Four of a Kind (24 page)

Carla felt a wellspring of dislike, bordering on hate, for Bess. How
much of it was resentment about Bess’s cushy life? The Steeple family wasn’t losing sleep, deciding which of their kids would have to get the short end of the stick. Four kids, all of them with price tags of $32,000 attached. Brownstone would get an incredible $128,000 from the Steeples next school year, and Bess would surely donate more for her fund-raiser to ensure it was a success.

Did Bess give tuition two thoughts? Or did she just agonize about her bratty daughter and selfish mother? Carla reminded herself that Bess had muscled through a cancer scare less than a month ago. She’d thrown herself into a charity event as a distraction. Carla could hardly fault her for that. If only some of the money generated could go directly into Carla’s pocket.

Bess said, “I know I wasn’t very nice at Alicia’s house last time we played. I really am sorry about that. I’ve apologized already.”

By email. Carla said, “Believe it or not, Bess, my mood has nothing to do with you.”

“So I’m wrong to feel anger coming off you in waves?”

“My feet are killing me,” grumbled Carla.

“Let’s go straight to my house. I’ll make us lunch!” Sensing Carla’s hesitation, Bess added, “To prove to me you’re not still angry.”

Carla shook her head. “I just don’t want to get into it.”

“Is it Claude?”

Yes. No. Carla shook her head. Thankfully, they were coming to the end of the bridge. As soon as they reached Cadman Plaza Park in Brooklyn, Carla could make an excuse and escape into the A train subway entrance.

“Is it money?” asked Bess.

“Why do you ask that?” asked Carla.

“If it’s not husbands or kids, it’s money.”

Or all of the above. The two women wound their way around Cadman Plaza Park, an oval of green at the foot of Brooklyn Heights. The subway entrance was just across the street. “I’m going down,” said Carla.

“Since there’ll be a few poker tables with hired dealers at the event, we could snag one for ourselves, and call it a committee meeting.”

“Ourselves.”

“You, me, Alicia, and Robin.”

“Oh,” said Carla. “Sure.”

“Do you think Robin will mind waiting for her turn to host?”

Honestly, Carla had already mentally removed herself from the poker game. The last time had been so uncomfortable, Carla wasn’t interested in subjecting herself to it again. Bess was clearly trying to make it up to her. She looked so hopeful and innocent with her cap and blue blinking eyes. Why would Bess, the woman who had everything, care about this game so much? Carla’s resentment softened a little. Against her will, she felt flattered.

“Why so insistent?” asked Carla. “Since nothing matters.”

Under her already red cheeks, Bess blushed. “Some things matter. A lot matters,” she said. “That night at Alicia’s, I had a moment. Moment over, okay? Back to normal.”

“I don’t think Robin will mind waiting to host,” replied Carla, not sure why she was giving in.

“Great!” said Bess. “I’ve got to run now or I’ll freeze my ass off. See you Saturday night!”

Carla stood there for a minute, and watched Bess lope up the street toward the heart of the Heights.

What ass?
thought Carla.

“Claude, this is Renee Hobart,” said Carla, introducing her husband to her new friend. Acquaintance? Person of interest? What should she call Renee?

She’d been dreading Casino Night and the prospect of hours of socializing with Brownstone parents. She was grateful that Claude
came along. He looked handsome in his gray suit, and it was easier to navigate with him steering her along. Carla casually mentioned that she might play a hand or two, and he hadn’t objected. Given the tension in the house about money, they were both trying to be as nice to each other as possible. Still, Carla felt the strain. When she saw Renee cutting through the crowd like a steamer ship, elegant and large, smiling at her and reaching for her, Carla was awash with relief. A third party. Someone to talk to. Plus, Claude would love her.

“Is your husband here, too?” Claude asked after he and Renee shook hands.

“He couldn’t make it,” she said.

“Working?” asked Claude.

“I shouldn’t complain. At least he has a job,” said Renee. “We work at the same firm. Twenty lawyers have been let go in the last few months. The atmosphere is awful, but you have to stay positive.”

