“But I never said that,” Laura told the teacher.
“Of course you didn’t!” she said with a laugh. “This is fiction! We won’t be studying memoir until the spring.
“How wonderful to have such a creative daughter!” she added when Laura didn’t respond.
Emma was clearly unhappy, there was no doubt about that. Laura thought it would be nice for her to have someone to talk to, an adult who wasn’t a teacher or her mother. Those were her exact words, and they were the wrong ones.
Emma flew into a rage. “Basically you’re saying you don’t want to listen to me, so you’ll pay someone else to do it!”
Laura tried to defend and explain herself, but it only made it worse, and that was the end of that conversation.
It was ironic, when Laura thought about it. No sooner had Emma started walking than people began telling Laura what she was in for. Good luck with that one! You think she’s a handful now, just wait till she’s a teenager! Now here she was and, from an outsider’s perspective, an exception to the trend—the rare docile adolescent, respectful and polite, pleasant to be around.
“She’s like that cliché about March,” Margaret observed. “Started out like a lion, is now a lamb.”
Laura bit her tongue. Often she would propose doing something such as a picnic in the park, and Emma would affect an enthusiastic smile. “I have a better idea,” she’d reply, briefly raising Laura’s hopes before the sarcastic kicker: “Let’s not and say we did.”
Emma would ridicule things Laura said by repeating them in a high-pitched English accent. She grew increasingly intolerant of certain habits Laura had—singing to herself in the kitchen, saying okeydoke upon concluding a task, clearing her throat. “You don’t do that at work, do you?” she’d ask.
Then there was the outrageous accusation that Laura, who, when communicating with immigrants, made an effort to speak slowly, enunciate clearly, and use simple, direct language, was mocking these people, insulting their intelligence and dignity.
“How would you feel if someone spoke to YOU . . . LIKE . . . THIS.”
Laura was racist, too, of course. Only a racist would lock her doors when approaching a red light at One-hundred-and-twenty-fifth Street in Harlem.
In restaurants, when Laura ordered a “Coca-Cola Classic” (you had to say classic, otherwise waiters assumed diet, given that’s what everyone ordered these days), Emma covered her face in her hands.
“It’s normal to find your mother irritating,” Laura told her.
“Yeah, well, news flash, Mom, I’m not the only one who finds you irritating,” was Emma’s cruelly cryptic response.
* * *
IT WAS TRADITION THAT THE seventh-graders put on a Christmas talent show. Laura remembered it from her days; she had worn white gloves and played the C and D bells in a handbell performance of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” In addition to the younger grades, parents were invited to be part of the audience. To Laura’s surprise, both of her parents had shown up. Each time it was Laura’s turn to ring a note, Bibs had giggled.
All the seventh-graders were expected to be part of the production, though this year, one had declined to appear onstage, electing instead to be the solitary technical crew member. Dressed in black, Emma stood on the balcony behind the spotlight, shining it on whoever’s moment it was.
LIFE HADN’T REQUIRED LAURA TO navigate unknown territory on her own, and the few occasions over the years where she had taken the initiative to do so had all been very empowering. Associated Value, for instance. To think of all the money she’d saved shopping there. She took a similar pride in discovering the School for the Ethical Individual, a progressive boarding school in Vermont that no one she knew had ever heard of.
Unable to sleep, she’d been reading The New Yorker in bed, and, bored by the article about O. J. Simpson’s upcoming trial; her eyes drifted first to a cartoon of a fox being interviewed for an office job by a goose, then to the margins of the page, where a column of boxes advertised the usual assortment of eclectic frivolities: sailing vacations, commemorative plates, specialty hats. At the bottom of the page was a small ad she’d nearly overlooked, with the words Instead of answers, school should teach students how to ask questions.
Laura was intrigued, and the next morning she called the School for the Ethical Individual and requested a brochure. It arrived a week later.
“What’s this?” Emma asked, picking through the mail after school.
“It’s a school in Vermont,” Laura said. “I thought it sounded like something you might be interested in.”
“A boarding school?”
“Not the usual kind,” Laura said.
Emma looked dumbfounded. “You want me to go to boarding school?”
“Of course not,” Laura answered. “The idea of you leaving makes me very sad. I just happened across an ad for it in The New Yorker, and it sounded like the sort of place . . . I don’t know, you’re only in seventh grade, but I was thinking, down the road . . . you might want to explore other options for high school.”
Emma took the brochure into her bedroom. After two hours she found Laura in the living room.
“They have an eighth-grade class,” she announced. “I could start next year.”
“Eighth grade,” Laura repeated. “Are you sure? That seems much too young.”
Emma nodded and pointed to a page in the brochure. “The deadline to apply is next Monday,” she said.
“Four days from now?”
“Eleven days,” Emma said. “Not this Monday, the next Monday.”
“Well, unfortunately, that’s much too soon,” Laura said. “These things take time. We’d have to ask them to mail us an actual application, then there are forms you fill out, then we’d have to let Winthrop know, then I imagine there’s an essay you’d have to write . . .”
“I know,” Emma said. “I started writing it.”
“What?”
“I already called the office to ask for an application, and the woman on the phone told me the essay question.
