Four of a Kind (20 page)

Sadly, the relief was temporary. Her apprehension returned after
only a few minutes. She would carry her fear in her chest until it was surgically removed. Perhaps Borden would be ready to go again soon. Bess could easily imagine how a cancer diagnosis might turn someone into a sex maniac.

“I’d want you to marry again,” she said to her husband as they lay in each other’s arms. “The kids need a mother.”

“You’re not dying,” he said. “Don’t you think you’d know if you were? Intuitively?”

“Like how the bullet comes at you in slow motion,” she said, “the one with your name on it?”

“Exactly,” he said.

Bess searched her intuition for a clue to her fate. Was she dying? Was her lump the slow-motion bullet with her name on it? Only twelve hours since its discovery, her brain was simply not ready to go there. When she closed her eyes and searched her sixth sense, all she saw was the underside of her eyelids.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Bess added. “Your daughter is a lesbian.”

Bess showed her full house to the committee members, queens over tens. “I’m a nihilist now,” she announced.

“Nice non sequitur,” said Robin, folding her cards and taking a single piece of popcorn from the bowl Alicia had put out for her guests. “So you’ve gone nihilist? Is that like going native?”

Tim said, “How do you make the conversational leap from ‘Top Chef’ to nihilism?”

Alicia said, “At the end of the day, doesn’t it always come around to nihilism?”

“I’d rather it always came around to ‘Top Chef,’ ” said Tim, folding his cards, jumping up from the couch, and jogging a few steps into the kitchen. “Who’s ready to try my paella? Saffron imported from Spain.”

Carla said, “I wish I lived over Fairway.”

Robin said, “I wish I had a husband who cooked. Or just a husband.”

Tim clarified, “I don’t cook. I chef.”

Robin and Bess made eye contact. The redhead mouthed, “Beyond gay.”

Alicia whispered, “I saw that.”

Robin said, “Tell us, Bess, what brought on your philosophical change?”

“Just thinking about life and death. What really matters,” replied Bess.

“Oh,
that
.” Robin gathered the cards and started dealing a new hand. “I had a near death experience once.”

Alicia said, “When?”

“Back in my fat days,” said Robin. “Walking down the steps at the Borough Hall subway station. I stumbled, fell, wound up on all fours, my skirt around my hips, giant granny panties and fish-white thighs exposed for all of Brooklyn to see.”

Carla said, “And you nearly died of embarrassment?”

“I
did
die of embarrassment,” said Robin. “Saw the light and everything. But I didn’t go toward it. It wasn’t my time.”

Bess listened to the conversation, waiting for it to come back to her. She’d been looking forward to this meeting to tell her three friends (and Tim, a de facto inclusion since it was Alicia’s turn to host) about the events of the last two weeks. The discovery of the lump, her renewed responsiveness with Borden (it was like they were newlyweds again), the ongoing frozen silence with Amy, her surgery at Memorial Sloan-Kettering, the week of pain and recovery.

The three days of waiting for a pathology report were the longest of her life—a life that would not be cut short by cancer, at least not yet. Her lump was benign, a calcified duct, left over from her breast-feeding days. Bess decided that the operation was a signpost,
marking the end of the first half of her life and the beginning of the rest of it. She’d been afraid to die, but even more afraid that her death wouldn’t matter. The world would get along fine without her, whether she died today, next year, or fifty years from now.

When some people had a cancer scare, she knew they rebounded with a commitment to love everything and everyone. Others reacted with anger at fate, God, their genes. Bess hadn’t felt bursting with love or anger, but with disillusionment. In the larger scheme of things, there was no larger scheme. There was no smaller scheme, nor a medium-sized one. The fact that she was alive at all? An accident of nature. The point of existence? None to speak of. We were born, after which point we ate, slept, and trudged through time for a while. And then we stopped. If religion and morality were removed from the equation, duty and responsibility were irrelevant. Bess had been a slave to duty. The last two weeks had set her free.

