A Pinch of Ooh La La

by Renee Swindle

  Jason stared down into his espresso cup before draining the remains. The silence that fell between us hinted that we should part ways, but I wanted to keep talking. I liked him, and I couldn’t ignore how hungry I was for conversation. Now that Bendrix was with Anthony, it was my turn to get used to not having him around as much, just as he had had to get used to not having me around when Samuel and I first got together. Anyway, I was also just plain ol’ hungry. I looked at Jason. “You want to grab a quick bite to eat?”

  “You read my mind.”

  “Let me call my husband.”

  “Sure.” He took out his phone. “I’m going to see how Power Smurf is doing. I have a feeling they’re going to need her until midnight, poor girl.”

  I went back to the office. Samuel picked up on the second ring. “Hey, babe.”

  “Hey. I have to stay late tonight. I’m working on a cake and need a couple more hours. I was helping Beth and she messed it up enough that I’m going to have to redo it.” I hated to throw Beth under the bus. I hated lying. But I didn’t want to tell him I was having dinner with a client and have to explain why. It was too much work, although I did wish I’d stop talking. “Luckily the cake isn’t for a wedding. Just a birthday, but they need it by tomorrow.”

  I brought my forehead down and touched it to the wall. Shut up.

  “Take your time. Carmen and what’s-his-name are here and we’re watching a movie. I ordered pizza. It’s a night of chill.”

  “Thanks, babe. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I redid my ponytail twice and applied lipstick. One last check in the mirror and I went to meet Jason out front.

  • • •

  We ate dinner at Chop Shop and continued to talk and laugh and talk some more. A few beers later, we were laughing at almost everything. At one point, he nodded toward a man walking inside the restaurant. “Hey, look—Salman Rushdie!” It took me a second to catch his joke. The man had a comb-over and his eyebrows bore down into a bit of a scowl. I looked around the restaurant and gave him a nudge when I saw a short man with bulging eyes.

  “James Baldwin to your left.”

  He found the man I was referring to and clinked his beer bottle to mine. “Very good.”

  Our game of find-the-celebrity continued as we started walking through the outer edges of Art Crawl. It was still early, but the crowds were starting to build; by eight or nine o’clock the streets would be jammed. I was never sure how or when Art Crawl started, but a few years ago on the first Friday of every month, it became the thing to head to downtown Oakland and hit the art galleries. It built from there to include street vendors, bands, and some retail stores and bars allowing people to dance inside. I explained all of this to Jason and he asked if I’d like to join him while he walked around. Hell, I didn’t want to go home at all by then.

  He took out his pen and notebook and asked a few vendors questions. He also took pictures as we walked. We went into galleries and spoke to artists. We walked the entire length of the crawl, enough to work off most of our dinner, which gave us the excuse to eat tacos and later join a mile-long line in front of a specialty ice cream truck. We found a bench to sit on under a tree. We were feeling comfortable enough that we used our spoons to taste each other’s ice cream—strawberry for me, toffee for him. It was dark by now, the sky overcast. A bandstand had been set up at the end of the block and on one side of a building they’d be showing movies later.

  We ate in silence until Jason asked, “Got any marital advice for me?”

  The answer came in an instant. “Marry your best friend.”

  “Did you?”

  “My best friend is gay.”

  “So would you say your husband has become your best friend?”

  “Yes.” This lying thing was coming in handy.

  “Gina’s my best friend, so I guess I’m doing okay in that respect.” He grinned and let his head fall back while gazing at the sky. I stared at his long neck, wondering if he felt attracted to me. But then I thought, it didn’t matter. The problem here, the big problem, Abbey, is that you’re attracted to him. No. Erase that. I was bound to feel attracted to other men at least once or twice before I died, so I couldn’t blame myself for being attracted to a handsome, smart, funny, and fun man—who loved jazz. No, the problem was that I knew I wasn’t nearly as happy as Jason and Gina were. Samuel and I had been two people dating who’d moved straight into marriage based on a mutual attraction. But I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had an intimate conversation about anything that didn’t involve baby making. And we hardly ever laughed.

  Jason moved his gaze from the sky to the ever-growing crowd. “What a great night.” He stretched out his arms. “I love you, Oakland!”

  Someone passing by replied with: “Oakland loves you back, bro.”

  We smiled at each other and I tried not to stare into his eyes.

  I finished my ice cream. He startled me out of my thoughts by taking my hand in his, his eyes bright and hopeful. “I think I love you.”

  I felt a bolt of fear. Had he had feelings for me all along? I opened my mouth and waited for my thoughts to form into something that made sense. I knew there was a vibe between us, a connection or something, and I knew that in a different life I would so want to explore whatever was going on, but I did love Samuel despite our problems and he obviously loved Gina. I started to tell him he was probably experiencing premarital jitters. And then I found myself leaning in. . . . Hey, a kiss never hurt anyone, right?

  He let go of my hand and looked out toward the small bandstand. “They’re an indie band. I Think I Love You! The lead singer is from Canada. I can’t believe this! We have to hear a couple of songs. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Finally I saw the sign next to the stage: I Think I Love You was listed with three other acts.

  Jason took out his phone and started toward the small bandstand. “Honey! I Think I Love You is playing! I know! I can’t believe it. I’m going to hang a little longer, okay? Yeah, she’s still here. She’s being a real trouper showing me around.” He smiled at me as we continued to make our way closer to the stage. “You get a full massage tonight for all your hard work. Yeah, yeah. I will. Okay, babe. I’ll see you in a bit. Love you, too.” He returned the phone to his pocket. “She said to tell you hello and to remember you don’t have to put up with me unless you want to.” A smile stretched across his face. “So. Are you sick of me yet?”

  Not at all. I could spend the entire night looking at you smile. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

  A crowd of people gathered as the band warmed up on their instruments. Jason cupped his hands around his mouth. “Caanadaa!”

  The lead singer shaded his eyes. “Who said that?”

  Jason whooped.

  The lead singer grabbed his mike. “Caaanadaa!” He was a skinny thing in extra-tight pants, his hair slicked into a fifties fishtail. He pulled the mike in and said, “I have something very important to say, everybody. Quiet down for me, please. I need some silence for a very important announcement.”

  The crowed quieted as best it could. Some people looked worried. He put his mouth close to the mike. When he had our attention he shouted, “San Francisco sucks! San Francisco can kiss my white ass!”

  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.

  • • •

  We 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.

  • • •

  The 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.

  17

  A Simple Matter of Conviction

  That 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 tim
e 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.”