“She was really nice,” Emma added softly. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “The essay’s really easy. Just why do I want to go there.”
That weekend they drove up for a tour and spent the night in the school’s guest cottage, which was tucked between its admissions office and its chicken coop. In addition to chickens, the campus was home to llamas, sheep, ducks, and goats, which students were responsible for caring for. Faculty and staff went by first names and dressed in blue jeans and hiking boots. The students struck Laura as refreshingly earnest and kind, going out of their way to say hi and make Emma feel welcome. They almost didn’t seem like teenagers, with their unabashed enthusiasm for their school.
Laura couldn’t have been more charmed and impressed on every front.
“I think you should apply for ninth grade,” she told Emma as they drove home. “You’ll be more emotionally prepared to go away then.”
“I’m ready now,” Emma said.
* * *
LAURA’S HEART SANK WHEN EMMA finally emerged from her room, clutching the letter that had arrived that afternoon, eyes glassy with tears.
“They’re idiots,” Laura said, shaking her head, though a small part of her was selfishly relieved. “Fools! They’d be so lucky to have you.”
“No, Mama,” she said, blinking. “They want me. I got in.”
* * *
IN THE PAST, DOUGLAS HAD met with his children individually to go over their personal finances, but this year he decided to bring them together for a group conversation, which also included Stephanie. The four of them convened for a weekday lunch at Serafina.
“We’re going to have to tighten the belt a bit this year,” he announced after they’d been seated.
“I know, Dad,” Nicholas said grimly. “We’ll be canceling our membership to Lawrence Beach Club.”
“Dad’s been paying for that?” Laura reached for the breadbasket. “That’s n
ews to me.”
“Like you don’t accept the occasional handout,” Nicholas said.
“For necessities, of course. Not for frivolous expenses,” she said, chewing. “For example, on the way in I handed the maître d’ a deposit for Emma’s surprise going-away party . . .” Laura paused to swallow—and to allow Douglas a chance to offer to reimburse her. When he didn’t, she continued.
“Not sure if you’ve received the invitations yet, but it’ll be taking place in the private room upstairs. Anyway, boy, did that check make a dent. This is the last meal I expect to be eating out for a while, that’s for sure.”
No one spoke as their iced teas arrived.
“Anyway, I don’t doubt your annual dues to LBC aren’t extravagantly expensive, but I would’ve assumed your Wall Street salary would cover them,” Laura said after the waitress left. “How much are you making these days, anyway?”
“A lot less than two years ago,” Nicholas answered. “Not sure if you’ve read the paper recently, but my sector was stagnant last year. Some people are calling it another recession.”
“And whose fault is that?” Laura muttered, helping herself to a second piece of bread. This time she went with rosemary brioche. She reached for the salt and shook it onto the dish of olive oil before dipping in it.
“Not bond traders’.” Douglas defended his son. “It’s the Fed.”
“Yes, and those who work in bonds are suffering the impact.” Stephanie stroked her husband’s arm. “His firm took a huge hit.”
“You see, Laura, the economy”—Nicholas coughed into his hand, and then draped his arm around Stephanie as he leaned back into the booth—“is some vague abstract thing to you that you hear about on NPR, but not all of us are so lucky. Take your annual income, and imagine it was cut in half, and try supporting a family of three.”
“I’d be twenty-five thousand poorer.” Laura shrugged. “Not enough money to cry about. So yes, it’s sort of hard for me to relate, as I imagine in your case that figure is still well into the six digits.”
“My salary is none of your business,” Nicholas said. “But that’s very interesting that you’ve been able to send Emma to Winthrop all these years on a fifty-thousand-dollar income, and now this socialist boarding school she’s going to. That ghetto supermarket you’re always gloating about must really be cheap for you to have that much left over.”
“Laura doesn’t pay for Emma’s tuition,” Douglas said. “I do, and this is why I called you all here together.”
Their waitress reappeared, poised to take their orders; Douglas held up a finger and she went away.
“You see, my father . . .” Douglas paused to make sure he had everyone’s attention. “. . . was very discreet about the degree to which he financed which children’s lives. Some received more assistance than others, and this caused much suspicion and hostility among the siblings. A similar thing happened to your mother’s family. I don’t want that to happen to you, so I’d like to lay it all out on the table.
“Literally,” he said, opening his briefcase and pulling out four copies of a spreadsheet that he passed around the table.
“Daddy pays a quarter of your mortgage?” Laura asked incredulously.
“Yup!” Nicholas responded. “And one hundred percent of yours.”
“If you look at the next column, you’ll see the total amount, and that they’re nearly the same figure,” Douglas explained.
“And yours is almost paid off, too,” Nicholas said, investigating the numbers more closely. “No housing expenses except maintenance. That must be nice.”
Laura smiled back. “And it must be nice living on Park Avenue.”
“I guess my financial advisor was right.” Douglas chuckled. “I was just at his office this morning, and when I told him about this lunch he suggested I invite a family therapist along.”
Seeing his comment failed to lighten the mood, Douglas cleared his throat.
