Four of a Kind (21 page)

And she was fine
. No cancer. Tiny scar on her otherwise enviable breast (for her age and number of children). There was nothing wrong with her, and why should she expect or hope to be treated with special kindness by anyone? None was forthcoming, except from Borden and her boys. Eric, Charlie, and Tom had been sweet, making cards for her, bringing her snacks on the breakfast tray. They wrote and performed a little play for her, pretending to be gods from Mount Olympus, looming from on high, deciding her happy fate. Bess had been treated better by the men in her life than the women.

In Alicia’s seedy apartment, the silence grew, as each woman waited for the others to speak. Tim gave Joe a bowl of paella, and the boy knew enough to flee from the toxic air in the main room.

Tim, on the other hand, was not going anywhere in a hurry.

“Here’s how we’ll do it, women,” he said. “We’re going to eat, and then we’re going to play cards. You don’t have to say a single word to each other for the rest of the night. But no one leaves until this horrible tension breaks.”

Bowing to the will of the only man in the room, the four women did as they were told.

If Carla needed one word to best define her life, it would be: “Hurry.” Constantly behind schedule at the clinic, she hurried through patients. Then she hurried home to make dinner for Zeke and Manny. She was getting sick of hearing herself say, “Let’s go,” and “Move it or lose it.” When her sons dallied, she took it personally. She’d made the necessary concession to let them walk to the clinic after school by themselves. The boys liked being trusted with a taste of independence, if only for the ten minutes it took them to get from Brownstone to LICH. But they resented having to do their homework in her office for two or three hours until she finished for the day. They preferred hanging out at Bess’s or Robin’s.

Boo-hoo and too bad
, thought Carla, washing her hands at the sink for the tenth time that day. Was it wrong to deprive them of Pop-Tarts and YouTube? She liked her children where she could see them.
Bess let her kids run wild. Last week, when Carla arrived to pick up the boys from the Clinton Street townhouse, Bess yelled up the stairs, and the kids came running down. Carla calmly asked Bess what they’d been doing all afternoon, and Bess just shrugged. They could’ve been watching Internet porn for all Bess knew (or seemed to care).

Robin was hardly more vigilant. The last time Carla picked up her sons there, Robin was making Zogby calls while Zeke, Manny, and Stephanie were in the living room watching an R-rated movie on HBO. Carla walked in on them in time to see a gunman (black, of course) in a speeding taxi shooting bullets at a family of four (white) in a station wagon on the highway. Carla tried to turn off the TV, but there was no switch so she asked authoritatively for the remote. Stephanie, clearly not used to decisive voices, got flustered and couldn’t find the box. Carla told her to look harder, and the girl started to cry. Enter Robin, who looked stunned to find her daughter upset, Carla fuming, Manny and Zeke chagrined, and the TV blasting machine gunfire. Robin managed to turn the damn thing off and apologized. But Carla knew: Robin wasn’t sorry. She was angry that Carla made her daughter cry. Was Carla the only mother left in the world who tried to shield her children from the garbage that came at them from every direction?

That was the last time Carla had seen or spoken to Robin. Bess was checked out emotionally, mentally, or both. Alicia had been flying under the radar for weeks. Carla’s only contact with the other players had been Bess’s emails to the entire Brownstone mailing list about the upcoming winter fund-raiser. A Seventies-theme casino night. As the winner of the last poker game, Bess extorted promises from Carla, Robin, and Alicia that they’d all attend. The event wasn’t for another couple of weeks (thank God), so Carla wouldn’t have to think about it. She hated parent-oriented events at Brownstone. She felt conspicuous, like a raisin in a bowl of oatmeal.

Carla wondered if their most recent, painfully awkward committee meeting was their last. None of the women seemed motivated to
set a date, or even discuss what had happened. The game might’ve run its course. Claude would be delighted to hear it. He’d been hinting that Carla should make new, other (black) friends. He wanted to go on couples dates. The boys were older, he said. They were responsible enough to walk from school to the clinic. Why couldn’t they stay alone at home for a few hours, so Carla and Claude could go out by themselves?

