Four of a Kind

by Valerie Frankel

  The mother said, “Show her.”

  Reluctantly, Selina removed her shirt. On her shoulders and chest, the girl was covered with fleshy lumps, wartlike, several dozen of them of various sizes, the larger ones like pencil erasers.

  The mother asked, “Is it cancer?”

  “When did you notice the bumps?” asked Carla, taking a closer look.

  “A few months ago,” the girl whispered. “Can I put my shirt back on?”

  The mother added, “I didn’t know anything about them until last night.”

  Okay, Mom, thought Carla. No one’s accusing you. “Do they itch?” asked Carla.

  “A little,” admitted the girl.

  Carla gave the girl a brief exam, confirming her immediate diagnosis. “You can put your shirt on.” To the mother, she said, “Selina has molescum contagiosum. Wartlike legions caused by a virus. She might’ve caught it anywhere, at school, from a friend who had no obvious symptoms. It’s common and not life-threatening. There’s no way she could have prevented it.”

  “Why are there so many?” asked the mother.

  Carla nodded, good question. “Selina spread the bumps across her chest and shoulders by scratching them, and then touching an uninfected spot.” To the girl, she asked gently, “Do you have the lesions anywhere else?”

  The horrified look said it all. The girl probably had lesions on her thighs and vulva.

  The mother asked, “Is it curable?”

  Carla pursed her lips. None of the treatment options were pleasant. Surgical removal, or chemically burning off the lesions. And even if every lesion were removed, more would crop up.

  “It’s not systemic,” Carla answered, “so pills or any drug you swallow won’t help. You could either wait for the virus to run its course, after which the lesions will fall off on their own.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Two years,” said Carla. “Otherwise, I’m sorry to say that the lesions have to be removed individually.”

  “Will it hurt?” asked Selina, her eyes big with the beginning of panic.

  Why hadn’t the girl told her mother about the lesions sooner? No, thought Carla, don’t blame her, she’s obviously ashamed and afraid. You can’t fix the patient, only treat the disease. “You’ll get topical numbing cream, or a little shot in each lesion before the dermatologist removes them,” said Carla.

  “The dermatologist? Can’t you do it?” asked the mother, eager to get the problem taken care of right here, right now.

  It would take at least an hour to excise the scores of lesions, besides which, it was hospital policy for the pediatric clinic doc to refer patients to specialists. Carla might take a risk and scrape off a few lesions, but Selina had too many to count. “I’m so sorry, I can’t do that for you,” she said. “You want a dermatologist, anyway. Dr. Fein has much more experience with this and he’ll do a better job than I could.”

  “So we have to see another doctor?” asked the mom.

  Carla understood her frustration, but she could do nothing to help. This was how the system worked. Tina entered the exam room, giving Carla the “hurry up” look.

  “Tina, would you please call Dr. Fein for Selina and her mom and help them get an appointment today?”

  Still upset, the mother said, “I can’t wait for an hour at another doctor’s office today. Sometime next week maybe.”

  Empathy, Carla thought. “I know your time is valuable, and I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  The woman muttered, “A lot of good that does me.”

  To Selina, Carla said, “You’ll be okay. Don’t worry.” The girl tried to smile, but she was on the verge of tears. Carla would have loved to give her a reassuring hug, but that was way against hospital policy. No touching for any reason other than the medical exam.

  Back at the hallway sink again, Carla again scrubbed her hands. So far, her patients this afternoon were presenting with topical issues. But even surface problems could be painful and upsetting. Carla thought there was a metaphor for life in there somewhere, but she didn’t have time to contemplate it.

  Her cell phone vibrated in the pocket of her white coat. She checked the caller ID.

  “Hey,” she said to her husband.

  “Glad I caught you,” said Claude. “I’m on the Turnpike.”

  “How’d the meeting go?” she asked. He’d been in Livingston, New Jersey, attempting to sell medical supplies to the buyers at St. Barnabas Hospital.