“In addition to Nicholas’s salary, the recession has affected the family trust, and to ensure that I can continue to help the two of you down the road, there will need to be cutbacks,” he said. “Nicholas, if you are prepared to sacrifice your club membership, that will do it. Your mortgage and the other expenses can stay.”
“You mean quarter of my mortgage.” Nicholas’s cheeks reddened. “Vastly different from mortgage, which implies the whole thing.”
Douglas nodded. “Thank you for the clarification, Nick.”
“Wait.” Stephanie shook her head. “I’m confused. Doesn’t this mean that the . . . distribution will be different amounts?”
Douglas nodded. “That is correct. There will be a discrepancy in the numbers and, with your blessing, it will be in Laura’s favor. Given her status as the sole provider of a single-parent household, who works in the nonprofit sector, and that it’s for Emma’s education rather than a club membership, I think it’s justified. But if you object, by all means speak up.”
“No, of course it makes sense,” Stephanie said.
“This isn’t an objection,” Nicholas said, “just another clarification. But when you said we need to tighten our belts, what you really meant is my belt.”
The sisterly pride Laura felt over Nicholas’s progress, in boldly challenging their father without a trace of a stutter, was complicated by his anger toward her—and furthermore by a wistful pang for the vulnerable little brother he no longer was. He’d been an adult for years, of course, he had an important job and a wife and a child and an apartment, but for the first time, she saw him as a man: resolute, rational, and mostly remote, any transparent feelings fenced in by barbed wire.
“I apologize for using the wrong pronoun,” Douglas conceded.
Nicholas wasn’t done clarifying. “And Laura’s belt will be loosening, as I assume the tuition for the School for the Ethical Individual is more than Winthrop, given that it includes room and board. Not to mention llamas.”
“Yes, you could call it taking one for the team, Nicholas. So what do you think? Are we all good?”
“Matter resolved!” Nicholas declared with hostile enthusiasm. “I’ll call the club as soon as I get back to the office.”
“I appreciate this, Nicholas,” Laura said, trying to make eye contact with her brother. “It’s very generous of you.”
“Well, then!” Douglas picked up his menu. “Now that we’ve got that whole business out of the way, let’s order.”
No one felt like talking after that; a tense quiet descended upon the table. The waitress returned, took their orders, and left. Their food arrived. They began eating. Their waitress stopped by to see how everything was. Douglas, only a few bites into his steak, asked if he could take the rest to go. As his plate was removed, he smiled sheepishly. “This is a new thing I do now that your mother’s gone. It would’ve mortified her.”
“I think it’s a great idea, Dad,” Laura said warmly.
“You have to be somewhere?” Nicholas asked.
“No, but I have a feeling my optimism that things were resolved was premature.” Douglas took out his wallet and put two hundred-dollar bills on the table.
“Stephanie, I’m putting you in charge. See to it they work this thing out.”
Stephanie, clearly flattered to have been designated the reasonable one, offered her father-in-law a placid smile. “Thank you for lunch,” she told him.
“Yes, thanks, Daddy,” Laura added.
Nicholas echoed the sentiment with something between a grunt and a nod.
“Pay to play,” Douglas said with a jovial wink, and then he was off.
“Should I drop this off at one-three-six?” Stephanie asked when the waiter returned with a doggy bag.
“Don’t bother,” Nicholas said. “Sandra’s making him dinner anyway. Maybe give it to that guy who’s always on the corner.”
“James,” Laura said. “His name is James.”
“Well . . .” Nicholas sighed. “I guess we should return those swim trunks we bought N
icky, now that he won’t be needing them for his swim lessons.”
He glanced at Stephanie, who looked at her plate.
“The Y has a great pool,” Laura offered.
“Yes, I hear they also have a great rec room. A space you rent out for children’s parties.”
“Emma’s surprise party isn’t a children’s party, as there weren’t many children to invite. Nearly all the guests will be adults,” Laura said. “The last few years have been very difficult and lonely for her. I want her to feel supported and loved before she heads off to Vermont.”
“We’re sad to see her go,” Stephanie said. “But her new school sounds like a great fit.”
“Yes.” Nicholas smirked. “She’ll learn all about radical feminism, and then she can graduate and start a llama farm.”
“Oh, Nick, stop teasing,” Stephanie said, smiling.
“No, he’s right,” Laura cut in. “The great thing about the School for the Ethical Individual is that it encourages kids to pursue all sorts of careers. To do things that don’t perpetuate the cycle of inequality that makes it impossible for people who weren’t born into circumstances like ours to achieve the American dream.”
“Speaking of social justice,” Nicholas said, “I attended my first meeting as a member of the board of the Library, and the new director, Karen, raised an issue of concern. Turns out there’s an employee, has worked there for years, happens to be a member of the museum’s founding family.”
“As you are,” Laura interjected. “Which is why you’re on the board.”
“Of course, though being a member of the board is quite different from being a salaried employee, who apparently has taken certain liberties over the years, such as adjusting the hours of her position to suit her schedule, which is perfectly understandable given her home life situation, but has struck some of her colleagues as a little unfair, as they’re not granted such flexibility, nor do they enjoy an eight-week paid summer vacation, not that they have seashore summer houses to go to. The reason this all came up—”
“Nick,” Stephanie said.
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