At the poker table, looks, status, and identity meant nothing. The only thing that mattered here was whether you checked, folded, called, raised, or reraised. In the real world, Bess’s life burst with responsibilities. Plans to make, things to do, people to see, checks to write, food to cook, dishes to wash, kids to care for. Bess had to keep track of six people’s activities, special requirements, and emotional needs. As soon as she settled into the chair’s soft leather cushion and pulled herself up to the poker table, Bess’s fragmented existence became whole. She transformed into a laser-focused hard (white) diamond of one mind and one purpose: to win hands.
She hadn’t entered this state of concentration when she played with the other women in Brooklyn. Those games had too many distractions—the discussion, kids, phones, husbands, food, drinks, and hostessing (a duty that had fallen on Bess more often than the others).
She’d tried to improve her poker play all year. She’d urged the other women to take the rules seriously. But their personal lives always interceded. Rightfully so. Brooklyn Hold ’Em had been made up on the fly, a game of getting-to-know-you. They’d started out as the Diversity Committee. But now they had the same goals and concerns: to help each other. Did friends need to have more in common than involvement in each other’s lives? Bess had become deeply involved watching her friends’ lives unfold, pulling her in, getting her wrapped up and wanting to know what would happen next. With real friendships, the chapters and stories kept coming, increasing in complexity, until it all ended in death. Of course, Bess had to include death. It was a fact of life.
So there was real friendship. And then there was real poker. This game required no compassion or caring. The story ended after each hand. The only requirement: Bess’s undivided attention. She felt her vision tunnel. Extraneous sound and sights dissolved around the edges. A few times, she heard Alicia and Bess try to get her attention and pull her out of the zone. Bess stayed focused. Her absorption seemed superhuman, a power she hadn’t known she possessed. It was beyond pleasurable. In fact, it had a sexual reward system. When she won a hand, Bess registered a direct hit on the clitoris. Pulling in one massive pot of over a thousand dollars, Bess thought she might come right there in her chair.
Bess smiled graciously when she won. When she lost a good hand to smart player, she congratulated him—or her (hours into the game, another woman took a chair and did well). Bess’s play style was gutshot and mindful. Unlike real life, where Bess craved control, in poker, she loosened up, relinquished mastery of the table action, and mentally opened a window for Lady Luck.
Luck had been floating overhead all night long. Bess had won hands with four of a kind and full houses. One magnificent draw, she pulled the only “out” on the river—the queen of diamonds to make a queen high straight flush (that was her near spontaneous orgasm winner). When she was forced by her bladder to take bathroom breaks, she ran to and from the ladies’ room.
At midnight, her friends tried to pull her away. But she begged off. At one o’clock in the morning, she felt as exhilarated and energetic as she had when she first sat down. Her friends were back at the poker circle wall, only a few feet away from where she sat.
“Don’t try to talk to her,” said Robin. “She’s in her happy place.”
Carla said, “Look at her piles.”
Alicia said, “I’m exhausted. I’ve got to go upstairs.”
“Me, too,” said Carla. “After this hand.”
Bess was in the middle of a good one. She had a jack and ten of spades in the pocket. On the flop: the eight and king of spades. Flush draw, and a one-way straight draw. The other woman at the table, young and awkward, a college student in an orange T-shirt, had bet aggressively pre-flop. Maybe she had an ace or a king in the pocket. Bess waited to see what she’d do now with a king on the board.
Orange bet big. A thousand dollars. Bess decided Orange had a king in the pocket. Thus far, when the girl bet big, she had the cards to back up her play. Bess hadn’t bluffed on many hands. When she did, she had an inner calm about it, intuitive assurance her bluff would fly. This time, she wasn’t so sure.
So Bess called. So did Cowboy Hat, an older gentleman who’d been at the table almost as long as Bess. He tended to pick and play hands to the river.
The turn: another spade, a deuce. Bess now had a king high flush. A good hand. A solid winner. Except she had a nagging doubt about Orange’s big pre-flop raise. It was just not in character for the girl. Maybe she had a pair of aces in the pocket? Bess’s flush beat that.
