Four of a Kind

by Valerie Frankel

  Tim circled around the counter and into the kitchen. “I made a fabulous curry. We’re celebrating,” he said.

  “We are?” she said.

  “I got a job offer today,” he said.

  Thank God, thought Alicia. “Great news, Tim. I’m so happy for you!” Relief flooded over her. This was how she knew for sure the marriage was over: her immediate thought was gratitude to the cosmos for giving Tim something positive in his life to soften the blow she was about to deliver. If she still loved him and wanted to stay together, his new job would’ve represented a new beginning for them.

  “Aren’t you going to ask what the job is?”

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “It’s a marketing manager job at a start-up men’s apparel company,” he said excitedly. “It’s perfect for me. The money is good. But there is one problem.” He paused, making sure Alicia was paying attention. “It’s in Los Angeles.”

  “They don’t have marketing managers in California?” she asked. “Why hire someone in New York for a job out west?”

  “The designer saw my résumé online at one of those job finder websites I use. I was number three in his top ten matches, based on experience, qualifications, preferences. We did the interview via Skype. He liked me, and offered me the job if I’m willing to relocate.”

  Alicia was impressed. Tim really had been actively job hunting. She thought he’d been slacking off, had given up. His unemployment had taken a huge toll on his ego. Men without jobs felt emasculated, she knew. Alicia should have been more sensitive to that. Boosting his ego was a wifely duty, and she’d failed there.

  “What did you tell him?” she asked.

  “I said I had to talk to my wife,” said Tim.

  She nodded. “Do you want to go?”

  He put down the wooden spoon, made eye contact. “Your career has finally taken off and you’ve made great friends here,” he said. “When we moved to Brooklyn, that was the whole idea—that things would fall into place for all three of us. Joe seems to be happy. At the Steeples’ sleepover, he really got in the middle of things.” Tim resumed stirring the curry, looking into the pot. “So Brooklyn has been great for two out of three of us. Not for me, though, Alicia. Far from it. I’ve been miserable here. I’ve lost a year of my life treading water. I want to go to Los Angeles, see if can do better out there.”

  Alicia bowed her head. Here it comes, she thought. The guilt. “I should have done more for you,” she said. “I was so fixated on my own … problems.”

  “Don’t apologize,” he said. “Not to seem dismissive, but I don’t want to hear it.”

  Whoa, that had an edge to it. “Tim,” said Alicia, suddenly gripped by the urge to confess. “I have to tell you something.”

  He held up the spoon, stopping her. “You and Joe should stay here,” Tim said quickly. “I gave it a lot of thought. It’d be cruel to uproot him again. Three schools in three years? That’s just bad parenting. I’ll fly back every month to visit. After a year of living apart, we can get a no-contest divorce.”

  Alicia gasped. Had he seen a lawyer, too? And—an icky feeling—was he really going to make it this easy for her? It was wrong. She’d had an affair. She should be held accountable.

  “I’ll pay for everything,” she said. “You don’t have to worry about child support or legal bills. It’s all on me.”

  Tim laughed. “That’s generous of you to offer, but I won’t hold you to it. Right now, you feel guilty. The beauty of a no-contest divorce is how relatively cheap it is. If we stay civil.”

  “Why wouldn’t we stay civil?” she asked, stupidly.

  “Well, one possible scenario comes to mind. Say, if I think too much about the last year of my life, realize that I blame you for every horrible thought I’ve had about myself, and then hate you for it,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Alicia decided at that moment to willfully put this entire conversation in a box on that very high shelf in her mind. Her habit of compartmentalizing negative emotions hadn’t necessarily served her well. It probably was a chief cause for the communication breakdown with Tim. But at least Alicia knew she was purposefully doing it this time, and fully intended to take a closer look at what went wrong. But not for a while.

  Her emotions shut down, the pragmatic mind took over. She’d have to hire a babysitter for afternoons. And a housekeeper. Jobs that Tim used to do. No doubt, his unemployment made her life a lot easier.

