Her mother would say self-pity was not going to fix Carla’s problems.
Sitting in that chair, in the basement office, Carla felt herself and Zeke literally falling through the cracks. She could blame Vicki, but that would be wrong. Vicki didn’t make the policy. The board of directors did. It was Vicki’s job to deal with angry parents. Carla knew all too well what that was like.
Why was it such a big deal to send her sons to this school? Why was the status quo so important to maintain? Brownstone equals safe. The boys’ safety had been her only objective since she’d given birth. Now she’d have to compromise for Zeke, her baby. Logically, she knew some of her anxiety was ego related. She felt like a failure on a few counts here.
Maybe public school would toughen Zeke up, in a good way. Carla had to give Claude some credit. He wasn’t always wrong.
“I’m just … trying to figure it all out,” said Carla.
“We realize that many of our families need extra time,” said Vicki softly. “We’ve postponed the final deadline for signed contracts.”
“June first,” said Carla. “I know.”
Carla smiled and apologized for any rudeness. Vicki assured her she’d been fine, giving Carla the impression that other parents hadn’t refrained from misdirecting their frustration and anger on an innocent bystander. They shook hands, Carla’s twice as big, and then she got out of there.
A diner? Bad idea, Carla thought. There was a chance she’d run into someone from the hospital. Get her nails done? Forget it. She’d bump into a Brownstone mother at a Montague Street salon. Starbucks? Paying four dollars for a cup of coffee had never been acceptable to her, even on an indulgent day of hooky. What Carla really craved, more than food, drink, or pampering, was the peace of her own company. She wanted to be alone.
Easier said than done. Brooklyn Heights was part of a big city, but the neighborhood was a tiny village. Friends, acquaintances, colleagues were on every block. So where might a hearty well-swaddled woman take her solitude on a frigid day in mid-February?
Aha, she thought, and, like a divining rod, pointed herself toward water.
From the steps of Brownstone, it was a short walk—half a mile—to the pedestrian walkway of the Brooklyn Bridge. Carla made the time quickly. Before long, she had climbed the long stairway up to the bridge, and hiked another half mile to the apex, a thin strip of boardwalk between the Brooklyn and Manhattan towers. At this spot, the suspension cables dipped low. The view was unobstructed. Carla could look downtown, and see New York Harbor, the southern tip of Manhattan, the South Street Seaport, the Staten Island ferry landing, the Statue of Liberty, the East and Hudson rivers and New Jersey. She could look uptown, at the Manhattan and Williamsburg bridges, the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, the snaking FDR Drive, the curved, notched edges of Brooklyn and Manhattan, jigsaw puzzle pieces that would fit together perfectly.
But Carla’s eyes were downcast. She sat on a bench and stared at her feet, throbbing inside her boots. She’d dressed to impress for her meeting with Vicki, and put on her one pair of two-inch-heeled boots. Ordinarily, at the clinic, she wore moccasins or clogs. Her feet were not used to heels. Also, her lungs ached. She needed to catch her breath. She’d walked a mile, and she was practically wheezing for air. As soon as she sat down, sweat streamed down her cheeks from under her hat, and then it chilled on her skin. The wind on the bridge, especially here, the exposed, vulnerable middle section, was whipping.
Despite her physical discomfort, Carla was content to be by herself. She wasn’t completely alone. As always, tourists dotted the walkway, posing with cameras. But they were invisible to her. She didn’t know them. They didn’t know her. They provided human company with no threat of interaction. We are ants on a hill, she thought, at the mercy of forces beyond our control.
But even as she sat there, not making eye contact, Carla felt pressure to appear a certain way. Dignified, elegant. She kept her back straight and shoulders back. Carla didn’t believe she was pretending to be someone she wasn’t, or putting on a show. She was a strong, responsible woman. That was how she appeared. And yet, she felt the constant weight of judgment upon her.
Carla suffered an unrelenting conspicuousness, if only in her mind. Black people constantly thought about race, how it underlined everything they saw, heard, said, did. White people? They thought about race only to reassure themselves that they weren’t racist.
