Four of a Kind (10 page)

Alicia tried to make light. “Honey, we
need
our pennies,” she said. “How else will we get the laundry done?”

“It’s just a few dollars,” he said. “And we might win.”

“That’s not the point,
sweetheart
,” said Alicia. “We have a system that we’re used to. It works for us. And then you march into the room and completely take over. None of the other husbands invited themselves into the game.”

“Maybe the other husbands don’t
have
game,” said Tim.

“Or they don’t have as much to
prove
,” said Alicia.

The husband and wife smiled maniacally at each other.

Robin said, “I’d say the tension and pressure is building just fine.”

Carla to the rescue. “I’m philosophically opposed to gambling. If you all want to bet, I’ll just finish my drink and drive home. I had an impossibly long day anyway.” For emphasis, she yawned big and violent, her shoulders shaking and eyes closed tight.

Going home sounded like a decent idea to Bess. Robin was irritating her. Carla was dragging herself through this. Alicia and Tim clearly had hours of bickering to do before they went to sleep with their backs to each other and pajamas on. She felt claustrophobic in this cube with the grungy furniture, stained rug, and piles against the walls. She’d come to talk. To unload. It’d been a lousy week. She’d been aching to purge her feeling of powerlessness and inadequacy. And, truth be told, she wanted to play poker. To enjoy the simple pleasure of holding sturdy cards, the breezy zip of shuffling, and focusing on the hand she was dealt.

Apparently, none of that was going to happen. The magic of the two previous meetings was lost. Where had it gone? She wasn’t even sure if she liked these women. Robin was man-crazy and crass. Alicia was defensive and neurotic. Carla seemed disinterested and condescending. What was Bess doing here in Red Hook? Why wasn’t she at home, putting her sons to bed, and then putting herself to bed with Borden? He’d kiss her and hold her, make Bess feel valuable and treasured.

“I have to go,” said Bess suddenly, standing up.

Alicia said, “No, Bess, stay. I’ll lock Tim in the bathroom with an iPod and a six-pack. He won’t bother us again. We’ll play our game. Plus,” she turned to her chagrined husband, “we can feel free to talk about Tim all we want.” That made Robin and Carla—even Tim—laugh.

Tim said, “Message received.” He stood. “I just remembered there’s an episode of
Law and Order
on TNT I haven’t seen four times yet. You’ll have to excuse me.”

He walked purposefully out of the main area, disappearing again into the bedroom cube. Bess stood awkwardly by the couch, the eyes of the other three women on her. Bess felt woozy suddenly, self-conscious and embarrassingly impulsive. “I’m sorry, Alicia,” she said, putting her hand on her forehead.

“Are you sick?” asked Carla, revitalized by a mission. “Let me see.” The pediatrician beckoned Bess over to her. Carla put her cool, large palm against Bess’s forehead. The contact was instantly soothing.

“No fever,” said Carla, her cool fingers now taking Bess’s pulse. “But your heart is beating too fast.”

Robin said to Carla, “She’s upset.” To Bess: “I know what this is about. I used to need a week to recover from dinner with my mom.”

Alicia asked Bess, “You had dinner with your mother?”

“Brunch,” said Bess. “Last Saturday. Five days ago.”

“Two more days before you feel normal,” said Robin.

Carla said, “You’ll live. You probably had a mini pre-panic attack.”

Bess leaned back on the couch. “Amy’s in London, an ocean away. I can’t stop thinking about subway bombings.”

“She’s with your mother, though,” said Robin. “Nothing but taxis and limos.”

“Which bugs me, too.” Bess said, “I wish there was a way to un-push all my buttons.”

“In my biz, we talk about the ‘takeaway’ of an ad,” said Alicia. “The one piece of information that’s supposed to stay with you. Like in a Mercedes ad, the takeaway is superior engineering,” said Alicia. “So what was the takeaway at your brunch?”

Bess said, “Basically, that I’m a worthless, sorry, sad excuse for a woman.”

“Wait a minute,” said Robin. “Did you have brunch with
my
mother? Has she come back from the dead? Please say no.”

