Carla said, “Reasonably.”
“Okay, that’s one more word out of you,” said Robin. “You’re up to sixteen today.”
Carla shook her head, sipped her Coke. She wasn’t in a conversational mood, although she certainly had plenty to say. She still hadn’t told the poker players that the Morgan boys would not be attending Brownstone next year or, possibly, ever again. Manny and Zeke knew, of course. She wasn’t sure if they’d told the other kids, or if it even mattered to them. When Carla and Claude informed him he’d start at a new school in the fall, Zeke said, “Okay.” Manny’s response? “Harder or easier?” he asked. Carla replied, “The school might be easier, but I’ll be coming down a lot harder on you.” That shut him up.
Borden came outside, carrying a platter of uncooked burgers, hot dogs, and chicken wings. Bess followed, carting a basket of buns and condiments, a plate of sliced tomatoes, pickles, and onions on her arm, napkins under her chin. Robin leapt up to help. The three of them started arranging the food on the table and slapping meat on the hot grill. The instant sizzle sound, and seconds later, the smell of barbecue, drove a sigh of pleasure out of Carla’s tight lips.
Alicia came through the sliding door. She talked to Tim for a minute, and he went inside, presumably to watch or talk to Joe. Then Alicia took Robin’s seat next to Carla at the picnic table.
“Is Claude coming?” she asked, drawing on a beer.
“He’s working,” Carla answered, as if he’d be here otherwise.
“I’ve got to hand it to him, finding a job so quickly,” said Alicia.
“He was motivated,” said Carla.
“To get out of the house, right?” said Alicia.
Probably. “We needed the money,” said Carla.
“Who doesn’t?” asked Alicia. “God, I wish Tim would just take any job. Waiting tables. That’d be the only way I’d get to see the inside of a decent restaurant.”
This was proving difficult, having an intimate conversation with Alicia—any of her friends. Carla felt like she was one step out the door, that the connection she’d made with these women would end as soon as they knew her family was done with Brownstone. Their link to the kids’ school was really the only thing they had in common. Besides poker.
Bess bubbled over and said, “Hot meat in five.”
Borden flipped the burgers, then stepped back inside to call the kids. From outside, the women could hear the sneakered feet stampeding down the stairs, which made them all laugh. Kids would brave a hurricane for a fresh grilled hamburger, thought Carla.
As fast as Borden could put the sandwiches together, the kids inhaled them. A sweet moment: Amy, the sullen brat (forgive me, Bess, but that girl doesn’t know how good she has it, thought Carla), gently helped her grandmother Vivian into an Adirondack chair on the patio, filled a plate for her with salad and a hot dog, and served it to her. Another: Tom (Bess’s middle son) accidentally-on-purpose tipping Stephanie Stern’s potato salad onto her shorts. An obvious attempt to get the girl’s attention. Stephanie said, “If you like me, just tell me! You don’t have to ruin my clothes!” Which made Tom turn bright red. Borden saved him by asking him to go upstairs and get more cups. The boy couldn’t run away fast enough.
Charlie Steeple, Zeke’s best bud, asked Bess, “Mom, can I go to school next year with Zeke?”
Carla froze, fork halfway to her mouth.
Bess said, “I can write an email requesting they put you in some of the same classes, but no guarantees.”
“No, Zeke is going to a different school,” said Charlie. “And it sounds cool. A hundred more kids, full-sized basketball court outside, McDonald’s across the street.”
“Oh?” said Bess, smiling at Charlie, and then glancing at Carla.
Here goes everything, thought Carla. She shrugged and said, “Claude and I felt the time was right to make a change.”
Silence from the parents. Only the sounds of chewing. The tension was broken (sort of) when Vivian tapped Stephanie on the shoulder and asked, “Where’s your daddy today, sweetheart?”
“My biological father was a sperm donor,” said Stephanie with comic banality.
“Is that so?” asked Vivian.
“If you think about it,” said Stephanie, “all biological fathers are sperm donors. I mean, that’s what they contribute to the whole deal. Fathers don’t get pregnant or give birth. Mothers do the hard work. In real life, people don’t explode fully formed out of Zeus’s head.”
