Four of a Kind

by Valerie Frankel

  The guys left, and moments later, Bess appeared in the doorway. The delivery guys must have let her in. They should know not to hold the door open for just anyone. Robin made a mental note to complain, but she was interrupted when Bess gasped and threw herself on the carpet at Harvey’s feet.

  Bess’s blue eyes bugged, and she mouthed, “Harvey Wilson!” She’d read his blog, after all, and looked at his many pictures. “Why is he in your living room?”

  “Which room would be better?” ask Robin.

  “Did you invite him over?” she whispered. “Oh my God, did you invite him to meet Stephanie?”

  “Shut up,” whispered Robin, checking to make sure Stephanie was in the kitchen, pawing through the food boxes. “He just showed up. Saw Stephanie, figured it out, and fainted.”

  “Can’t say I blame him,” said Bess.

  “For being so rude as to pass out on my floor? In front of my kid? I blame him,” said Robin.

  Stephanie called from the kitchen. “Mommy, can I open the cookies?” Apparently, the kid was already bored by their immobile guest.

  “Go ahead!” yelled Robin.

  Buzzer. Carla. Robin leapt over the body to let her in.

  Carla was huffing when she got to Robin’s apartment door. “I broke the speed limit, left my kids at home, and ran from the hospital parking lot,” she said. “This had better be serious. I hope you cut off your finger, at least.”

  Robin brought Carla into the living room and presented the body. “Ta-da,” she said. “He fainted. Killed, like, six Barbies.”

  “Breathing?” asked Carla. “How long has he been out?”

  “Since I called,” said Robin. “Ten minutes?”

  “Did you slap him? Cold water?”

  “I did slap, yes,” said Robin.

  “It’s Harvey Wilson,” stage-whispered Bess.

  Carla got on her knees to check vitals. Robin and Bess joined her on the carpet. The doc rolled him onto his back, freeing the dolls under him. She leaned forward, examining his face.

  “What?”

  “He sure looks like Stephanie,” said Carla.

  Robin and Bess, too, came in close to examine his face, the distinct nose, his rounded cheeks and gentle jawline. The dark eyebrows, and the eyes below. Eyes that, suddenly, opened.

  The three women screamed and fell backward.

  Harvey said, “Where am I?” Leaning left, he pulled a Barbie from underneath his hip, looking at it as if it were a hand grenade.

  “He’s awake. Not dead, yay,” said Stephanie at the doorway, munching a cookie.

  Carla recovered her breath and said, “Lie down, Mr. Wilson. Let your blood pressure stabilize for a minute.”

  He looked a tad frightened by the female faces peering down at him. “Look at the bright side,” said Bess to him, all smiles. “This’ll make a great blog entry.”

  While Robin unpacked the groceries, Carla gave Harvey a cursory exam. She advised him not to drink tonight. Harvey laughed in her face, but then he politely apologized.

  Robin had to take Stephanie to her friend’s house for the sleepover. She directed Harvey to Pete’s, the bar around the corner, and asked him to wait there for her. It was a good plan. She assumed Harvey wouldn’t yell at her or try to kill her in a public place. Also, he’d have twenty minutes or so to calm down before she arrived.

  She saw his bike chained up outside Pete’s. He’d found it, no problem. Robin walked inside. Harvey was seated on a stool at the bar, a beer in front of him. She took the empty seat to his right, and ordered a vodka tonic.

  “I suppose you hate me,” she said. “Should I bother explaining myself or is it not worth the breath?”

  Harvey said, “Tell me about Stephanie.”

  Robin painted the thumbnail sketch of her child. The girl’s health, her happiness, their dime-sized life together.

  “You were selfish,” he said. “You kept Stephanie from me because you didn’t want to share her. You had her so you wouldn’t be alone.”

  What a great load of “you” sentences. If he knew anything about productive conversation, he would’ve used “I” sentences, “I think,” and “I feel.” As in, “I think you’re selfish, greedy, and lonely.”

  Robin said, “I understand why you’d jump to those dubious conclusions without knowing the subtle psychological issues.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m not saying I did the right thing,” said Robin. “But I had my reasons. A long list of them. I’m sorry I never got around to telling you about Stephanie. Now you know.”

