Class

by Lucinda Rosenfeld

  “What does inherit mean?”

  “It means that when someone dies, they leave you money.”

  “Like Grandma and Grandpa left us money?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But the president has dark skin.”

  “Yes, but that’s the first time a president ever has.”

  “I have one more question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why does everyone at my new school have light skin?”

  “That’s a complicated question too,” said Karen. “Unfortunately, most schools are very segregated. That means that they are all one kind of people or all the other.”

  “But Betts wasn’t like that,” Ruby pointed out.

  “No, it wasn’t, that’s true,” said Karen, who could do nothing but agree.

  And then there was Clay. Now that she’d asked him to go away, and it appeared that he had, Karen couldn’t stop wishing he’d get back in touch. She couldn’t stop dreaming of their next encounter either, even as she regretted the one they’d already had and forbade herself from initiating a new meeting. Karen’s emotions were so confusing to her—his silence felt like another death in the family—and also so consuming that they left little room for thinking about how she could improve her marriage.

  And yet, confoundingly, Matt didn’t seem entirely unhappy with their current marital détente. Karen had always suspected that he had intimacy problems that were as bad if not worse than her own. Now she wondered if their fight had given him an excuse to further retreat into himself and indulge his antisocial tendencies. On those rare occasions when they were at home together and interacting, he’d answer Karen’s questions monosyllabically, a blank expression on his face, after which point the two of them would retreat back to their respective electronic devices. Or was she projecting? Maybe Matt was as discontented with the status quo as Karen currently was.

  On Monday morning, while eating a croissant at her desk—every now and then, Karen couldn’t help herself and indulged in refined flour—she happened on an article in a local newspaper about the Winners Circle charter school chain’s co-location in Betts Elementary. According to the article, which described the co-location as “controversial,” parents there were protesting on the grounds that it would deprive general-education students of their music studio and special-ed kids of their physical therapy room. In paragraph three, it was noted that Winners Circle had the backing of many prominent figures in finance, especially in the hedge-fund world, including Clayton Phipps III. At the sight of his name, spelled out in all its establishmentarian glory, Karen found herself startled and disoriented. It seemed almost impossible that the person she was reading about should be the same one she spent her days and nights dreaming about—and she quickly closed the article, telling herself that neither Clay nor Betts qualified as her problem anymore.

  For the rest of the day at work, Karen comforted herself with visions of Ruby and Charlotte Bordwell on their playdate. She imagined them sitting on a floral wool area rug, in shades of hot pink and celery, playing Connect4 or making fishtail braids on Charlotte’s extensive collection of American Girl dolls. She also e-mailed Ms. Millburn to tell her that Charlotte’s mother, Susan, not Ashley, would be picking Ruby up from school. As for retrieving Ruby from Susan’s house after the playdate was over, Karen had decided to do so herself. It seemed safer that way. What if Ashley accidentally revealed where Karen lived? Plus, it hardly seemed worth Ashley’s time for her to arrive so late in the day. And what if this was Karen’s one chance to meet her unwitting patron saint?

  When Karen hadn’t been paying attention, the weather had grown positively balmy. As she exited the train station late that afternoon, a fluttery breeze blew the hair off her face and tickled her nose. For a brief moment, life offered itself up not as a cauldron of conflict but as a delightful comedy of manners, its myriad intrigues to be reveled in rather than reviled. But the sight of the same private banker/art dealer whom Karen had crossed paths with the night she’d stolen Nathaniel Bordwell’s utility bill interrupted the reverie. Somehow, he seemed at least partly to blame for everything that had happened. If only he’d smiled back, maybe she wouldn’t have sought love and validation elsewhere, Karen thought. As before, the man had a cigarette between his lips and a phone tucked between his shoulder and his cheek. In the daylight, he looked more dissolute than distinguished. This time, as he drew near, she glowered. It was unclear if he noticed.

  Turning onto Pendleton, she found the cherry trees just past blooming season. Even so, or maybe because of it, the streetscape had never looked so magical. The sidewalk blanketed in tiny pink petals, it resembled a real-life Candy Land or the end of a wedding reception after the confetti had been tossed over the happy couple.