Renee went on a bit about work, and then the conversation stalled.

“They did up the school nicely,” said Carla.

“You should see the gym. It’s been discoed,” agreed Renee.

The Casino Night activities were spread throughout Brownstone. Gambling in the middle school gym. Dancing in the lower school gym. Drinks and mingling in the main lobby and libraries.

Claude said, “Mirror ball?”

“Several,” said Renee. “And some of the parents really dressed the part. Or, I should say, barely dressed.”

The three of them were in normal, night-out clothes. Carla wore her regal purple caftan and thought she looked elegant. Renee also had a dramatic presence, in all black with a thick, beaded multicolored necklace. A statement piece. Carla would never wear such a chunky adornment. But with slicked-back hair and high eyebrows, Renee pulled it off beautifully. Instead of feeling jealous, Carla felt a swell of pride in having a handsome companion in Renee.

They agreed to do a lap around the event venues. The threesome headed for the short stairs that led directly to the gym. Carla felt good. Relieved. She hadn’t had a chance to call Renee about setting up a coffee, mainly because she didn’t want to seem pushy. Seeing her tonight did away with her hesitation. Claude was smiling; he seemed pleased to have an attractive woman on each arm.

Then they were ambushed.

Robin Stern, drink in hand, came up behind them. “Can I steal Carla for a minute?” asked the redhead. “Hello, Claude,” she added, leaning in to kiss him. He allowed it. Then Robin introduced herself to Renee. They exchanged vitals—their names, their kids names and grades.

“I like your costume,” said Renee.

“My
what
?” asked Robin. She looked down at her peasant shirt and skirt and said, “Not a costume. Believe it or not, I dress like this every day. Stevie Nicks circa nineteen seventy-eight, I know.”

“Who?” asked Renee.

Robin burst out laughing. She was drunk. Already. It was only eight o’clock.

The boys were home alone, the first time they’d left the kids without a babysitter. It was Claude’s idea, part of his campaign to toughen them up and save a few bucks. His campaign slogan: “They’re not babies.” He’d said it about a hundred times in the last two weeks. Carla heard the unspoken accusation clearly. When Claude said to her, “They’re not babies,” he meant, “You baby them.” The boys (young men?) echoed Claude every chance they got. “We’re not babies, Ma,” they said, and the three men in her life would grin sideways at each other. She enjoyed seeing them unified, if only it weren’t against her.

“There you are,” said Alicia, suddenly squeezing in next to Robin. “Have you seen Tim? He was here a minute ago.”

Without preamble, Alicia kissed her way around the circle. She
paused at Renee. “I don’t know you,” she said. “I should know your name before I kiss you, shouldn’t I?”

Renee was clearly taken aback by Alicia’s forwardness. She was literally in their faces. Carla flashed to the night she met Alicia, that first meeting of the Diversity Committee at Bess’s townhouse, when Alicia acted shy and hesitant at first, and then boldly suggested the game of playing for secrets. Alicia pretended to be a mouse—to lull you into a false sense of confidence?—but she was really a mink. Tonight, she wore a tight black dress, showing off her bird-boned and small-breasted body.

Standing next to tiny Alicia and skinny Robin, Carla felt like a rhino. Thank heaven for Renee, who was even more substantial. Compared to the other two women, Carla and Renee had gravity, in more ways than one. Was Renee judging her white friends? Claude seemed annoyed by their presence. He had no love for the poker players, that was well established.

Robin said, “Let’s find Bess. I bet she’s dressed up like Meryl Streep in
Mamma Mia!
”

Alicia nodded. “What about Tim?”

“Screw him,” said Robin.

“Or not,” said Alicia.

They giggled.

Carla was mortified. Claude coughed, and nudged his wife. It was her cue to disengage from Alicia and Robin. “We were going to look around. I’ll catch up with you guys later,” Carla said.

Robin said, “No way! It’s meeting time, Carla. A poker table is reserved for the four of us, a hot dealer, drink holders. Game time starts”—she checked her wrist, but wasn’t wearing a watch—“in five minutes. Let’s go!”