Carla wondered if Robin felt self-conscious about being Jewish. She’d never ask Robin about it. Identity politics were not Carla’s favorite topic of conversation. Robin wouldn’t hesitate to ask Carla about hers. The Red Queen let her curiosity roam free, which Carla envied.
Drawing in a few cold deep breaths, Carla peered uptown, at the dark water of the East River. If her sons were comfortable in the white world, they wouldn’t feel the pressure, the fear of judgment. For all her misgivings about diversity at Brownstone, even paying lip service was forward thinking. At the school, her sons would learn to be at ease with white people. What a relief and advantage it would be for them, as they grew up and found a place in the world. Like Barack growing up in Hawaii. This was the core benefit of Brownstone to Carla. It was bigger than the quality of education. She wanted her sons—both of them—to be comfortable in their skin wherever life took them.
Carla’s problem had an obvious solution. She needed $32,000. But where and how would she get it?
“Carla? Is that you?”
Turning toward the voice, Carla found Bess Steeple standing in front of her, healthy and glowing, panting lightly. The blonde wore tight black workout clothes, sneakers, a skullcap, and gloves. Bess was jogging? In twenty degree weather? This proved she’d completely lost her mind.
“Hello!” said Carla, surprisingly glad to see her.
“What are you doing up here?” asked Bess, stretching her legs, one then the other.
“Just airing myself out,” said Carla. “But it’s getting too cold to sit.”
“Let’s walk,” said Bess.
“You’ll freeze if you stop running.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Those pants are paper thin.”
“Then we’ll both run.”
Carla laughed heartily at the idea of jogging a yard, much less a mile—in midheel boots, or at all.
The two women started walking back toward Brooklyn.
Walking, not talking.
“How’s the nihilism going?” asked Carla finally.
“Very well, thank you,” said Bess.
“If nothing matters, why on earth are you jogging?” asked Carla.
“I enjoy it,” said Bess.
“Hmmm, now I know you’ve gone over the edge.”
Bess laughed. “Will I see you Saturday night?”
“I’m not sure if …”
“I won the poker game,” said Bess. “And you promised to come to my event as payment. If you don’t show up, you’re going back on your word.”
“Claude thinks it’s sending the wrong message. Casino night. A gambling fund-raiser,” said Carla. A partial truth. Claude hated the Seventies theme (“Should I dress like Huggy Bear?”), and he absolutely loathed the idea of giving more money to Brownstone beyond tuition. Just to walk in the door of the event, you had to buy tickets at $50 a pop. And then they were expected to buy chips. All cash went into the Parents Association coffers to buy the school extras (the PA had financed the faculty gym, for example).
“I’ll have tickets for you and Claude waiting at the door,” said Bess. “Also for Alicia and Tim.”
The charity cases. “I can afford to pay my way,” said Carla, who, like Claude, was too proud to take charity.
“Pay, don’t pay, doesn’t matter,” said Bess. “But you must show up. I need bodies, Carla. The room has to feel crowded. I want lines to get at the gambling tables. People are more likely to buy chips if they see other people doing it. Not that you have to. I’m just saying.”
Carla suddenly fe
lt an itch to run. To get away from this conversation, from this woman who had zero clue what other people went through. Not to say Bess’s life was perfect. But it was pretty damned close. Emotionally, she was like a child, using the words “need” and “want” only as they pertained to her personal desires. Forty going on sixteen.
“Just come yourself,” said Bess. “Please, Carla! I’m sure Claude can survive one night without you.”
If Robin had said it, Carla would have laughed. Coming from Bess? The remark sounded like a dig against her husband.
Carla felt a wellspring of dislike, bordering on hate, for Bess. How much of it was resentment about Bess’s cushy life? The Steeple family wasn’t losing sleep, deciding which of their kids would have to get the short end of the stick. Four kids, all of them with price tags of $32,000 attached. Brownstone would get an incredible $128,000 from the Steeples next school year, and Bess would surely donate more for her fund-raiser to ensure it was a success.
