Four of a Kind (9 page)

“Now, Amy, tell me everything,” said Simone. “What’s going on? How’s school?”

Put on the spot, Amy said, “The semester just started. It’s been, like, a month. So far, so good. I’m getting the grades.”

“Wonderful,” said Simone, smiling warmly at her granddaughter.

“Are you in New York for a while?” Bess asked.

“Only a few days,” said Simone. “I’m going to London for a conference on women’s rights in the Arab world. I’ll be meeting with representatives from twenty countries. It’s simply ghastly, how women are treated in the Middle East. I’ll never forget my trip last year to Dubai. Those poor women—little more than walking wombs. Breaks my heart. I have to speak up for their rights. Their eyes, they haunt me, always.” Simone waited for Bess to nod along with her, and then added, “It would make an old woman happy if Amy came with me to London. It’s only for a long weekend. If we take the red-eye Thursday night, she’d only miss one day of school.”

“Yes!” shouted Amy.

“You’re not giving me much notice,” said Bess.

“Come on, Mom!” pleaded Amy. “I’m dying to go to London.”

Bess said, “You’re supposed to babysit Stephanie Stern on Thursday night.”

“Robin can find someone else,” said Amy. “Please, Mom.”

“You made a promise,” said Bess. “What does it say about your professionalism if you cancel?”

Simone said, “I’m offering to take her to
London
. Doesn’t that weigh more heavily than a babysitting job?”

“It’s only so Mom can play poker with her friends, anyway,” said Amy.

Bess cringed. She hadn’t wanted her mother to know about the card game. “It’s a Diversity Committee meeting,” Bess corrected. Amy rolled her eyes as only an obnoxious sixteen-year-old could.

Simone usually discounted any of Bess’s pursuits as meaningless hobbies. A card game would be ridiculed as an excuse for a bunch of hens to swap casserole recipes, brag about the kids, and gossip. For Bess, it was an opportunity to immerse herself in other women’s lives. Something Simone, for all her wisdom and insight, rarely, if ever, did. Simone might speak to a crowd of thousands about the plight of millions.
But how often did she sit down with three strangers—no, friends, fast friends—and reveal herself, uncheck her feelings, and allow herself to be vulnerable? When was the last time Simone expressed a weakness or doubt? The rest of the world took comfort in admitting to their insecurities, in allowing themselves a respite from maintaining a façade of strength.

And the Diversity Committee didn’t swap recipes. Not yet anyway.

Simone said simply, “Cards?”

Bess said, “Along with planning our committee agenda.”

“Poker?” asked Simone with a condescending lilt.

“You better believe it,” said Bess with a rush of unexpected pride.

Amy said, “Mom spends hours playing Texas Hold ’Em on her laptop.”

“Really? Do you and the
ladies
,” said Simone, using that derisive word, “play for pennies or chocolate chips?”

If she told Simone about sharing secrets and histories, it would taint the entire experience. “We play for fun,” said Bess, fearing that sounded frivolous and lame.

“My parents had a card night,” said Simone. “Do you remember, Bess? Mom and Dad would set up the folding table. The Colberts from next door would come over.”

Bess smiled. Yes, she remembered. When Simone left Bess at her grandparents’ for overnights, she watched some marathon gin or bridge games. She was the helper, emptying ashtrays, fetching bottles of wine, replenishing the snacks. “Grandma always let Grandpa win,” said Bess fondly.

“That’s right,” said Simone. “She let him win. If he didn’t, he’d abuse her about everything, how she looked, what she said, her cooking and cleaning. Of course, that was a different time, when women had few options. Women nowadays don’t have to stay in loveless marriages to abusive men who deny them the smallest victories.”

Simone remembered her mother as a victim; Bess remembered her grandmother as a saint. Obviously, Simone knew her parents’ marriage better than Bess did. Bess was nine when they passed away within a year of each other. How would Amy remember Bess and Borden’s marriage? Would she think of Bess as a needy sponge who lived off her husband and clung selfishly to her children? Or as a confident woman who played to win?

