Four of a Kind

by Valerie Frankel

  “What’s his name? Do you remember?” asked Bess.

  “Tim Fandine,” said Robin.

  Hearing her husband’s name, Alicia laughed. “Funny,” she said.

  “It’s Harvey Wilson,” said Robin.

  A sedan pulled up across the street. Parked. The motor and lights switched off, and a man stepped out. Robin vaguely recognized tall and broad Claude Morgan from having seen him at Brownstone. He took long, but tentative strides toward his house, surprised to see three white women drinking out of paper cups on his porch.

  When he got close enough, he said, “Evening.”

  The women said hello.

  Carla introduced him and then said, “Did you remember to pick up milk? I asked you to get some on the way home.”

  Claude frowned. “You did. Sorry, Carla. I completely forgot.”

  The four women tittered into their cups, Carla the loudest.

  3

  Bess

  “What do we have here?” asked Borden. He stood in the master bedroom, holding the box. The kids had been put to bed hours ago.

  Sitting on the edge of their king-sized bed, Bess rubbed moisturizer into her elbows and said, “I bought those today.”

  The pair of black high-heeled, knee-high patent leather boots had thrilled her to tears when she tried them on at Tango, a boutique on Montague Street. They were totally impractical and cost way too much. But Bess felt exhilarated by the teetering height, the close fit around her calf, the shine of the leather as she strutted around the store. She felt like Wonder Woman, formidable and bulletproof.

  They would be her armor, she thought, at lunch with her mother tomorrow.

  “I’d love to see how they look on,” said Borden, grin widening, his penis visibly hard in his boxers. He sat next to her on the bed, and nibbled her neck, pulled the strap of her nightgown off her shoulder.

  Bess groaned. Not again. “What do you eat? Dried bull testicles?” she asked.

  He chuckled into her shoulder. “I’m a healthy American male. And you’re my beautiful wife, and I adore you.”

  “As I adore you,” said Bess, “But I already put out this morning.”

  Borden woke her at six by grinding his erection into her thigh. She’d pretended to be asleep for a few minutes, but when he started slicking her anus with lubricant (at the ready in his night table drawer), she knew she’d have to speak up, or get a predawn ass fucking. He tried that move when he dared, going for her not-favorite activity when he thought she’d be too tired to argue.

  “Just a quickie,” he said.

  “I’m exhausted,” she replied. When wasn’t Bess exhausted? Four kids, only part-time babysitting/housekeeping help. Bess had to address and satisfy the daily needs and desires of five people—counting Borden, but not herself. It was a tremendous responsibility, no margin for error, that required Herculean diplomacy, strength, and organization. Bess was convinced no man could do it for a day. Bess had been doing it for years.

  Borden continued to kiss her nape. “Okay, I’ll leave you alone. But try on the boots anyway. Give me something to think about.”

  Bess agreed, and zipped on the boots. She stood up, letting her nightgown fall to the floor in a silken puddle. She was bare beneath it, naked now, except for the knee-high boots.

  “You are incredible,” said Borden, standing to embrace her, his hands on her upper arms, stroking her skin and bending to kiss her.

  Much as Bess appreciated Borden’s unrelenting attraction for her, she often wondered what was wrong with him. His libido was off the charts. It wasn’t normal. They’d just passed their eighteenth wedding anniversary. She might be well preserved, but Bess was not the fresh-faced, perky-breasted undergrad she’d been when they met. Why wasn’t Borden taking his sky-high sex drive elsewhere? Why wasn’t he having an affair with some junior trader?

  If he did, and she found out, Bess would have to kill him.

  The problem with having too much sex: Bess never got to miss it. Sexual tension wasn’t allowed to build. The lack of anticipation made it hard for Bess—who needed some sizzle before the steak—to appreciate Borden’s stroking, despite his skill and beauty. Bess knew she was blessed that he wanted her so badly. But two times a day was simply too much of a good thing! She resented it that Alicia, Carla, and Robin laughed at her complaint, and she felt a little guilty to have made up the bit about Borden wanting to impregnate her. But beefing up her grievance hadn’t won their pity. She shouldn’t have said anything. Fatigue and a weary vagina hardly compared to Alicia’s celibacy and Robin’s loneliness. Carla hadn’t talked about her sex life at all. Probably never would.

  Right now, Borden’s hands exploring, Bess pushed him away and said, “Give my pussy a rest!”

  Borden said, “Say that again.”

  “Pussy.”

  His cock jumped, and he groaned. Honestly, men were ridiculously predictable.

