If she told Simone about sharing secrets and histories, it would taint the entire experience. “We play for fun,” said Bess, fearing that sounded frivolous and lame.
“My parents had a card night,” said Simone. “Do you remember, Bess? Mom and Dad would set up the folding table. The Colberts from next door would come over.”
Bess smiled. Yes, she remembered. When Simone left Bess at her grandparents’ for overnights, she watched some marathon gin or bridge games. She was the helper, emptying ashtrays, fetching bottles of wine, replenishing the snacks. “Grandma always let Grandpa win,” said Bess fondly.
“That’s right,” said Simone. “She let him win. If he didn’t, he’d abuse her about everything, how she looked, what she said, her cooking and cleaning. Of course, that was a different time, when women had few options. Women nowadays don’t have to stay in loveless marriages to abusive men who deny them the smallest victories.”
Simone remembered her mother as a victim; Bess remembered her grandmother as a saint. Obviously, Simone knew her parents’ marriage better than Bess did. Bess was nine when they passed away within a year of each other. How would Amy remember Bess and Borden’s marriage? Would she think of Bess as a needy sponge who lived off her husband and clung selfishly to her children? Or as a confident woman who played to win?
“You know, Bess,” said Simone. “You remind me a lot of my mother. Around the eyes.”
“I’m so sososo sorry again about Amy,” said Bess to Robin several nights later. “But this trip to London was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I had to let her go.”
“No big deal,” said Robin. “But if you apologize again, I might start to think it is.”
Bess wanted to tell her friend that it was a big deal—a very big deal—that Simone had snatched her daughter from her clutches, and spirited her off to a glamorous adventure in a foreign land. What did Bess have to offer Amy that could compare? Packing nutritious lunches for over a decade didn’t impress a teenager like giving a keynote speech at an international conference on women’s rights. Amy was at that age when changing the world seemed possible. And Bess? At forty, “the future” wasn’t what it used to be.
Robin found someone else to babysit Stephanie, and hadn’t seemed to care that Amy bailed, which irritated Bess. The two of them climbed out of Bess’s BMW, parked at the Red Hook Fairway. Alicia’s apartment was in one of the lofts above the supermarket.
Robin, whose red hair frizzled spectacularly tonight, said, “Can you imagine the mad convenience?”
Bess shrugged. Living over a supermarket would be convenient, but what about the traffic? The crowds? The vermin?
They had to walk around to the side of the building. The East River lapped at the pier not ten feet from where they stood. “River views,” said Robin.
And river smells, thought Bess. What was with her attitude tonight? she thought. She hated everything.
The building door buzzed, and the women took an elevator up four floors, to Alicia, Tim, and Joe’s apartment. Alicia, wearing an oversized sweatshirt that made her look like a ten-year-old, greeted them at the door and invited them in. Bess glanced around the space and tried not to judge. The large main room was an all-in-one cooking/eating/living space, and felt claustrophobic with just the four women. Carla was seated on a ratty couch. A chenille throw was draped over one arm, partially hiding a rip in the fabric. A round rag rug under the pockmarked coffee table was faded. Books and CDs were stacked precariously against the walls, begging the question, “Haven’t they heard of shelving?” Crates and boxes were piled in corners. The room was what Bess thought of as cookie-cutter architecture. A large cube, smaller annexed cubes, and you’ve got a two-bedroom apartment. No detail, no charm, except what the resident put into it with design. Apparently, design wasn’t a priority for Alicia.
The host apologized. “We’re still in the process of moving in,” she said, taking Bess’s and Robin’s jackets.
Bess said, “It’s charming, Alicia. Look at the view!” The view of New Jersey from large westward windows was impressive: several bridges, the Statue of Liberty, Staten Island, the dark river at night. That was the apartment’s selling point. Looking outside the space was the best thing about it.
From the rear of the apartment, happy sounds. Laughter and singing. Bess could see down the short hallway from her spot on the couch. A door opened, and the lower half of a man appeared. His head and shoulders were tucked into the room, saying a final good night to Joe, Bess assumed. When Tim’s upper half appeared in the dim light of the hallway, Bess sized him up as neat and slim. In fitted trousers and a crisp blue shirt, Tim was elegant. His brown hair was cut short to obscure its thinning. He waved at the women, and then ducked into another room off the hallway. A bathroom? Their bedroom? Bess itched suddenly with discomfort. She knew way too much about this man. His flagging sex drive. His stalled professional life. The picture of a sexless slacker that Alicia had painted didn’t resemble the natty man in pressed pants and a close shave.