  “Not great,” he said dismissively. Doesn’t want to talk about it, thought Carla. Lately, Claude didn’t want to talk about his work—or the boys, or her work. He was having a dry spell, and was frustrated to the point of remoteness. It didn’t matter that, due to cutbacks, the entire industry was under water. Claude held himself to a higher standard. If he didn’t make a sale, he got mad at himself, and that translated into sulkiness at home. He’d slump on the couch, and leave the cleaning, cooking, and shopping to Carla.

  “You there?” asked Claude.

  “I’m here,” she said. Still here, she thought.

  He said, “The traffic is murder, and I have to stop at the office to unload supplies.”

  “You were supposed to pick up the kids after school,” she said, looking at her watch. She’d have to run over to Brownstone and bring the boys back here to do their homework in her office. She’d lose half an hour. Her schedule was a train wreck.

  “Not going to make it,” he said.

  “It’s my card night,” she reminded him. “Will you be home by sevenish to babysit the boys?” Babysit his own sons.

  “Card game? Not again,” he said. “How much longer are you going to waste time with those women?”

  Those white women, he meant. Carla asked, “Will you be home or not?”

  “I don’t get why you’re doing this,” he said, avoiding the question.

  “I’ll take the boys with me,” she said. Robin would be okay with it. Alicia was bringing Joe, and Bess’s daughter, Amy, was also coming to oversee the younger kids. Two more wouldn’t be a problem. She’d confirm with Robin, of course.

  “They’ll wind up watching TV all night,” he said. “It’s okay at your friend’s house, but not at home? That’s a double standard. They’re smart enough to call attention to it.”

  “I’ve got to go,” Carla said. “Patients.”

  Patience, she thought. Carla snapped her phone closed. Claude was right. The boys would probably watch TV at Robin’s. It was a double standard and—surprising herself—Carla didn’t care. She felt a flash of guilt. Was she giving in to temptation? Maybe playing cards was slowly eroding her resolve. Claude had criticized her, several times, about drinking on the porch—in full view of all their neighbors. He said that was just as bad as drinking in the house.

  He would make her pay for tonight. His weapons of choice would be exaggerated signs of disappointment and stony silences, examples of his passive aggression that had become glaringly, laughably obvious since Robin had pointed them out.

  The Black Queen wouldn’t feel conflicted about indulging her pleasure. She’d claw and scrape and demand every last drop of what she wanted, when she wanted it.

  “Wake up, Mommy,” said Tina sharply, standing behind Carla at the sink.

  “I’m fine,” said Carla, drying her hands, moving toward exam room three.

  “You have to talk to the mothers,” said Tina, blocking her way. “Tell them to bring in the babies at the first sign of trouble. They wait too long! Make them get it. They don’t listen to me. I’m just the nurse. They need to hear it from the doctor.”

  When Carla was in med school and imagined her professional future, she’d cast herself in the Hollywood role of “family doc.” Being personally involved with her patients, serving as their trusted ally, treating them from infancy to young adulthood, being invited to graduation parties, confirmations, even bar and bat mitzvahs. Carla realized her dream of a huge extended family of patients was a response to the loneline
ss of her own childhood. She also knew it was a fantasy. The reality? In her fifteen years at LICH, Carla had treated thousands of patients, but hadn’t felt a close connection to any of them. Her job was to walk on eggshells, live in fear of hospital reprimands, follow the rules, bite her tongue rather than speak critically to a parent who might make a formal complaint. It wasn’t worth the risk. She’d diagnose, inform, and treat. The personal touch was against hospital policy.

  Tina said, “I feel like I’m doing all the dirty work here.”

  “It’s a dirty job,” said Carla.

  “We have to start betting,” said Alicia later that night in Robin’s kitchen. “Hold ’Em is a betting game. Tim and I have been playing at home, and all the fun is in the risk.”

  “Poker with just two people?” asked Bess, dealing the cards.

  Alicia said, “Three. Joe plays with us. I’m proud to say the kid is a genius at poker. He wins more pots. Of M&M’s.” Seeing Carla’s reaction, she added, “You think it’s wrong to teach a nine-year-old to gamble?”

  Carla shrugged. “I’m not telling anyone how to raise her child.”