“Isn’t she fascinating?” said Vivian, a bit taken aback by Stephanie’s grown-up conversational style—a parroting of things Robin must have told her at some point.
“They had a Greek myths curriculum this year,” explained Bess.
As soon as the kids were done eating, they ran back inside, leaving dirty paper plates and edible detritus everywhere. Cue the moms to start cleaning up, and the dads (and grandmother) to find urgent business elsewhere.
Carla was glad the women were alone outside so she could explain herself.
But Robin had some explaining to do, and (not surprisingly) she got there first. “Before anyone asks, I don’t want any grief from you all that I haven’t told Stephanie about Harvey yet,” she said.
Bess dumped some plates into a trash bag. “No lectures for you today, Robin,” she said. “On the other hand, Carla, I am pissed as hell at you right now.”
“Charlie will be fine without Zeke,” said Carla.
“I’m sick of you holding out on us,” said Bess. “Okay, yes, I held out on you guys about my lump. We’ve all kept some things private.”
Alicia coughed. “Husband within range.”
Bess continued. “But this is worse that my lump, Alicia’s … and Robin’s … actually, Robin doesn’t hold back anything.”
“Oh, you have no idea,” said Robin. “The drinking, I do.”
Carla said, “It’s humiliating, okay? I’m supposed to announce to the group that we’re broke, that we can’t afford Brownstone, that I resent my husband for making me take a job I don’t want, that I’m failing my sons and giving up my dreams?”
“Holy smokes,” said Robin. “You just quadrupled your word count.”
Bess dropped the garbage bag and came at Carla, arms open. Before she could block the contact, Bess got her in a hug. What a funny sight they must have been. A heavyset towering black woman being grappled by a cheerleader blonde. When Bess started rubbing Carla’s back, her steel spine softened. She might’ve choked up a little.
“Let’s go inside and sit down at the table,” said Bess. “You can tell us what this is about.”
Back to where they started, at the poker table Borden never used. Carla shuffled cards for something to do with her hands as she explained the unavoidable and unexpected changes in her life.
Robin, who had managed to keep her mouth shut for fifteen solid minutes, said, “I’ll lend you the money to buy the private practice.”
“Half a million dollars?” asked Carla.
“Sure,” said Robin. “It’d be a business investment. I have a hundred percent faith that you’d make it a huge success.”
Carla said, “I can’t take your money. But thanks.”
“What if Robin and I both lent you some money?” asked Bess.
“Absolutely not,” said Carla. “My pride forbids it. I appreciate the offer. But please don’t mention it again, really.”
Alicia said, “I was prepared to front you a twenty.”
“I’d take a twenty,” said Carla.
“It’s just that we’d love to help,” said Bess, shimmering in her radiant loveliness. Carla blinked at her friend, and thought, This is a good person. They’re all good people.
“But you do help,” said Carla, looking at each in turn. “You don’t know how much you’ve helped me get through this year. I know I haven’t talked much about what’s been going on. It’s not my style to complain or overshare. Yes, I mean you, Robin.” She paused. Let the truth surface. “It’s not that
I don’t want to express my feelings,” said Carla. “I was raised to swallow a lot. My only acceptable emotions growing up were gratitude and humility under God. Expressing any other kind of feeling was selfish, lazy, a sin. Show too much happiness, and you’re tempting God to teach you a lesson. Show sadness or fear, and you’re asking for more of the same. As a kid, I wanted to sing when I was happy and cry when I was upset, but life was easier for me when I did what I was told—keep it all inside, or else. I had an unsettling realization just last week about how superstitious I’ve become. It’s from the ‘or else’ part of my childhood. I’m starting to think, though, that I’ll never win the lottery. And that if I don’t take risks, my soul will suffer.”
“God helps those who help themselves,” said Robin. “And he punishes those who are wimps.”
Carla grimaced. “You think I’m a wimp?”
Robin laughed. “You are many things, Carla, but wimpy isn’t one of them.”
