“San Fran.”
“Of course,” said Karen, grimacing. While pregnant, she’d spent countless nights lying awake trying to dream up a name that sounded original without being odd, dignified while still cute. She didn’t want it to overwhelm her husband’s last name either; to her mind, McClelland was already a mouthful. Karen had always considered her own first name to be dispiritingly bland and was determined not to stigmatize her own daughter in a similar fashion. She’d always hated her last name too, if only because it rhymed with nipple and had therefore inspired endless schoolyard taunts. According to family lore, Kipple had once been Kiplowitz, but the bureaucrats at Ellis Island couldn’t be bothered to spell it out. Matt hadn’t seemed to care all that much what they named the baby, though he’d boycotted one suggestion of Karen’s (Eden), insisting that it sounded like a stripper. Ruby had been Karen’s second choice, and Matt had been fine with it. But now she wished he hadn’t been. There seemed to be Rubys everywhere. Or, at least, they were everywhere in a certain milieu. There had been two others in Ruby’s pre-K class at Elm Tree alone. And there were three in her gymnastics class. Though there seemed to be considerably fewer at Betts.
“Well, your Ruby and my Quinn can play in the pool while the grown-ups keep themselves in refreshments,” said Clay.
“That sounds like a dream,” said Karen, knowing it would never happen. There was no way Matt would ever agree to show up at the home of some hedge-fund zillionaire acquaintance of his wife’s and partake of the guy’s munificence, never mind spend the night in his mansion. Matt had had the same friends since high school and showed few signs of being interested in making new ones.
“Great. I’ll have my assistant call you to book a weekend. In the meantime, I should really run. I’m actually going to Hong Kong this afternoon.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Wish I was. Long fucking flight. But it was great to see you.” Clay stood up. So did Karen. They embraced again. “Seriously, you look amazing.”
“So do you,” said Karen. “The fleece is very flattering.”
“Are you kidding? I put on this jacket especially for you.” He lifted his pullover by the zippered collar and grinned at her.
“Well, it’s a winning look.”
“Not as winning as yours.”
“You’re a total liar. But thanks.”
“Not in this case.” He kissed Karen on the cheek and walked out.
Karen stayed behind to finish her sparkling water and, for a few more minutes, to bask in the afterglow of what, on all counts, had to be called a successful lunch.
On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, Ruby stayed late for Betts’s after-school program, which was known simply as After School. Ruby’s first two years at the school, Karen had secretly dismissed the program as subsidized daycare for low-income students. Instead, she’d had Ashley, a white twenty-year-old psychology major at a local college, pick Ruby up at three o’clock three days a week. Karen couldn’t deal with the racial politics of employing a woman with darker skin than her own to help raise her child. Or was her prohibition on doing so even more problematic? Was she denying jobs to the people who needed them most? In any case, mostly for financial reasons, she’d decided to give After School a chance this year and had been pleasantly surprised by the results. Ruby seemed fine about staying late a few afternoons a week. And at fifteen bucks for the whole afternoon, it was certainly cheaper, and arguably more educational, than having Ashley bring Ruby home at three o’clock to do glitter tattoos.
Still giddy from her lunch with Clay when she entered the building later that afternoon, Karen also felt uncharacteristically sanguine about the school. At the sight of a fifth-grader sitting in the hall sipping a Pepsi, Karen, rather than experiencing the usual tsunami of disapproval regarding the empty calories, told herself that her daughter was receiving an invaluable, once-in-a-lifetime education in multiculturalism and class difference. It was the same when, on her way into the gymnasium, she passed two mothers talking and overheard one of them say to the other, “I pulled off all my gels this morning, but I ain’t be getting them redone till payday,” her fingernails raised for inspection. Rather than cringe at the woman’s grammar—never mind Karen’s feelings about nail extensions—Karen imagined how stressful it would be to live paycheck to paycheck and reminded herself how lucky she was. Moreover, at the sight of her own rosy-cheeked progeny sitting in the corner of the gymnasium awaiting pickup, Karen felt as if she were the luckiest woman in the world. “Ruby Doobie!” she cried.
“Mommy!” cried Ruby, matching Karen’s exuberant tone as she jumped up and ran toward her. Mother and daughter embraced as closely as flesh allowed. The word miracle got thrown around a lot when it came to children. But Ruby’s existence often struck Karen as that very thing—not only because Karen had spent two frustrating years trying to get pregnant, but because Karen had put all her own unrealized dreams of changing the world into her daughter’s not-quite-four-foot frame.
But Karen’s sense of well-being lasted only so long. On the walk home late that afternoon, their fingers entwined and arms swinging in unison, Ruby informed her mother that Maeve was still out. Somehow, Karen found the news disturbing and kept returning to it throughout the evening, wondering if she’d underestimated the severity of Maeve’s injuries. Having resolved to send Maeve’s mother, Laura, a carefully worded e-mail inquiring about her daughter’s condition, Karen then struggled to get Ruby to bed. Ruby claimed not to be tired and fought all of Karen’s attempts to convince her otherwise until Karen’s entire body was in a tangle of frustration.
She’d only just gotten Ruby down for the night—nearly an hour later than normal—when Matt waltzed through the door. He was late, as usual, but even later than usual. And Karen was as irritated as ever, but even more so. Sometimes it seemed as if Matt considered raising Ruby to be Karen’s project rather than a joint one. Or was that unfair? Maybe she was just mad at him for not being as complimentary as Clay Phipps. “What’s up?” he said, taking off his coat.
“What’s up?” she answered, her voice rising on the up. “It just took me, like, two hours to get Ruby to sleep. That’s what’s up. She only quieted down, like, five minutes ago. And I’m completely fried.”
“So go to bed,” said Matt.
“That’s not the point.”
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, seeming finally to comprehend. “But you won’t believe this story.”
“What story?” said Karen, softening slightly.
“You know the old Dominican guy down the block who’s always sitting on the stoop—Miguel?”