Class

by Lucinda Rosenfeld

  For a few moments, Karen stood staring at the sum she’d written in the ledger. As the recorders honked on the other side of the wall, she wondered how walls had even come into being. They must have arisen in conjunction with the concept of privacy, which itself must have emerged around the sexual act. Or was there something primal about the desire to hide things from others?

  Her breath held, Karen carefully added a 0 to the end of the figure, followed by a comma between the 4 and the 8. So the $483 that she’d just recorded as having spent on picnic supplies was now $4,830. Then she held the ledger at arm’s length and tried to determine if the figure would look believable to an outside set of eyes. After deciding that it would, she placed the ledger back in the drawer, then quickly wrote a check to herself on the PTA checkbook for the same amount. She put the check in her wallet, then put the checkbook in the drawer next to the ledger. Then she left the PTA office. As she locked the door behind her, her heart was beating madly.

  But as she strode down the hall toward the double doors, she felt powerful and righteous. She also found herself thinking of her erstwhile friend Lou and wondering what Lou would think if she could see Karen now. Karen hadn’t spoken to her since their awkward encounter by the train station a few weeks before. But in the days since then, Lou had somehow become the face of Karen’s remorse—Lou’s beautiful, long-lashed brown eyes reminding Karen of the ideals she’d abandoned in the interest of Ruby and herself…

  All morning at work, every time someone approached her desk, Karen half jumped out of her seat, somehow imagining that he or she could see into her purse. Lunchtime couldn’t come soon enough. Karen went straight to the bank, took the check to the window, and asked the teller to cash it. She was concerned that her request might raise the teller’s eyebrows. But the woman said nothing, merely methodically counted out the sum in hundreds, counted them again, then slid the bills beneath the Plexiglas.

  At the check-writing table, Karen took the roughly five hundred dollars she was owed and stuck it in her wallet. She stuck the other forty-three hundred-dollar bills in a plain white envelope that she’d taken from the supply room at her office. She addressed the envelope to the Parent Teacher Association of the Constance C. Betts School and affixed a stamp to the top right-hand corner. She left the top left corner blank.

  She must have stood in front of the mailbox for five minutes before she finally let the envelope drop from her fingers into its maw. As it rattled down the chute with a ka-thunk, Karen flinched and shut her eyes in anticipation of biblical punishments. But the skies didn’t open. Nor did God strike her down with lightning. When she opened her eyes again, it was sunny and mild. And she was still standing on a busy street corner next to a guy selling pretzels.

  Just as promised, Matt was home early that evening. Over takeout, he announced that Poor-coran was almost ready to launch. “That’s so exciting!” said Karen, her buoyant mood growing more so.

  “What about you?” he asked. “What’s the news?”

  “Well, I may have found an important new source of funds,” she said. “But I don’t want to jinx it, so I won’t say any more.”

  “Fair enough,” he said.

  “Guess what I learned in school today,” said Ruby. “How to Charleston!” She stood up from the table and began twisting and torquing her hips, her arms against her sides, her wrists pointing north.

  “Awesome!” said Karen, before realizing that she must have sounded exactly like Miss Tammy.

  “Also,” said Ruby, sitting down again, “Ivy gave me her gummy bears at lunch.”

  “Well, that’s a ridiculous amount of good news for one day,” said Karen, who had no idea who Ivy was but assumed it was a new friend. “I say we celebrate.”

  “Yay!” said Ruby. “Can we go out for ice cream?”

  “Sure,” said Karen, whose worries had grown larger than how many calories her daughter consumed per day.

  “You’re in a good mood,” said Matt, turning to Karen—almost accusatorily, it seemed to her.

  “And what’s wrong with that?” she asked.

  “Nothing!” he said, shrugging. “Nothing at all.”

  After dinner, as promised, they went out as a family for ice cream. Karen suggested the artisanal place with the weird flavors. But Matt and Ruby lobbied hard for Baskin-Robbins. Keen to avoid further conflict, Karen gave in. And while she and Matt didn’t directly hold hands on the way there—Ruby was in the middle—they were at least connected through her. At least they looked like a happy family.

