Four of a Kind

by Valerie Frankel

  “Can I get you a drink?” Tim asked suddenly, softening.

  If his scheme was to get her drunk so she’d talk, Robin sincerely doubted he had enough alcohol on the premises. “I’m driving, Tim. But just one couldn’t hurt,” she said. “Joe is?”

  From the kitchen, Tim said, “On the computer in his room, playing games. He won’t move an inch until I force him to go to bed. Total absorption. The building could be on fire and he wouldn’t notice.” Tim pulled a bottle of red wine (not her favorite; instant hangover) off a shelf and slowly inserted a corkscrew. “You’re sure the other women can wait?”

  Robin couldn’t help notice the muscles moving in Tim’s forearms as he twisted the screw into the cork. She’s always found him handsome. Too polished, possibly gay, but still easy on the eyes. She’d had a couple of fantasies about him, Robin had to admit. But she’d also had a few choice daydreams about Borden, too. And one satisfying vision about Claude and his, she imagined, enormous shlong. Didn’t all women have little affairs of the mind with their friends’ husbands? Robin had fantasized about nearly every man she’d ever met, if only to take two seconds to decide if she’d do him.

  Regarding Tim, the answer was yes. In a vacuum, she’d do him. But they weren’t in a vacuum, or a bread box, for that matter. Tim was Alicia’s husband. Therefore, he was off-limits, no matter how horny, drunk, lost, depressed, amoral, detached, in need of comfort, and desperate for adventure she might be.

  And she was.

  Very, very much, all of those things. Except drunk. At least, not yet. The night, however, was young.

  Tim walked toward her, carrying a full glass of wine. He smiled at her, his cheeks crinkling deliciously. Apart from her encounter with Harvey, this was the most male attention Robin had received in months. It felt good, the simple act of making eye contact with a member of the opposite sex. Robin’s blood picked up speed.

  “How’s the polling biz?” asked Tim.

  Robin had made only fifty calls today. Thanks to rising unemployment, a higher percentage of people were home to answer her questions. She couldn’t get a dozen respondents off the phone. They were almost tearfully happy someone cared about their feelings.

  “Would you like to know the temperature reading of America?” she asked Tim.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “The question of the day: Do you feel like a recovery is close at hand?”

  “I’d answer ‘No,’ ” said Tim.

  “And I’d answer, ‘I don’t know,’ ” said Robin. “Because no one really knows what’s going to happen next, with the recession, the country, or our own lives.”

  “One person’s life is a microcosm for the state of the union?”

  “Not just one person’s,” she said. “Every person’s. Mine. Yours.”

  He laughed. “Then let me poll the pollster: Do you feel like your recovery is close at hand?” asked Tim.

  She grinned and recited, “I. Don’t. Know.”

  “Wait and see,” he said, sipping his wine.

  “Wait, see—and pray,” corrected Robin, “in a godless, secular way.”

  “A toast to desperate times,” he said, raising his glass.

  “Cheers,” she said, clinking.

  They were still standing. Leaning on the kitchen island seemed safer than sitting together on the couch of cold comfort. Alicia had described it to the group as a raft adrift on the turbulent marital ocean. Hard to believe that Robin had never shared a couch with a man, even if it was to sit on opposite ends, not touching. She’d entertained men on her couch. But she hadn’t hung out with one just watching TV, reading the paper or a book. She tried to imagine a large hairy being seated in the corner of her sectional. Robin reclined on the chaise part, feet stretched out, resting on the man’s lap. Stephanie playing on the floor, organizing a Barbie group therapy session. What a pretty picture.

  The man in the picture was Harvey Wilson, unfortunately.

  Tim said, “I know you’re lying about meeting Alicia at Carla’s.”

  Robin had momentarily forgotten that she was supposed to be rushing off to join his wife at a poker game.

  “I’m sure Alicia talks a lot about our marriage,” Tim said, barely maintaining a friendly tone.

  “Only good things,” said Robin, trying to keep it light.

  “Bullshit,” he said bitterly.

  “This is none of my business,” she said, finishing her wine, putting the glass on the butcher block island, and backing toward the door.

  “There are two sides to the story,” he said, moving toward her, in a boldly aggressive manner. “You haven’t heard mine.”

  “Why don’t you keep it to yourself?”