Alicia said, “Bess fronted us a big stack of chips. But”—she leaned forward as if to speak softly—“don’t tell anyone!”

Renee asked, “You gamble, Carla?”

Good grief
, she thought. Renee
was
judging her. “I play cards,” corrected Carla for her churchgoing new friend. “But I never gamble.”

Before Carla could explain herself further, Robin and Alicia took her by the arms and pulled her away. She glanced over her shoulder at Claude and Renee. The pair watched with stunned expressions. Then they looked at each other with strained confusion.

Robin said, “He’s a big boy, Carla. He can take care of himself for an hour.”

More echoes of “they’re not babies.” How many people were going to accuse her of being overprotective? She realized her muscles had been clenched with tension for hours about leaving the kids home alone, and worrying about Claude having a good time tonight.

Did Claude ever—as in,
ever
—worry about Carla’s good time?

Out of the corner of her eye, Carla spotted Tim Fandine, looking incredibly sharp in a brown suit and lavender shirt, holding forth in a tight circle with three rapt women. He was doing just fine away from his wife. Alicia needn’t waste a minute worrying about him.

As they pressed through the crowd, Robin said, “Tim’s over there.”

Alicia, looking straight ahead, said, “I see him.”

Okay, maybe Alicia did worry about Tim. Which was worse? Being afraid your husband would have a horrible time and passive-aggressively punish you later,
or
being afraid your husband would have a great time flirting with other woman and ignoring you?

As usual, Robin was particularly observant when drunk. “Sometimes,” she said, “I’m glad I’m single.”

The three women pushed through the double doors into the middle school gym. Unlike the crowded lobby and the pulsing lower gym disco, this room was relatively quiet. A sudden burst of applause and cheering broke out across the room at what Carla recognized as a craps table. Some small round tables were clustered to the left for blackjack—about a dozen games, six chairs at each, plus standing
dealers in puffy shirtsleeves and green vests. They seemed to know what they were doing. Cards and chips moved quickly. Most of the spots were taken by men (dads). A few moms stood behind watching. A few were playing.

To the right, Carla saw larger tables, also filled up with men in casual jackets and slacks. The dealers at these tables seemed to be working at a slower pace. The men seated around were more intense and thoughtful than the impulsive blackjack players. Their eyes were alert, backs straight. Serious men, amber liquids on ice at their elbows. The poker players.

Carla swallowed hard. Her heart started beating chaotically. When she’d fantasized about a real game, she imagined herself inside her CD game, as a 3-D image come to life. But this room, even this cheesy school-gym version of a real casino, had a vibe to it. A smell. The scent of seriousness and deep concentration. Carla inhaled deeply. This was her element. Her frequency.

“There she is,” said Robin, waving at Bess, standing in a group with four men, all of them gazing at her blond gloriousness while she seemed oblivious to it. “Holy shit. She looks exactly like Angie Dickinson.”

Indeed, their lovely host wore tight white hip-huggers, with huge bell-bottoms, a wide belt with leather fringe, a tight shiny shirt with clownishly wide lapels, and a blond “Police Woman” wig, stiff and sultry. When Bess noticed the three of them, she jumped up and down in her platform boots and clapped her hands together.

Robin said, “If I did that, they’d call for the rubber wagon. She looks like a cheerleader.”

Alicia sipped her drink and said, “The definition of ‘born with it.’ ”

Carla said, “Where’s Borden?”

“Around here somewhere,” said Robin, as they advanced toward Bess.

After the round of kisses and hugs, Bess introduced the men.
Carla was impressed Bess knew all their names, their wives names, and their kids’ names.

The dad in a cashmere jacket asked Bess, “This is the poker crew you’ve been waiting for?”

She nodded proudly at them. Carla would give Bess credit for one thing: She sailed high above appearances. If anything, Robin, Alicia, and Carla were the least polished females in the vast crowded room where Bess was and would always be the shining star. Carla smiled at her host. Bess really was making an effort to put that last poker game behind them.