Four of a Kind (35 page)

She still went to church, and found the community and structure
a comfort. But what about the religious aspects? Carla reminded herself that even Mother Teresa had had doubts. After church on Sundays, Carla took the boys to visit her mother at her assisted living facility in Queens. The building was a converted school near a park. Gloria moved herself in, buying a unit with her savings, and using insurance and Social Security payments to cover monthly service costs. To the end—Gloria was an old 79, and arthritic—she would take care of herself.

When Manny and Zeke went outside to roam the grounds with a few other visiting grandchildren, Carla wheeled her mother into the stuffy but sunny common room (formerly, the school cafeteria). She arranged her mom’s chair near a window, tried to open it for air and saw that the sill was painted shut.

“How’s Claude?” asked Gloria.

“He’s great, Ma,” said Carla, giving up on breeze, and sitting in a plastic chair next to Gloria.

“Where is he?”

“He’s fixing the leak in the roof,” said Carla. True.

“Did you go to church this morning?” asked Gloria.

“Yes, Ma.”

“Did you pray for guidance about being a good wife? Did you thank God for giving you a reliable, trustworthy man to protect you and provide for you?”

“Yes, Ma.”

“God bless that man. Fixing the roof! He’s sweating and working on this hot day for you,” said Gloria, raising a bent hand to her savior. “Do you understand me, Carla? Thank the Lord for giving you that man. You’ve been blessed.”

“I know,” said Carla, impatiently.

Gloria could tell. “I’ve suffered, and been grateful to God for every day of my life. You’ve been blessed, and you’re bitter. I see the bitterness on your face.”

“I’m not bitter,” said Carla,
so
beyond tired of this conversation.
She and her mom had been having it for fifteen years, ever since Carla and Claude got married. Should she tell Gloria that Claude wasn’t, actually, the best provider? That Carla was the family’s sole provider right now? That the sweat of
her
labor kept that leaky roof over their heads, and that Claude had only agreed to climb up the ladder to get out of coming to Queens to visit his God-fearing mother-in-law?

“Look, Ma, we’ve got to go,” said Carla, standing to give Gloria a kiss. “See you next week.” A few other Sunday visitors were making their moves, too, so she felt justified in wrapping it up.

Gloria accepted the kiss and said, “Please give Claude my love and tell him I’m sorry he couldn’t make it today. Also, tell him I thank God for him.”

“What about me?” asked Carla abruptly.

“What
about
you?”

“I’m just wondering if you ever thank God for me.”

Gloria gaped, astonished at the question, as if her daughter had just slapped her.

“You do realize, Ma,” Carla continued, “that there are two people in a marriage.”

“There’s only one person who
matters
in a marriage—the person who’s willing to walk away and never look back,” said Gloria. “That’s not you. God will strike you down if you even think of abandoning those boys. But Claude, he could run at any time. You have to take heed, Carla. Give him a hundred reasons to stay.”

“Yes, Ma,” said Carla, resigned, and then got out of there. As she and the boys drove back to Brooklyn, Carla thought about her mom’s two guiding beliefs: (1) thou shall not displease God and (2) thou shall not displease men. According to the Gospel of Gloria, Carla hovered on the edge of the abyss. Only God and Claude could save her.

After drop-off, Carla was to meet Renee at Starbucks. The coffee was twice as expensive as at the deli, so she told herself, “No lottery today.”

She arrived a few minutes early and found a seat. But she couldn’t wait in peace. The itchy feeling of not buying her Pick Six was all over her skin. Giving in to her superstitions, Carla ran into the pharmacy across the street and bought herself a ticket. Quickly tucking it into her wallet, she rushed back over to find Renee entering the café.

The women greeted each other with a hug and a kiss. Renee was touchy-feely. She took every opportunity to pat Carla’s back, rest a hand on her shoulder, press her arm or leg for emphasis when she made her point, in a completely nonthreatening and casual way. Not a casual person, Carla would have rather Renee kept her hands to herself.

“What a weekend!” announced Renee once they got their drinks and were settled on a couch in the rear. “Shauna competed in a chess tournament in Washington, D.C. We drove down, visited all the monuments. We went to the White House. For the first time, I really
felt it
, you know what I’m saying? I felt like a part of America.”

Carla, who felt like a part of America every time she paid taxes and voted, said, “We’ve been meaning to take the kids down.”

“You really should,” said Renee (knee touch). “Especially now.”

Every black American was now honor-bound to make a pilgrimage to Washington. Yes, Carla wanted to go, for herself and her sons. Only, they couldn’t afford to leave Brooklyn, much less pay for a hotel room in D.C. The Orlando trip that Carla won at the Brownstone fund-raiser was gone. Before they could make a reservation, Claude’s company went bankrupt. He made a convincing argument to sell the vacation package on eBay. They pulled in $3,000. It bought them two weeks of living expenses. Just two weeks. The joy of traveling and the memories would have lasted a lot longer. He’d expected her to be happy about the money. When she
said, “I won’t see any of it,” Claude acted hurt and didn’t speak to her for two days.

Carla sipped her coffee. “How’d Shauna do in the tournament?” she asked, even though she didn’t care. It was polite to pretend.

“She was brilliant! She beat four kids—white and Asian boys—before she was eliminated,” crowed Renee.

“Congratulations,” said Carla.

“The Asians are tough to beat,” said Renee. “We talked to a Chinese chess coach about Shauna, and he said he demanded a commitment of four hours a week. Shauna is all for it. You can get into Harvard on chess. I worry about pushing her too hard. But then again, God expects us to reach our full potential. We’re praying for guidance.”

“I’m sure you’ll get it,” said Carla. Afraid she sounded cynical, she added, “You’re a wonderful mom, Renee. I know you’ll get the balance right.”

