Nowadays people would say Phyllis and I were too strict, but I’ll tell you one thing: You never saw my kids out there in the streets, and they never brought home any trouble.”

  That’s because you beat them.

  Mr. Howard cut into his meat. “Samuel mentioned that your business is going pretty well. You plan on expanding?”

  “I’m not sure. Not now.”

  “You should think about it. If you’ve made a business that gets people giving out their dollars, you have to take advantage when things are hot. You should go into a neighborhood that needs a bakery. Simple as that. If you have a good product, and it sounds like you do, people will come to you.”

  He said more, but I began to drown him out. Before retiring he’d worked as a manager for an electrical company, and I wasn’t sure how much he knew about business and how much he liked to give advice, whether he knew what he was talking about or not.

  Samuel said, “That’s a great idea, Pops.” He turned. “You should think about expanding. It’s a good idea.”

  I was exhausted running Scratch. No way was I taking on more. “Yeah, I’ll have to think about it.” There was my mystery voice again. I would’ve sworn everyone could tell I was lying.

  “Don’t just think about it,” Mr. Howard said, as if he knew me and I’d asked for advice in the first place. “You have to act. What do I always say, Samuel? Tell her.”

  Samuel looked at me with a tinge of apology in his eye. “Never think too much. Thinking only gives you time to build up fear.”

  “That’s right.”

  Esther twirled her fork near her ear. “I mean no offense, but all these fancy bakeries and gourmet this and gourmet that have gotten out of hand. Why can’t people just bake a cake? The bakery where I go near the hospital has all this stuff on the menu that makes no sense. Why do I need a fig tart? Who likes figs? And how crazy is a chai cupcake? Why not just make a cupcake?”

  Ruth added: “And the prices! A slice of cake can cost as much as a meal!”

  “So why do you go there?” I asked.

  They both paused. Esther said, “Because it’s nearby. I just get a cup of coffee because her coffee is pretty good. I leave the rest alone.”

  “Me, too. I like the cinnamon rolls, but that’s about it.”

  Phyllis sang, “Oh, the suspense is killing me. What did you bring, Abbey?”

  I looked at the sisters. “A golden génoise and a rosewater pear tart.”

  Esther said, “You brought a golden gee-no—what was it?”

  “It sounds very exciting,” chirped Phyllis.

  “Abbey is an incredible baker,” Samuel said, surprising me with a kiss on the cheek. We held eye contact for a couple of seconds, and without thinking I leaned over and kissed him on the lips. I pulled away when I heard Mr. Howard clear his throat. Phyllis moved her chair back from the table, looking anywhere except at Samuel or me. “Oh, yes,” she said, fumbling for words. “I should stop eating so I can save room for the dessert. Everyone finished?”

  Esther and Ruth began collecting plates along with her.

  “I should help, too,” I said.

  “Yes, Abbey,” said Phyllis. “Samuel and Joseph can make themselves comfortable and we’ll put on the coffee.” I picked up empty plates and silverware, feeling as if I’d fallen back in time. My brothers were expected to clean and cook as much as my sisters; there were too many of us to expect the wives or exes to wait on us hand and foot.

  Phyllis hummed to herself as she moved about the kitchen. She told Ruth and Esther to join their father. “You sure?” Esther asked.

  “Abbey and I will handle it. Isn’t that right, Abbey?”

  “I’d be happy to.”

  “You two go ahead and get off your feet.”

  Esther told her she would at least turn on the coffeemaker. Ruth took out a tray of cups and saucers. Esther stared at me as she and Ruth left the kitchen. I was tempted to stick out my tongue.

  Phyllis pointed out the drawer for knives and forks, then continued to hum as she took down a cake platter. Here was a woman who allowed her husband to beat her child, and she herself locked him in the closet, but otherwise she had a sweet way about her. I wondered if the weird sisters had suffered any abuse; something had to explain their evil.

  I put the génoise on the cake tray and took out the pear tart.

  “Those look amazing,” Phyllis exclaimed. “I tried to bake when Joseph and I were first married, but everything I made ended in disaster.”

  “Baking’s a science as much as anything else. Follow the directions to a T, and things usually turn out all right. I find it relaxing.” I waved the cake knife over the tart. “Plus, there are the final results.”

  “I can’t wait to try them.” She hummed a merry tune, then paused in a way that said something was on her mind. She smiled, head tilted. “I’m sur
e we must seem peculiar to you with our beliefs, Abbey, but this is a special family for a reason. The girls graduated from their nursing program top of their class. And we are all so very proud of Samuel.” She stepped closer and her voice dropped. “I wanted to tell you that we know about your family. Samuel told us you come from a broken home and your father lives a musician’s lifestyle, and I just wanted you to know that that’s okay. I know Samuel thinks highly of you. He doesn’t bring female friends home to meet the family, so you must be very important to him. But I want you to understand that we have strong beliefs about marriage and commitment. If you two continue on this journey, you’ll have to accept that.” She stopped short. “Nothing against your family. I only mean . . . you see . . . the prophet wants us to raise kids in a two-parent household. And to be respectful and urge them to be the best they can be. In our church, all the children are in the top of their classes. Isn’t that amazing? Every one. This is what we would want for you and Samuel—if I don’t speak out of turn. But I can see how much he cares for you.”

  Once her speech was over, her face brightened and I could see her shifting back to fairy-godmother mode. She picked up the plates and began humming.

  I considered telling her that my family was anything but “broken.” I thought of telling her that the prophet could kiss my relatively flat ass. But I was tongue-tied and unsure of what to do, and Phyllis was already walking away. “Dessert is ready!”

  12

  You Don’t Know Me

  I told Bendrix about dinner with the Howards the next morning. I told him all about the silent eating and that after dessert we sat in the living room watching TV sitcoms without much conversation, except for Samuel and Mr. Howard, who briefly talked baseball, another story in itself.

  We were in the kitchen at Scratch. Bendrix had stopped by before going in to the hospital. He sat in a chair I’d brought from my office, eating a brioche and drinking espresso while I regaled him with stories.