Robin said, “Flop, please.”
Bess liked what she saw, a jack and nine to go with her ten and queen. She had eight “outs” or chances—four eights plus four kings—to make a straight. “Before I forget, I wanted to ask you, Alicia, about summer internships.”
“For you?” asked Alicia.
“For Amy,” said Bess. “Unless your office is just one big orgy.”
They all laughed. Whew! Bess was starting to think they viewed her as a paragon of morality. Carla had always taken that role, but not tonight, God (if anyone) knew why.
Alicia said, “I’ll see what we can do. Do you think Amy would be a willing coffee lackey?”
“Yes,” said Bess. No, she thought.
“Amy would be glad to fetch coffee,” said Robin, “in Hell.”
Bets were called. Alicia dealt the turn. A king. Bess tried not to whoop. Instead, she said, “What’s the Harvey Wilson update?”
Robin said, “I’ve noticed, Bess, that you get awfully chatty when you’ve got a good hand.”
“I’m just asking,” said Bess, going for nonchalant.
Robin raised. Carla and Bess called. “Still haven’t heard from him since the Barbie massacre. Maybe he’s talking to lawyers before he calls me again. He has some rights, as Stephanie’s biological father.”
Bess nodded. The river card was dealt. Another king. This was her win, for sure. Even if someone held a pocket king, her straight beat three of a kind.
“Raise,” said Carla.
Robin snorted. “The Black Queen, on the rampage. Fold.”
“Reraise,” said Bess. “Carla, I read online that LICH is one of the safe hospitals in Brooklyn.”
“That’s what they tell us,” said Carla, pausing. Looking at her pocket cards. Looking at the community cards. Mulling.
Bess said, “You must be relieved.”
Carla said, “All in.”
“Call,” said Bess in a heartbeat.
Robin said, “Look at Bess. She’s salivating.”
The blond host triumphantly turned over her cards, one by one. “King high straight,” she crowed.
Carla whistled low. “Very nice,” she said admiringly.
Bess said, “Thank you. Thank you very much,” and started drawing the chips toward her.
“Ahem,” said Carla. She turned over one of her pocket cards. A king.
“A straight beats three of a kind,” said Bess.
“But not,” said Carla, turning over her last card, “four of a kind.”
Another king. Bess groaned. Goddamn Carla’s luck.
“Will you look at that?” said Robin. “It’s no fun to play with you anymore.”
Carla laughed wickedly, an outright cackle. “I just love winning!” she said, gathering her chips.
“I’m done,” said Alicia. “It’s late. For all I know, Tim is waiting for me in bed, naked.”
“If you decide to ditch him,” said Robin, “send him my way.”
Alicia laughed, but Bess didn’t think Robin’s comment was funny. Bess reminded herself that Robin had had a hard life, much of it spent alone or depressed, and that she used her obnoxious remarks to keep her emotional distance. Given the opportunity, Robin wouldn’t, couldn’t, seduce one of their husbands.
The thought that any of these women would replace her in Borden’s heart/arms made her feel nauseated. The whole nonchalant delivery of Alicia’s affair, too. The others seemed to think the deterioration of a marriage was a minor concern. Bess alone had filed it under Major Crisis. Then again, perhaps the crisis was the time spent leading up to the decision. It was surely all downhill from there.
“Can I mention the possibility of an internship at the agency to Amy?” Bess asked Alicia as she walked the women out.
“As a possibility. Unpaid,” said Alicia.
Kisses all around, and they left. Bess glanced at the clock in the foyer. It was after ten. Borden wasn’t home yet.
Her feet dragged as she cleaned up the poker room, shut down the garden-level lights and locks, moved up to the parlor level, the kitchen, checking that the oven was off, then up to the living room level, making sure everything was shut down. Farther up, on the kids’ bedroom level, Bess popped her head into the boys’ room and told them to get in bed for the night. She paused before Amy’s door. The rule was to knock first. If she got no answer from Amy, Bess was to “take the hint” and go away. This vital information was posted on a sign taped to the door, a constant reminder of Amy’s insubordination.