  “Never got around to telling me I had a daughter,” he said. “Slipped your mind, did it?”

  Honestly, it had. For months at a time, Robin didn’t have a single thought or pang of guilt about the Big Secret of her life. Who was Harvey Wilson to her? No one. Nothing.

  “On some level, I must have known,” he said. “Why else would I still think about you and that one night? I have, you know. A lot over the years. After our run-in at Barnes and Noble in December, I felt compelled to find you—which wasn’t easy. I had to search property records in Brooklyn. The whole time, I kept asking myself why I cared. You were like a pebble in my shoe. But maybe it wasn’t you. It was an awareness.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Robin. He was a lunatic. But, she would grant him, he had no earthly reason to fixate on her.

  Harvey scowled and drank his beer. He seemed young, although he was around her age. “At Barnes and Noble that day, it wasn’t a random encounter,” she said. “I was looking for you.”

  “To tell me about Stephanie? But then you lost your nerve?”

  She said, “I just wanted to get a look at you, actually. I was curious.”

  “If I looked like her,” he said.

  “I was nudged by my friends,” she said. “I’d come out to them about the Big Secret. First people I’d ever told. I kept the secret for ten years. And then it just popped out over cards, like it was no big deal. But it is a huge deal.” Robin felt her voice shake. She wrestled for control and continued. “I was just ashamed back then. Everything was mortifying,” she said. “I was three hundred and forty-two pounds! I felt ashamed walking down the block. Getting knocked up on a one-night stand? That was the mountaintop of shame. I didn’t even know I was pregnant for months. My periods were irregular, had been since I was a teenager. I was sick for a while. I thought I had a twenty-four-week stomach bug. When I finally realized I was pregnant, my doctor put me on a strict diet. My weight put the baby and me at high risk of a host of complications. It was a terrifying, horrible mess, the whole pregnancy. And then I had a gastric bypass operation soon after Stephanie was born. I was in transitional mode for years, adjusting to the changes. It’s not easy, having a stomach one day, and not the next. Stephanie was a colicky baby, and I had virtually no help with her. Then 9/11. I fell into a depression that I’m still not quite … what?”

  “It’s all rationalizations and bullshit,” he announced. “It never occurred to you that I might’ve helped you? That I could have lightened the load? No cruel pun intended?”

  Robin gulped. What did it say about her that, no, it hadn’t occurred to her that Harvey, or anyone, would willingly help her through those years of physical and emotional upheaval? Her parents had always treated her problems like an unwelcome burden, a test on the limits of their patience, another mile in their marathon of parental disappointment. Her friends back then were wrapped up in their own dramas, and drifted away from her at the first sign of trouble. She had no one and nothing. And then she had Stephanie.

  “I was selfish,” she said. “And greedy and lonely.” Still am, she thought.

  He said, “Well, I’m not. I would have stood by you and helped. If you hadn’t run out on me, you might’ve learned that.”

  He kept talking as if he would’ve wanted a relationship with her former gigantic self.

  “Are you a chubby-chaser?” Robin couldn’t help asking.

  Harvey drew back
on his stool, incredulous. Considering everything he’d seen and heard today, Robin didn’t get why that question would floor him. “I don’t know which is worse: How little you think of me, or how little you think of yourself.”

  “As a narcissist, I’d say how little I think of myself,” she answered. “You could use that line, by the way, on your blog. A follow-up to the post you wrote about seeing me in December.”

  “I won’t be blogging about this,” he said.

  “Bess was right. This is great material!” said Robin. Seeing his face drop, she let it go. “I like your blog, by the way. You write well. I found myself getting involved in your stories, even though I don’t care about biking. You should do more with it.”

  He shrugged. “Do you write?” he asked.

  “No discipline,” she said, shaking her head.

  “I’ve taken some workshops,” he said. “The instructors always talk about the writer’s detachment. The writer experiences life, but has to be able to detach from it to look at it objectively. You, Robin, have taken detachment to the extreme.”

  “Is that a compliment?” Robin had noticed the phenomenon. She often felt like she was a character in her own life, making it up as she went along, without actually living it. The result was that she mistakenly thought her choices were inconsequential.