“Playing poker has been a wedge for me,” said Carla. “Going for it on a flush or straight draw, and then seeing my card come up on the river? It’s a great feeling. And when the card doesn’t come up, at least I know I tried. From now on, I want to go for the draw in real life.”
Bess clapped her hands together. “Oh God, I just had the most fabulous idea.”
“What?”
“Road trip,” said Bess. “Atlantic City, tonight. We’ll gamble with real money against real poker players. We can sleep over, and drive back early tomorrow morning. Carla, don’t even think about the money, not a single penny. This is my end-of-school gift to all of you. A hotel suite, fattening expensive meal, and a nice stack of chips to get started.”
“Our gift,” said Robin. “I’ll pay for Carla. You pay for Alicia.”
Carla shook her head. “I’m sorry, but—”
“Screw your pride,” said Robin. “You can pay me back when you win. And you will win. Honestly, Black Queen, do you really think bad luck lasts forever? No, ma’am. It does not. Your karma is already swinging the other way. I can actually see it moving.”
“I love this idea,” said Alicia. “Speaking for myself, I have zero problem with taking your money.”
“What about the boys?” asked Carla. “Clothes?”
Bess jumped and bellowed, “Borden! Honey!”
After a minute, the handsome host descended the staircase to the garden level, revealing himself step by step, as he’d done that first night months ago, taking their breath away.
“The garbage, I know,” he said, walking toward the patio.
“Honey,” said Bess, stopping him. She put her hands on his shoulders, getting his full attention. “We want to drive down to Atlantic City tonight to play poker and stay at a hotel.”
If Carla had spoken that sentence to Claude, he’d have keeled over from shock.
“Sounds fun,” said Borden. “And you’re hoping I’ll watch the kids.” Bess smiled and nodded slowly. “Wait, you want me to watch all of the kids?”
“Tim will help!” offered Alicia. “I think!”
“And you’ve got Amy and Vivian,” said Bess. “The boys—and Stephanie—are officially middle-schoolers now. Tom, Eric, and Manny are practically adults. They can take care of themselves. God knows, we have enough sleeping bags. And leftover food.”
The decision was made, but Bess gave Borden the courtesy of final approval.
He smiled into his wife’s beaming face. How could he, or anyone, deny her? “Go,” he said. “I’ll keep the kids alive until you get back. But don’t expect much more than that.”
Bess cutely squealed and hugged Borden, who had to peel her off. The women flew into action, explaining their plan to the children (they all loved the idea of a mass sleepover), making the necessary phone calls and arrangements. Vivian’s face brightened when she heard the plan. Even Amy seemed to approve of the idea.
Claude was a hundred percent opposed.
“You don’t know what the boys will do or watch,” he said. “And you’re going to gamble? With Robin Stern’s money? I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“I’m going,” she said succinctly, without regret. “If you want to pick up Zeke and Manny to bring them home, just call first.” Then Carla hung up on Claude, something she’d never done before. She might pay for it later. But tonight, she’d speed to the ocean in a BMW with her friends, eat a huge meal, drink as much wine was she wanted, and play poker against real gamblers. The surge of excitement was disorienting. Carla was afraid she might burst out of her skin.
Nine months ago, if someone told her that, come June, she’d abandon her husband and children to play poker in Atlantic City with a bunch of white women, she’d have laughed herself into hyperventilation. She felt eyes, and turned to see that Robin was smirking at her.
“Being bad feels pretty fucking excellent, doesn’t it?” asked Robin.
“Please don’t curse,” said Carla. “And yes. It does.”
SHOWDOWN
13
While Carla drove the BMW (Robin was forbidden from getting behind the wheel), Bess worked her iPhone trying to find a hotel room. Spontaneity had its headaches. Most of the big resorts were booked solid. There was crazy talk about turning around, and heading north toward Connecticut’s Native American casinos Mohegan Sun and Foxwoods. But that would have added another hour to the trip. On the sixth try, Bess secured a suite for the women at Harrah’s, a white elephant of a resort right on the ocean, next to the Trump Marina. None of them had ever been to Harrah’s. Only Bess had been to Atlantic City before—with her father when she was a toddler. She didn’t remember the trip, but she had a photo of herself, white blond, chubby belly in a green bikini, on Fred’s shoulders on the boardwalk. She thought about that photo, and let herself miss her youth and her dad. But only for a second. The women hadn’t come for nostalgia. They’d come to play.