Feeling dangerous and armed with the good news of a summer internship at an ad agency, Bess put her hand on the doorknob as if to open it unannounced. Her heart thudded in her chest, more than if she held a pair of aces with a pair on board. She turned the knob exquisitely slowly, silently. Bess wasn’t sure why she was creeping into her daughter’s “PRIVATE!!!!!” space. Once upon a time, Amy would delight when Bess snuck into her room to deliver a bounty of kisses.
Bess would introduce her presence casually, breezily, as in, “Sorry, forgot to knock.”
Just admit you’re spying, thought Bess. You’re dying to know what Amy does alone in her room for hours at a time.
Bess had been curious and concerned. Something was bothering Amy. For the last few weeks, she’d been returning home from school, heading straight up to her room, closing the door, and not appearing again until dinner. She’d collect a plate and take it to her room, eat there, and stay inside for the rest of the night. In the morning, Bess would find Amy’s dinner dishes cleaned and left on the side of the sink, as if to send the message, “I’ll eat your food, but I won’t give you the honor of washing my dishes.” Only Amy could turn cleaning up after herself into a hostile “I don’t need you” gesture.
Too late, Bess realized she could be barging in to find Amy masturbating. She’d already opened the door wide enough to look inside the room. Exhaling relief, Bess found Amy (not masturbating), seated at her desk, back to the door, laptop open.
On the monitor, Bess saw Simone’s face.
A downloaded TV interview?
No, the image wasn’t high quality. It was grainy, the movements of her face stuttering like … just like the faces of Charlie’s friends when he’d showed her video chat.
Bess backed away, closed the door tighter, and put her ear to the crack. She didn’t need to see this, but she’d do her best to listen.
Amy whined, “It’s been really hard, you know?”
Simone: “I know.”
Amy: “She acts like I don’t exist.”
Bess wondered, Is she talking about me? I have been giving Amy a lot of room lately. Too much? Her sequestration was a cry for attention, and I blew it.
Simone: “She’s very immature.”
Amy: “I feel trapped, but I can’t motivate to do anything. It’s agony. I hate her! She ruined my life.”
Bess frowned. As bad as it was when Amy said, “I hate you!” to her face, it was ten times worse when Amy told Simone.
Amy whined, “But I miss her, too. I really miss her. How could she dump me like that? Tracy already found a new girlfriend. Like, the next day! They probably hooked up while we were together. She might not have really loved me at all!”
Bess’s first thought: Amy and her overpierced girlfriend broke up! Second thought: This has nothing to do with me. Third thought: Hey, wait a minute, she’s confiding in Simone. Not me.
Her fourth thought: My baby’s hurting. How can I help?
The right thing to do was to back away from the door. Take some time to think it through. Just as she was stealthily, respectfully shutting the door, she heard Simone say, “What you need is a change of scenery. How would you like to spend part of the summer in East Hampton with me?”
Amy: “Mom would never let me. She wants me to get a job or do a stupid internship.”
Simone: “Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of her.”
Bess had heard enough. She crept away from Amy’s door and upstairs to he
r own bedroom, her own sanctuary.
So Simone thought she could pull the strings, and Bess—aka “her”—would jerk around accordingly. Granted, Simone had every reason to believe that. She’d been manipulating Bess, uncontested, for forty years. And Bess had just let it happen.
Not this time. Bess lay back on her bed, scheming. She would not let her mother step all over her again.
The chicken was finally done. Red, hot, and ready.
12
Carla
Playing the lottery was for suckers, Carla knew. And yet, she’d started a morning ritual of buying a cup of coffee and a Pick Six ticket at the deli on the way to the clinic each morning. Whenever she tried to stop herself, she thought, What if this is the morning I would’ve won? and then gave in to superstition.
Carla’s mother was superstitious. Her fears were wrapped up in her faith. Pagans rubbed a rabbit foot; Gloria Smith compulsively crossed herself, prayed, and spit to ward off the evil eye. She never missed a Sunday in church, believing that, if she dared, she’d bring down the wrath of God on her soul. What kind of loving God would begrudge an old woman a lazy Sunday morning once in a while? Carla wanted to know. But she kept her mouth shut. As a girl, she went along with Gloria’s religious rituals, and learned to be as afraid of deviation (devotion?) as every other Christian.
