Authors: Valerie Frankel
Nowadays, if people wondered how Robin, a single mom with a low-salary job, could afford private school tuition, expensive clothes (even Boho chic could be pricey), they didn’t ask or were satisfied by her claim to have purchased 10,000 shares of Microsoft in 1987. As for why Robin worked at all: she felt compelled to keep herself tethered to the world somehow, even if by only a thread.
Carla greeted Bess and Robin at the front door of her house. The host wore a green caftan tonight, and seemed to be a bit on edge. Her lips were tight as she waved them into the parlor level great room with a vaulted ceiling. A mahogany banister gleamed along the stairs, which the women were not invited to climb. Robin bit her lip instead of asking for a tour of the house. She got the instant impression that the committee members were going to stay on the first floor all night long.
Which was fine. Robin would happily admire the teardrop molding, the marble fireplace (filled with philodendron in pots), the wainscoting and striped wallpaper. The furniture wasn’t period friendly. Not by a long shot. In the dining room, where the women were brought, a chunky thickly lacquered black table loomed, along with chairs and tie-on cushions. The walls’ built-in shelving held glass and ceramic figurines, the kind of stuff one saw at a flea market or Grandma’s; dusty and precious, and not Robin’s taste.
Carla said, “Have a seat.”
Robin and Bess sat. They heard a rattling flush, and Alicia banged out of a powder room, having to force the door open. “Sorry,” Alicia said, a bit flustered.
“Don’t apologize,” said Carla. “The person who should apologize for not fixing the door isn’t here to do it.”
“Your husband is working late?” asked Bess with I-can-relate geniality.
“The one night I asked him to be here,” complained Carla, and then, the moment of candor was gone. She willfully relaxed the tension in her face, said, “I have food. Be right back.”
Carla’s marital boil had only sent up the one bubble. But the evening was young. Alicia looked rumpled and somewhat mousy—
the same
, thought Robin. Gray suit, straight from work at, what was it, an ad agency? Carla’s three guests waited at the heavy table, and awkwardly smiled at each other. Early signs of discomfort. Perhaps the fun of that night at Bess’s house had been a fluke. Thus far, the women had nothing to say to each other.
Robin needed a drink. And a smoke. She assumed that was not going to happen indoors. When Carla returned with a supermarket-bought platter of Italian antipasti, Robin’s banded stomach lurched at the sight of the oily, spicy, and acidic food. No way could she eat that.
“Any Chianti to wash it down?” she asked hopefully.
“I’ve got soft drinks,” said Carla. “We don’t allow drinking alcohol in the house.”
Bess said, “Don’t want your boys to dip into it?”
“They wouldn’t dare,” said Carla in a tone that almost made Robin quake. “It’s family policy that the boys never see Claude and me drink. It sets a poor example.”
Moment of silence from the white girls. Alicia said, “Tim and I hardly ever drink, so we don’t have alcohol in the house either.”
But probably not as a house rule
, thought Robin.
Bess, she of the fully stocked bar in the basement, said, “I think it’s an excellent policy. Good for you, Carla.”
“Yes, goodie for all of us,” groused Robin, pining for a glass of something. “I applaud our diverse house rules.”
Carla shook her head. Robin instantly regretted complaining, and felt a pang of shame. “I would
love
a Diet Coke,” she said to Carla, who went through the kitchen’s swinging door to get it.
The refreshment business concluded, Bess said, “I have some input about the Diversity Committee calendar. A few Parents Association members brought up the idea of having a multicultural food festival or bake sale. We can raise funds and use the money to draw a great lecturer, or a whole panel of experts on Islam or the Middle East …”
Robin groaned. “Can we put the agenda on hold for one more meeting? I think I can speak for Alicia and Carla when I say that we’re still in the getting-to-know-each-other stage, and not ready to start banging out ideas just yet.”
Alicia nodded. “I concur. Although I really do want to work on it at some point.”
Carla nodded. “Me, too.” She then dropped a cellophane-wrapped deck of cards in the center of the table. “Brand new pack,” she said.
Bess said, “Wait, one more thing before we start. I have presents!” She reached into her oversized leather tote and handed out small wrapped boxes to each woman. Tearing away the red wrapping paper, Robin felt excited, giddy. A present! How unexpected.
Alicia said, “A computer game?”
