Four of a Kind (17 page)

Oh, Gawd
, thought Robin. Stephanie’s father was a hostile misogynist. She had to laugh at her ridiculous fantasy that Harvey Wilson would turn out to be kind and gentle and step seamlessly into their lives, filling an assortment of empty holes.

Okay
, she thought,
I came to get a good look, and I’ve done that
. “Nice to see you again, Harvey,” she said. “Let’s do it again in another decade.”

“Just tell me your real name,” he said. “I tried to find you, you know. Back then.”

“Robin Stern,” she replied, not seeing the harm. Her name was common enough—the Jewish equivalent of Jane Smith. He’d never find her, no matter how vigorous his Googling. Besides, why would he come looking? There was nothing here. Robin held out her hand to shake good-bye. It had taken five minutes to satisfy ten-plus years of doubt. She was confident she’d done the right thing, keeping Stephanie to herself.

“He
what
?” shrieked Robin.

“He’s a blogger. He blogs. And you are excellent material,” said Alicia, inspecting her cards. They were at Carla’s black lacquered table, laden with the same oily supermarket antipasti platter as last time.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this the half second after you saw it?”

“Why didn’t you tell us you went to see him?” replied Alicia.

“Yes, Robin,” said Carla, peeking at her cards. “It’s not like you to withhold information. Any information. The details about your last bowel movement, for example.”

As if these women had any clue what Robin withheld or divulged. The assumed familiarity at their committee meetings was starting to
bug her. “You’ve all read his post?” she asked. Robin had stopped visiting his blog after their run-in. No point, she figured.

Bess coughed, recovered, and said, “I haven’t seen it.”

“You’re not over that cold yet?” asked Carla, examining Bess across the table, doing the physician once-over twice. “It’s been a month.”

“This is a new one,” said Bess, waving off the concern. “Four kids. It’s like this all winter. We take turns being sick.”

“I must see what Harvey wrote about me,” said Robin, standing. “Take me to the nearest computer,
now
.”

“We’re in the middle of a hand,” said Carla. “And I’m going to win it. So please sit
down
. You can read it later.”

“Did you feel attracted to him?” said Alicia, vicarious excitement seeking.

“It’s always sex with you. Sex or no sex,” said Robin to the celibate brunette, who, now that she considered it, was looking considerably less frumpy tonight. A-line skirt? Clingy silk blouse? High-heeled booties? Alicia was verging on chic. And, dear God, was she wearing blush, too, or was it a natural glow? Perhaps Robin wasn’t the only one among them keeping secrets. “How’s Tim lately?” she asked. “And that guy in your office. What’s his name again? Shark?”

“It’s Finn,” said Alicia, “and he’s fine. Raise five.”

“Reraise ten,” said Carla.

“Fold,” said Robin. “While you guys finish the hand, let me quickly check my email. The computer is  …?”

Carla, the evening’s host, said, “In my bedroom, and you are not going up there. The boys are doing homework and I don’t want them bothered.”

Robin longingly gazed at the stairs from her seat at Carla’s dining room table. Looking up, she saw the two boys on the landing up top, their heads leaning over the banister to spy on the women. Robin made eye contact with Zeke, her daughter’s classmate, and winked. The boy giggled and ducked out of sight.

Bess said, “I fold, too.” The blonde reached into her leather purse, rooting around until she found her iPhone. She said, “I’ve got Internet. Urban off road, right?”

Alicia said, “Do a dramatic reading.”

Bess laughed. “I don’t want to embarrass Robin,” she said, and then sneezed. Even spewing mucus, she was prettily dainty.

“Why the hell not?” asked Carla.

“She said ‘hell.’ First you let me open a bottle of wine in the house and now you’re cursing?” said Robin to her host. “Next thing you know, it’s shooting heroin.”

“Shhh,” said Carla, instinctively leaning forward to peer up the stairs. She caught a glimpse of movement, and a flicker of alarm crossed Carla’s strong features. “Boys!” she boomed, loud enough to make Robin flinch. The kids didn’t wait for instructions. The sound of scampering feet from the floor above put them in their rooms, doors closed.

Alicia dealt the river card. Carla raised and won the hand with a jack-high flush. The host was on fire tonight. “Another winner for the Black Queen,” she said, raking in the chips. To Bess, Carla directed, “Okay, let’s hear it. And make it good.”

“I would prefer to read it myself, in private,” said Robin.

“Too bad,” said Carla, and gestured for Bess to go ahead.

The blonde nodded and squinted at the tiny iPhone screen. “I can’t see anything anymore.” Holding the gadget at arm’s reach, she adjusted her vision. “Why are these screens so small?”

“For Christ’s sake!” blasted Robin. “Give me that thing!”

Bess held her off, laughing, sneezing.

Alicia, in the scuffle, grabbed the iPhone and said, “I’ll read it.
Ahem
. Here we go: urban off-road biker blog, entry dated three days ago. ‘I’m sure all of you are dying to hear about the 20K in Central Park last weekend, and I’ll get right to it. But first, a brief recount of my dip into the weird this week: a chance run-in with a one-night stand from my past. I was helping some customers at the store and
this redhead barrels into me, ranting about blocking the aisle, flying elbows. Subtle? Like a frying pan to the skull. I was reminded of the night I met this woman, how she plowed through a crowd of a hundred thousand in Times Square like it was human butter. So there she was, glaring at me, nostrils flaring. Despite a change in her appearance, I recognized her. She’d lost a lot of weight. Too much. Skinny on her looked old, hard, and bitchy. Last time I’d seen her, she was naked in my bed, soft and sweet, postorgasmic.’ ”

“Postorgasmic?” shrieked Robin. “That’s a lie!”