She still went to church, and found the community and structure a comfort. But what about the religious aspects? Carla reminded herself that even Mother Teresa had had doubts. After church on Sundays, Carla took the boys to visit her mother at her assisted living facility in Queens. The building was a converted school near a park. Gloria moved herself in, buying a unit with her savings, and using insurance and Social Security payments to cover monthly service costs. To the end—Gloria was an old 79, and arthritic—she would take care of herself.
When Manny and Zeke went outside to roam the grounds with a few other visiting grandchildren, Carla wheeled her mother into the stuffy but sunny common room (formerly, the school cafeteria). She arranged her mom’s chair near a window, tried to open it for air and saw that the sill was painted shut.
“How’s Claude?” asked Gloria.
“He’s great, Ma,” said Carla, giving up on breeze, and sitting in a plastic chair next to Gloria.
“Where is he?”
“He’s fixing the leak in the roof,” said Carla. True.
“Did you go to church this morning?” asked Gloria.
“Yes, Ma.”
“Did you pray for guidance about being a good wife? Did you thank God for giving you a reliable, trustworthy man to protect you and provide for you?”
“Yes, Ma.”
“God bless that man. Fixing the roof! He’s sweating and working on this hot day for you,” said Gloria, raising a bent hand to her savior. “Do you understand me, Carla? Thank the Lord for giving you that man. You’ve been blessed.”
“I know,” said Carla, impatiently.
Gloria could tell. “I’ve suffered, and been grateful to God for every day of my life. You’ve been blessed, and you’re bitter. I see the bitterness on your face.”
“I’m not bitter,” said Carla, so beyond tired of this conversation. She and her mom had been having it for fifteen years, ever since Carla and Claude got married. Should she tell Gloria that Claude wasn’t, actually, the best provider? That Carla was the family’s sole provider right now? That the sweat of her labor kept that leaky roof over their heads, and that Claude had only agreed to climb up the ladder to get out of coming to Queens to visit his God-fearing mother-in-law?
“Look, Ma, we’ve got to go,” said Carla, standing to give Gloria a kiss. “See you next week.” A few other Sunday visitors were making their moves, too, so she felt justified in wrapping it up.
Gloria accepted the kiss and said, “Please give Claude my love and tell him I’m sorry he couldn’t make it today. Also, tell him I thank God for him.”
“What about me?” asked Carla abruptly.
“What about you?”
“I’m just wondering if you ever thank God for me.”
Gloria gaped, astonished at the question, as if her daughter had just slapped her.
“You do realize, Ma,” Carla continued, “that there are two people in a marriage.”
“There’s only one person who matters in a marriage—the person who’s willing to walk away and never look back,” said Gloria. “That’s not you. God will strike you down if you even think of abandoning those boys. But Claude, he could run at any time. You have to take heed, Carla. Give him a hundred reasons to stay.”
“Yes, Ma,” said Carla, resigned, and then got out of there. As she and the boys drove back to Brooklyn, Carla thought about her mom’s two guiding beliefs: (1) thou shall not displease God and (2) thou shall not displease men. According to the Gospel of Gloria, Carla hovered on the edge of the abyss. Only God and Claude could save her.
After drop-off, Carla was to meet Renee at Starbucks. The coffee was twice as expensive as at the deli, so she told herself, “No lottery today.”
She arrived a few minutes early and found a seat. But she couldn’t wait in peace. The itchy feeling of not buying her Pick Six was all over her skin. Giving in to her superstitions, Carla ran into the pharmacy across the street and bought herself a ticket. Quickly tucking it into her wallet, she rushed back over to find Renee entering the café.
The women greeted each other with a hug and a kiss. Renee was touchy-feely. She took every opportunity to pat Carla’s back, rest a hand on her shoulder, press her arm or leg for emphasis when she made her point, in a completely nonthreatening and casual way. Not a casual person, Carla would have rather Renee kept her hands to herself.