Did Bess give tuition two thoughts? Or did she just agonize about her bratty daughter and selfish mother? Carla reminded herself that Bess had muscled through a cancer scare less than a month ago. She’d thrown herself into a charity event as a distraction. Carla could hardly fault her for that. If only some of the money generated could go directly into Carla’s pocket.
Bess said, “I know I wasn’t very nice at Alicia’s house last time we played. I really am sorry about that. I’ve apologized already.”
By email. Carla said, “Believe it or not, Bess, my mood has nothing to do with you.”
“So I’m wrong to feel anger coming off you in waves?”
“My feet are killing me,” grumbled Carla.
“Let’s go straight to my house. I’ll make us lunch!” Sensing Carla’s hesitation, Bess added, “To prove to me you’re not still angry.”
Carla shook her head. “I just don’t want to get into it.”
“Is it Claude?”
Yes. No. Carla shook her head. Thankfully, they were coming to the end of the bridge. As soon as they reached Cadman Plaza Park in Brooklyn, Carla could make an excuse and escape into the A train subway entrance.
“Is it money?” asked Bess.
“Why do you ask that?” asked Carla.
“If it’s not husbands or kids, it’s money.”
Or all of the above. The two women wound their way around Cadman Plaza Park, an oval of green at the foot of Brooklyn Heights. The subway entrance was just across the street. “I’m going down,” said Carla.
“Since there’ll be a few poker tables with hired dealers at the event, we could snag one for ourselves, and call it a committee meeting.”
“Ourselves.”
“You, me, Alicia, and Robin.”
“Oh,” said Carla. “Sure.”
“Do you think Robin will mind waiting for her turn to host?”
Honestly, Carla had already mentally removed herself from the poker game. The last time had been so uncomfortable, Carla wasn’t interested in subjecting herself to it again. Bess was clearly trying to make it up to her. She looked so hopeful and innocent with her cap and blue blinking eyes. Why would Bess, the woman who had everything, care about this game so much? Carla’s resentment softened a little. Against her will, she felt flattered.
“Why so insistent?” asked Carla. “Since nothing matters.”
Under her already red cheeks, Bess blushed. “Some things matter. A lot matters,” she said. “That night at Alicia’s, I had a moment. Moment over, okay? Back to normal.”
“I don’t think Robin will mind waiting to host,” replied Carla, not sure why she was giving in.
“Great!” said Bess. “I’ve got to run now or I’ll freeze my ass off. See you Saturday night!”
Carla stood there for a minute, and watched Bess lope up the street toward the heart of the Heights.
What ass? thought Carla.
“Claude, this is Renee Hobart,” said Carla, introducing her husband to her new friend. Acquaintance? Person of interest? What should she call Renee?
She’d been dreading Casino Night and the prospect of hours of socializing with Brownstone parents. She was grateful that Claude came along. He looked handsome in his gray suit, and it was easier to navigate with him steering her along. Carla casually mentioned that she might play a hand or two, and he hadn’t objected. Given the tension in the house about money, they were both trying to be as nice to each other as possible. Still, Carla felt the strain. When she saw Renee cutting through the crowd like a steamer ship, elegant and large, smiling at her and reaching for her, Carla was awash with relief. A third party. Someone to talk to. Plus, Claude would love her.
“Is your husband here, too?” Claude asked after he and Renee shook hands.
“He couldn’t make it,” she said.
“Working?” asked Claude.
“I shouldn’t complain. At least he has a job,” said Renee. “We work at the same firm. Twenty lawyers have been let go in the last few months. The atmosphere is awful, but you have to stay positive.”
Renee went on a bit about work, and then the conversation stalled.
“They did up the school nicely,” said Carla.
“You should see the gym. It’s been discoed,” agreed Renee.
The Casino Night activities were spread throughout Brownstone. Gambling in the middle school gym. Dancing in the lower school gym. Drinks and mingling in the main lobby and libraries.
Claude said, “Mirror ball?”
“Several,” said Renee. “And some of the parents really dressed the part. Or, I should say, barely dressed.”
