Pineapple Street(42)
TEN
Sasha
When Sasha was ten she had such an intense crush on Harrison Ford that sometimes she would lie in bed and cry with deep sorrow that they would never be together. She knew it was weird. He was a grown man and a famous actor and she was a child with a dawning awareness that little hairs were growing up and down her legs, and it all compounded into a tragedy so devastating that she could barely stand to watch him in movies when anyone else was in the room. Her brothers obviously noticed her mooning after him and taunted her mercilessly. Later in life, when she saw in some celebrity magazine at the nail salon that Harrison got an earring, she felt embarrassed all over again that she had been obsessed with someone so old.
Sasha had been falling in love with Cord before he told her about his childhood crush, but the revelation was probably what sealed the deal. They were lying in bed one night, slightly drunk, and she told him about Harrison.
“Did you ever feel that way as a kid?” she asked. “So intense and confused?”
“Yeah, totally. I was in love with Little Debbie,” he confessed.
“Who’s that?” Sasha asked, running a finger along his bare chest. “A neighbor?”
“No, the little girl with a hat on the box of snack cakes.”
Sasha sat up. “You were in love with the girl on the box of Swiss Rolls? Those little chocolate things that taste like wax?”
“I just thought she looked so nice. She had this wavy brown hair and a friendly smile . . .”
“Do you think maybe you were just really hungry?”
“Maybe,” Cord considered. “I really loved those oatmeal cookies with the cream in the middle.”
Sasha laughed and laughed. Together they made a list of cartoon mascots by fuckability. Sasha felt Tony the Tiger was the clear winner. He just exuded cis-male hotness with his big puffy chest and boundless enthusiasm. The Sun-Maid raisin lady was obviously also a babe, rosy-cheeked, wearing a peasant blouse and a bonnet. The Cheetos Cheetah would be a fun date, but they agreed he’d try to leave his sunglasses on during sex. The Jolly Green Giant was maybe even hotter than Tony the Tiger, but Sasha worried he would be a terrible boyfriend, spending all his time in the gym. He was ripped. “Oh, so you’re more into the Pillsbury Doughboy?” Cord asked. “More to love?”
“No, the Pillsbury Doughboy is too white. Not sexy!”
“Colonel Sanders?”
“Ugh, no! Also too white, plus the goatee!”
“The Quaker Oats guy?”
“Stop! All the human mascots are old men! Why do guys get the hot ones?”
“Like who?”
“Miss Chiquita?” Sasha countered.
“Smokeshow,” Cord agreed.
“Wendy?”
“No way.” Cord wrinkled his nose.
“Wait, so you loved Little Debbie but not Wendy? They’re the same thing.”
“Shut your lying mouth.” Cord shook her shoulder playfully. “Little Debbie is all kindness and cream-filled cakes. Wendy looks like Conan O’Brien with braids and smells like hamburger grease.” That settled, they turned off the lights and cuddled up, and as they fell asleep Cord whispered in her ear, “You’re grrrrrrrreat!” and Sasha knew he was the one.
* * *
—
Where Mullin was thunder and darkness, Cord was pure sunshine, always in a good mood, emotionally easy, a man of simple pleasures. He enjoyed so many things. When he took a first bite of food, whether it was a bacon sandwich or a seared scallop, he always paused and threw his head back in bliss as he chewed. “Oooh,” he’d moan appreciatively. “That’s nice. That’s just really nice.” When a server put a plate before him at a restaurant, he’d give a slight whimper that was nearly indecent, so full of lust and unselfconscious adulation. He rejoiced in the bounce of new sneakers, in the feel of sun on his face. He sang along to anything that he heard on the radio, even if he didn’t really know the words, even if it was crappy pop for teenagers. He was equally indiscriminate about movies, willing to sit through absolutely anything Sasha wanted, so together they watched every single movie with Catherine Keener, then everything directed by Nancy Meyers, and they both cried during Father of the Bride and had to rewind and watch the part again where Steve Martin plays basketball with his daughter.
“That’s the kind of dad I want to be,” Cord said, rubbing his wet cheeks with a blanket. “But probably tennis instead of basketball.”
“You’re the country club Steve Martin.”
“But not as funny.”
“But not as funny,” Sasha agreed sadly, and Cord pouted.
Sasha knew he would be a wonderful father. His niece and nephew worshipped him. Cord was goofy and spoke to them in funny accents, he convinced them the Easter Bunny was a close personal friend, he pretended to think the spring in a gag can of nuts was a real snake and screamed upon opening it at least twelve times in a row.
* * *
—
While they were in agreement that they wanted children, they had only ever talked about it in the vaguest of terms, without a time line or any sense of urgency, but in June Cord’s best friend, Tim, had a baby and Cord started getting broody. Sasha had only ever heard of the phenomenon in women, or maybe chickens, but there was no other word for it, really. Cord wanted babies. Walking down the street, Cord started checking out strollers the way some other men might ogle women or motorcycles, letting out a low whistle and turning to watch them roll away. “You know that one’s the new YOYO that folds up smaller than a suitcase,” he might remark. Or “That’s the UPPAbaby Vista. You can add a rumble seat for a second child underneath.” He dragged Sasha to Picnic in Cobble Hill so that he could buy Tim a baby present, spending a solid hour selecting tiny pajamas and a little rattle shaped like a taxicab. When they visited Tim at his apartment, he even followed Tim into the baby’s room to watch a diaper change, announcing that he might as well start learning how to do it.