  “Just listen to me for five fucking minutes.”

  “Tim, you’re too close.”

  “Whatever she’s told you, Alicia has her share of the blame. She’s very hard to live with,” he said, eyes wide and wild. “First, it was my fault we couldn’t get pregnant. Then I couldn’t do anything right as a father. Then I was a loser who couldn’t keep or get a job. Now I’m her goddamn house slave. Great life, let me tell you. Chores, errands, cleaning, cooking. Shlepping the kid around. It’s a real turn-on.”

  “I should go,” Robin said nervously. It made her head hurt, how fast Tim changed from chatty charmer to hostile defender of his own honor.

  “I was once a vice president at Macy’s, did Alicia bother telling you that? I had a staff. I made six figures. And now I oversee Joe and make dinner. It’s like I used to exist, and now I’m nothing,” railed Tim. “If a man doesn’t make money that makes him a fucking moron?”

  “Well, in your case, not a fucking moron,” she said out loud. Totally by mistake. Slipped out. She felt threatened and instinctively pushed back with her big mouth.

  Tim broke the glass in his hand. Wine splattered. Robin’s gasped at the sound and sight of it. Meltdown in progress, she thought. Get out now! Was it safe to leave Joe alone with Tim? Should she grab the kid and run? No, that would make him really lose it.

  Better to flee alone. She backed up, toward the door. When she felt it behind her, she managed to get it open and slip through. Running down the stairs (the elevator couldn’t come fast enough), Robin flew out of the building and into the parking lot at Fairway, her peasant skirt fluttering.

  She fumbled with the fob, but got the BMW door open. Her heart pounding, Robin turned the key in the ignition, stepped on the gas, and drove straight into a pole.

  “Shit!” she fumed.

  She’d done some damage tonight. No point examining it or worrying about repairs now. She’d deal with it (the car and Alicia) tomorrow. Or the day after.

  Throwing the BMW into reverse, she backed up, righted her alignment, and sped out of there.

  11

  Bess

  Charlie, a ten-year-old, knew how to use the computer better than Bess did. It embarrassed her and made her beam with pride at the same time. Bess found herself pretending to understand even less than she actually did. Charlie loved to be the teacher, explaining applications and tricks patiently, as if she were the fourth-grader. Plus, they got to spend time together. It was nice. Charlie was her baby. He’d always love her.

  “Do you want to learn video chat?” he asked, sounding so cute with his instructive tone.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Talking to someone else on-screen,” he said. “Watch.”

  Clicking away, Charlie went online, searched through his IM list, instant-messaged his friend Seth, and then they switched to video chat. Suddenly, Seth’s freckled face filled the laptop monitor. They began talking in real time. Their other friend Max sent an IM request to join the chat, and then the screen split into a three-way video conversation.

  “This is incredible,” said Bess. “It’s The Jetsons.”

  “The what?” asked Seth.

  “An old cartoon,” Bess yelled at the screen.

  “You don’t have to yell, Mom,” said Charl
ie, rolling his eyes at his friends.

  Bess remembered a scene from The Jetsons, when Jane (the wife) wore a mask for videophone calls to hide her morning cold-cream face and bed-head hair. Women wore masks to hide the unattractive truth. Even if the mask was an obvious ruse, women were expected to make the effort.

  “Is it okay?” asked Charlie, bringing Bess back to reality. The three boys wanted to play a game together online (how they managed that trick could be another tutorial). Bess left Charlie to it.

  She wandered down two flights to the kitchen, thinking about her son’s future, how he viewed the world in terms of virtual, and actual, limitless possibility. He was smart, confident. A little rough, borderline hyperactive, but those traits could be to his advantage in the future. Bess felt confident Charlie would be okay. She’d done right by him.

  Then again, she’d thought the same about Amy as an adorable ten-year-old. Six years later, her daughter was unrecognizable. No longer adorable. No longer sweet. Girls were harder; everyone knew that. More complicated. More challenging. Her boys, especially Charlie, wouldn’t try to think up new ways to hurt her.

  Don’t be a victim, thought Bess.