The women laughed (insensitive wenches!). Bess asked, “ ‘Postorgasmic’ bugs you, but you’re okay with ‘old, hard, and bitchy’?”

Robin shrugged, “Except for ‘old.’ ”

Alicia continued. “ ‘We acknowledged our first (and only) meeting, and I asked her how she’s been. Then she bit my freaking head off! Like I was the one who sneaked off in the middle of the night without an explanation or apology. I immediately made assumptions about how the last decade had treated her. I know it’s wrong to assume. I could have tried to confirm my theories. But it would’ve been rude to ask her, ‘Exactly how long
has
that broom been shoved up your ass?’ ”

Laughter again from the committee members. Robin said, “It didn’t go down like this at all. He’s twisting the encounter for comic effect. And he’s anally fixated.”

Carla said, “Well, you would know.”

All four women tittered at that. “Keep reading,” said Robin.

Alicia said, “That’s pretty much it. Just a parting shot: ‘Can’t believe I’d pined for this woman for an embarrassingly long time. The book on her? Officially closed.’ ”

“So he liked me fat,” said Robin. “I was always suspicious of the chubby-chasers. I hated being the object of a fetish.”

Bess said, “I know what you mean. A lot of men have a thing for blondes.”

“Oh, shut up, please,” said Robin. “If liking blondes makes you a
perv, then every man alive is a fetishist.” She took a long draw from her glass.

Alicia said, “Fetishist. Sounds like inferior quality goat cheese.”

Carla started shuffling and dealing the cards. “The correct term is ‘paraphiliac.’ And I think what Harvey wrote was nice.”

Robin nearly choked on her wine. “He portrayed me as a raving witch.”

“Who rides her broom in a very interesting way,” added Alicia.

Bess said, “I agree with Carla. He had a real thing for you. He was hurt when you left in the middle of the night. I don’t get chubby-chaser from the way he wrote about you. A man could describe
any
woman as soft and sweet. Soft isn’t secret code for fat. The guy recognized you ten years and two hundred pounds later. He liked you, you ditched him, he’s still pissed about it.”

“Which makes him insane and pathetic,” said Robin.

“Is that a step up or down from the guys you’re used to dating?” asked Alicia.

The truth was, Robin hadn’t been on a date in months. She was simply too angry at the world these days to be open to anyone. She wasn’t even interested in anonymous sex with a stranger. “I got an email last night from a guy I dated back in September,” she said, looking at her cards. “We had dinner at the Heights Cafe, walked on the Promenade. Talked. It was all very bland and tiring. I said I’d do him anyway. He turned me down—
then
. Four months later, he wants to know if the offer is still good.”

Robin shook her head and sighed. When she looked up, she noticed that all three woman’s eyes were on her, examining her expression, trying to take her emotional temperature. The sympathy was almost unbearable.

“When you look at me like you feel sorry for me,” Robin said to the group, “it only makes me madder.”

“What, no stirrups?” asked Bess. She was naked under the paper gown, sliding toward the end of the exam table.

Dr. Able (comforting name for the man holding the speculum), said, “I got new tables two years ago. No stirrups, just the slide out platform for your feet. Women tell me they prefer it.”

“I guess it has been a while since I last saw you,” she said guiltily. Like most mothers, Bess never missed her kids’ annual checkups, and took them to the pediatrician at the slightest sign of trouble. But she’d been hard-pressed to make time for or keep her own annual appointments. Carla insisted Bess get some blood drawn, though, since she’d been sick for so long. She was here, might as well get the royal treatment. Smear, blood, urine. A full body-fluids check.

Scooting to the edge of the table, Bess rested her feet on the slide-out platform, and spread her knees wide, the paper gown
stretching and crinkling with each movement. “Oh, yes, this is much more dignified,” she said.

Dr. Able said, “Okay, my hands are on your thighs. I’m parting the vaginal lips. I’m inserting the speculum …”

She knew the play-by-play was meant to prepare her for his latex touch, but she could have done without it. After four kids, she was practically a gynecologist herself, and had long ago lost any modesty about her vagina. It’d been splayed before dozens of people, had seen a lot of action. It was practically public property.

She felt the cervical scrape, and then the hasty removal of the plastic tool. Dr. Able said, “Most women hold their breath when I do that, followed by the dramatic exhale when it’s over.”

“I’ve been telling you for years, Doctor. I’m not like other women,” she said.

He prepared the sample for transport, changed his gloves, and then moved to the side of the table. “Slip your arms out of the gown and lower it, please.”

Breast exam time. “I should mention that I’ve had a nagging cold forever,” said Bess, lowering the gown. “I made excuses for it, but then I read an article about a woman who ignored chronic headaches, put off going to the doctor, until she dropped dead from a massive brain tumor.”

“You suspect a brain tumor?” he asked.

“Sinus infection,” she said. “That could creep into my brain and kill me.”

Dr. Able laughed. “I can give you antibiotics to treat a sinus infection. I’ll take a look. But if you haven’t keeled over yet, I’d say you probably just have a persistent cold. Arms over your head, please.”

She complied. The doctor reached for her left breast. While he pressed into it, Bess closed her eyes, and relaxed. She tried to remember the last time she’d had a massage. Five years ago? An anniversary gift from Borden that took six months to find its way into her schedule. It’d been a relaxing hour at a spa in the city, but then she’d come
home to chaos, the part-time babysitter overwhelmed by the boys’ running around, the kitchen a disaster, Amy furious at her for who knows what reason.