“If the Obamas can make time for a weekly date night, so can we,” he said one night in bed after they’d made love.

Carla had been thrown by Claude’s sudden romanticism. Since the last card night (it annoyed Carla that the others still referred to it as a “committee meeting”), when she’d come home complaining, Claude had been more attentive. He fixed the bathroom door. He brought home eggs. Was Carla’s disconnect with Alicia, Bess, and Robin an aphrodisiac for him? He must’ve felt neglected, or resentful that she’d ventured so far afield. Now she was back, and disheartened. The game had cooled; Claude had heated up. Being pleased with herself for having a happy man at home was nothing to be ashamed of.

“Are you still at the sink?” said Tina, her impatient nurse. “You can’t wash the black off, Mommy.”

Carla snapped back to the present. Embarrassed, she turned off the water and dried her hands. She’d been zoning out so often lately. Her focus was slipping. Tina was holding out a couple of charts.

“Last two, right?” asked the doctor. She’d already seen thirty patients today.

“And then we’re done for the weekend,” said Tina. “Exam room one, ear infection. Room two, fungal rash.”

“I love to end the workweek with a contagious skin condition,” said Carla. “Check in on the boys, would you, please? Make sure they’re not on my office computer.” The lure of illicit websites was too much for them. At home, she had parental controls on the computer. But not here.

Tina agreed, and literally pushed Carla through the door of exam room one, where a girl and her mother waited.

“Don’t I know you?” asked the woman.

Carla lifted her eyes from the girl’s chart to take a closer look. Yes, the mother and daughter were familiar to her. The woman was well dressed, a heavyset black woman—Caribbean black, Carla guessed. She was professionally dressed in a black skirt and flat-heeled boots, but the bright red jacket spiced up her look. Carla should try more jackets, not rely so much on scarves and voluminous sweaters to camouflage her thick midsection.

“Carla Morgan,” she said, holding out her hand to the woman, a Mrs. Hobart, according to the chart. “I think I’ve seen you at Brownstone. My sons are in the fourth and seventh grade there.”

“Okay, yes, I can place you now,” said Mrs. Hobart, smiling faintly. “Shauna is in second grade.”

Carla turned to Shauna and asked, “It hurts?” She snapped on some gloves, and unhooked the otoscope from the wall charger. The girl nodded. “Let me take a look.”

She examined the child’s ears—both of them red, but not full of fluid. “This is your first visit to the clinic?” she asked.

“We usually go to Dr. Stevens’s on Remsen Street,” said Mrs. Hobart, speaking of a pediatrician in private practice in the Heights. A kind and smart man. When he sent patients to the hospital for testing, Carla often worked with him. “He’s out of town this week, and his office referred us here,” Mrs. Hobart explained.

Carla nodded. Thank God for Dr. Stevens. A referral from one of his patients meant a $50 co-pay and a nice chunk from private insurance.

“She started complaining about her ear yesterday,” said Mrs. Hobart. “I’m embarrassed I waited a whole day to bring her in.”

One day? That was lightning speed. Carla said, “Well, from the look of it, Shauna’s infection is only just starting. I might not have noticed much evidence of infection yesterday.”

“Thanks for saying that,” said Mrs. Hobart. “I still feel guilty.”

Carla smiled at her patient, and then the mother. “You have nothing to feel guilty about. I’ll write you a prescription for antibiotics.” Seeing Shauna’s reaction, Carla added, “Bubblegum flavor. How’s that sound?”

The girl smiled and said, “Thank you, ma’am.”

What a polite, well-behaved child! Carla replied, “You’re very welcome.”

“We have a church retreat planned for this weekend,” said Mrs. Hobart.

“Where to?” asked Carla.

“A mountain lodge in upstate New York.”

“Mohonk?” asked Carla. “Our church sponsored a family retreat there last year.”

“Same place,” said Mrs. Hobart. “So you can understand how much we’re looking forward to it.”