  When Karen arrived at the Bordwells’ stately brick manse, she paused to collect herself and take in her surroundings. Someone had filled the flower boxes beneath the second-floor windows with silken pansies, only adding to the aura of genteel charm. Karen took a deep breath, opened the gate, and started up the short path that led to the Bordwells’ forest-green front door. Standing before it, she found no doorbell, only a brass knocker with a lion’s head at the top. The lion had its mouth opened, as if in a silent roar. Karen could relate. She knocked twice and waited.

  Soon, a trim but large-boned white woman of probably forty or forty-two, wearing black stretchy pants that flared at the ankle and a pristine white tank top, her dirty-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, appeared in the portico. She was far from beautiful, but she had bright eyes and perfect teeth. “Welcome!” she said. “You must be Ruby’s mom.”

  “Yes! Hi! I’m Karen,” she said, putting out her hand.

  “And I’m Susan,” said the woman. “It’s nice to meet you. Please—come in.”

  “Thank you,” said Karen, following her into a high-ceilinged living room that, while fashionably minimalist in its way, had an unfurnished quality that surprised her. There was no coffee table in front of the sofa and no rug on the floor. Even more incongruous, considering that Susan clearly liked to exercise, there was what appeared to be an elevator in back. To Karen’s disappointment, there was also no sign of anyone named Nathaniel, and Karen didn’t feel right about asking who or where he was. “And thanks also for picking up Ruby,” she went on.

  “It was my pleasure!” said Susan. “The girls had a great time.”

  “I’m so glad,” said Karen.

  “Not that I was even allowed in Char’s room. Every time I went to check on them, she told me to go away.”

  “Oh no!”

  “Can I take your coat?”

  “That’s okay,” said Karen, raising her palm. “We should probably get going.”

  “Well, the girls are still sequestered upstairs.” Susan walked over to a white-painted staircase with a glossy black banister and a navy-blue wool runner that appeared to be in need of vacuuming and called up it, “Charlotte! Ruby’s mom is here.” There was no immediate answer, but that didn’t prevent Susan Bordwell from turning back to Karen. “So, I understand Ruby is new to Mather,” she said.

  “It’s true!” Karen told her in as airy a tone as she could manage. “Ruby just started a few weeks ago.”

  “Did you just move to the neighborhood?” asked Susan, head cocked.

  Karen could have guessed that the question was coming. Even so, its articulation made her wince. “Well, not really—it’s kind of a long story,” she answered with a flourish of her hand that she hoped would discourage the woman from asking her to elaborate. “We were at another school.”

  “Really?” said Susan. “Which one?”

  “Betts,” said Karen.

  “Which one is that again?” asked Susan, squinting. “Truth be told, there are so many schools around here, I get confused.”

  Considering that the school was only four blocks away, the question astonished Karen. Was Betts so down-market that it didn’t even register on the radar of Cortland Hill’s profession
al class? “It’s on Groveland, just off Magnolia?” she said.

  “Oh, of course.”

  “One of her classmates transferred to Mather as well,” offered Karen, hoping that a second example would make her long complicated story sound that much more legitimate—and even less interesting.

  “Really?” said Susan.

  “A girl named Maeve—also in third grade.”

  “That name sounds familiar.”

  There was a brief pause, during which time Karen prayed that Susan wasn’t going to ask her what street her family lived on. Instead, to Karen’s relief, she asked, “And do you—work outside the home?” For a certain subset of mothers, it was the preferred phrasing of what had become a delicate question. This way, went the thinking, even a woman who answered in the negative would have no need to get defensive, since her work in the home would already have been acknowledged.

  “I do,” Karen was happy to tell her and to change topics. “I actually work in the nonprofit sector, for a hunger-relief charity. Doing fund-raising. Or development, as it’s known in the business.”

  Susan’s eyes opened wider. “Really? How wonderful of you.”