Robin, next to her on the couch, pinched Bess’s leg. When Bess turned to her, Robin mouthed, “Gay.”
It would explain a lot. But Bess wasn’t convinced on affect alone. Male menopause—it existed, Bess had read an article—was defined by a late 30s, early 40s man’s sudden emotional confusion, depression, and plummeting sex drive. Considering his chronic unemployment, Tim had to be depressed and confused. She already knew about his flagging libido. No, Tim Fandine wasn’t gay, Bess decided. He was menopausal. Borden, forty-two, had managed to avoid a midlife meltdown—so far. It might hit him later.
Carla got up to help the host in the kitchen area. She asked, “Alicia, have you ever thought your husband might be gay?”
Robin cocked an eyebrow at Bess.
Alicia said, “Of course! I’d welcome that. Then I wouldn’t blame myself for his rejection. It’s awful to think you’ve lost it, whatever it is, as if I ever had any of it to begin with, in small amounts. I swear, if a guy humped my leg on the subway, I’d be flattered.”
Bess had always relied on her looks, sexual allure, whatever “it” was called. She wasn’t overtly provocative, like Robin, or appealingly confident like Carla. She was soft and fair with what Borden once described as “an intoxicating air of vulnerability.” The sheen of helplessness was catnip for a certain kind of man, the type who wanted to see himself as a hero (and what man didn’t?). Despite what her “air” might suggest, Bess was not helpless. Vulnerable? She just wanted everyone to like her.
Carla said, “He seems gay.”
“I got a hint of that, too,” said Robin.
“I’ve given him every opportunity to explore his sexuality,” said Alicia. “I once offered to have a threesome with another man. Tim was insulted. Not for suggesting I bring another man into the picture. For suggesting we bring another person into it. I know he’s thin and well dressed. This is one sad instance of a stereotype not holding up.”
On cue, the door in the hallway opened. Tim emerged and walked into the main room. He’d changed into (ironed) cargo pants and a (spotless) T-shirt. After introducing himself, he pulled a fresh deck of cards from his pocket, plopped down on the couch next to Robin, and said, “Shall I deal?”
Bess said, “Just straight into cards? Didn’t we promise to talk about the committee agenda tonight first?” Since seeing her mother, Bess felt extra guilt about ignoring a larger purpose at this gathering.
Robin said, “How about we discuss diversity while we play? Like our diverse opinion of the cocktails.”
“Honey,” said Alicia to Tim, “the meeting is women only. No offense.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong: The only way to make sure you don’t talk about me is if I’m in the room,” said Tim affably.
Robin said, “Not necessarily.”
Alicia brought over a couple of baskets of chips. Carla helped with a pitcher of what appeared to be margaritas. Sitting on the other couch, opposite her husband, Alicia asked him, “D
o you even know how to play?”
“I played in a poker game for years,” he said. Seeing his wife’s questioning expression, he said, “In college. Before we met.”
Carla said, “So you have the advantage.”
Shuffling neatly, Tim said, “Who has the advantage? You all have been playing together for a while already. I’m guessing you know a lot more about me than I know about you.”
Alicia said, “Your name hasn’t come up, actually, at our games.”
Tim said, “Now you’re insulting me.”
Robin said, “I’m okay with it. Let’s see how a man stands up against four ruthless women.”
Ruthless? Bess had been looking forward to a peaceful evening, after the bloody battle she’d waged all week with Amy.
Tim distributed two cards to each player, and said, “No ante, I take it? So any pre-flop bets?”
“We don’t bet,” said Alicia. “I told you, we have our own system.”
“Then it’s not poker,” said Tim.
“What’s the flop again?” asked Carla.
“You haven’t spent any quality time with T. J. Cloutier, have you?” asked Bess.
“Who?”
“The poker champ,” said Bess. “From the computer game I gave you.”
Robin said, “I love T.J.! I’ve lost about $100,000 of virtual money so far. But I’m getting better. I think.”
Was it Bess’s imagination, or was Robin smiling at Tim when she spoke? Bess bristled. She liked Robin, had found her funny and gutsy. But put a man in the room, and Robin lost interest in women. Even another woman’s husband. Even a man of ambiguous orientation.