“I’ll give Shauna her first dose now. If you can dose her again at bedtime, she’ll feel better in the morning. I see no reason you can’t go on the trip. Just bring the medicine with you.”

“You are a lifesaver, Dr. Morgan,” said Mrs. Hobart, eyes filled with relief and gratitude.

Carla basked in the woman’s appreciation and respect. What a refreshing shift, not having to absorb annoyance, anger, and blame for making a diagnosis. “Call me Carla,” she said.

“Renee.”

The two women smiled at each other, and Carla registered a click-into-place feeling that one gets upon discovering a like-minded soul. While Carla wrote a prescription, she glanced at the contact information sheet in the chart. Renee Hobart had listed her employer as a law firm in the city. Was she married? Carla had to check, out of rank curiosity. Yes. A husband and father in the picture. His contact info had him working at the same firm. A gainfully employed, professional, churchgoing, African-American couple. Exactly what Claude
had in mind for couples dates. Come to think of it, why include the husbands at all? Carla and Renee could have a thing. Her poker game seemed to be crumbling. Those friendships hadn’t been based on anything concrete, anyway. She and Renee, on paper at least, had so much in common.

She felt the urge to say something, ask her to coffee, but it seemed inappropriate. Maybe she’d email her next week? Did she need an excuse? If so, what would that be?

Incredibly, Renee (a mind-reader?) said, “I know you’re very busy—so am I—but I’d love to grab coffee after drop-off some morning.”

“Me, too!” blurted Carla, sounding way too eager.

“Great,” said Renee. “I’ll give you my card.”

The women exchanged paper—business card for prescription slip—and an understanding. Carla felt buoyed by the unexpected friendly encounter. She sailed through her next and last exam of the day, a little boy whose feet were crawling with fungus. His openly hostile mother scowled at her child for not knowing exactly when his toes started itching, and at Carla while she explained the lengthy treatment course.

As usual, Tina escorted the patient out, and cleaned up the exam rooms. The janitorial staff would do the hard work later in the evening. Carla left the charts on Tina’s desk and washed her hands one more time. Then Carla was free to go.

Still feeling upbeat from meeting Renee and Shauna, Carla floated into her office to grab her coat and bag and tell the boys it was time to leave. She opened the door, and found Zeke and Manny in front of her computer, their faces glowing by its light. They were riveted, and Carla instantly assumed they were watching off-limit videos on YouTube.

“What are you doing?” boomed Carla at her sons.

“Nothing!” said Manny while fumbling on the keyboard to quit the application.

“Freeze!” she yelled. “Hands up. Back away from the computer.”

The boys froze, and Carla then spun the laptop around so she could see what they’d been doing.

On-screen: the green background and 3-D graphics of World Class Poker, a six-player game in progress. The Black Queen was currently table leader with $100,000-plus in chips. She clicked to check the tournament history, and discovered that her boys had been playing Texas Hold ’Em for an hour, surviving four levels, and winning twenty-two percent of the hands they played.

Impressive
, she thought. “You’re not allowed to play poker! You know I disapprove of gambling!” she bellowed.

“But you play it all the time!” protested Manny.

Tina burst into the room. “What’s all the yelling about in here?” she asked.

“The boys were playing poker,” said Carla.

“So?” asked Tina. “You play poker every chance you get.”

“It’s true,” said Zeke. “You’re amazing, Ma. You’ve won fourteen tournaments. Your bankroll is ten million dollars!”

It was a vast sum
, thought Carla smugly. “I’m an adult,” she said. “I can do what I want. You are children, and you shouldn’t be playing poker.”

“Why?” asked Manny, folding his skinny arms across his chest, looking too much like his father.

“Yeah,” said Zeke, imitating his older brother in a way that Carla would have thought precious if it didn’t make her mad.

“No big deal, Mommy,” said Tina. “It’s fun. I’ve played a few hands myself sometimes.”

“You’re using my computer?” asked Carla of her nurse.

“Once or twice,” said Tina. “It’s not real gambling with real money. Better that the boys play cards on the computer than smoking crack in the playground.”