Carla said, “I’m surprised you let her get to you. You seem strong.”

“I am strong. Just not with her,” said Bess, feeling better by the second.

“Talking about mothers is giving
me
a mini pre-panic attack,” said Robin. “Is there anywhere I can smoke?”

“Those open,” said Alicia, pointing her toward the large windows.

Watching Robin fish a pack of cigarettes out of her purse, Bess said, “I’ll have one of those.”

“You will
not
,” said Carla. “If there’s one sure way to destroy your health, it’s smoking.” To Robin, Carla added, “If you quit, you’d add ten years to your life.”

“But will they be
fun
years? Or would I spend them miserably craving a cigarette?” asked Robin. “And, for your information,
Doctor
, I smoke American Spirit Organics. No pesticides or additives. These are healthy cigarettes. They’re
good
for you.”

Alicia said, “If it’s going to be smoking night …”

“You all disgust me,” said Carla.

The three white women huddled by the open window and lit up, blowing smoke into the evening air. It was Bess’s first cigarette since high school. She inhaled like she remembered. The smoke tasted harsh and foul, yet strangely satisfying.

“Prepare yourselves for an amazing fact,” said Bess, a memory rising like smoke. “I was once a checkout girl at the Rye Brook Stop and Shop.”

“I thought I recognized you,” said Alicia.

“It was before my mom got rich and famous, during our year of abject poverty. I was sixteen—Amy’s age now. The store manager, a married, heavyset, bald man, pulled me aside one night during my break and told me about the attrition estimate, the amount they expected to lose to shoplifters each month. He said they always beat the estimate, so he would look the other way, let me steal whatever I wanted, shampoo, toothpaste, if I let him jerk off on my boobs.”

“That’s disgusting,” said Robin.

“I told my mom what happened and Simone went crazy. She stormed the corporate offices, wrote letters to newspapers, called the manager’s wife. Basically destroyed the guy.”

“Good,” said Alicia.

“He had it coming,” agreed Bess. “But it was the way Simone went after him. It was systematic annihilation—absolutely terrifying to watch. By the end, I felt sorry for him.”

Robin finished her butt and squashed it out on the windowsill. “Sounds like Simone had an ax to grind, and she sharpened the blade on your back.”

Alicia said, “I believe the word is
‘cutthroat.’
If your mom hadn’t become an author, she would have gone far in advertising.”

Fanning away invisible cigarette smoke, coughing and wheezing, Carla said, “Don’t expect me to kiss any of you.”

Robin collected the three butts, doused them with water in the kitchen sink, and put them in Alicia’s trash. They reclaimed their spots on the couches. Robin was the last to sit. “Okay, my worst mom moment?” she said.

Alicia said, “Are you doing worst mom moments?”

“Preferable to diversity planning?” asked Robin, collecting nods from the others. “All right, then. We go back in time, to the mideighties, the Bloomingdale’s juniors’ department communal dressing room. The year of the side pony, parachute pants, suspenders, and off-the-shoulder tops. I despise cropped tops, especially sweaters. A
sweater shouldn’t reveal a belly button. It’s just stupid. Makes me hate all sweaters.

“So there we are, Mom and me and about ten other people in the dressing room,” continued Robin. “All the other girls were scrawny pencils with no boobs. I was a butterball turkey in a training bra. At ten. I hated undressing in public. Humiliating. Mom had a huge pile of clothes for me to try on. Zipper pants, asymmetrical tops, spandex leggings, worst fashion ever, the entire year of 1983 should be erased from the collective memory. Nothing fit. Nothing came close to fitting, and it was all the largest juniors’ size. Mom was determined to make something fit. I guess she couldn’t stand the idea of her kid outgrowing juniors at the age of ten. She tugged and yanked, worked up a real sweat trying to force me into too-small stuff. All the other shoppers watching. The pity, the disgust, can you feel it? When Mom left in search of more clothes for me to try on, she insisted I wait right there. She left me undressed and alone in the dressing room for twenty minutes. Dozens of people came and went. Some acknowledged me, but none asked, ‘Where’s your mother?’ or ‘Are you lost?’ or even, ‘Are you cold?’ No one cared about the fat kid in the corner in her training bra and stretched-out panties. Here’s my kicker: We didn’t buy a single thing that day. And now,” said Robin. “I need another cigarette.”