Alicia said, “We usually deal all five communal cards at once, and then showdown.”
“What’s the fun in that?” asked Tim. “The best part of the game is round after round of betting. The pressure mounts. The tension builds.”
If Simone were here, she’d say how typical it was for a man to muscle his way in and then insist on getting his way.
Carla would not back down. “We don’t bet.”
Tim asked, “Come on. How about pennies or chocolate chips?”
An uncomfortable echo of her mother’s comment at lunch, thought Bess.
Alicia tried to make light. “Honey, we need our pennies,” she said. “How else will we get the laundry done?”
“It’s just a few dollars,” he said. “And we might win.”
“That’s not the point, sweetheart,” said Alicia. “We have a system that we’re used to. It works for us. And then you march into the room and completely take over. None of the other husbands invited themselves into the game.”
“Maybe the other husbands don’t have game,” said Tim.
“Or they don’t have as much to prove,” said Alicia.
The husband and wife smiled maniacally at each other.
Robin said, “I’d say the tension and pressure is building just fine.”
Carla to the rescue. “I’m philosophically opposed to gambling. If you all want to bet, I’ll just finish my drink and drive home. I had an impossibly long day anyway.” For emphasis, she yawned big and violent, her shoulders shaking and eyes closed tight.
Going home sounded like a decent idea to Bess. Robin was irritating her. Carla was dragging herself through this. Alicia and Tim clearly had hours of bickering to do before they went to sleep with their backs to each other and pajamas on. She felt claustrophobic in this cube with the grungy furniture, stained rug, and piles against the walls. She’d come to talk. To unload. It’d been a lousy week. She’d been aching to purge her feeling of powerlessness and inadequacy. And, truth be told, she wanted to play poker. To enjoy the simple pleasure of holding sturdy cards, the breezy zip of shuffling, and focusing on the hand she was dealt.
Apparently, none of that was going to happen. The magic of the two previous meetings was lost. Where had it gone? She wasn’t even sure if she liked these women. Robin was man-crazy and crass. Alicia was defensive and neurotic. Carla seemed disinterested and condescending. What was Bess doing here in Red Hook? Why wasn’t she at home, putting her sons to bed, and then putting herself to bed with Borden? He’d kiss her and hold her, make Bess feel valuable and treasured.
“I have to go,” said Bess suddenly, standing up.
Alicia said, “No, Bess, stay. I’ll lock Tim in the bathroom with an iPod and a six-pack. He won’t bother us again. We’ll play our game. Plus,” she turned to her chagrined husband, “we can feel free to talk about Tim all we want.” That made Robin and Carla—even Tim—laugh.
Tim said, “Message received.” He stood. “I just remembered there’s an episode of Law and Order on TNT I haven’t seen four times yet. You’ll have to excuse me.”
He walked purposefully out of the main area, disappearing again into the bedroom cube. Bess stood awkwardly by the couch, the eyes of the other three women on her. Bess felt woozy suddenly, self-conscious and embarrassingly impulsive. “I’m sorry, Alicia,” she said, putting her hand on her forehead.
“Are you sick?” asked Carla, revitalized by a mission. “Let me see.” The pediatrician beckoned Bess over to her. Carla put her cool, large palm against Bess’s forehead. The contact was instantly soothing.
“No fever,” said Carla, her cool fingers now taking Bess’s pulse. “But your heart is beating too fast.”
Robin said to Carla, “She’s upset.” To Bess: “I know what this is about. I used to need a week to recover from dinner with my mom.”
Alicia asked Bess, “You had dinner with your mother?”
“Brunch,” said Bess. “Last Saturday. Five days ago.”
“Two more days before you feel normal,” said Robin.
Carla said, “You’ll live. You probably had a mini pre-panic attack.”
Bess leaned back on the couch. “Amy’s in London, an ocean away. I can’t stop thinking about subway bombings.”
“She’s with your mother, though,” said Robin. “Nothing but taxis and limos.”
“Which bugs me, too.” Bess said, “I wish there was a way to un-push all my buttons.”
“In my biz, we talk about the ‘takeaway’ of an ad,” said Alicia. “The one piece of information that’s supposed to stay with you. Like in a Mercedes ad, the takeaway is superior engineering,” said Alicia. “So what was the takeaway at your brunch?”
Bess said, “Basically, that I’m a worthless, sorry, sad excuse for a woman.”