The three of them were in normal, night-out clothes. Carla wore her regal purple caftan and thought she looked elegant. Renee also had a dramatic presence, in all black with a thick, beaded multicolored necklace. A statement piece. Carla would never wear such a chunky adornment. But with slicked-back hair and high eyebrows, Renee pulled it off beautifully. Instead of feeling jealous, Carla felt a swell of pride in having a handsome companion in Renee.
They agreed to do a lap around the event venues. The threesome headed for the short stairs that led directly to the gym. Carla felt good. Relieved. She hadn’t had a chance to call Renee about setting up a coffee, mainly because she didn’t want to seem pushy. Seeing her tonight did away with her hesitation. Claude was smiling; he seemed pleased to have an attractive woman on each arm.
Then they were ambushed.
Robin Stern, drink in hand, came up behind them. “Can I steal Carla for a minute?” asked the redhead. “Hello, Claude,” she added, leaning in to kiss him. He allowed it. Then Robin introduced herself to Renee. They exchanged vitals—their names, their kids names and grades.
“I like your costume,” said Renee.
“My what?” asked Robin. She looked down at her peasant shirt and skirt and said, “Not a costume. Believe it or not, I dress like this every day. Stevie Nicks circa nineteen seventy-eight, I know.”
“Who?” asked Renee.
Robin burst out laughing. She was drunk. Already. It was only eight o’clock.
The boys were home alone, the first time they’d left the kids without a babysitter. It was Claude’s idea, part of his campaign to toughen them up and save a few bucks. His campaign slogan: “They’re not babies.” He’d said it about a hundred times in the last two weeks. Carla heard the unspoken accusation clearly. When Claude said to her, “They’re not babies,” he meant, “You baby them.” The boys (young men?) echoed Claude every chance they got. “We’re not babies, Ma,” they said, and the three men in her life would grin sideways at each other. She enjoyed seeing them unified, if only it weren’t against her.
“There you are,” said Alicia, suddenly squeezing in next to Robin. “Have you seen Tim? He was here a minute ago.”
Without preamble, Alicia kissed her way around the circle. She paused at Renee. “I don’t know you,” she said. “I should know your name before I kiss you, shouldn’t I?”
Renee was clearly taken aba
ck by Alicia’s forwardness. She was literally in their faces. Carla flashed to the night she met Alicia, that first meeting of the Diversity Committee at Bess’s townhouse, when Alicia acted shy and hesitant at first, and then boldly suggested the game of playing for secrets. Alicia pretended to be a mouse—to lull you into a false sense of confidence?—but she was really a mink. Tonight, she wore a tight black dress, showing off her bird-boned and small-breasted body.
Standing next to tiny Alicia and skinny Robin, Carla felt like a rhino. Thank heaven for Renee, who was even more substantial. Compared to the other two women, Carla and Renee had gravity, in more ways than one. Was Renee judging her white friends? Claude seemed annoyed by their presence. He had no love for the poker players, that was well established.
Robin said, “Let’s find Bess. I bet she’s dressed up like Meryl Streep in Mamma Mia!”
Alicia nodded. “What about Tim?”
“Screw him,” said Robin.
“Or not,” said Alicia.
They giggled.
Carla was mortified. Claude coughed, and nudged his wife. It was her cue to disengage from Alicia and Robin. “We were going to look around. I’ll catch up with you guys later,” Carla said.
Robin said, “No way! It’s meeting time, Carla. A poker table is reserved for the four of us, a hot dealer, drink holders. Game time starts”—she checked her wrist, but wasn’t wearing a watch—“in five minutes. Let’s go!”
Alicia said, “Bess fronted us a big stack of chips. But”—she leaned forward as if to speak softly—“don’t tell anyone!”
Renee asked, “You gamble, Carla?”
Good grief, she thought. Renee was judging her. “I play cards,” corrected Carla for her churchgoing new friend. “But I never gamble.”
Before Carla could explain herself further, Robin and Alicia took her by the arms and pulled her away. She glanced over her shoulder at Claude and Renee. The pair watched with stunned expressions. Then they looked at each other with strained confusion.
Four of a Kind Page 17
