Four of a Kind Page 2

  “The kids must like it,” said Alicia, reaching for the tray of red, white, and blue round plastic chips. She grabbed a stack and put it in front of her. “Chips? Chips are irresistible. Fun to hold. You can’t not play with them.”

  Bess said, “You realize since we’re sitting down, we now have to deal a hand. That’s the rule. Does everyone know Texas Hold ’Em?”

  “You do?” asked Alicia.

  “I watched Borden play a few times,” said the host. “He made me practice with him.”

  Carla said, “I’ve never played.”

  “I can teach you,” said Bess. “It’s not too tough.”

  Robin said, “We have to make it interesting. Dollar a hand.”

  Alicia cringed inwardly—and, she feared, outwardly. Losing even ten bucks tonight would mean no lunch money tomorrow. They were on that tight a budget.

  Carla to the rescue. “I’m philosophically opposed to gambling.”

  Bess nodded. “I agree. I don’t want to take your money.”

  Robin smiled and said, “Oh, you’re assuming you’re going to win?”

  The host blushed prettily. “You have experience?” she asked Robin.

  Robin nodded. “You have no idea.”

  Alicia said, “What if we play for something else?”

  “Peanuts?” asked Robin.

  “Secrets,” said Alicia, amazed to hear herself say it. Her subconscious had spoken for her, and wisely. Trading secrets was a shortcut to friendship, wasn’t it?

  The three other woman stared at her, their mouths partly open. Alicia felt her gut clench. She’d said the wrong thing. “I’ll reel that one back in,” she said.

  “Secrets?” asked Bess, intrigued.

  “Secrets are a woman’s currency,” said Robin.

  “I have no secrets,” said Carla stridently.

  Alicia watched a ripple move behind Carla’s dark eyes. This woman had secrets aplenty, she thought. “Forget it,” she said. “Stupid idea.”

  Bess said, “No, I like it. Maybe not secrets per se. But something personal about ourselves. Children are the fallback conversation. You really can hide behind your kids. Especially me. I’m the only one here who doesn’t have a career. Focusing on the kids has become my default setting. If I’m not dealing with them, I’m talking about them, or listening to other women talk about theirs. And it’s just more of the same. Same classes, activities, playgroup, haircuts, expressions, comments, opinions.”

  Robin said, “And you’re looking for something different—or should I say diverse?”

  Bess laughed. “Okay, I’ll ante up. Here’s a secret. I’m not all that gung-ho about scheduling a calendar of multicultural events and lectures.”

  Robin gasped dramatically. “You’re not? Then I’m out of here.”

  Bess laughed. “The real reason I invited the three of you over tonight is that you’re nothing like me.”

  “You mean a WASPy, blond, rich housewife,” said Robin bluntly and, Alicia thought, rudely.

  Bess took it at face value. “Frankly, yes. Most of my friendships are like talking into a mirror.”

  Robin said, “So you took a look around at drop-off, and hand-picked a black woman, a frizzy-haired Jew, and a scholarship mom to be your new best friends?”

  Carla hooted. The biggest reaction from her all night, and the first show of her smile, which completely transformed her face from serious to sweet. She had a rich, deep, baritone laugh that made the table vibrate. “Now that’s calling a spade a spade. Oh, I like you,” she said to Robin, making Alicia feel a little jealous.

  Bess shrugged. “I wasn’t thinking ‘new best friends,’ but, yes, something like that.”

  On principle, Alicia, the “scholarship mom,” wasn’t terribly offended. She’d suspected her middle-class status had been her claim to diversity. If she was selected by the establishment for that reason, it was the first time her relative poverty had opened a door. Actually, it was the second time. Their income threshold helped get Joe into Brownstone. Although he had trouble socially, Joe tested well. Astonishingly well. His test scores zoomed him to the top of Brownstone’s academic scholarship list, and he’d won a full, free ride. So Joe could get a top-shelf private school education in Brooklyn. Alicia and her husband, Tim, thirty-six, had turned their lives upside down, uprooting from their Manhattan apartment of ten years. Alicia had no regrets, only insecurities about the bumpy transition to the outer borough. All of them were still getting used to the change—including Tim.

  “I’m cool with it,” said Alicia. “It’s not like the other scholarship moms were having a party and I had to make a choice.”