  Alicia realized suddenly that she’d liked Tim being readily available, at her mercy, in a financial sense. His dependence, and her rubbing it in—giving him a household allowance, complaining if he hadn’t vacuumed, and, yes, disappearing nights for her two poker games—was her revenge against him for making her feel unlovable and unwanted. She thought she’d been heroically tolerant of his chronic unemployment. But, as she realized now, she’d enjoyed watching Tim squirm. Only a horrible, cruel person would be so spiteful.

  Goddamn the box! thought Alicia. It wasn’t keeping the ugly feelings locked away. At some point over the last few months—due to the free flow of confessions at her ladies poker game?—the box in Alicia’s mind had turned into a sieve. She would have to address her worst thoughts, whether she wanted to or not.

  Curse those women! she thought. I’m not ready for emotional maturity!

  “I’m an asshole,” said Alicia, welling up. Oh, God, not again. She’d have to double up on tissues.

  Tim said, “That is true.”

  “So are you!” she shouted. “You didn’t touch me for almost three years! I don’t care how emasculated you were about losing your job or feeling like a housewife. Even housewives get horny.”

  He exhaled a few times. Was Alicia finally going to get an explanation? The reason that Tim turned off?

  “I’m sure you felt unloved and unwanted,” he said. “Probably because I fell out of love with you, and stopped wanting you. I’m sorry. I know that sounds awful. I’m sure it was tied up with how bad I felt about myself. If it’s any consolation, falling out of love was very painful for me. I had, have, a lot of guilt.”

  So there it was. Her worst fears about Tim’s rejection were right on the money.

  “You felt nothing for me,” she said. “Not even enough to just use each other? For relief?”

  He said, “It would have been bad, like the last time.” He meant the empty, angry sex they’d had a few weeks ago, which had been soul killing and dehumanizing.

  If Tim had told Alicia the sad ugly truth a year ago, she’d have had a complete breakdown. But now? It hurt, to be sure. She’d been insulted and rejected. But Alicia was also free. Tim had completely severed their emotional connection.

  “For what it’s worth, Tim, I never stopped loving you and wanting you,” she said, tears coming against her will. “At least, not until the very end.”

  He nodded, seemed to tear up a bit. “We’ll have to tell Joe,” said Tim. “Thank God he’s on Zoloft already or we’d have to put him on it.”

  “Up the dosage,” she joked. Not funny. “He’s going to miss you badly. You can video chat all the time. And I’ll bring him to LA for vacations.”

  “He’s old enough to fly by himself,” said Tim.

  “Oh no, he’s not,” said Alicia. And then backpedaling rapidly, she said, “We’ll figure it out.”

  “People do this,” he said. “Get divorced.”

  “We’re making a smart fold,” said Alicia. “Not to belabor the poker metaphor, but it has been the theme of the year.”

  Tim said, “We should play tonight. For M&M’s.”

  “Deal,” said Alicia.

  15

  Bess

  Bess had always hated waiting for her period, eagerly counted days until it arrived. But for the last few months, she’d dreaded its arrival. Not since The Shining or Tim Burton’s Sweeney Todd had Bess seen so much blood. Convinced she had a gynecological cancer, she paid a visit to Dr. Able. He ordered tests and found nothing amiss, thank God. His theory?
Bess, 41, was perimenopausal. Symptoms—heavy periods, light periods, the occasional hot flash, the occasional night sweats—would come and go for the next ten-plus years, until actual menopause.

  Bess was supposed to have gotten her period yesterday. Instead, she experienced her first hot flash. The onset was confusing. She was at lunch at the Heights Cafe, with Anita Turnbull, who refused to confirm or deny that she and Tim Fandine had ever done more than flirt (a moot point, but Alicia asked Bess to crack the nut anyway, just out of curiosity). Bess took a bite of salad, and her cheeks felt hot suddenly. Then hotter. Flaming red, out of nowhere. She took off her summer-weight cardigan. Fanned her face with her napkin. Then Bess took an ice cube out of her glass of lemonade, and held it against her cheek. Anita asked if she was all right, fake-concerned. Bess excused herself to the bathroom.

  Her whole head felt like it was on fire. She bent over the sink in the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face and chest. The mirror was hung stupidly high, and Bess had to stand on her tippy toes to see how much water splashed on her blouse. Quite a bit. After contemplating the hand dryer, and how she could position herself under it, Bess said, out loud, “Screw it.”