  After twenty years as a couple—eighteen of them married—Bess was still amazed that she felt any guilt when she rejected him sexually. Once, Bess had made the tiniest reference of that guilt during a rare confessional conversation with Mother Simone. That crumb was all Simone needed to make a meal of the sexual enslavement of housewives. No matter how vociferously Bess defended herself—she wasn’t Borden’s sex slave; she was his wife, she loved him, and she wanted to make him happy—Simone dug in, and insisted that Bess was in deep denial about her marriage.

  Simone, meanwhile, barely knew Borden, hardly spent any time with Bess and her husband together. Bess hated it, that her mother spoke in generalities at all, and especially when Bess, her own daughter, was thrown into a heap with the rest of the unenlightened masses of brainwashed American wives.

  Bess wasn’t brainwashed or a sex slave or fooling herself. She was blessed by a loving, handsome husband who couldn’t get enough of her. She lifted his head away to look him in the eye, and said, “I love you.”

  “But you’re too tired?” he said, nodding, backing away.

  “I’m naked except for black patent leather fuck-me boots. I’d have to be dead not to be turned on.”

  And that was all the encouragement he needed. Borden playfully spun her around to face the bed. He guided her upper body down, so her elbows and forearms rested on the duvet, her legs straight, ass high in the air.

  “Spread your legs. A little more,” he said excitedly. Her heels made her legs too long for him to reach her. When she was at the right angle, he slipped in.

  Borden was nothing if not gentle, loving, and polite. Good breeding led to good breeding, Bess thought. He gripped her hips with his hands, and ground into her, deeply, all the way to the cervix. He loved that, burying himself as far inside as he could go, and then holding her there, locked against him.

  Often, he’d go down on her before, in the “she comes first” gentleman’s tradition. Or he’d rub her clitoris doing intercourse, which worked depending on how turned on she was. Lately, though, sleep was what Bess fantasized about.

  For the first few years of their relationship, Bess wanted him as much as he wanted her. Their nights were a sweaty wrestling match into morning. Her orgasm was the focus of both of their worlds. Bess’s first pregnancy (with Amy) inflamed Borden’s desire. Her boobs and ass got huge, and he liked having a changed body to play with. By the ten-year anniversary, they had four kids. Exhaustion squashed Bess’s desire. She came less often. Borden tried to please her, but his ministrations weren’t guaranteed to get her there, as they once had. She urged him to enjoy himself, that she was satisfied enough to see him happy. Bess’s body had been through the wars. Her vagina was jaded. It had seen too much. Nothing could impress it anymore.

  Borden, at present, was doing his best to make something happen for her. He leaned over her back to stroke her breasts. He bit her shoulder and breathed in her ear, “I love the boots. I love you.” Her attention was drawn to her lower legs. She pictured the two of them in her head, her naked body bent over, the shiny black boots gl
eaming as he moved against her. Bess felt a flutter of real excitement. Oh, goodie! She might come this time. Bess moaned and tilted her hips upward. The new angle must have been good for Borden. Too good. He came quickly.

  “Sorry about that,” he said after, both of them collapsed on the bed. He hugged her against his chest. “I felt you change inside, and it put me over the edge.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, a little disappointed.

  He brushed a strand of hair off her forehead. “It’s not okay,” he said. “Let me take care of you.” He leaned up on his elbow, easing her shoulders down on the bed, and then started kissing her belly, his head moving slowly south.

  Just then, they heard a door open, and footsteps in the hallway one flight down. One of the boys, up to use the bathroom. Frozen, as if caught, they listened for the sound of the flush. Then the faucet running briefly. Footsteps back down the hallway and a door closing.

  Two minutes. Enough time for Bess’s spark of excitement to flicker out. She sat upright, moving Borden off her, and said, “I’m fine. I’m great, really. I’m just too tired to come.”

  If he was insulted, Borden hid it well. He pulled his boxers back up, and leapt into bed. Bess unzipped her boots, placed them back in the box. She crawled into bed, blind tired. But sleep didn’t come, either.

  The biannual Saturday lunch was a tradition going back years. Bess and Amy—the boys were not invited—would go to Manhattan and meet Simone at a restaurant of her choosing. Today, they were eating at Michael’s in midtown off Fifth Avenue. It was the kind of place Bess considered stodgy and old-fashioned. Then again, rejecting her mom’s choices was reflexive. Amy, on the other hand, was easily impressed by the snap of attentive waiters and the flutter of maître d’s when Simone made an entrance. A bona fide celebrity, Simone radiated importance with each step. She flaunted her iconic status for all it was worth—in this case, a good table and sycophantically fast service.