  “If the other black moms were getting together,” said Carla, obviously relieved to have the black elephant in the room acknowledged, “they didn’t invite me.”

  “I’d be in a club of one,” said Robin. “Of all the Jewish families at Brownstone—and there aren’t as many as you might think—I’m the only single parent. Then again, I can—and do—party by myself and always enjoy the company.”

  “So, then,” said Bess, her blue eyes flashing. “Shall I shuffle? How about we play it like this: We go around the table. Whoever deals the cards shares a little something about herself. After a showdown, the winner of the hand gets to ask a follow-up question.”

  “Showdown?” asked Carla.

  “When we show our cards,” said Bess.

  The deck well shuffled, Bess started dealing cards. Two facedown to each player. She said, “Each player gets two cards down—the ‘pocket’ or ‘hole’ cards. Then I deal five cards faceup in the middle. The first three are called ‘the flop.’ The fourth is called ‘the turn.’ The last card is ‘the river.’ I didn’t make up these terms. They make no sense, and aren’t terribly exciting. But it is what it is.”

  “Seven cards total,” said Alicia.

  “Right,” continued Bess, dealing the faceup cards to the middle. “The objective is to make the best five-card hand out of the seven cards available to you. You’re supposed to bet, call, raise, or fold before ‘the flop,’ again before ‘the turn,’ again before ‘the river,’ and once after. I remember Borden saying something about ‘burn and turn.’ Not sure how that comes into it.”

  “Who cares?” said Robin. “We can play by our own rules.”

  “Brooklyn Hold ’Em,” said Alicia. “I’ve never been to Texas anyway.”

  Bess said, “Not missing much.”

  “I’d sooner go to Damascus that Dallas,” said Robin, peeking at the two cards Bess had dealt her facedown. “Remind me. What beats what?”

  Bess groped around under the table for a hidden pocket, “We have a laminated card somewhere. Here. Okay, it’s royal flush, straight flush, four of a kind …”

  Carla said, “Slow down! I’m never going to remember that!”

  “Meanwhile,” said Alicia, “what exactly is a straight flush?”

  Robin asked, “Is it anything like a mercy flush?”

  “That’s lovely,” said Bess.

  Carla said, “Okay, I know which five cards I’m using. What now?”

  “I dealt, so I’ll talk,” said Bess. “When I’m done, we showdown.”

  Alicia looked at her cards. Even with Bess’s explanation, it was all pretty confusing. “Can I see that?” she asked, and Bess passed her the laminated what-beats-what guide.

  “My mother,” said the host, “is Simone Gertrude.”

  “I’d heard that,” said Robin, sipping her drink. “Grapevine.”

  “The feminist?” asked Carla, impressed. “Burned a giant pile of pantyhose on the steps of the Capitol in the seventies, right?”

  Alicia said, “I thought it was a giant pile of aprons.”

  “She burned both,” said Bess. “If she hadn’t been an activist, she would’ve made an excellent arsonist.”

  “Wow,” said Alicia, suddenly realizing she had a flush.

  “Are you saying ‘wow’ about your hand, or because I have a famous mot
her?” asked Bess.

  Alicia said, “My poker face isn’t fully functional yet.”

  Bess said, “Ready to show?”

  Her guests nodded.

  Using a combination of the community cards and her “pocket cards,” Carla had two pair—deuces and tens. Alicia’s heart beat a little faster. So far, she was winning. Robin had three of a kind—eights. Not a threat. Alicia put down her flush: clubs. Bess whistled low, and showed her pair of deuces.

  “I win!” said Alicia, an instant convert, madly in love with poker. “I beat all of you! With my winningest hand. Oh, yeah!”

  Robin sipped her drink. “And you play it cool, too.”

  Turning to Bess, Alicia said, “Now I get to ask a question.” The host nodded. “What does your feminist icon mother think of the fact that you’re a housewife?”

  Carla whooped. “Hey, that was my question.”

  Robin nodded in agreement. “Good one.”

  Bess pursed her lips. “Exactly what you’d assume. Simone thinks I’m a bad role model for Amy. That I’m squandering my potential. That I’m throwing my life away.” Bess shared this recrimination without much emotion. Being called a waste of skin by your own mother would be devastating, she thought. Alicia’s mother had been a stay-at-homer, and she expressed nothing but pride in her daughter’s career in advertising, such as it was.