  Why make herself even hotter for appearance’s sake? Why do anything for appearance’s sake? Hadn’t the time come for Bess to get through a day without fear of disapproval, especially from someone she didn’t particularly care about? And, if the time hadn’t yet come, when would it?

  She exited the bathroom and sat back down to lunch. Anita squinted at Bess’s wet blouse, but she didn’t ask for an explanation, and Bess didn’t offer one.

  Anita started talking. “I was in the middle of telling you a funny story about something Austin said. He was going through my closet, and found a pair of old Jimmy Choos, which I haven’t worn once since I got married. These are serious f-me stilettos, totally impractical for walking, you know what I mean? Anyway, Austin said, ‘Are these shoes?’ So cute, right? I said, ‘Mommy hasn’t worn those since I was single and had to look good.’ He nodded, and that was that. Or so I thought. Later that week, at school, the history teacher was describing how families disintegrated during the Great Depression. So Mr. Unger asked the class to give a reason that so many fathers abandoned their wives and children during the hard times. Austin raised his hand and said, ‘The wives stopped wearing Jimmy Choos.’ Can you believe it! Isn’t that so funny? I nearly died laughing when Mr. Unger told me.”

  How many stories like this had Bess laughed at over the years? Always delivered to her by other nonworking moms, the stories seemed to reinforce three things: (1) how rich they were, (2) how hot they were, and (3) how witty/smart/sophisticated their kids were. Too many moms (including me? wondered Bess) had nothing to offer but “cute” stories about their kids that always reflected favorably on themselves.

  Bess said, “That is so funny. My daughter, Amy? She’s been a real spitfire this year, too. She gained twenty pounds, started wearing ripped-up clothing, stopped washing her hair, painted her fingernails black—and not Chanel Vamp black, either. She decided she’s a lesbian. At sixteen, so precocious. She had a girlfriend and everything. They broke up. But they must’ve had teenage lesbian sex. Isn’t that so funny? I almost died laughing when my daughter told me how much she hates me and doesn’t respect me. And what’s the absolute funniest part? My mother tells me the same exact things! They have a lot in common. Except I don’t think my mom’s a lesbian. She might be. My mom and daughter could go cruising together for dates. Now, that would be hilarious.”

  Bess started breathing rapidly. Wow, that speech was a lung buster, she thought.

  “Are you okay?” asked Anita, glancing left and right, to make sure Bess’s rant hadn’t been overheard. If Anita were so concerned about me, thought Bess, wouldn’t she be looking at me?

  “I have to go,” said Bess. “I don’t feel very well.”

  “What is it?” asked Anita. “Oh, no! Has the cancer come back?”

  Christ. “I didn’t have cancer,” said Bess. “I had a benign cyst.”

  “That’s right,” said Anita. “You hear ‘lump,’ immediately think ‘cancer,’ and the idea sticks.”

  “Nope, no cancer,” said Bess. “I’ll live to be PA president next year. You’ll just have to wait awhile longer to take over.”

  “I didn’t mean that!”

  “I know. I’m sorry,” said Bess. “I used an ironic tone. You didn’t hear it because we are not in tune. We have nothing in common besides our kids. And, frankly, our kids aren’t friends either. We force them together, but they don’t really like each other. Neither do we. And I mean that in the nicest way possible.”

  That hot flash had lit a lightbulb in Bess’s brain. It shined on a blinding truth. She did not have time—measured in minutes, hours, or years left on earth—to spend with people she didn’t truly love or to do things she didn’t enjoy. That included having lunch with Anita Turnbull.

  No slam to Anita. The woman was, for the most part, harmless. But harmless just wasn’t good enough for Bess. She needed more.

  She dropped two twenties on the table, smiled, apologized again to Anita, and left the restaurant.

  Bess walked home at a relaxed pace. She was in no hurry. Tomorrow morning, Bess was expected to surrender her daughter to her mother’s clutches for a month. Although Amy claimed to “hate the beach,” she said she wanted to go to East Hampton. As Simone told Bess, it was two against one.