“You know, Bess,” said Simone. “You remind me a lot of my mother. Around the eyes.”

“I’m so sososo sorry again about Amy,” said Bess to Robin several nights later. “But this trip to London was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I had to let her go.”

“No big deal,” said Robin. “But if you apologize again, I might start to think it is.”

Bess wanted to tell her friend that it
was
a big deal—a very big deal—that Simone had snatched her daughter from her clutches, and spirited her off to a glamorous adventure in a foreign land. What did Bess have to offer Amy that could compare? Packing nutritious lunches for over a decade didn’t impress a teenager like giving a keynote speech at an international conference on women’s rights. Amy was at that age when changing the world seemed possible. And Bess? At forty, “the future” wasn’t what it used to be.

Robin found someone else to babysit Stephanie, and hadn’t seemed to care that Amy bailed, which irritated Bess. The two of them climbed out of Bess’s BMW, parked at the Red Hook Fairway. Alicia’s apartment was in one of the lofts above the supermarket.

Robin, whose red hair frizzled spectacularly tonight, said, “Can you imagine the mad convenience?”

Bess shrugged. Living over a supermarket would be convenient, but what about the traffic? The crowds? The vermin?

They had to walk around to the side of the building. The East River lapped at the pier not ten feet from where they stood. “River views,” said Robin.

And river smells
, thought Bess. What was with her attitude tonight? she thought. She hated everything.

The building door buzzed, and the women took an elevator up four floors, to Alicia, Tim, and Joe’s apartment. Alicia, wearing an oversized sweatshirt that made her look like a ten-year-old, greeted them at the door and invited them in. Bess glanced around the space and tried not to judge. The large main room was an all-in-one cooking/eating/living space, and felt claustrophobic with just the four women. Carla was seated on a ratty couch. A chenille throw was draped over one arm, partially hiding a rip in the fabric. A round rag rug under the pockmarked coffee table was faded. Books and CDs were stacked precariously against the walls, begging the question, “Haven’t they heard of shelving?” Crates and boxes were piled in corners. The room was what Bess thought of as cookie-cutter architecture. A large cube, smaller annexed cubes, and you’ve got a two-bedroom apartment. No detail, no charm, except what the resident put into it with design. Apparently, design wasn’t a priority for Alicia.

The host apologized. “We’re still in the process of moving in,” she said, taking Bess’s and Robin’s jackets.

Bess said, “It’s charming, Alicia. Look at the view!” The view of New Jersey from large westward windows was impressive: several bridges, the Statue of Liberty, Staten Island, the dark river at night. That was the apartment’s selling point. Looking outside the space was the best thing about it.

From the rear of the apartment, happy sounds. Laughter and singing. Bess could see down the short hallway from her spot on the couch. A door opened, and the lower half of a man appeared. His head and shoulders were tucked into the room, saying a final good night to Joe, Bess assumed. When Tim’s upper half appeared in the
dim light of the hallway, Bess sized him up as neat and slim. In fitted trousers and a crisp blue shirt, Tim was elegant. His brown hair was cut short to obscure its thinning. He waved at the women, and then ducked into another room off the hallway. A bathroom? Their bedroom? Bess itched suddenly with discomfort. She knew way too much about this man. His flagging sex drive. His stalled professional life. The picture of a sexless slacker that Alicia had painted didn’t resemble the natty man in pressed pants and a close shave.

Robin, next to her on the couch, pinched Bess’s leg. When Bess turned to her, Robin mouthed, “Gay.”

It would explain a lot. But Bess wasn’t convinced on affect alone. Male menopause—it existed, Bess had read an article—was defined by a late 30s, early 40s man’s sudden emotional confusion, depression, and plummeting sex drive. Considering his chronic unemployment, Tim had to be depressed and confused. She already knew about his flagging libido. No, Tim Fandine wasn’t gay, Bess decided. He was menopausal. Borden, forty-two, had managed to avoid a midlife meltdown—so far. It might hit him later.

Carla got up to help the host in the kitchen area. She asked, “Alicia, have you ever thought your husband might be gay?”