It’d been a bumpy realization, that her children didn’t really care what she did for them. She’d reacted against her mother’s negligent parenting by devoting herself to her family. But, as it turned out, her kids would rather do more for themselves. During Bess’s convalescence, the boys fought over who got to make dinner. Granted, heating up Bagel Bites wasn’t on par with the meals she prepared. Again, that
didn’t matter
. They been trying to tell her all along, saying, “I can do it myself,” and “Let me.” They’d been chafing for independence. She’d been trying to prolong their dependence. Their need gave her a purpose.

Her youngest, Charlie, in fourth grade, could peanut butter his own sandwich. He could fetch himself a glass of milk. What’s more, he could make his own bed, do his own laundry, complete his homework. Tom was in sixth grade; Eric in eighth; Amy in tenth. She did them no favors, as children and future adults, by making their lives easy. Bess finally saw her mother’s point. Practically speaking, Simone had helped Bess by leaving her on her own. Simone’s emotional
neglect was still unforgivable. But forcing Bess to learn coping skills? That wasn’t a killing offense. Bess was resolved to take a giant step back, and let her children do more.

During her week in bed, Bess thought about what she’d do to find purpose outside her family. “What do I enjoy
doing
?” she asked herself repeatedly. Bess flashed way back in time, to before she was married, before kids, when she was single and selfish, her first three years in college. Those days were defined by novelty. Meeting new people. Trying new things. She’d had fun, in the collegiate tradition of having a lot of casual sex and experimenting with recreational drugs. Twenty years later, Bess vowed to find that feeling of fun again, but not, obviously, the same way. Borden supported the idea that the kids should do more for themselves and around the house, and that Bess should have “me time.” But he didn’t like the “nothing matters” rants.

“Your nihilism is bad for the children,” he said, which made her laugh.

Bess peeked at her pocket cards. Two of hearts and five of diamonds. A terrible hand. Rags. She should fold.

She said, “Raise five.”

Carla said, “Tim, the paella smells amazing.”

Alicia said, “I hope it’s done soon. I’m dying of hunger.”

Robin said, “Is it spicy?”

“You bet,” said Tim. He yelled, “Joe! Five minutes’ dinner warning!”

“I can’t eat it,” sighed Robin. “Spicy makes my stomach crazy.” She dealt the flop.

Nothing good for Bess. No pairs, nor a possible straight. She said, “Raise twenty.”

Carla said, “You’re raising twenty, no royals, no straight cards, no flush draws. Either you have a pair of aces, or you’re bluffing.”

Alicia folded. “All night long, she’s had a pair of aces or was bluffing.”

Robin folded, too. “A confounding new strategy?”

“It’s called having fun,” said Bess. “Life is short. I might as well go for it every hand.”

Carla folded and said, “You’re usually the first to fold.”

Robin turned over Bess’s pocket cards. “Squat.”

“I bluffed,” said Bess.

“You don’t go from cautious to reckless overnight,” said Robin. “
I
do, but you? No.”

She thinks she knows me so well
, thought Bess, who shrugged and said, “I had a lumpectomy last week.”

Stunned silence from the women. Tim in the kitchen froze, mid-pour, and then spilled wine.

Carla said, “You didn’t call me?”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” said Bess. “Except Borden and the kids.”

“But I could have helped,” said Carla, “or recommended a surgeon at LICH.”

“I went to Sloan-Kettering,” said Bess. “I had two surgeons in the O.R., actually. The breast surgeon, and a plastic surgeon, in case. If the lump was obviously cancer, they would’ve done a mastectomy and reconstruction.”

“But it wasn’t cancer,” said Robin.

“Benign.”

“Jesus, Bess,” said Alicia. “You must have been terrified.”

Carla leaned back, scowling. “Why would you choose to go to a hospital in the city, when the hospital two blocks from your house has excellent facilities and surgeons?”

“Sloan-Kettering is the best,” said Bess. “Everyone knows that.”

“I don’t know that,” said Carla, clearly offended.

Bess shrugged. “I’m sorry you’re insulted, Carla. But your feelings were not a high priority for me last week.”

Another silence. Tim coughed and said, “I’ll check on Joe.”