  Despite Amy’s repeated whine, “I can’t wait to get out of here!” Bess had to nag her to pack. Their last night together had been tense and uncomforable. At dinner—the three boys, Amy, Borden, and Bess—conversation focused on sleepaway camp and summer movies. Amy barely spoke, and when they got home, she closed herself in her room as always.

  Borden promised Bess that time apart would be good for them. Bess was almost convinced. Around six a.m., she woke up in a puddle of her own sweat, literally dripping wet, the sheets soaked. She’d been having a dream about the East Hampton house’s pool. Her mother and daughter were floating in it, and then Bess threw herself in with them.

  Bess got out of bed, rinsed off, and emerged pink, clean, and alive with a new sense of purpose. A plan had come to her—in the shower, where so many great ideas were born. She quickly put on shorts and a T-shirt, and started typing on the computer. She had a lot of arrangements to make. By nine o’clock, she’s sorted through the logistics. As quietly as she could, she made a few phone calls.

  She woke Amy around ten to get ready. They were supposed to arrive at Simone’s penthouse on Park Avenue by noon.

  Leaving the boys in Borden’s care, Bess hustled Amy out of the townhouse and into the BMW. She locked the car doors, and then mother and daughter were off. Bess had been counting on Amy’s hostile silence and she wasn’t disappointed. Even better, Amy closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep for the drive.

  Thirty minutes later, they arrived.

  “What the hell?” asked Amy when she opened her eyes and saw where they were.

  “Change in plans,” said Bess.

  “LaGuardia Airport? Am I flying to East Hampton?”

  Bess almost spat, “That’s just stupid!” but didn’t. She parked in the hourly lot, got Amy’s duffel bag out of the trunk, and started carrying it toward the terminal.

  Amy, confused, curious, ran after her mother, demanding to know what was going on.

  Demanding, ha! thought Bess, feeling wonderfully in control. She’d figured it out, thanks to the trip to Atlantic City and her fear-melting hot flash yesterday. If she was okay with losing in exchange for the simple joy of being where the action was, then she could play her hand any damn way she liked. And sometimes, losing wasn’t a loss. She could win for losing—a free room, a memorable night with friends, respect, if not from her daughter and mother, for herself.

  As Shakespeare wrote (definitely not in a poker context): The play’s the thing.

  Bess made her play: “Your plane leaves in one
hour,” she said to Amy. “You don’t have much time to get through security, so hurry up.”

  “What plane? What’s going on?”

  They were inside the JetBlue terminal. Bess was slipping her credit card into the e-ticket kiosk, and getting the boarding pass. She handed it to Amy.

  The girl looked at it. “San Francisco?”

  “Grandma Vivian needs you,” said Bess. “She’s very lonely, and she’s aged quite a bit since Grandpa died. I’m sure you noticed. You’re going to San Francisco to keep her company and help her clean out Major’s stuff.”

  Amy opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came out. Bess stood squarely in front of her, bracing for the onslaught to come. But it didn’t.

  Bess added, “I thought, maybe you felt like East Hampton was your only option, so you just took it. You haven’t spent much time out there, but I can tell you: not a lot to do but go to the beach and seersucker and sundress parties. And correct me if I’m wrong, you hate the beach.”

  “And sundress parties,” said Amy, squinting at Bess from under her hang of hair, unsure what it all meant. But then Amy said, with a micron of excitement, “San Francisco is a cool town.”

  You can be as gay as you want there, thought Bess.

  “You seemed to like the city when we went for the funeral. And Vivian really needs you,” said Bess. Simone, on the other hand, was using you.

  “One-way ticket?” asked Amy.

  Bess nodded. “I could be completely wrong. And please tell me if I am. It seemed to me that your plans weren’t so much about East Hampton or being with Simone, but just to get away from Brooklyn for a while. It’s been a hard year. You’re smart, and you knew a change of scenery might help. I totally agree. Nothing like a new place, new walks, new people, to remind you who you are. San Francisco is an amazing city to find yourself in,” said Bess. “I didn’t want to put a time limit on your experience. I leave it to you to decide when to come home. Vivian is happy to keep you until September.”