  Bess and Amy arrived by cab. They were ten minutes early. Simone was sure to be late. Punctuality wasn’t a priority for her, even though she became enraged when kept waiting. Amy seemed eager to get inside the restaurant. The girl was probably freezing, thought Bess, having insisted on her uniform of skinny jeans, a tank top, and ballet flats—in October. Bess didn’t understand how her daughter could stand to have her shoulders and tops of her feet exposed. Then again, lately, Bess didn’t understand anything about Amy.

  Watching her daughter’s scrawny arm muscle flex as she opened the restaurant door, Bess suppressed a pang of anxiety. Just once, Bess would like Amy to be on her side at this lunch instead of ganging up with Simone to criticize her. Bess used to seek the approval of her mother, and now she sought the approval of her daughter. Meanwhile, neither of them seemed to care at all about Bess’s opinion.

  They walked in and the maître d’ warmly smiled. He brought them to a table where, much to Bess’s surprise, Simone was already seated. When she saw Bess and Amy coming toward her, a smile lightened Simone’s leonine face. She’s laughing at me, thought Bess. She felt instantly self-conscious in her Wonder Woman boots—although they might set off a classic Simone screed on the politics of high heels. Bess could recite it from memory. She welcomed a lecture. Amy got bored out of her mind when Simone proselytized.

  Amy sat next to Simone, and gave her grandmother a juicy hug. Jealous, Bess had to sit opposite the two of them, watching their cozy display.

  “You look wonderful,” said Simone to Bess, glancing quickly at Amy. “And you, lucky girl, are the image of your grandfather.”

  Simone’s husband, Bess’s dad, Fred, who Amy absolutely resembled, had been dead for twenty-five years—fluke car accident. He had no life insurance, and left the family with a mountain of debt, a twice-mortgaged house on the brink of foreclosure, and zero savings. His death, and the family’s sudden impoverishment, inspired Simone to find her calling. Simone’s social status suffered a cataclysmic downgrading practically overnight. Her friends dumped her. She felt taken advantage of by (all male) bankers and lawyers who descended on them to take their house. Simone had no work experience (outside the home) to fall back on. Outraged by her situation, she started small, writing op-eds for neighborhood newspapers about the stigma of single motherhood, the perils of being financially dependent on a man, the belief that all women should be self-reliant. Simone expanded these ideas into a memoir called Hung by the Apron Strings, which became a bestseller and second-wave feminism movement starter.

  Bess and her two brothers, Fred Jr. and Simon, watched Simone turn the story of her widowed poverty and isolation into fantastic wealth and fame. Simone’s career took over her life. She made herself the living embodiment of her message. When people asked Simone who was caring for her three children while she was on the road promoting her book and doing lectures, she accused them of political baiting, trying to suggest a successful woman couldn’t also be a good parent. Bess believed a woman could be both. But Simone was a horrible mother. From the age of fifteen, Bess had to be self-sufficient. She fed herself, did her own laundry, organized her activities, kept her own hours. Her friends envied her freedom, but Bess did little with it. She would have gladly traded independence for the way things used to be. She lost both parents the day of Fred’s accident, as well as the comfort and security of family life. No wonder Bess had chosen family over career for herself—the life Simone called a “death trap.” Bess’s choice was an affront to Simone personally and professionally. Resentment cut both women both ways.

  And then there was Amy. Whose footsteps would the girl follow? The feminist or the “freeloader” (Simone’s term)? Bess’s hope for Amy was that her daughter would pursue her passions, whatever they might be, and find love and happiness. Kind of vague. Simone, on the other hand, had definitive plans for Amy. A job was waiting for Amy at Women’s Independence Nation (WIN), Simone’s influential foundation, as soon as she graduated college. Simone was eager to start grooming Amy now for her future life of activism, asking Amy to accompany her on speaking engagements and book tours. Amy always wanted to go, but Bess wouldn’t allow it—there was homework to do, responsibilities at home. As Amy got older, Bess knew it’d be harder to maintain control. Especially when Simone pressed the point that Bess coddled her kids too much. Amy was starting to spout the key words “self-reliance,” “independence,” and “freedom,” and it scared Bess. Fear made her tighten her grip on Amy. In response, Amy fought harder to break away. Bess knew exactly what was happening, but she was helpless to stop it.

  The waiter came and took their orders. After he left, Simone smiled at Bess and asked, “How are the boys?”

  Bess said, “They’re great. Eric is in the school play. Thomas is on a traveling soccer team. Charlie was put in a special reading group at school, and he’s really improved after just a couple of weeks …”

  Simone said, “Wonderful!” thereby ending the update. Simone didn’t really care about her grandsons. She had eyes only for Amy.

  “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!” shou
ted 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?”