“Wait a minute,” said Robin. “Did you have brunch with my mother? Has she come back from the dead? Please say no.”
Carla said, “I’m surprised you let her get to you. You seem strong.”
“I am strong. Just not with her,” said Bess, feeling better by the second.
“Talking about mothers is giving me a mini pre-panic attack,” said Robin. “Is there anywhere I can smoke?”
“Those open,” said Alicia, pointing her toward the large windows.
Watching Robin fish a pack of cigarettes out of her purse, Bess said, “I’ll have one of those.”
“You will not,” said Carla. “If there’s one sure way to destroy your health, it’s smoking.” To Robin, Carla added, “If you quit, you’d add ten years to your life.”
“But will they be fun years? Or would I spend them miserably craving a cigarette?” asked Robin. “And, for your information, Doctor, I smoke American Spirit Organics. No pesticides or additives. These are healthy cigarettes. They’re good for you.”
Alicia said, “If it’s going to be smoking night …”
“You all disgust me,” said Carla.
The three white women huddled by the open window and lit up, blowing smoke into the evening air. It was Bess’s first cigarette since high school. She inhaled like she remembered. The smoke tasted harsh and foul, yet strangely satisfying.
“Prepare yourselves for an amazing fact,” said Bess, a memory rising like smoke. “I was once a checkout girl at the Rye Brook Stop and Shop.”
“I thought I recogniz
ed you,” said Alicia.
“It was before my mom got rich and famous, during our year of abject poverty. I was sixteen—Amy’s age now. The store manager, a married, heavyset, bald man, pulled me aside one night during my break and told me about the attrition estimate, the amount they expected to lose to shoplifters each month. He said they always beat the estimate, so he would look the other way, let me steal whatever I wanted, shampoo, toothpaste, if I let him jerk off on my boobs.”
“That’s disgusting,” said Robin.
“I told my mom what happened and Simone went crazy. She stormed the corporate offices, wrote letters to newspapers, called the manager’s wife. Basically destroyed the guy.”
“Good,” said Alicia.
“He had it coming,” agreed Bess. “But it was the way Simone went after him. It was systematic annihilation—absolutely terrifying to watch. By the end, I felt sorry for him.”
Robin finished her butt and squashed it out on the windowsill. “Sounds like Simone had an ax to grind, and she sharpened the blade on your back.”
Alicia said, “I believe the word is ‘cutthroat.’ If your mom hadn’t become an author, she would have gone far in advertising.”
Fanning away invisible cigarette smoke, coughing and wheezing, Carla said, “Don’t expect me to kiss any of you.”
Robin collected the three butts, doused them with water in the kitchen sink, and put them in Alicia’s trash. They reclaimed their spots on the couches. Robin was the last to sit. “Okay, my worst mom moment?” she said.
Alicia said, “Are you doing worst mom moments?”
“Preferable to diversity planning?” asked Robin, collecting nods from the others. “All right, then. We go back in time, to the mideighties, the Bloomingdale’s juniors’ department communal dressing room. The year of the side pony, parachute pants, suspenders, and off-the-shoulder tops. I despise cropped tops, especially sweaters. A sweater shouldn’t reveal a belly button. It’s just stupid. Makes me hate all sweaters.
“So there we are, Mom and me and about ten other people in the dressing room,” continued Robin. “All the other girls were scrawny pencils with no boobs. I was a butterball turkey in a training bra. At ten. I hated undressing in public. Humiliating. Mom had a huge pile of clothes for me to try on. Zipper pants, asymmetrical tops, spandex leggings, worst fashion ever, the entire year of 1983 should be erased from the collective memory. Nothing fit. Nothing came close to fitting, and it was all the largest juniors’ size. Mom was determined to make something fit. I guess she couldn’t stand the idea of her kid outgrowing juniors at the age of ten. She tugged and yanked, worked up a real sweat trying to force me into too-small stuff. All the other shoppers watching. The pity, the disgust, can you feel it? When Mom left in search of more clothes for me to try on, she insisted I wait right there. She left me undressed and alone in the dressing room for twenty minutes. Dozens of people came and went. Some acknowledged me, but none asked, ‘Where’s your mother?’ or ‘Are you lost?’ or even, ‘Are you cold?’ No one cared about the fat kid in the corner in her training bra and stretched-out panties. Here’s my kicker: We didn’t buy a single thing that day. And now,” said Robin. “I need another cigarette.”
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