  At the moment, fiveish on a beautiful Wednesday afternoon, Bess had no bloody idea where Amy was or when she’d come home. Eric and Tom were at soccer until six. They’d come home hungry. Bess got busy making dinner: chopping vegetables, trimming and dressing a whole chicken. Sunlight streamed in through the kitchen window above the sink, and Bess took pleasure in it. The sun was setting later and later these days. In no time, it’d be summer. The boys would go to sleepaway camp in Vermont. Amy would … well, that wasn’t clear as yet. Bess wanted Amy to get a job locally. Borden was pushing for summer school in the city.

  Whatever they figured out, Bess hoped for some time alone with Borden. Even a long weekend. He desperately needed a dose of her undivided love and attention. It’d been a rough year all the way around. Amy, the lumpectomy, the funeral. Borden’s father died over a month ago, and Borden was still in the grip of a depression. It could last much longer, years maybe. Major Steeple’s heart attack was totally unexpected, a shock. Naturally, Bess thought of her father Fred’s car accident twenty-five years ago. Some mornings, even now, Bess woke up and felt the loss like her father had died yesterday.

  Borden’s dad had never made it out of the hospital. By the time Bess and Borden (and the kids) arrived in San Francisco, Major was gone. He’d died while they were in the air. Borden was devastated. Bess didn’t press him, but she assumed he had a few things to say to his dad and now would never get the chance.

  He pulled himself together for the funeral. On the flight home, however, Borden’s adrenaline wore off and he slumped. For weeks, Bess watched him sink deeper. She figured he used up all his emotional energy getting his job done at Merrill and was exhausted by the end of the day. Borden’s sex drive had finally flagged. Bess thought she’d be relieved. She thought wrong. Within days of Borden’s turned back in bed, Bess acutely missed his affection. Sometimes she stared at Borden after he’d fallen asleep, noticing new lines around his eyes and lips. On him, wrinkles looked sexy. But his age was catching up. They were getting older. Illness and death would be a constant of their lives from now on. After age forty, life became a process of elimination. Among their family and friends, who would be the next to go? Anyone’s guess.

  Bess stuffed the bird, and marveled at how quickly her thoughts veered from sex to death. How incongruous it was to think about death at all when the sun was shining, the air perfumed with the just-opened lilacs outside her window. The blooms would last two weeks, at best.

  The upside of the funeral week for Bess (if such a thing were possible): getting to know her mother-in-law, Vivian, better. Since Borden’s parents lived in California, Bess hadn’t spent much time with them. As soon as the kids were old enough, Borden took them to San Francisco by himself once a year for a visit, giving Bess the precious gift of alone time. Of course, she went to the West Coast for Christmas nearly every year (her own mother, Simone, was rarely around), but holiday craziness had always kept Vivian too busy to talk to Bess one-on-one.

  At the funeral, Borden and his brothers took over the pragmatic duties: hospital, burial, wake. Bess’s sisters-in-law appointed themselves in charge of food and drink. Even Amy was quite helpful and (oddly) cheerful all week. All the practical matters were well attended to. None of the brothers or sisters-in-law were ready, willing, or able to take on Vivian’s emotional needs. Bess saw the opening and stepped in.

  Vivian had lost her partner of forty-nine years. She managed to keep herself in control when people were around, as long as Bess sat next to her. When Bess left her side, Vivian demanded to know where she was going and when she’d be back. The widow kept hold of her hand as if Bess were tethering her to the earth. Without Bess’s grounding presence, Vivian drifted into memories about Major. Three times, Bess found the seventy-year-old woman hiding on the floor of her bedroom closet, attempting to muffle her crying into a dusty felt hat.

  Bess had seen a child’s pain many times. Broken bones, scraped knees, teeth extractions, etc. When Eric fell off his bike and broke three ribs, Bess felt like she would die from sympathetic agony. She wished she could take his pain. Vivian, also a mother, had no intention of letting anyone suffer for her. Each time Bess found Vivian in hiding, she stepped in (big closet), closed the door, sat down next to her, and cried with her.

  Right before they left for the airport to come home, Vivian pulled Bess into the kitchen for a private good-bye. “I’m going to be completely alone,” said the widow, “for the first time in my life. I’m terrified.”

  “You have dear friends who’ll take care of you,” said Bess. “And we’ll come back in August. Just a few months away.”

  Vivian nodded. “It’s not the same.”