The mood in the car started out rowdy, then dialed way down while Bess hunted for a hotel room. With that business concluded, the mood settled into an anticipatory calm. The drive took a while—over two hours. The women talked a bit, but each was in her own head, thinking about what she’d left behind in Brooklyn—unresolved relationships, tough conversations to come, the decisions that had to be made and then lived with. Just as every relationship and decision up to this point had brought them to where they were now—exit 75 on the Garden State Parkway—every future action (or inaction) would carry them to the next phase, what- or wherever that might be. Each woman knew that she was on the brink of ending one part of her life, and beginning another. They were speeding toward the clear dividing moment between “what was” and “what will be.” This night would be more than an impromptu road trip for a (diverse) quartet of former strangers, now close friends. Harrah’s—or, as they decided to call it, “Hurray’s”—seemed as good a place as any to make a change.
A poker player mantra about living in the moment: “The past is history, the future’s a mystery.” You had to check, fold, call, or raise each hand based on limited information, previous experience, and gut intuition, and accept the consequences of your bet, regardless of the outcome. Play smart and bold, no matter how many chips you hold. Leave nothing on the table.
They arrived at Hurray’s, checked in—no luggage—walked through the clanging, blinking casino floor, and went up to their suite. The consensus about the accommodations? Sopranos Chic. Haute Tacky. Bess said, “New Jersey Style.”
Alicia said, “Now, there’s an oxymoron to add to my list. I’ll put that between ‘military intelligence’ and ‘compassionate conservatism.’ ”
They threw open the curtains to let in the last rays of sunlight, showcasing the spotty carpet and faded furniture fabric. Hardly mattered. They hadn’t come to sit in a hotel suite. It served a function, and was comfortably enormous. Two bedrooms with twin beds, a large lounge area with a full bar and fridge stocked with fruit, cheese, crackers, candy, cookies, half a dozen chilled bottles. Bess suggested opening some champa
gne.
Robin said, “We can’t drink before we play.”
Alicia reeled back in mock shock. “Who are you, and what have you done with Robin Stern?”
“Let’s get some food,” said Robin, ignoring Alicia. “And then we’ll play. I want a full stomach—which should take me two bites—and a clear head.”
Carla said, “I noticed a steakhouse in the lobby.”
“Fine,” said Robin.
“You can eat steak?” asked Bess.
“If I cut a fillet into tiny pieces, I can handle it,” said Robin.
The Longhorn Steakhouse was located, to their delight, on the mezzanine level overlooking the poker circle. The women got a table along the balcony and could peer down at some three-dozen tables. The aerial view helped them get the lay of the land. A desk, like a restaurant maître d’ stand, blocked the only entrance into the poker circle. The area wasn’t a room per se with four walls and a door, but rather an open-air large circle with a hip-high demi-wall looped around it. At the desk, an organizer logged a player’s preference into a computer (game type—Hold ’Em, five card draw, etc.—ante maximums, number of players in your party), and then you waited in a cordoned-off outer area for an open seat at an appropriate table. When your name flashed on a digital display over the organizer’s desk, you presented yourself to him, and were escorted to your seat by an usher. Only players, dealers, managers, ushers, and servers were allowed inside the circle. Spectators could watch from the other side of the demi-wall. If spectators got too loud, they were asked to leave the area by beefy security guards who patrolled the circle wall.
The action was intense and quiet. Compared to the noisy, blinking, and ka-chinging on the casino floor, the poker circle was a veritable tomb. Huge sums of money were being won and lost down there. And yet, the players acted stoic, unfazed by the dizzying redistribution of chips after each hand. Even though it was nighttime in a windowless casino, half the players wore sunglasses and caps pulled low over their eyes. Some of the players drank cocktails; some had bottles of water. No smoking, which the ladies appreciated (except Robin). And hardly any talking. The tone was serious, somber, and scary as hell.
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