Bess’s turn to act first. She preferred not to lead into the action, so she checked. Orange bet two thousand dollars. Cowboy Hat called. Bess’s instinct told her Cowboy Hat was seeing the hand through to the end, as he often did for no good reason. He might have a king, or possibly a flush, too. He’d beat her with the ace of spades in the pocket. Orange could have a flush. But not all three of them. There were only thirteen spades in the deck. The odds of a three-way flush were small, but not impossible. Calling again, Bess moved a high stack into the pot.
The river: deuce of clubs. A pair on the board. No help for Bess’s straight flush dreams. But she still felt like she had a very strong hand, a likely winner.
Cowboy Hat checked. He’d been looking to the river for an out—a third ace, if he had two in the pocket?—and, obviously, didn’t get it. Orange checked. A sign to Bess that the girl’s pre-flop aggressive raise was a ploy to steal the blinds, or overexcitement about a pocket pair. Bess could check, too, and then see their hands and she’d know. But why check when she had a king high flush? This was a betting hand.
She looked over her shoulder at her pals. Carla was whispering to Robin and Alicia, probably explaining to them exactly what Bess was thinking about.
One more review of the hand’s history, the pre-flop raise, the calls and checks. Orange’s early enthusiasm had cooled considerably. Orange checked after the river. If she had an ace high flush or a full house, she would’ve raised.
Bess decided to go in over the top. She had a very strong hand. Bess didn’t want to risk a showdown if she could intimidate the others into a fold.
“All in,” said Bess, pushing her chips into the middle.
The dealer went quickly about the business of tallying her raise. He called out the supervisor, “Eight thousand, two hundred and twenty into the pot.”
The manager, a sweet-faced middle-aged woman with a computerized clipboard, came over to the table. She noted the amount.
The dealer said, “To you, sir.”
Cowboy Hat folded. Whew, thought Bess. One down.
“To you, ma’am,” said the dealer to Orange.
“Call,” said Orange.
Bess got a sinking feeling. That post-river check had been a lure, and Bess fell for it.
The dealer double-checked Orange’s stack.
“The bet is called,” said the dealer. A manager came to watch.
The pot was over $20,000. With a nod from the dealer, Bess turned over her cards.
“King high flush,” said the dealer.
The eyes of all the players, the dealer, the supervisor, and a large crowd of spectators (they’d flocked when the dealer called out the amount on the table) now turned toward the girl. She revealed her cards.
First card: the king of hearts. Bess wasn’t surprised by that. She’d played out the pair of kings in the pocket scenario. So now Orange had two pair, kings and the pair of deuces on the board.
Second card: not a king. Bess sighed with relief. But she realized it was just as bad—a pint-sized coup de grâce, the deuce of hearts.
“Full house, deuces over kings. Winner.”
The table and crowd applauded the winner.
Bess joined in. “You raised pre-flop with a king and a deuce kicker? And then checked with a full house? You totally played me! Well done,” Bess said.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” the girl said. She was crying with excitement.
Bess felt happ
y for her, and hoped she’d spend the money wisely. She said, “You should be very proud of yourself.” And then stood up to go.
The dealer said, “You’re not leaving us.”
“My friends are waiting for me,” said Bess. “Thank you all so much. I had an excellent time tonight. And what a finish!”
Cowboy Hat said, “You just lost twenty thousand dollars! What’re you smiling about?”
“I didn’t lose twenty thousand dollars,” said Bess. “I lost five hundred dollars—what I had when I first sat down.”
“You’re crazy,” said Cowboy Hat.
Bess shrugged. Frankly, he looked a little crazy.
Her friends greeted her with open arms. “Bad beat,” said Carla.
“Yeah,” said Bess. “But look at the winner! She’s ecstatic. Obviously, that girl needs the money more than I do.”
“Excuse me,” said the manager with her electronic clipboard. She’d followed Bess out of the circle.