  Not even close to the same, Bess knew. Since they’d been back in Brooklyn, Bess called Vivian every day. She reminded Borden to call. His conversations were awful to listen to. Awkward mutterings, testy questions about practical things (“Did you call the plumber to fix the faucet?”). He loved his mother, but he couldn’t talk to her.

  Bess’s mother, Simone, had sent an enormous arrangement to Vivian’s house. It was too big, thought Bess. The two mothers had been cordial, but not friendly. They’d been in the same room only a handful of times. At Bess and Borden’s wedding. At the hospital when Amy was born. Vivian attended a San Francisco bookstore reading of Simone’s years ago. Apparently, Simone embarrassed Vivian in front of the friends she’d brought along by treating her like any other fan. Vivian felt insulted. Still, Vivian called Simone to thank her for the flowers, leaving a voicemail message.

  Simone called Bess two weeks later. “That’s life,” said Simone. “People drop dead from heart attacks. They get sick. They grow old. They get in accidents. They’re killed in war, they starve, they’re beaten to death by their husbands.”

  “Okay, Simone,” said Bess, cutting off a speech in the early stage.

  “I’m just stating the facts,” said her mother.

  What an optimistic, pleasant woman, thought Bess. Given the option, Bess would rather dwell on idealism. Her brief foray into nihilism now embarrassed her. She’d much rather look on the bright side of life, even it she burned her eyes out doing so. Bess vowed to herself to stay optimistic, or at least pleasant, until the end. The story of your death, she decided, was the story of your life. Her father had died alone, encapsulated, on a cold dark night. Bess shivered, imagining how trapped—and cold and dark—he must have felt in his marriage.

  “About our next brunch date,” said Bess, switching the phone to her other ear. “I don’t think I can make it. Tom’s soccer team has placed in the state tournament and that eats up my Saturdays for the time being.”

  “I’m sure Amy wouldn’t mind coming by herself,” said Simone.

  Yes, but would Amy be allowed to enter a nice restaurant in her tattered jeans and filthy sneaker
s? “You haven’t seen Amy in a while,” said Bess. “She’s going through some changes.”

  “I did see … I’d love to see her no matter what she looks like,” said Simone.

  “Have you two gotten together recently?”

  “Why would you ask that? Don’t you know what your own daughter is up to?”

  Bess told Simone she’d let her know about Amy’s availability, and hung up.

  Don’t you know what your daughter is up to? Ha! As if Simone had any idea what Bess had been up to from age fifteen on. She’d left Bess and her brothers to scratch out a life with their own fingernails. The irony of it: as soon as Simone’s first book hit big and money for food flowed in, the refrigerator was perpetually empty. Simone’s success equaled less shopping, and then no shopping. When Bess’s clothes got tattered and tight, she resorted to wearing her brothers’ jeans and shirts. The boys took to wearing their dead father’s clothes. Did she tell her mother any of this? Nope. Because she was afraid to? Or was expressing her needs a pointless exercise? Simone was selectively deaf. She heard what she wanted to hear. If pressed, Simone defended her actions by claiming she gave her children the ultimate gift: self-reliance.

  The chicken stuffed, seasoned, and in the oven, Bess washed her hands and cleaned the counters. She had an hour to watch the local news on the treadmill. Running had become a daily ritual for Bess since the lumpectomy. She’d been a casual on-off jogger for decades, but she’d shifted into serious speed and was training for a half marathon in August. From whence motivation? The usual of late: health. Regular exercise prevented dozens of types of cancer, heart disease, and other illnesses.

  If she wasn’t running from death on the treadmill, she was hurtling toward it in an airplane to California.

  Bess started slowly, at 5.5 mph, and settled into her rhythm while watching Live at Five, the local news hour that seemed to cover every square block of the city, including Brooklyn Heights. She was dismayed by a report—by several, but two in particular—about half a dozen city hospitals on the chopping block, either closing or suffering drastic cuts. Another story confirmed the rumors that the Department of Transportation had finally, after much debate and outcry, suspended service on the bus route that ran up Court Street from Brooklyn Heights into Park Slope. She’d heard Brownstone parents who lived in Carroll Gardens (too close for a school bus; too far to walk) complaining about the possibility of losing their quickest way of getting to and from school. Now they’d have to adjust and figure out a new way of doing things.