Alicia said, “I hate to buck the trend, but I love my mom. My dad died of cancer when I was five, so it was just the two of us against the world, and she was, still is, my biggest fan. She never made me feel guilt or shame. A bit smothered maybe, but I needed the extra protection. I was paralytically shy.”

“Sounds like a lovely relationship,” said Carla. To Bess and Robin, she said, “It’s disrespectful to talk about your mothers with contempt. How would you like it if your daughters, twenty years from now, swapped ‘worst mom moments’ about you?”

Robin said, “I’m sure Stephanie will. I hope she does! It’s healthy to air out your grievances.” To Alicia, she added, “Instead of pretending
they don’t exist.” To Carla, “Or emotionally stifling yourself with an overblown sense of loyalty, duty, or privacy.”

Bess said, “I’m sure Amy is trashing me
right now
. And Simone is egging her on.” She started to feel upset all over again.

“I just realized. Are we all fatherless?” asked Robin. “Carla?”

Slowly, Carla nodded. “Might as well be.”

“Care to elaborate?” asked Robin.

“Nope,” replied Carla.

Alicia asked, “What do you think that means?”

Bess said, “That I, as Diversity Committee organizer, somehow recognized a similar emptiness in our souls when I called us together?”

Robin said, “Yeah, something like that. You recognized it, understood it. You thought you were attracted to what makes us different, but actually, you zeroed in on what makes us the same.”

Carla said, “I’m not buying it.”

“I’m totally right,” insisted Robin.

Bess thought about it, grappled with the idea. “I don’t think I operate on that level,” she said.

“You don’t have to
think
you do,” said Robin. “Everyone does, whether they realize it or not.”

Alicia agreed. “I can see it. A subliminal attraction.”

“If it is true, what does it mean?” asked Carla. “Besides that we have something in common?”

Robin said, “
Something?
We’re not talking about a favorite ice-cream flavor here.”

The creak of a door down the hallway. Tim tiptoed out of his bedroom, and said, “Off to the general’s room.”
They don’t have a private bath in their bedroom?
thought Bess. Now,
that
was sad.

To Alicia, Bess said, “Ask Tim to come play poker with us.”

“You practically ran out when he wanted to play before.”

“I was … I don’t know why I did that. I take it back.” Bess couldn’t control what happened in this room, or in London. She
couldn’t steer her relationship with Amy in the right direction. But she had found solace and comfort in Robin’s idea that she had an intuitive sense of people, subconscious antennae that pointed her toward these women, as well as the motivation to create a circle of understanding and support. And why shouldn’t that include whoever wanted to be part of it?

Alicia said, “If you’re sure.” When Tim came out of the bathroom, his wife called out to him. “Honey, change of heart. If you want to join us …”

In a flash, Tim was back on the couch, the deck of cards in his hands, grinning, shuffling. “Ladies,” he said, his gray eyes shining, “Poker, like life itself …”

Groans from the women.

“… is a game of luck and skill, flying blind, flips, flops, unexpected twists and turns. Put on your poker faces. Here we go.”

The table was full. Seven players, including some nasty-looking gangsters and scary tattooed hags. A regal woman in a purple silk blouse, tight black jeans, and stiletto pumps settled into her chair, stacking $4,000 in chips on the green felt. She’d come to play, and to win. The other players sensed her gravity, her confidence
.

A young Asian man dealt the pocket cards. An old woman to her right in pink sunglasses and a green visor asked, “Got a name?”

She peeked at her two facedown cards. Pair of aces. Her heart started pounding. Trying to keep her expression neutral she said, “Call me the Black Queen.”

Players all around the table folded, except the Asian dealer, a young guy with a frozen stare, and an older white man, baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. The call was $200. The Black Queen was in
.