Bess smiled at her. “Did I forget something?”
“No,” she said, smiling at Bess. “I just wanted to tell you: I’ve worked the poker circle here for six years. And I have never seen someone lose a big pot as graciously as you just did.”
“Did you guys hear that? I’m a good loser!” said Bess, making her friends laugh.
“Are you staying at the hotel?” asked the manager. “May I see your key card for a moment?”
“Sure,” said Bess, handing it over.
The woman swiped the card on her computer clipboard, and then typed on the touch screen keypad. Handing the card back to Bess, the woman said, “Graciousness isn’t appreciated enough, in my opinion—or rewarded. Please accept a gift on behalf of Harrah’s Resort and Casino. Your room and all room charges have been picked up by the hotel.”
Robin said, “You can do that?”
“Just did,” she said and turned the clipboard around to show them the balance on their room: $0. “I see you’re checking out in the morning. Drive home safe, and please come back to Harrah’s next time you’re in AC,” said the woman.
“Hurray’s!” said Alicia.
“Is the comp good for the rest of the night?” asked Robin.
“You bet,” said the manager, who smiled and then returned to the center of the poker circle.
“You know what this means,” said Bess.
Carla said, “That even when you lose, you win? And I do mean you, Bess Steeple.”
“Well, I had something else in mind,” said Bess.
“We’re cleaning out the room fridge?” asked Alicia.
“To the last crumb,” said Bess.
As instructed, the women drove home safely, despite savage hangovers and queasy stomachs. Too much caviar, chocolate, and champagne (or, perhaps, as Robin suggested, “not enough”).
“Can we go any faster?” asked Carla from the backseat.
The driver, Alicia, said, “You’re in a hurry to get back?”
“I have a meeting at three,” said Carla. “With my once and future bosses.”
“So you’re taking the rover job?” asked Robin, seated in the suicide seat.
Carla exhaled. “When push comes to shove, I’m not such a risk-taker when real money is concerned. I played like a straight arrow last night. It worked for me. So, yes, I’m going to take the job. But I’m using my poker winnings the right way. We are going to Disney World.”
Bess said, “First class, all the way.”
Alicia said, “I have a meeting this afternoon, too. I’ll miss the whole workday.”
“You deserve it,” said Bess. “You’re the star of the agency.”
“I’m only as good as my last catchy slogan,” said Alicia. “My meeting is with a divorce lawyer. Don’t tell your kids. Joe doesn’t know. Tim doesn’t know either.”
That quieted the others. Despite their minibreak, real life hadn’t stopped.
Robin said, “Are you sure divorce is what you want?”
“If I don’t do it, Tim never will,” said Alicia. “No more waiting. One of us has to do something now, while we don’t hate each other too much.”
Bess said, “Next week, I’m supposed to drop off Amy at my mother’s apartment. Simone is taking her to East Hampton, where she will do her best to make Amy hate me even more.”
Carla, not a hugger, reached across the backseat and gave her friend a squeeze. “Have faith,” she said. “Amy will realize all you’ve done for her.”
“But when?” asked Bess.
“Ten years, give or take a month,” said Alicia.
“I’d say twenty,” said Robin.
Carla said, “Are you all still going to talk to me when I’m not a Brownstone mom?”
“You really are a ridiculous person,” said Robin.
“And that really was a stupid question,” agreed Alicia.
Carla laughed, booming. Hurt their achy heads.
“Let’s agree to a fixed day to play each month at my house,” suggested Bess. “All you have to do is be there.”
The women made a vow to each other: to be there.
14
Alicia
“Lunch?” asked Finn, stretching at his desk chair, his shirt tightening over his glorious chest. It was Friday afternoon.
For the last six Fridays, they’d taxied downtown to his apartment for “lunch.”
“Can’t,” said Alicia, checking the time, grabbing her purse. “I have an appointment.” Her second. The meeting yesterday, right after the AC road trip, had been a $200-per-hour blur. Alicia was so tired and hungover, she’d forgot to ask half of her questions.