  “No,” said Harvey. “It’s not a compliment.” He drained his glass. “This is overwhelming. I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch soon. We have to discuss what to do next. Obviously, I want to be a part of Stephanie’s life.”

  They exchanged phone numbers and email addresses. Robin should’ve felt relieved that the awkward (to say the least) confrontation was over. But, instead, she felt a sense of loss. “Don’t go,” she said, sounding desperate to her own ears.

  Harvey shook his head. “I’m sorry, Robin, I would stay and keep you company. But I simply can’t stand to be in your presence for one more minute.”

  “Oh, well, when you put it like that …”

  And he was gone. She finished her cocktail in one swallow. At least he hadn’t threatened to have his lawyer get in touch, as she feared. He still might. Robin didn’t have a clue about the legal ramifications. Stephanie was his genetic offspring, but she was her mother.

  Robin closed her eyes and visualized purple smoke swirling out of a shapely bottle. If only she could get the genie back in.

  The bartender came over, took away her empty. He said, “Need another?”

  “Are you kidding?” she asked.

  “You can’t cancel,” said Robin on the phone to Carla. It was Carla’s turn to host the poker game. “I need to see you guys tonight. I’m begging here.”

  Robin was on her cell, already walking toward Bess’s house to catch a ride to Carla’s. The babysitter (not Amy) was ensconced at her place with movies, popcorn, and Stephanie. It’d been a week since Harvey Wilson’s unexpected appearance, and he still hadn’t called to discuss his future as a father. Every day, every hour that went by further convinced Robin that Harvey was making plans to sue her for joint custody. He’d been angry (quiet anger, the scariest kind) and disgusted with her at Pete’s. During her hours replaying that conversation, Robin recalled their contentious chat at Barnes & Noble, how he described his ex-wife as “another woman who lied.” Lying was a particular sore spot for him, and Robin had done nothing but, as far as he knew.

  Harvey’s revulsion had to be purged from her thoughts. If Robin couldn’t get some love from her friends tonight, she was genuinely afraid for her state of mind. Alicia, Bess, and Carla had received “Harvey watch” updates via daily emails. Caretaker Bess called each morning to check in, and Robin much appreciated the dutiful attention. But Robin needed face time. She needed Carla to screw her head on straight. Alicia would make witty little jokes that always took Robin by surprise. And Bess would smile sympathetically; attempt to take Robin’s pain onto herself (if only she could).

  “I need to see you,” said Robin, her voice devoid of irony.

  Carla sighed into the phone. “I know you do. But it’s not a good time. Claude is home. We’re in the middle of a discussion.”

  “A fight,” said Robin.

  “His company went under,” said Carla. “A week ago. And he only just told me.”

  “Shit,” said Robin, getting a flash of dread on Carla’s behalf. “Interesting. Your bad news made me forget my own problems—but just for a second. What else you got?”

  Carla laughed. “My roof is leaking. Does that help?”

  “Thank you, Carla. You’re a good friend.”

  “I was able to reach Alicia, but Bess’s home phone has been busy for an hour and her cell is off.”

  “I’ll tell her,” said Robin.

  “Good. I’ve really got to go,” said Carla. She hung up.

  Robin flipped her phone closed just as she reached Bess’s townhouse door. Maybe Alicia would come here, thought Robin. Bess loved to host. Robin buzzed and waited on the stoop. The night air was finally warm enough for just a jacket. Spring was close, hovering on the brink, in need of one good push over the edge. Like an orgasm, just one stroke away.

  I must be horny, thought Robin. She should be. It’d been an incredible eight months since she’d been naked with a man. This card game had, strangely, replaced her sex life, such as it was. Was that a good thing? A bad thing? Probably both, she decided.

  Bess appeared in the vestibule between the two front doors. Her yellow hair shone under chandelier light. She was luminous, really. And I don’t hate her for being beautiful, thought Robin. How could that be? It must be real friendship, the kind that transcended petty jealousy.

  But her beautiful friend didn’t look happy. Opening the street door, Bess frowned at Robin, stress lines on her forehead.