They all had the same gift. A small box. The cover photo: a man’s hand, deftly revealing the top corner of the king of hearts and king of clubs, a pile of chips on a field of green felt. The title:
World Class Poker with T. J. Cloutier
. T.J.’s stamp-sized photo appeared on the lower right corner of the box—the poker-faced, aviator-glasses-wearing “champion” didn’t look too happy about it.
Bess said, “I thought we could learn how to play Texas Hold ’Em for real. Real rules, strategy. Make it competitive.”
“But I like our relaxed version,” said Alicia.
“I just thought that, if we’re going to do this, let’s do it right,”
said Bess. “Learning poker as an essential skill, like playing piano or speaking a second language.”
Carla said, “I don’t have a lot of spare time to play games.”
Robin watched Bess’s face fall so low it nearly hit the floor. It was horrible to watch. Shot down again, plus a fight with her daughter tonight, too. Robin hated to see disappointment on anyone’s face. She’d seen enough of it on her mother’s. “At some point, we should
absolutely
learn to play the right way,” Robin intoned. “And thanks ever so much, Bess, for buying the CDs.” Honestly, if playing by the rules made Bess happy, Robin was fine with following suit, not to belabor the card metaphor, even in her head.
Alicia took the cards and unwrapped the cellophane. She put the jokers aside and started shuffling the stiff cards. “So we’re betting with chips now?” she asked. “No more playing for dirt?”
“She can’t wait to talk about her sex life,” said Robin.
Alicia kept her head down, focused on shuffling. She was embarrassed, but pretended not to be. This revealed to Robin that Alicia possessed the skill of Taking It. Robin wondered where Alicia got her stiff-lip training. The hard way? Or was she born with it?
The petite brunette dealt the cards. Each woman had two facedown cards. Alicia slapped down the five communal cards.
Checking her blinds, Robin smiled to see a pair of sevens. “Start talking anytime,” she said to Alicia.
“Remember how I said my husband Tim and I haven’t had sex in two years?” asked Alicia. “That’s not entirely true. It’s been two years, one month, two weeks—”
A sound from upstairs. A curious boy, Carla’s older son—Manuel, was it?—appeared at the top of the steps. Fourth-grader Zeke lurked behind his taller brother.
Manuel said, “Ma, we finished the book.”
“Good,” said Carla. “Take showers, and then go to bed.”
It was just after eight o’clock. Bedtime was on the early side in Carla’s house of rules.
Manuel said, “Because we’ve been quiet, as a reward, I thought we could watch a half hour of—”
“Do not say another word,” said Carla, in a terminal tone. The boys ran away from the landing and disappeared into their rooms. Carla lifted her hand to look at her cards, and said, “As you were saying, Alicia?”
The sexless brunette blinked at Carla in amazement. “Can I just say that if Joe asked me to watch TV and I told him no, he’d throw a fit.”
Carla wasn’t in the mood for tales of inferior mothering. She waited, as they all did, for Alicia to get on with it.
“Okay, here goes,” Alicia said. “It’s hard to say exactly why Tim and I stopped doing it. Sex got weird when we had trouble getting pregnant with Joe. Neither one of us expected it. We were in our early twenties, always the youngest couple at the fertility doctor’s office. We tried for three years. The cycles of expectation and disappointment weren’t exactly sexy. I think maybe Tim started to associate sex with failure, or uselessness. When we finally got pregnant, we pretty much stopped having sex. Fear of dislodging the baby—ridiculous, I know, but you make all kinds of bargains. Any of you had infertility issues?”
None had. Alicia continued, “No sex was a bit of a relief after the mechanical sex we’d been having. I thought we’d start doing it again after Joe was born. And we did. But it was never the same.”
Bess asked, “How did you meet?”
“We both worked in the marketing department at Macy’s,” said Alicia. “I left for an ad job. Tim stayed at Macy’s. He did really well there. He went all the way up, to president of marketing. He ran a staff of twenty, made a great salary. Benefits, discounts, lunches, dinners. Those were the days, let me tell you.”
“Downsized?” asked Bess.
“He was let go during the first round of layoffs two years ago.”
“You mean, around the time you stopped having sex,” said Robin.
Alicia’s eyes got wide. She put her hand to her cheek, as if in
shock. “Gee, I never made that connection before,” she said, dripping sarcasm.
Robin said, “I’m just saying.”