  Robin raised her wineglass. “Drink up, Carla. I’ll make a meddlesome yenta out of you yet.”

  “Do you end up eating all your winnings?” asked Bess.

  “What winnings?” asked Alicia. “Every night, I get shellacked.”

  Robin said, “I hope that’s a euphemism for sex.”

  “Not yet,” said Alicia, “but I’m ever hopeful. I do feel like Tim and I are getting closer. Moving in the right direction.”

  As always, Carla felt uncomfortable when the conversation turned to Alicia’s marital woes. Robin could probably make some pronouncement about what her discomfort means, in terms of Carla’s own marriage. She hoped to avoid the subject of her own sex life. Although she’d weakened a few weeks ago when the card game was at her own home, and let a sliver of light shine on her problems with Claude, Carla felt uneasy talking behind her husband’s back. It violated their privacy, was a betrayal of trust. Whatever her problems were with Claude, they were not for public consumption.

  Carla studied her cards. King of hearts, ace of spades. A high percentage hand. If she were playing on the computer, she’d raise. But, at her own insistence, the women didn’t bet.

  Bess dealt the three flop cards, and said, “Amy came back from London, decked out head to toe in Stella McCartney. She looked incredible. The transformation was complete. She’d gone across the pond a slacker slob and came back a fashionista.”

  “We’re unhappy about this?” asked Robin.

  “I’ve begged to take her shopping,” said Bess. “I tried to force my Visa card on her, and she refused. But when Simone offers, Amy not only agreed, but they have a great time together.”

  “So your two main problems in life are that your gorgeous husband wants you too much, and that your daughter and mother have a beautiful relationship?” asked Robin.

  Bess said, “Yes!”

  Alicia and Robin laughed. Carla shook her head. None of them had real problems. They weren’t poor or hopeless. Their children weren’t sick or hungry. Bess, Alicia, and Robin had no perspective, no idea how blessed and privileged they were. How long could Carla continue to hang out with these people?

  Bess dealt the last two cards. Carla won with a pair of kings, but the victory was hollow. No pot to claim. Alicia was right. It wasn’t satisfying to play with nothing at stake.

  It wasn’t satisfying to sit here and listen, if she was putting her problems into the pot, too. Tonight seemed to be about minor gripes. Complaining for the sake of it and expecting others to care seemed outrageously indulgent. Carla was not a decadent person.

  But she knew someone who was.

  “From now on, while we’re playing, I wish to be referred to as the Black Queen,” announced Carla.

  “Your nom du poker?” said Robin. “Love. If you’re the Black Queen, Carla, then I must be the Red Queen.” She tossed her flaming frizz of hair.

  Bess said, “That’s good. Call me … White Diamond.”

  Carla couldn’t help smiling at how spot-on that description was for beautiful Bess, with her sparkling eyes and blond hair. And Robin was the Red Queen, absolutely.

  Alicia, the pint-sized brunette, said, “I guess that leaves me with Wild Heart.”

  The others nodded admiringly. “Nice,” said Robin.

  Carla let her back rest against the kitchen table chair, felt herself relax and then her spine lengthen. As the Black Queen, she fisted the deck. With each shuffle, she felt her alter ego gain dominance over her hands, her arms, her chest, and her thoughts.

  “We should bet,” said Carla before she dealt. “But not money. And not M&M’s. Something valuable, but noncaloric.”

  Robin said, “Cigarettes? Like we’re in prison?”

  Bess said, “I’m never smoking again! That cigarette I had last time gave me a sore throat for a week.”

  Alicia said, “We should play with poker chips. The woman with the most chips at the end of the night wins things we actually need. Like a night of babysitting.” Alicia turned to Carla and added, “Or a house call.” To Bess: “Or an outfit to borrow.” To Robin: “Or advice.”

  “I give that away for free!” said Robin.

  Bess said, “Anytime anyone wants to borrow clothes or jewelry, all you have to do is ask.”

  “Same for house calls,” said Carla.

  Alicia nodded. “And I’d be honored to write pithy slogans to sell your products, whatever they might be. Right. It’s a silly idea. Obviously, we’d help each other without needing to win first.”