  “I should have called you,” said Bess. “Borden’s father had a massive heart attack. He’s on life support in San Francisco. We’re packing to leave tomorrow morning with the kids. His mother is freaking out. Borden is a wreck.”

  “Poor guy,” said Robin. “How old is his dad?”

  “Seventy-two,” said Bess. “But he was in excellent shape. No one saw this coming.”

  Robin felt an urge to hug her friend, to show her support. But before she could get in there, Bess dangled her car keys. “Take the car to Carla’s. It’s in the garage on State Street. I called to tell them you might be coming. Just park it back there when you’re done. In fact, use the car whenever you want. I’m not sure when we’ll be back. Not until after the weekend.”

  “Okay,” said Robin, taking the keys. “Do you need me to help you pack? Maybe Borden would like to get his mind off it. Play a few hands of poker?”

  “That’s totally sweet of you to offer,” said Bess. “But I’m pretty sure he wants to be alone. I mean, just family.”

  “Say no more,” said Robin. “Give him my best.”

  They said their good-byes. Now what? Alicia would be home tonight, thought Robin. She’d take Bess’s car and drive to Red Hook. Tim and Joe loved poker. They could fill in for Carla and Bess. It would be swell. Tim could whip up some pasta or a frittata—soft yummy stuff that Robin could stomach. They’d let Joe win, have a few laughs. Game on, she thought. Spirits rallied, Robin hoofed to the garage.

  Robin had never driven a BMW before. As soon as she slipped into the leather seat, she felt like a road-raging asshole—in a good way. She sped down Columbia Street to Red Hook, and parked in the Fairway lot. Despite his sexlessness, Robin liked Tim. He was funny, flirty. A nice night at Alicia’s was exactly what she needed.

  She buzzed Alicia’s apartment. Tim asked, “Hello?”

  “It’s Robin.”

  He buzzed her into the building, and then opened the door to their apartment. Natty as usual, Tim wore pressed gray trousers, a lavender shirt, sleeves rolled up to above the elbow to show off his sleek forearms, and black dress shoes. He must’ve had an interview today, thought Robin. It’d be strange to dress up to watch your kid, she thought.
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  “ ’Sup?” asked Robin as she entered the apartment.

  “I have no idea,” said Tim.

  “Where’s Alicia?”

  “According to her, she’s at Carla’s house playing poker with you and Bess,” said Tim, folding those arms across his slim chest.

  Robin gulped, hard. Oh, crap—she’d stepped in it, big time. Maybe she could shovel her way out. “Oops, communication breakdown. I thought I was picking her up on my way over,” lied Robin, sounding plausible, she hoped. “Well, I’d better get moving. They probably started without me, impatient bitches.”

  “Why don’t we call Carla, tell them you’ll be along in a few minutes?” asked Tim, his expression granite.

  “Good idea,” she bluffed, taking out her cell phone and starting to pretend dial.

  “Allow me,” he said, calling her bluff, reaching for a phone on the coffee table.

  “Don’t bother,” said Robin, edging toward the door. “It’s only a ten-minute drive.”

  “You have a car?”

  “It’s Bes … a rental,” said Robin. Honestly, if she weren’t having such a bad week, she’d be much better at this. She was, after all, a champion fibber. If there were a Liar’s Olympics, she’d be a gold medal winner.

  “You rented a BMW? To drive the five miles to Windsor Terrace?” he asked, pointing at the key chain in her hand with the brand insignia on it.

  While she simmered in a broth of her own lameness, Robin wondered, Where the hell was Alicia? For her life, Robin couldn’t imagine that Alicia’s lie didn’t involve a man. The hot younger guy from her office? Shark? Guppy? What was his name?

  That sneaky mouse weasel, thought Robin. How dare Alicia withhold a secret that huge? They’d all had to listen to her whine about not having sex with her husband for months and months. Now that Alicia was getting some on-the-side action, she kept it to herself? As the young folk say, WTF?

  Because she’s in love, thought Robin.

  Meanwhile, Tim was watching Robin too closely. Had her thoughts played out on her face? She’d tried to freeze her facial muscles, but some of them might’ve twitched.