“Even before that, the sex was dwindling,” said Alicia. “Everything was a mood killer. We had problems adjusting to parenthood. Working full time wrung us out. Joe had his share of problems that needed a lot of time and attention. Adjustment issues at his previous schools. Sex became less and less important. And then—yes, coinciding with the layoff—we just stopped doing it. For a while, Tim used his unemployment, feeling bad for himself, as an excuse. But then he stopped making excuses, too.” Alicia shrugged. “It sounds bad. But Tim and I get along great. We love each other. We’re in a happy marriage except for this one thing.”
“That’s a pretty big thing,” said Bess.
Hmmm
, thought Robin. Maybe Borden had a decent cock after all. Good for Bess. Alicia’s home life, meanwhile, sounded awful. A sexless partnership wasn’t a marriage. It was a friendship. Eventually one of them would look for romance elsewhere.
“I’m dying to ask a question,” said Bess.
Carla said, “You have to win first.”
Bess said, “Oh, God. I was so engrossed in the story, I forgot we had cards.”
The women examined their cards, and figured out their best combinations.
Carla said, “Nothing.”
Alicia threw her cards down. “Me, too.”
Bess said, “I’ve got two pair.”
Robin smiled broadly, and showed her cards. “Three sevens. Sorry, Bess.” Turning to Alicia, she asked. “Do you cheat on Tim?”
Bess said, “That was my question.”
“I’ve sure thought about it,” replied Alicia, the celibate. “There’s a guy in my office. Finn. He’s the star of my sexual fantasies. But he’s
thirty, kind of a lothario. He doesn’t seem to realize I’m a woman. And I’d never pursue it anyway.”
“So you jerk off a lot?” asked Robin.
Carla bristled across the table. “That’s too personal,” she said.
Alicia’s cheeks were red as cherries. “You’ll have to win another hand to get that answer.”
“What’s the big deal? Everyone does it,” said Robin.
“Talk about winning hands,” said Bess.
Carla said, “I don’t.”
“You should,” said Robin. “And you should have a drink once in while, too. It won’t kill you.”
“Speaking as a health care professional?” asked Carla, her dark eyes focused on Robin, a sly smile on her lips.
She likes me
, thought Robin,
especially when I bait her
. “A blind woman could see that you need to loosen up, Carla. Starting now. Tell those kids they can watch a little TV.”
Carla shook her head and said, “My deal.”
The other women passed their cards over to her. Carla shuffled expertly while talking. “Even though I had a bad day, I’m not going to take the easy route and turn on the TV. I’m
not
going to give in to temptation by drinking in the house. When you feel weak, you have to be extra vigilant. Otherwise, TV and alcohol become the things you rely on, instead of inner strength.” Carla drew in a breath, dealt the cards quickly while talking. “I’ve been seeing a patient for about a month now, a one-year-old boy who kept having respiratory problems. His parents didn’t want me to, but I insisted on giving him a sweat test for cystic fibrosis. It came back negative. I gave the results to the parents in my office today, assuming they’d be happy with the result. Instead, they were angry because they’d have to cover twenty percent of an expensive test. They’ve complained to the hospital and are refusing to pay.”
Bess said, “That’s unfortunate.”
“You don’t even know,” said Carla. “The hospital keeps track of complaints and unpaid bills. I’ve been given a warning by the board. They already think of me as a troublemaker. Sometimes I wonder why I bother.” She glanced at her hand. “I’ve got nothing, by the way.” Carla turned over her cards, showing a deuce and a five.
The rest turned over their cards. Alicia won the hand, with two pair. To Carla, she asked, “Why are you so pissed off at your husband for working late tonight?”
Excellent question
, thought Robin. She’d been itching to ask the same one. That seemed to be happening a lot. Like minds? Or were they all clueing in to the same signals, grabbing from the air the one question that begged to be asked? Carla had said, “Why bother?” about her hospital job, but was her frustration only about work or about her home life, too?
Carla sighed. “I asked Claude to be here to take Manny and Zeke out to a movie so we could have privacy. I called to remind him to come home early. He said he forgot. Couldn’t make it. The boys were disappointed. I’m angry. And Claude does it all the time. He makes promises but nothing happens—like fixing the bathroom door—and then I’m a nag for complaining about it.”
“Textbook passive-aggressive behavior,” said Robin. “He’s making you angry on purpose, Carla, so he can blame you for starting a fight. He
forgot
to be here.
Forgot
to fix the door. Maybe he’s forgotten a few other things, too?”