“What a weekend!” announced Renee once they got their drinks and were settled on a couch in the rear. “Shauna competed in a chess tournament in Washington, D.C. We drove down, visited all the monuments. We went to the White House. For the first time, I really felt it, you know what I’m saying? I felt like a part of America.”
Carla, who felt like a part of America every time she paid taxes and voted, said, “We’ve been meaning to take the kids down.”
“You really should,” said Renee (knee touch). “Especially now.”
Every black American was now honor-bound to make a pilgrimage to Washington. Yes, Carla wanted to go, for herself and her sons. Only, they couldn’t afford to leave Brooklyn, much less pay for a hotel room in D.C. The Orlando trip that Carla won at the Brownstone fund-raiser was gone. Before they could make a reservation, Claude’s company went bankrupt. He made a convincing argument to sell the vacation package on eBay. They pulled in $3,000. It bought them two weeks of living expenses. Just two weeks. The joy of traveling and the memories would have lasted a lot longer. He’d expected her to be happy about the money. When she said, “I won’t see any of it,” Claude acted hurt and didn’t speak to her for two days.
Carla sipped her coffee. “How’d Shauna do in the tournament?” she asked, even though she didn’t care. It was polite to pretend.
“She was brilliant! She beat four kids—white and Asian boys—before she was eliminated,” crowed Renee.
“Congratulations,” said Carla.
“The Asians are tough to beat,” said Renee. “We talked to a Chinese chess coach about Shauna, and he said he demanded a commitment of four hours a week. Shauna is all for it. You can get into Harvard on chess. I worry about pushing her too hard. But then again, God expects us to reach our full potential. We’re praying for guidance.”
“I’m sure you’ll get it,” said Carla. Afraid she sounded cynical, she added, “You’re a wonderful mom, Renee. I know you’ll get the balance right.”
Renee smiled and sipped. Putting on her concerned face, she asked (touch elbow), “How’s it going at home?”
Cringing inwardly, Carla’s instincts told her to lie. Robin or Alicia could have asked her the same question and if Carla didn’t want to answer, she’d say, “Shut up and deal.” If Bess asked, Carl
a would’ve felt obliged to tell the truth. But something about Renee’s question raised Carla’s walls.
Robin had said that Renee served as Carla’s mirror. Yes, they were physically similar. They had culture in common. When Carla looked at Renee, she saw an attractive, well-dressed, responsible, smart, wide-awake woman she couldn’t force herself to care about, or even like. She wanted to fall in friend-love with Renee. She’d certainly tried. They’d had weekly coffees for months, even gone on double dates with the husbands. But it just wasn’t happening.
Does Renee genuinely like me? Carla wondered. Does she feel authentic in my presence? What am I to her? Could be insecurity talking, but Carla thought Renee liked to spend time with her to feel superior. Her life was, by almost any standard Carla could think of, better than hers. Not just financially. Pretty Shauna was an academic superstar. Carla’s sons—handsome, hardworking, well behaved, empathetic (Carla would never forget her pride when Zeke comforted Bess after Amy had been so horrible)—were average students. Battle of the husbands? Richard Hobart was dashing, extroverted, and, needless to say, employed. Claude? Better looking than Richard, but on their double dates, he’d been garrulous, trying too hard to impress.
“We’re doing just fine,” said Carla.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you about a Parents Association committee I’m forming for the next school year,” said Renee. “Mothers of Color. We could organize events and fund-raisers. I thought it’d be fantastic to do a fund-raiser to take Brownstone kids of color to Washington for a weekend. Guess where I got that idea?”
“Like a Diversity Committee,” said Carla. “Which already exists.”
“It does? Never heard of it. Does the committee do anything?” asked Renee.
Carla laughed to herself. The Diversity Committee did a lot … of eating and drinking and card playing. “I guess it likes to keep a low profile.”
“What’s the point of that?” asked Renee. Waving away the question, she asked another: “Can I count on you to join my committee? No reason Mothers of Color can’t put on some big fund-raisers. Maybe even take over the winter event. I’m sure I—we—could make a better party than that Casino Night.”
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