  And then they connected some more. After Ruby went to sleep, Karen and Matt split a bottle of wine and watched the last few innings of a baseball game—or, really, Matt watched and Karen let her mind wander. Then Karen forced herself to initiate sex, even though she had little desire to. But once it was under way, biology took charge. And afterward, she was glad that she had. It was neither the greatest sex of Karen’s life, nor the worst. And if the encounter didn’t quite erase the memory of her and Clay, it pushed him farther into the past tense.

  If only she hadn’t forwarded him the e-mail about Winners Circle…Karen heard her phone ping just as she was washing up for bed. Matt was already half asleep. She grabbed her phone off the windowsill. Without her reading glasses on, Karen was almost blind. But she held the phone away from her, and eventually she made out the words.

  What if I say you’re right? WC sucks and so do I. Then will you see me? Please don’t be mad. I’m just the idiot who writes checks. And I miss you. Badly. CP

  I miss you. Badly. As Karen repeated the words in her head, she felt her heart quivering in her chest. Maybe it was just that Clay had the guts to state what Matt never did or had. While Matt had always been a skilled lover, he was also maddeningly silent, finding overt displays of romanticism to be sentimental, indulgent, and insincere. He was especially critical of couples who said “I love you” to each other at the end of every phone call and before every separation, even if it only involved a trip to the supermarket or the bank. But he took the objection to an extreme. He never told Karen he loved her, not even in bed. He never told her he missed her either. But then, they were rarely separated for long periods. At his most emotive, he’d say, “Did I ever tell you how much I like your meat sauce?” It was an old joke, meant to allude to a night early in their courtship, before they made love for the first time.

  And yet…a part of her believed that actions spoke louder than words, and that the l-word had become as meaningless as the word friend had on Facebook. Karen also appreciated the fact that Matt gave her space. In her late twenties, she’d had a boyfriend who exuded neediness. Alcohol abuse, overeating, and unemployment were just a few of his many issues. Karen had resented having to take care of the guy. But the role she’d played in their relationship had also felt familiar and therefore comfortable, and she’d struggled to leave him. She’d felt too guilty to do so. Then she’d met Matt. Strong and independent, he’d made her feel strong and independent herself.

  But at times he struck her as too independent. Karen had always suspected that, were she to walk out on Matt, apart from his bruised ego, he’d be absolutely fine. Assuming that Karen had custody, he might miss Ruby. Except he’d see her every Wednesday and Saturday, and, quite possibly, that would be enough for him. Or was she being unfair? Maybe his failure to be more emotive was just an excuse for her attraction to Clay—and Karen was simply restless, like everyone else who’d been married for a decade or more.

  As she stared at the screen, she wondered if there was a way of letting Clay know that she felt the same things he felt without inviting another encounter. Or was it too late for that? Karen had lived long enough to know that no enduring kind of love could compete with the fascination of a new partner. She was trembling as she wrote,

  I miss you too.

  Thirty seconds later, her phone pinged again. Karen lifted it to her eyes. Clay had written,

  Make up an excuse for the weekend of the 28th. Need to see you.r />
  Not Are you free the weekend of the 28th? Just Make up an excuse. That was Clay. He didn’t ask; he told. As it happened, Karen had no particular obligations that weekend. But what if she had? Or did his kind of money negate such considerations? It was so presumptuous of him, so entitled, and so blind to the reality of other people’s complicated lives, she thought—and yet so compelling. For once, Karen wouldn’t be in charge of the arrangements or the schedule. So often, her life and motherhood in particular felt like an extended air traffic control shift. And she doubted she was the only woman for whom this was true. In fact, she didn’t know a single husband who landed the planes. Most of them didn’t even know what days the sitter worked or when gymnastics class started or even what time school got out. The job of keeping track of all those beeping dots on the screen, from permission slips to pediatric dentistry checkups, still fell to women. And while the arrangement admittedly suited the controlling side of Karen, the other side longed for backup and resented its nonexistence.