  “It’s just a job.” Flattered despite herself, Karen laughed and shrugged. “What about you?”

  She shook her head. “Stay-at-home mom for the moment! I used to be a corporate lawyer. But after my son, Xander, was born, I gave up. The hours were impossible.”

  “I’m sure,” said Karen.

  “So I just volunteer now.”

  “How great.”

  “And my husband, Nate, works from home.” Karen’s heart skipped a beat. “So we’re basically the parents who are always around. I’m sure it drives our kids crazy!” She laughed lightly.

  “Oh, I’m sure they secretly love it,” said Karen, who, despite her raging curiosity, didn’t feel it was polite to ask what Susan’s husband, Nate, did for a living.

  “I’m not sure about that!” said Susan. “Anyway, you probably don’t know this, but I’m actually the president of the PTA this year.”

  “Oh—wow!” Karen said unhappily, dread flooding her chest at the thought that Susan Bordwell potentially had access to the school’s administrative files.

  “And on that note,” Susan continued, “I hate to ask you this, because I’m sure you’re as busy as the next working mother. But the school lost its longtime treasurer last June—her youngest child graduated from fifth grade. And she doubled as our fund-raising chair. So, of course, now I’m wondering if there’s any chance you’d be willing to lend your expertise to the school. Even if it’s just in the short term.”

  “Oh—my goodness—I’m flattered,” said Karen, feeling trapped. She’d gone into charity work to help the disadvantaged, not the already thriving. Except at that moment, saying no seemed next to impossible. She already felt so indebted to the Bordwell family. And joining the Mather PTA seemed like the surest method of erasing any suggestion or suspicion of Karen’s being an interloper. “Well, it’s true I don’t have much time. But I’d be happy to do what I can,” she said. “I understand the school has been really successful at fund-raising in the past. Is that right?”

  Susan smiled graciously. “Yes, well, we’ve been very fortunate in that way. In recent years, we’ve ranked in the top five public schools in the city in terms of fund-raising muscle. Of course, I’d like to see that rise to number one! But maybe that’s unrealistic. All the really big money is across the river.” She shrugged and smiled at the same time as if to say, What can anyone do? “But we do have one claim to fame—we’re the only elementary school in the city whose PTA has financed its own organic rooftop garden.”

  “Wow, I didn’t know that,” said Karen, who hated gardening even more than she hated cooking.

  Susan went on: “Unfortunately, some people in the neighborhood—even some people at the school—resent us for constantly hitting up the parents. But the way I see it, we really don’t have a choice. Not only does the statehouse continue to cut the education budget every year, but the very poor schools—by which I mean the ones where most of the children are receiving free lunch—get a ton of money from the federal government under the Title One statute. I have no problem with that—at least, not in theory—except it leaves middle-class kids out in the cold. If our PTA didn’t fund-raise, we’d be talking about a bare-bones operation with no arts education, no strings program, no fifth-grade overnight trip, no computers, no library even! We’d also have no assistants in our jam-packed kindergarten classrooms. And our rooftop garden would be a pipe dream.

  “So, yes, we pay for a lot of extras. But if we want to provide our children with a well-rounded education, this is really the only way to do it. Besides, not all our families are wealthy. The maintenance and kitchen staffs send their kids here. That’s ten families right there. And we also have families in the community who spend way more than they can afford on rent so they can send their kids to Mather, but who literally have three dollars at the end of the month for groceries.”

  Maybe they should stop shopping at Whole Foods, Karen was tempted to cut in, but she refrained, instead opting for “Yikes, that’s terrible.”

  But was it? Susan had made a convincing argument. Yet the idea that the middle-class children were actually the disadvantaged ones because the government showered all its resources on the poor didn’t sit quite right with Karen. In her experience, the government wasn’t all that generous. Besides, Karen could think of far worse things than middle-class kids whose families could afford after-school enrichment having to go without art or music class during the day. Then again, how would Karen have felt if it was her child who was denied the opportunity to make tissue-paper collages?

