Four of a Kind (33 page)

The kids clomped into the living room. Bess pointed at the TV screen, and said, “Look!”

On-screen, a group of older women were standing behind President Obama while he sat at his desk and signed a new bill into law. The bill was a federal guarantee of gender pay equality. When the president finished scribbling on the paper, he stood up and handed the pen to a handsome woman with silver hair in a gray designer suit that probably cost thousands of dollars.

“What?” asked Eric.

“What do you mean
what
?” asked Bess.

“Barack shaking hands with some old lady,” he said.

Tom said, jaded, “He shakes hands with old ladies every day.”

“You don’t recognize her?” Bess asked, slowing down to a walk.

The boys shrugged. She said, “That’s your grandmother.”

“That’s not Nana Vivian,” said Eric, totally confused.

“It’s Simone Gertrude,” said Bess. “My mother. Your grandmother.”

“Oh,” said Eric. “She met Barack. That’s cool.” The screen changed to drug ads for chronic pain and depression.

“How long has it been since you saw Simone?” Bess asked them.

Eric said, “No clue.”

“Go,” said Bess, pointing upstairs. “And take off your cleats. You’re getting dirt everywhere.”

The boys took off their shoes—leaving them right there, on the
floor of the living room—and ran off to change. They were good about showering, which Bess dearly appreciated and was grateful for (chalk up another blessing), except they left their mud-caked droppings all over the house.

Her exercise time officially over—there should be a button on the treadmill that said “resume mothering”—she’d done 3.5 miles in half an hour. A decent distance, but too short. She turned off the machine, picked up the cleats, and brought them downstairs to the foyer.

Her sons did not recognize her mother. It shouldn’t come as such a surprise to Bess. Simone hardly ever came to Brooklyn. She never invited the boys to brunch, to conferences abroad, or to spend the day in the city. Bess hadn’t made a big deal about Simone’s rejection of her sons. Today, the dismissal—just because they possessed little penises—enraged Bess. Simone hadn’t given them a chance. A flash of memory. Simone celebrated Amy’s birth, coming to the hospital, buying extravagant gifts. Two years later, when Bess’s second child arrived and turned out (surprise!) to be a boy, Simone took one look at Eric’s naked seven-pound body, turned to Vivian and Major Steeple (who’d flown in for the birth), and said, “A boy. You can pay for this one.” Then she left the hospital. Simone had never sent a gift or bought Eric—or Tom, or Charlie—baby outfits or birthday presents. Borden deeply resented Simone for the way she ignored her grandsons, but Bess had found ways to forgive her, and to justify it. “She doesn’t understand men,” she’d say at Christmas when Simone sent two gifts—one for Amy, and another addressed to “The Steeples,” usually a cooler of steaks in dry ice.

“Doesn’t understand men? Simone was married. She had two sons of her own!” Borden would say.

But Simone hadn’t understood her sons. It’d been years since Simone had talked to Simon (who’d been named after her), or Fred (junior, after their dad). Nor had Simone ever understood her husband or her father, mainly because she didn’t bother trying. Bess let her get away with it all—Simone’s negligence when Bess was a teenager,
her rejection of Eric, Tom, and Charlie, how she steamrolled over Bess’s authority over Amy, that she’d ignored Bess’s pleas for support after the lumpectomy. Maybe Bess was afraid of her mother. Just as, lately, she’d been afraid of her daughter. More accurately, afraid
for
her daughter.

Bess wondered if Amy was Simone’s true heir. The evil streak had skipped a generation. Bess wasn’t the reason Amy had gone bad, but she might be a carrier of the mean gene. Could she realistically do anything about Amy’s personality if her genetic code was programmed for selfishness?

Bess deposited the cleats in the shoe trunk in the foyer, and then went to the kitchen to check on dinner.

The chicken wasn’t ready yet. But soon.

“Brutal doesn’t begin,” said Borden of his workday. It was around midnight. The couple was in bed. He’d come home late, after 10:00. The Wall Street trading day ended at 4:00. He hung around for a while longer, attended to important after-hours and international trading. Lately, there were additional administrative duties to deal with, too, things Borden hadn’t been responsible for until this year. Restructuring decisions. Redundancies. Redistribution.

Borden had refused his annual bonus, minuscule as it was in comparison to past years. The bankers who’d accepted bonuses had been pilloried in the press. Some had received death threats. The public perception of bankers hadn’t fully penetrated the marble corridors on Wall Street. Borden’s bosses believed they’d just been doing business, bundling mortgages, leveraging and buying on margin, selling short. Bess understood that Borden was, according to the rest of America, one of the greedy fat cats who’d destroyed the economy. But to her, he was a kind, loving, generous man.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

“Talk? God, no,” he said. “I’m sick of living it.”

“Can I take your mind off your troubles?” she asked, going for comic seduction, including waggling her eyebrows.

Borden smiled politely. He put his arm around her, pulled her in for a hug. But that was it. Bess waited for his hands to start roaming her body, making their usual journey across hill and valley. But tonight, he went nowhere.

And last night. And every night for a couple of weeks. Bess attempted to arouse him, snuggling against his side, pressing her breasts (minus one lump) into him, wriggling.

“I’m sorry, Bess,” he said.

“Is it the scar?” she asked.

“You can’t possibly think that.”

“Your father?” she asked.

He sighed. “I’m just tired.”

“And old, don’t forget,” she added.

“Old, too,” he said, smiling weakly. “Old, tired, and at the end of a long day.”