  Another part realized how ridiculous, absurd, and risky the very idea of sneaking off for the weekend with Clay Phipps was. Or could she keep this time—a time that promised to be far longer than the single evening they’d already spent together—a secret as well? And was it his money that made him attractive to her, or was it Clay himself? And could the two even be disentangled? And how could she have fallen for her political enemy? Karen also worried that he’d lose interest in her if she said no—and that this was her last chance before he grew frustrated and then bored by his own frustration and then forgot about her for another twenty-four years. After all these decades, it seemed she was still fretting about disappointing the opposite sex. Her heart was at full gallop as she typed:

  Why—where are you/we going?

  Karen realized after she wrote it that she might just as well have written Okay.

  It’s a surprise, but sweaters unnecessary, Clay wrote back.

  She hadn’t been on a tropical vacation since her honeymoon, ten years ago.

  Karen spent the next several days alternating between nervous excitement and abject fear—that either her husband would find out about Clay or someone at Mather would find out about her theft of PTA funds. Every time she opened her in-box—or dropped Ruby at school—she half expected one of the PTA board members to ask if she could talk to her for a second, head cocked quizzically. But, in fact, at the Fund in the Sun picnic that Saturday, at least four members of the PTA executive board—Kim, Leigh, Susan, and even Denise—individually came over to congratulate Karen on doing such a great job before returning to their organic cotton, diamond-patterned ikat blankets and rattan picnic baskets containing Rainforest Alliance–certified grapes. Even Liz made an appearance, her newborn in a sling. “Hey, mastermind,” she said.

  “Oh my God, I can’t believe you came!” cried Karen, kissing her hello. “What—did you have the baby last night or something? And who is this?” Karen peeked into the sling, where a tiny lump of pale flesh lay asleep, eyes squeezed tight and fingers outstretched as if reaching for God. The sight of babies still stirred something inside her. But these days there was also relief in the knowledge that they were other people’s precious burdens.

  “Say hi to Archie, my new slave driver,” said Liz.

  “Hi, Archie—you be nice to your mom,” said Karen, stroking the baby’s velvety cheek with the back of her index finger.

  It was gorgeous out—they’d gotten lucky with the weather—and everyone seemed to be in a good mood. Even Karen felt moderately contented—that is, until she noticed Charlotte Bordwell and Maeve Collier-Shaw throwing water balloons at each other and laughing uproariously, both of them perfectly outfitted for the event in patterned rompers with drawstring waists and metallic sandals. Maeve’s were silver, Charlotte’s gold. The image of Ruby’s two estranged BFFs joining in merriment while Ruby herself stood in the near distance with a group of younger children trying to pop a relentless stream of bubbles that were being emitted by a large plastic gun filled Karen’s mouth with a sour taste. She knew that, in all likelihood, Maeve and Charlotte’s burgeoning friendship had absolutely nothing to do with her daughter. There was no reason even to suspect that either one of them had ever mentioned knowing Ruby. But Karen couldn’t help but feel that somehow their mutual jettisoning of Ruby had brought them, if not together, then closer.

  Karen turned away and was further jarred by the sight of Maeve’s mother seated on an ikat blanket of her own with her face partially hidden behind a pair of aviator shades. Karen thought back and realized that she hadn’t seen Laura Collier in what was now going on six months. She also realized that there was nothing to be gained by saying hello. But somehow, in that moment, it seemed necessary that pleasantries be exchanged. Or maybe Karen was still holding out hope that Ruby would be reintegrated into Maeve’s inner sanctum. “Laura!” she said, walking over to the edge of her blanket.

  “Oh, hey,” said Laura, but she didn’t remove her glasses, which struck Karen as the tiniest bit rude. She didn’t get up either. Even so, Karen leaned over and attempted to greet her with a kiss to the cheek. But as Laura remained seated, and Karen was standing, incorrect body parts bumped together.

  Afterward, Karen felt even more awkward. “I haven’t seen you in a million years—” she said, trying to mask her unease with chatter.

  “I know, it’s been forever,” said Laura. “Is it true you organized this whole thing?”

  Karen wondered how she even knew. “If you mean was I guilted into organizing this whole event, the answer is yes.” She laughed, then wondered why she always revealed more than she needed to.