  “It is terrible,” said Susan. “But I understand it. Mather really is an amazing place. I mean, the kids are basically getting a private-school-quality education for free. Which is why I never feel bad about asking the parent body to contribute their fair due—”

  Just then, a square-jawed girl with a light brown pageboy appeared at the top of the steps and yelled, “Ruby doesn’t want to leave.”

  “Charlotte—it’s not open to discussion,” Susan said sternly. “Her mother is downstairs waiting.”

  Seconds later, Ruby appeared behind her new friend, sporting a full face of sloppily applied makeup, including a giant red pout that spilled out over her lips, lending her the appearance of a clown who’d joined a punk band. Karen was so relieved that the playdate had apparently gone well that she decided to ignore the makeover. “Hi, sweetie!” she said. “Can you get your shoes on?”

  “Do I have to leave?” said Ruby.

  “I’m afraid so,” said Karen. “But Susan”—she turned back to her hostess—“thank you again for having Ruby over. And I hope we can return the favor soon!” Karen realized as soon as she’d made the offer that she’d have to rescind it. If she invited Charlotte over to their house, then when Susan came to pick her up, she’d learn that Ruby and Karen didn’t actually live in zone. Like other mothers in the neighborhood, Susan likely knew the rough parameters of her school district—or at least that it didn’t extend as far west as Karen and Ruby lived.

  “I’m sure Char would love that,” said Susan.

  “Just give us a few weeks,” said Karen, thinking fast. “We’re actually having some work done on our place right now.”

  “Oh! What are you doing?”

  “Kitchen,” said Karen.

  “We’re doing the kitchen over?” said Ruby, wrinkling her nose.

  “Yes!” said Karen.

  “Exciting!” said Susan. “We had ours redone two years ago. I never want to live through the dust again, but we’re happy we did it now.”

  “I hear you. Anyway, we should really be leaving you people to get on with your evening,” said Karen. She was suddenly desperate to escape before Susan started asking whether they’d considered Caesarstone as an alternative to honed Carrara, which stained so badly. And forget about red wine…Li
fting her chin in the direction of the stairs, Karen called out, “Ruby, get down here right now!”

  Five minutes after that, they were outside. “Did you have fun, sweetie?” asked Karen, trying to block out the image of Clay pulling her onto the bed that had popped into her head. It happened at random points during the day. The sex drive was so incompatible with daily life, Karen had found—especially family life…

  “So much fun,” said Ruby. “Charlotte is my best friend.”

  “That’s great,” said Karen. Though, of course, it wasn’t great at all. “But I’m sure you have other friends at school too.”

  “No,” said Ruby, shaking her head. “Just Charlotte.”

  Lies were also complications, Karen was learning. At work, Joy wanted to know if Clay Phipps might consider joining HK’s board of directors and would Karen please find out. Karen promised to inquire. But that meant getting back in touch with him, and she’d promised herself that she’d keep her distance. Meanwhile, the desire to come clean about both her affair and her address had become a drumbeat in Karen’s head. Scrolling through her contacts in search of a confidante, she was struck by the number of old friends she’d fallen out of touch with. Karen suspected that location was partly to blame. After marriage and children, Karen’s friends, in search of family-size apartments and houses, had spread out—some to other neighborhoods, a few to the suburbs, others to different cities and states and even countries. Money was surely another culprit. In middle age, one’s status on the socioeconomic ladder became both more apparent and more fixed. It followed that those who had substantially more or less than you did became harder to relate to—though not impossible, if Karen’s friendship with Allison was any indication.

  In fact, it was Allison whom Karen ended up texting that afternoon to see if she was free to meet up for an emergency drink after work. For once, Allison’s ignorance about the public-school system played in her favor in Karen’s mind. Karen figured that, in failing to fully grasp the stark divide that separated neighboring public schools, Allison might be more forgiving of Karen’s first transgression. Allison was far more likely to raise her eyebrows at Karen’s fling with Clay Phipps—not only because Allison had always been fond of Matt, but because Clay managed a hedge fund. And Karen had always made a show of being the one friend in Allison’s privileged world who was true to her ideals.