  Carla sensed Alicia’s embarrassment. She needn’t feel it. Her idea had merit. The four of them had gotten to know each other, somewhat. As considerate people, they’d help each other if asked. Theoretically. But if they were betting, and there was a clear winner, they’d be beholden to.

  “Not a silly idea,” said Carla. “Personally, I have a hard time asking people for help. It’s awkward. But if I win the service, I’d use it.” She thought of herself hoofing to Brownstone to get the boys that very afternoon, how it’d screwed up her entire schedule, forcing her to rush through patients, rush home to throw dinner together and hurry back to the Heights for cards. Why hadn’t she just called Robin or Bess asked them to pick up her boys instead? Both women were available, at school anyway to pick up their own kids, lived close to the hospital. It hadn’t occurred to Carla to think of ways to cut herself slack. She was loath to be needy or a bother. However, if she won their help, Carla would be able to take it without feeling as if she couldn’t handle her own responsibilities.

  Robin nodded. “I’m seeing how it might work.”

  “If I win, I’m going to finally get you guys to plan a Diversity Committee agenda,” said Bess.

  Robin said, “You know what that means, Alicia? Carla? We cannot let Bess win.”

  “Just try to stop me,” said Bess. “What can we use for poker chips?”

  Robin said, “A-ha!” stood up and yelled, “Stephanie!”

  A stunning little girl appeared in the hallway and ran toward the kitchen. Carla marveled at Stephanie’s long, auburn hair and apple cheeks. She got her coloring from Robin. What had she inherited from her mysterious father?

  Stephanie stopped at her mom’s chair. “You bellowed?” she asked, which made Carla snort.

  “Find Connect Four and the Othello and bring them here.”

  The girl groaned. “They’re buried in the back of my closet.”

  “You’ve got three friends and one babysitter back there to help,” said Robin. “Go.”

  Stephanie dramatically rolled her eyes, which made them all smile, but she did as her mother asked. Ten minutes later, each woman had a pile of plastic discs in front of her.

  “Where were we?” asked Bess.

  Robin said, “The Black Queen was about to deal.”

  Carla—correction, the Black Queen—felt a tingle of excitement. Once
more, she shuffled the cards with as much earnest concentration as administering a vaccine shot to an infant. She felt lucky tonight. Correction. She was Lady Luck herself, and she’d just walked into the joint.

  CALL

  5

  Alicia

  “Whoa, Alicia. I didn’t know it was you. From behind, you looked like a woman,” said Finn Clarke, the hero of Alicia’s satisfying yet emotionally hollow fantasy life. He’d just walked into their shared office at Bartlebee, a “boutique” (read: minuscule) “specialty” (read: limited) “agency” of six people, including, along with creatives Alicia and Finn, a CEO, a one-woman art department, and two account managers.

  “What, I usually look like a gorilla?” she replied, only half turning around to face him, knowing that her cheeks were pomegranate red.

  “It’s just that I’ve never seen your legs before,” said Finn, lowering himself into his desk chair and leaning back to appraise her further. “I thought you might be walking around on a pair of Polish sausages.”

  A plumper woman might’ve taken offense. But Alicia was, had always been, slim. Since she hadn’t had sex in over two years (and counting), she compensated for the lack of intimacy by working out like a fiend at lunchtime at the Equinox around the corner. Lately, in the mornings, she’d also taken up the routine of masturbating and crying in the shower. These practices had made her as sleek, taut, and high-strung as a whippet.

  “If you’re so interested in what I’ve got under my skirt, why don’t you take a closer look?” Alicia thought to say. But she wouldn’t dare. Alicia was not a provocative and flirty type. That would be as odd as, well, wearing a short skirt to the office. And yet, here she was, showing two inches of thigh. And wearing makeup, too.

  The outfit was selected by Bess and Robin for Alicia to wear out on a dinner date with Tim. But it would take a keg of dynamite to get Tim to notice her. She’d strutted around their apartment all morning in her sexy costume, and Tim barely glanced at her. Joe, bless his little heart, said, “Mom, why are your eyelids green? Aren’t you cold in that skirt?”