Right before her eyes, beautiful Borden had aged ten years. It was like time-lapse photography. His temples grayed, his fine lines deepened, his jaw softened. He’d grown weaker, just as she felt herself gaining emotional and physical strength. A surge of protectiveness overwhelmed her. It wasn’t savage maternal protectiveness, however, but a calming call-and-response for support. It was her turn to be the strong one. They’d both worked hard for their family in different ways. Years had blown by. They’d had sex thousands of times. But how often had Bess appreciated or sympathized with the pressure Borden felt to provide, to perform tirelessly? Did he worry she wouldn’t love him if he faltered or slowed down?

Although she’d once considered any sign of vulnerability in a man to be a huge turn-off, Bess had never loved Borden with such tenderness as she did at that moment.

“Come here,” she said, pulling his head to rest on her shoulder. “Rest now.”

“I fell in love with my husband all over again,” said Bess to the cardplayers.

“I fell in love with your husband all over again, too, when he answered the door tonight,” said Robin, shuffling.

The game was at Bess’s house. Carla was supposed to host, but since Claude was out of work, he’d turned their house upside down fixing all the things he’d neglected for years, including a fresh paint job in their dining room.

Carla said, “I’ve been feeling good about my marriage, too; there’s something inherently sexy about a man in a toolbelt holding a hammer.”

Robin said, “What was that
sound
?”

Carla said, “I didn’t hear anything.”

“I think it was Hell freezing over,” said Robin. “You, using the words ‘marriage’ and ‘sexy’ in the same sentence.”

Alicia asked, “My marriage, meanwhile, still sucks.”

The women were seated around the poker table on the garden floor of the townhouse. The doors to the garden were wide open, letting the warm air inside.

Bess said, “I’m sorry, Alicia.”

“Don’t let my misery stop you from gloating.”

“Okay,” said Bess, eager to describe her feelings. “We’re having this intense, revitalized romance. Kissing, hugging, hand holding, staring into each other’s eyes. Meanwhile, we haven’t had sex in a month.”

Robin sighed. “More celibacy? I don’t get it with you married people.”

Alicia said, “There’s some irony for you. Bess stops having sex with her husband. Meanwhile, Tim and I …”

“No!” said Bess.

“Really?” asked Robin.

“Please shut up and let Alicia talk,” inserted Carla.

Bess, Robin, and Carla’s eyes pinned Alicia to her chair. Alicia blinked at them. “I was going to say that, after all this time, Tim and I … have decided to put Joe on Zoloft.”

That’s it?
thought Bess.

“Yeah, it was a tough decision, to put your kid on drugs. We did all the testing, consulted with a shrink, and did extensive online research,” said Alicia. “Tim and I had many long talks about it, but then we finally agreed to try the drugs, lying in bed
 … right after we had sex
.”

“You tease.” Robin laughed, swatting Alicia’s shoulder.

Alicia snorted. “You should have seen your faces when you thought you weren’t getting the sex news.”

Bess shook her head. “So? How was it?”

“Do tell,” said Robin. Even Carla leaned forward.

Alicia asked, “Do you want the full version or the abridged?”

“I’m shocked you have to ask,” said Robin. To Carla, she said, “If the details get too disgusting for you, plug your ears.”

“I think we should discuss the decision to put Joe on Zoloft,” said Carla.

Uh-oh
, thought Bess, remembering how angry Carla had been when Bess chose Sloan-Kettering over LICH. Carla had that same look in her eyes now.

Alicia picked up on Carla’s sensitivity, too. “Do you think it’s the wrong decision?”

“I’m not a psychiatrist,” said Carla, clearly miffed.

“I used the shrink you recommended,” said Alicia.

Carla leaned back, folded her arms across her chest. “You should have kept me in the loop.”

Robin sighed heavily. “Not again. Carla, get over it. Alicia, get on with it.”

Alicia said, “Honestly, Carla, I didn’t think you wanted to stay involved in the decision.”

“Then you aren’t paying attention,” said Carla. “I want to be included and informed. I want my knowledge and expertise used and appreciated. From now on, if any of you have a health-related issue, I expect to be consulted, from the beginning to the resolution. That’s an order.”

Bess felt the weight of Carla’s authority in her chest. “Yes, ma’am!” she said before she could stop herself.

Robin said, “Actually, I’ve got a pain. A big pain, in the ass, and it’s you, Carla. Can you put your ego in check until after we’re heard the salacious details about Alicia’s once-in-nearly-three-years boink with Tim?”

“Well, it was incredibly tense, to tell you the truth,” said Alicia. “A total surprise, too. I didn’t see it coming, as it were.”

“Was it the night that we were supposed to play poker at Carla’s last month?” asked Robin, looking a mite guilty? Concerned?

“The night you crashed my car?” asked Bess. Robin had repaired the bumper—and had the car inspected and cleaned—before Bess got back from the funeral in San Francisco. That week, a dented bumper had been the least of her worries.

“Let’s not talk about that,” said Robin, oddly evasive. Why? Had Robin been drinking when she hit—what was it?—a parking meter on Joralemon Street? Bess smiled nervously. Better not press. She just wouldn’t lend Robin the car again.

“Funny you should ask,” said Alicia. “It was the night after.”

“Where were you that night?” asked Robin. “I tried to reach you. I called your cell. And … called again.”

Bess noticed that Robin looked at her hands when she spoke, and not directly at Alicia. Usually, Robin made eye contact to a fault.

Alicia said, “I was working late. I’ve been working late a lot. The new account—very consuming. I got home after midnight. Tim was asleep, in his clothes, with an empty bottle of wine next to the bed. His shirt was splattered with dots. I thought it was blood and woke him up in a panic. But he said he spilled wine on himself.”