  “I hope you told her to fuck off,” said Alicia. Seeing Carla flinch at her language, she added, “Sorry. I work with a bunch of guys.”

  Robin asked, “What do you say to defend yourself?”

  “Only one question per showdown,” said Bess. “If you want more of the story, you’ll have to beat me.”

  Alicia took a second (third) close look at her beautiful, rich host. One shouldn’t judge a blonde by her highlights. Bess might look like a pampered conservative, but she’d been raised by a risk-loving radical.

  “Gimme those cards,” said Robin, gathering them up and starting to shuffle. She paused to finish her drink, check her watch (for the second time, Alicia noticed), and tip her empty glass to Bess.

  The host jumped to replenish Robin’s glass, and top off the rest of their drinks. A lightweight, Alicia would be hammered if she finished a second drink. The others didn’t seem to feel the alcohol.

  Robin started dealing. “Eleven years ago,” she said as the cards landed on the felt, “I weighed three hundred and forty-two pounds.”

  “No,” said Bess. “You’re a toothpick.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Robin. “I was enormous. I looked like the women on The Biggest Loser, only fatter.”

  Alicia calculated the timing. The fourth-graders at Brownstone were nine-going-on-ten. Robin said “eleven years ago.” Was she heavy when her daughter was conceived? Alicia knew Robin was single. Scenarios sprang to mind. Turkey-baster? Chubby-chaser boyfriend? Chubby-chaser husband, who left when she dropped the weight? How had she shed over two hundred pounds?

  “About fifteen questions are running through my head,” said Bess, echoing Alicia’s thoughts. “I’d better win this hand.”

  Carla twirled the ice in her glass with her finger. Her face appeared completely calm. Maybe the twirl was her “tell”—the nonverbal giveaway that betrayed her good hand. In Casino Royale, the villain stroked a throbbing vein on his temple. Alicia made a mental note to notice whenever Carla twirled her ice.

  Alicia examined her pocket cards, and then glanced at the five communal cards faceup on the felt.

  She gasped when she saw she had three queens as well as a pair of sixes. Glancing at the cheat sheet, she realized she had a full house! One of the best possible hands. She couldn’t help smiling.

  Robin said, “Don’t look now. Poker Face over there thinks she’s got another winner.” Alicia grinned. Bess smiled serenely. Carla twirled her ice.

  “What happens if the dealer wins?” Robin asked. “Do I ask myself a question?”

  Bess said, “Hmm. You get to ask any of us a question.”

  Robin nodded. “Let’s show.”

  The women lay down their hands in turn.

  Bess said, “Pair of nines.”

  Robin said, “Pair of jacks.”

  Alicia beamed and turned over her queens. “Full freaking house. Yeah, bay-bay!”

  Carla, her finger by now numb from ice twirling, arranging her five cards of choice in a row. She took the two sixes, and a king from the communal cards. And then turned over a pair of kings. “Higher full house,” she said. “My kings beat your queens.”

  “Shit!” said Alicia. “Why do kings beat queens? If we’re making our own rules for Brooklyn Hold ’Em, queens are hereby better than kings.”

  Robin said, “I’ll drink to that.”

  Carla nodded. “Fine, but I still win this hand. So my question, Robin: How on earth did you lose that much weight?” Carla herself was a plus-sized woman, probably a size eighteen. Fluffy, Alicia believed, was the latest euphemism.

  Robin said, “Pregnancy. My ob-gyn said if I didn’t lose weight, with my blood pressure, I was at risk for preeclampsia. I could have a stroke, lose the baby. Nothing like the fear of sudden death for diet motivation. I’m the only person I know who lost fifty pounds while pregnant.”

  “Incredible,” said Alicia.

  “And then you just kept on dieting?” asked Carla.

  Robin started to answer, but Bess stopped her. “Only one question per win,” reminded the host.

  “But I want the whole story,” said Carla.

  “This one question rule is a tease,” agreed Alicia. “It’s like foreplay.”

  “Yes, but think how delicious it’ll be to get the full story after your curiosity has had a chance to build, get taut and coiled, and then—finally—shatter with relief and satisfaction?” asked Bess.

  The four women paused for a second. Robin said, “I need a cigarette.”

  Carla said, “I never thought of curiosity in those terms before.”