Robin cocked an eyebrow at Bess.

Alicia said, “Of course! I’d welcome that. Then I wouldn’t blame myself for his rejection. It’s awful to think you’ve lost it, whatever
it
is, as if I ever had any of
it
to begin with, in small amounts. I swear, if a guy humped my leg on the subway, I’d be flattered.”

Bess had always relied on her looks, sexual allure, whatever “it” was called. She wasn’t overtly provocative, like Robin, or appealingly confident like Carla. She was soft and fair with what Borden once described as “an intoxicating air of vulnerability.” The sheen of helplessness was catnip for a certain kind of man, the type who wanted to see himself as a hero (and what man didn’t?). Despite what her “air” might suggest, Bess was not helpless. Vulnerable? She just wanted everyone to like her.

Carla said, “He seems gay.”

“I got a hint of that, too,” said Robin.

“I’ve given him every opportunity to explore his sexuality,” said Alicia. “I once offered to have a threesome with another man. Tim was insulted. Not for suggesting I bring another man into the picture. For suggesting we bring another
person
into it. I know he’s thin and well dressed. This is one sad instance of a stereotype not holding up.”

On cue, the door in the hallway opened. Tim emerged and walked into the main room. He’d changed into (ironed) cargo pants and a (spotless) T-shirt. After introducing himself, he pulled a fresh deck of cards from his pocket, plopped down on the couch next to Robin, and said, “Shall I deal?”

Bess said, “Just straight into cards? Didn’t we promise to talk about the committee agenda tonight first?” Since seeing her mother, Bess felt extra guilt about ignoring a larger purpose at this gathering.

Robin said, “How about we discuss diversity while we play? Like our diverse opinion of the cocktails.”

“Honey,” said Alicia to Tim, “the meeting is women only. No offense.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong: The only way to make sure you don’t talk about me is if I’m in the room,” said Tim affably.

Robin said, “Not necessarily.”

Alicia brought over a couple of baskets of chips. Carla helped with a pitcher of what appeared to be margaritas. Sitting on the other couch, opposite her husband, Alicia asked him, “Do you even know how to play?”

“I played in a poker game for years,” he said. Seeing his wife’s questioning expression, he said, “In college. Before we met.”

Carla said, “So you have the advantage.”

Shuffling neatly, Tim said, “Who has the advantage? You all have been playing together for a while already. I’m guessing you know a lot more about me than I know about you.”

Alicia said, “Your name hasn’t come up, actually, at our games.”

Tim said, “Now you’re insulting me.”

Robin said, “I’m okay with it. Let’s see how a man stands up against four ruthless women.”

Ruthless? Bess had been looking forward to a peaceful evening, after the bloody battle she’d waged all week with Amy.

Tim distributed two cards to each player, and said, “No ante, I take it? So any pre-flop bets?”

“We don’t bet,” said Alicia. “I told you, we have our own system.”

“Then it’s not poker,” said Tim.

“What’s the flop again?” asked Carla.

“You haven’t spent any quality time with T. J. Cloutier, have you?” asked Bess.

“Who?”

“The poker champ,” said Bess. “From the computer game I gave you.”

Robin said, “I love T.J.! I’ve lost about $100,000 of virtual money so far. But I’m getting better. I think.”

Was it Bess’s imagination, or was Robin smiling at Tim when she spoke? Bess bristled. She liked Robin, had found her funny and gutsy. But put a man in the room, and Robin lost interest in women. Even another woman’s husband. Even a man of ambiguous orientation.

Alicia said, “We usually deal all five communal cards at once, and then showdown.”

“What’s the fun in that?” asked Tim. “The best part of the game is round after round of betting. The pressure mounts. The tension builds.”

If Simone were here, she’d say how typical it was for a man to muscle his way in and then insist on getting his way.

Carla would not back down. “We don’t bet.”

Tim asked, “Come on. How about pennies or chocolate chips?”

An uncomfortable echo of her mother’s comment at lunch, thought Bess.