“Doctor?” asked Finn, her fabulous, sweetly concerned boyfriend (just the word “boyfriend” was exquisitely sexy). “You’re not pregnant, are you?”
That would be a laugh and a half, after her years of infertility, to just drop a bun when she hadn’t been watching.
“Lawyer,” she said.
“A divorce lawyer?” he asked, attempting to look calm.
Alicia assured him, “Don’t worry. I’m not asking you to take me on.”
“Maybe I want to take you on,” he said. “And Joe.”
“Oh, please,” said Alicia. “You don’t even know what that means.”
“Right there,” he said, “Great example of the—what word did I use?—the condescension I was telling you about.”
He had been complaining lately that Alicia didn’t take him seriously. Although she regretted insulting him, Alicia couldn’t stop herself. The fact was, she was seven years older than Finn. His longest relationship had lasted only six months. At his age, Alicia was already a wife and mother. She’d put in years of emotional agony when she couldn’t get pregnant. Finn had no kids, no mortgage, no responsibilities other than to his job.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I just feel a responsibility to protect you from what’s coming. Divorce isn’t pretty or nice. I hope Tim and I can part amicably. But I’m sure we’ll wind up fighting over the scraps we’ve accumulated. And custody.”
“Are you divorcing him because you love me?” asked Finn.
“I’ve told you a dozen times that Tim and I were in trouble long before we started … doing what we do.”
“But you didn’t put the divorce wheels in motion until after we got together,” he said, grinning, rising from his chair.
She inhaled the heady whiff of pheromones in the office air. Finn rounded his desk, closed and locked their office door, and gathered Alicia in his arms.
“I like your dress,” he said, reaching under it.
“Finn, I pay for the whole hour even if I’m late,” she said, but his fingers were doing delicious things inside her panties.
“I’m not letting you go until you tell me the truth,” he said, kissing her neck.
Alicia groaned, from pleasure and resignation. “What truth?”
“Am I the reason you want a divorce?”
“Okay, fine. Yes, you are the reason,” she said. “I don’t have the ner
ve to sleep with two men at the same time. Lying and cheating makes me extremely anxious. I’ve wanted to deny it for a long time, but the fact is, I am a neurotic mouse. You should have seen me trying to play poker in Atlantic City. It was pathetic! I almost fainted just sitting there. If I don’t get myself out of this god-awful situation of loving you and being married to Tim, I’ll self-destruct.”
“Is it immature of me to feel like the winner here?” asked Finn, nuzzling her shoulder. “The victorious male who gets to claim the prize.”
Alicia snorted and pushed him away. “Some prize!” she said, righting her underwear. “A broke soon-to-be single mother with an upcoming avalanche of legal bills.”
“You’re cute when you’re self-destructing,” said Finn.
“You’re a continuous flow of cute. The Mississippi River of cute,” she said, admiring her lover. “Really, Finn. I adore you. You brought me back to life.” Then she sank into her chair and commenced to sob. So not Alicia’s style. She was a quipper, not a crier. Quipping kept her feelings safe and locked up. Crying was for emoters, like Bess.
Finn rubbed her back, lifted her hair from soggy cheeks. “I adore you, too,” he whispered. “Your sense of humor, and talent, and face, and especially your very small, microscopic breasts.”
“Fuck you,” she said, swatting at him. “I’m leaving. You’d better be here when I get back.”
“I will,” said Finn.
Alicia liked the lawyer, a Brownstone mother she’d met on Parents’ Night way back in September. Why she’d thought to ask for the woman’s card nine months ago made no sense at the time. That Alicia had kept the card in her wallet through three cleanouts was pretty telling. She knew this day would come, and yet was still amazed that it had finally arrived. She was going to tell Tim that she wanted out.
“You’re home early,” said Tim, greeting Alicia at their apartment door. She accepted a kiss on the cheek and dropped her purse on one of the boxes they never got around to unpacking. Another clear signal from her (their?) subconscious?
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