  “Who deals?” asked Alicia, eager to get back to playing.

  “I’ll go,” said Carla, sweeping up the cards with her broad hands, shuffling them expertly, making a bridge, cutting the deck with one hand. “I don’t let my boys watch TV during the week, so we end up playing a lot of gin,” she explained.

  “That better not be your secret,” said Robin.

  Carla laughed, that great booming thunder. “I’m getting there,” she said, starting to flick two facedown cards to each player. “Today,” she said, turning over the community cards, “I saved the life of a six-year-old girl.”

  “I’d heard you’re a pediatrician,” said Robin. “Grapevine.”

  “At Long Island College Hospital, right?” asked Bess. “Right around the corner from here. I love living so close to a hospital. Makes me feel safe.”

  “I’m not answering any questions,” said Carla imperiously, “until I see a winning hand.”

  After a hasty bit of peeking and consulting the cheat sheet (Alicia noticed Carla hadn’t twirled her ice for this hand), they showed their combinations.

  Robin said, “Nothing. Pair of twos.”

  Alicia said, “Beat that. Two pair.” Aces and threes.

  Bess said, “Sorry, sweetheart. Jack high flush.” All diamonds.

  “Shit!” said Alicia.

  Carla said, “Nothing. King high card.”

  The host and winner of the hand turned to Carla. “I’ll have to ask the obvious. What happened?”

  “I run the walk-in pediatric clinic,” Carla started, adjusting her caftan as she talked. “A mom brought in her daughter. Low fever, abdominal pain, and nausea. Her mama thought it was a stomach bug, and kept saying she shouldn’t have bothered taking off from work to bring the girl in. I insisted on a sonogram—and my hunch was right. Her appendix was an hour from bursting. If I’d sent them home, they might not have made it back to the hospital in time.”

  The three women listened, awed by Carla’s story. She added, “Just another day. Feels strange—good strange—
to talk about it. I don’t discuss work with my family. It’s home policy, like no TV. My husband, Claude—he sells medical supplies—he’s too tired at the end of the day to listen. The boys are too young for stories about sick kids. I’d tell them about the happy endings, like today. But that’s just presenting one side. You have to talk about life and death. It’s both, or neither.”

  “You can talk to us about both,” said Bess, smiling generously.

  Carla nodded and shrugged noncommittally. She would say no more about either tonight.

  A moment of stiff silence followed, until Alicia gathered the cards, shuffled, and dealt. The woman peeked at their pocket cards. Robin sipped her drink and glanced at her watch. Bess tapped the table.

  Alicia, meanwhile, mentally scrambled for something to say. She was comfortable with the other women revealing themselves, but—even though it’d been her idea—she was reluctant to open up herself. Alicia had a big bag of personal issues: She was raising a socially stunted child. Her salary would never be enough to support her family. She was pissed off at her husband’s chronic unemployment and apparent lack of ambition. She was halfway in love with Finn, even though he treated her like a frat bro. She could confess her deep, bedrock belief that most people were capital-L Living—having fun, making memories, adoring and being adored—while she was merely existing. Alicia glanced up, and realized the other women were waiting for her to speak.

  Robin said, “Don’t think, Alicia. Just blurt. Thinking is way overrated.”

  Alicia nodded, opened her mouth. No words came out.

  Bess said, “Just a little something. Where you grew up. Start easy.”

  “My husband, Tim, and I haven’t had sex in two years,” Alicia said, and then clasped her hand over her mouth.

  “Now that’s what I call a blurt!” said Robin.

  A male voice drifted down the stairs, “Honey?”

  “It’s Borden,” said Bess.

  Weirdly, Alicia had the impulse to hide, like she was in high school, about to be busted for smoking pot in the basement. All the women got edgy at the sound of a man’s intrusion. And what a man he turned out to be. Borden Steeple appeared on the stairs, first his shoes, long legs in creased gray trousers, then his slim-fitting suit jacket across a broad chest, the red tie. Alicia couldn’t help gasping slightly when she saw his face. He was a stunner. The most handsome man Alicia’d ever seen in person. Dark eyes and thick, nearly black hair. As he walked closer to the table, she saw the crow’s feet, which made his chiseled face just imperfect enough to be truly gorgeous. He gave Bess a kiss on the lips, left a hand on her shoulder, and then smiled around the table.