Four of a Kind Read Free Page B

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 mother?” 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 startingto 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