Renee smiled and sipped. Putting on her concerned face, she asked (touch elbow), “How’s it going at home?”

Cringing inwardly, Carla’s instincts told her to lie. Robin or Alicia could have asked her the same question and if Carla didn’t want to answer, she’d say, “Shut up and deal.” If Bess asked, Carla would’ve felt obliged to tell the truth. But something about Renee’s question raised Carla’s walls.

Robin had said that Renee served as Carla’s mirror. Yes, they were physically similar. They had culture in common. When Carla looked at Renee, she saw an attractive, well-dressed, responsible, smart, wide-awake woman she couldn’t force herself to care about, or even like. She wanted to fall in friend-love with Renee. She’d certainly tried. They’d had weekly coffees for months, even gone on double dates with the husbands. But it just wasn’t happening.

Does Renee genuinely like me?
Carla wondered.
Does she feel authentic in my presence? What am I to her?
Could be insecurity talking, but Carla thought Renee liked to spend time with her to feel superior.
Her life was, by almost any standard Carla could think of, better than hers. Not just financially. Pretty Shauna was an academic superstar. Carla’s sons—handsome, hardworking, well behaved, empathetic (Carla would
never
forget her pride when Zeke comforted Bess after Amy had been so horrible)—were average students. Battle of the husbands? Richard Hobart was dashing, extroverted, and, needless to say, employed. Claude? Better looking than Richard, but on their double dates, he’d been garrulous, trying too hard to impress.

“We’re doing just fine,” said Carla.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you about a Parents Association committee I’m forming for the next school year,” said Renee. “Mothers of Color. We could organize events and fund-raisers. I thought it’d be fantastic to do a fund-raiser to take Brownstone kids of color to Washington for a weekend. Guess where I got that idea?”

“Like a Diversity Committee,” said Carla. “Which already exists.”

“It does? Never heard of it. Does the committee
do
anything?” asked Renee.

Carla laughed to herself. The Diversity Committee did
a lot …
of eating and drinking and card playing. “I guess it likes to keep a low profile.”

“What’s the point of that?” asked Renee. Waving away the question, she asked another: “Can I count on you to join
my
committee? No reason Mothers of Color can’t put on some big fund-raisers. Maybe even take over the winter event. I’m sure I—
we
—could make a better party than that Casino Night.”

“Bess’s event was fun,” said Carla, remembering her win sweetly (and then bitterly—they shouldn’t have sold that trip).

“Oh, I forgot you and Bess Steeple were friends,” said Renee.

“I’m sure you’d do a wonderful job,” said Carla, feeling in the middle suddenly. How did she get here?

“Casino Night didn’t set a good example,” said Renee. “I know
you enjoy card games. But do we want to condone gambling to our kids? Especially kids of color?”

“Are kids of color prone to gamble?” asked Carla. “More than the colorless kind?”

Renee (hands to herself) frowned. “It’s just an idea,” she said carefully. “Nothing you need to mention to Bess. I want to be more involved with the school and the Parents Association. But I hate taking orders.”

From colorless mothers
, thought Carla. “My lips are sealed.”

“Good morning, ladies,” said a scratchy voice above them.

Carla looked up to find her old friend Dr. Stevens standing in front of their couch with a large cup of coffee. God, he’d aged. Carla had last seen him on the street a year ago? Six months? Out of habit, Carla gave him a visual exam. Skin: dry, pale-greenish tint. Weight: low, possible disease-related anorexia. His slacks were pulled tight by a belt. His shirt was open at the neck—no tie—collarbone sharply defined.
What is that?
she wondered, leaning forward for a closer look. Two black dots on the sides of his neck. She searched his face, finding another pair just behind the gray hairline by his temples. Pencil point tattoos. Radiation treatment guides for the head (brain) and throat. She must’ve looked concerned. When she met Dr. Stevens’s eyes, he nodded ever so slightly. He knew she’d diagnosed him on sight. Any doctor worth her saline could call this one.

Renee said, “Hello, Dr. Stevens! It’s wonderful to see you. Shauna and I have missed you.”

“I’m back at the office now,” he assured her. “If you need to come in, just call my secretary. Enjoy your coffee.” He smiled and started to leave out the back door. But then, he turned back around. “Dr. Morgan, do you have a second?”

“Of course,” Carla said, standing to walk him to the exit.

He said, “I just wanted to ask you to give me a call later. I have a business proposition for you. You have my number?”

She nodded. “I’ll call you this afternoon.”

“Good,” he said. “Have a beautiful day.”

Carla walked back to Renee, deciding to take this break as an opportunity to cut the coffee short. “I’ve got to run,” she said, grabbing her purse.

“He doesn’t look too hot, does he?” asked Renee. “He’s been disappearing a lot. He was gone when Shauna had her last ear infection this winter. That’s how we met, remember?”

It was only a few months ago
, thought Carla.
I’m not an idiot
.

Renee continued, “I hope he’s all right.” She raised her eyebrows at Carla. An open invitation to hazard a guess.

Under no circumstances would Carla speculate with Renee about her colleague’s condition. That was gossip at its worst. Wild guessing about someone’s health was not conversational sport. An illness was private, and it was up to the individual when and how the information was shared, if at all.

Even as she had these protective thoughts about Dr. Stevens, Carla was aware of the contradiction. She’d insisted at the last poker game that she be kept in the loop about her friends’ and their families’ medical complaints. Carla thought, thanks to Robin, that her demand had been ego driven. But now she understood it for what it was: a deeper emotional need. She cared about the poker players and their families. She insisted on caring for them.

“I’ve really got to go,” said Carla, and was out the back door before Renee could hug her again.