  “That’s so good of you. I wish I had time for stuff like that,” said Laura. “But between work and helping Maeve edit her animated short, things have been so crazy lately.”

  “Maeve is making an animated short?” asked Karen.

  Laura cocked her head. “Oh! You didn’t know that? We’re getting ready to submit it to festivals.”

  “Wow! And no, I didn’t know that. Well, I don’t actually have time either,” said Karen. “But I try to do my part.” Unlike you was the obvious subtext. Karen knew she was being provocative. But she’d finally lost patience with Laura and Evan faux complaining about how busy they were—and, by extension, how important—while also implying they were superior parents, despite the limited time they spent with their children, because wasn’t that the subtext?

  But if Laura was wounded by Karen’s dig, she didn’t let on. “Well, you’re a better man than me!” she declared in an ever-so-slightly mocking tone.

  “I don’t know about that,” said Karen, retreating.

  “So, have you guys been happy at Mather?” said Laura, changing gears.

  “Really happy,” Karen told her.

  “I actually ran into someone from our old class last weekend—do you remember Bram’s mom, Annika?”

  “Of course. The Dutch woman with the six-foot legs.”

  “Right—her. Well, Annika said Jayyden is gone from Betts.”

  “What? You’re kidding! Where did he go?” said Karen, trying to mask her dismay. If only she’d waited two more weeks, she thought bitterly. Or had it never really been about Jayyden?

  “I guess he sent one too many kids to the ER,” said Laura, shrugging.

  “Yeah, I guess,” said Karen, still marveling at the news. “Wow, I can’t believe that. Maybe we should all go back.”

  “That’s not going to happen for us. But maybe you should go back.” Laura smiled cuttingly, while a single eyebrow appeared above the lens of her left shade.

  Karen knew she’d set herself up for it. But Laura’s suggestion, which felt more like a request, stung. It seemed suddenly clear to Karen that Laura not only didn’t want Maeve to be friends with Ruby but also didn’t want Ruby to attend Mather. Maybe the school had felt like Laura’s winning lottery ticket, and she didn’t like others sharing in the pot. Or maybe, not unlike Karen, she was embarrassed about the circumst
ances under which her daughter had matriculated there—circumstances about which, quite possibly, only Karen knew. In any case, Karen felt heat climbing up the back of her neck, then fanning across her cheeks. “Well, maybe you should piss off,” she blurted out, “and then go piss on your husband while you’re at it.”

  “Excccuuusssse me?” said Laura. But by then, Karen was already striding back to her own blanket. There, she got out her phone and pretended to be engaged in urgent textual communication, but inside she was a quivering tangle of neurons. Had she really just said that? It had felt so good to finally tell the woman off. Only now that she’d done so, she felt embarrassed and uncomfortable. It was hardly the time to be making enemies of Mather parents. Pretending not to feel well, Karen yanked Ruby away from the bubble gun. Together, albeit with Ruby protesting, they left the picnic early.

  A new e-mail came in that evening from another neighborhood organization that Karen had never heard of. This one was called Concerned Parents and Citizens of Cortland Hill. The subject line was Emergency Meeting on Redistricting.

  Dear Mather Parents,

  It has come to our attention that the city’s board of education, noting overcrowding issues at Edward G. Mather, is floating a proposal to rezone the eastern section of Cortland Hill between Moreland and Cherry. As a result, many families who purchased or rented homes in the neighborhood with the understanding that they would be able to send their children to Mather will no longer be able to do so. Instead, they will be assigned seats at the Millicent Grover school, an underenrolled, underperforming elementary school on the other side of a major thoroughfare.

  While we believe that standardized testing scores do not represent the true measure of a child’s potential—and that integration is a valid pursuit in a multicultural city such as ours—we are concerned that only 12 percent of Grover’s third-, fourth-, and fifth-graders received passing grades last year on the state’s English-language and math exams. What’s more, for those living on the west side of Cortland Avenue, having their children attend Grover will mean traversing a busy intersection every morning and afternoon, inconveniencing families and endangering lives.