Robin made slow, steady eye contact with Alicia and Carla. She
said, “I’ll speak for the group. We’re glad you’re all right. But we would have loved to help you and support you. We still want to help. What can we do?”

“Nothing,” said Bess. “What could you have done for me? You couldn’t have the surgery for me. Or taken the pain for me. I didn’t want people around. The boys got a crash course in learning how to take care of themselves. It’s about time they did. Amy doesn’t need me anymore. Borden managed with everything else.”

Alicia said, “We could have kept you company. Played Brooklyn Hold ’Em, bedside.”

Bess shrugged again. “Doesn’t matter.”

Robin said, “I think it’s weird that you didn’t tell us.”

“Agreed,” said Alicia.

“I wasn’t broadcasting the news,” said Bess. “It was a private thing. I kept it within the family. And we’re not in the habit of doing things for each other, unless it’s a consequence of winning at cards. Look, I really like you all. But five months ago, we didn’t know each other to say ‘Hi.’ I wouldn’t expect you to rush to my hospital bed or to drop your lives to hold my hand. I didn’t want that. I didn’t need it. If you’re upset, I apologize for not telling you before. I’m telling you now.”

“Keeping us abreast,” muttered Alicia.

Robin said, “You’re acting like this is no big deal.”

“It’s not!” said Bess. “I had a harmless lump. It’s gone. End of story. Nothing to circle the wagons about. And now that that’s out of the way, let’s eat!” Cupping her hands around her lips, she yelled, “Tim! We’re starving out here!”

“If this was no big deal, why the big nihilism announcement? Which, by the way, is making a bit more sense,” said Alicia. “But not really. You’re acting odd.”

“Like they took out the lump, and put in an attitude,” said Robin.

Carla said, “No, she’s being pragmatic. I respect that.” To Bess, she said, “I’m not insulted that you chose Sloan-Kettering over LICH. That’s a personal decision that you make with your family. There’s
no reason any of us should discuss it with each other. Bess’s right. We hardly know each other. We play cards once or twice a month. That’s all.”

“We’re spiraling downward,” said Robin. “We do better when we talk about men and sex.”

Alicia shushed Robin as Tim and Joe came into the living room/kitchen area.

Tim said, “Are we ready to eat, or do you need a few more minutes?”

Carla said, “We do better when we don’t talk at all. Let’s just play cards.” The Black Queen hugged a pillow to her chest, as if donning a protective shield.

“Don’t be so touchy, Carla,” said Bess, sounding obnoxious even to her own ears. “You’re totally overreacting. I had no idea you were so sensitive.”

“Back that up,” said Carla. “You can edit that sentence to ‘I had no idea,’ and leave it at that. She’s right. We are a bunch of strangers.”

“And diverse!” said Alicia, trying to keep it light. “Maybe this is the night we finally make some plans for the committee. Bess?”

Bess shrugged, her new favorite gesture. “Doesn’t matter.”

“We’re not strangers, Carla,” said Robin.

“What are we?” demanded Carla.

None of them knew what to say.

Except Tim. “We’re hungry?” he asked.

“That is true,” said Alicia.

Carla stared at the wall, or the stack of boxes against it. The woman was clearly uncomfortable, as if she were among enemies, not friends. Bess looked from woman to woman, and saw each as if she’d suddenly removed a mask. The faces seemed off, askew. Who were they, really? A random collection of mothers. She’d told them she had a lumpectomy, inelegantly, perhaps, and how did they react? They were angry at her!

Bess should have known that Alicia, Carla, and Robin would disappoint her. Like Amy, who reacted to the news of the lump by saying, “I don’t want to get cancer!” and then, after Borden took her to her room for a chat, she sulked behind her closed door all night long. Simone had been even worse. She didn’t return Bess’s explicit voicemail—“I might have breast cancer, Mom”—for
three days
. When Simone finally did phone, she spent the first ten minutes of their eleven-minute conversation apologizing for not calling sooner, but she was in Johannesburg attending a conference on women’s rights and she couldn’t get a signal. “But how
are
you?” asked Simone, finally, the line crackling and patchy. All Bess could think to say was, “I’m fine.”