“Fine,” he said. “Apology accepted.” But he didn’t smile or show other physical signs of having forgiven her. Even so, Karen walked over to him and leaned her head against his burly chest. In response, he laid a hand on her hair. But seconds later, he pulled it away. “I have to take out the garbage,” he said.
He and Karen hadn’t had sex in two weeks. When a dry spell lasted more than two weeks, Karen always began to feel antsy. Partly, it was physical. But it was also that not having sex seemed like a prime indicator of marital distress. The complicating factor was that, even as Karen craved relief on both counts, she dreaded its fulfillment, if only because the sex act seemed to require a level of energy she could no longer summon at will.
That weekend, Mia came over for a playdate, accompanied by her mother, Michelle. Aside from exchanging a few friendly smiles and partaking in a handful of three-sentence conversations about classroom-related matters, the two women barely knew each other. But Karen was determined to establish an atmosphere where both mother and daughter would feel comfortable. “Hi, you guys!” She greeted them at the door—and found herself strangely nervous. “So glad you could make it!”
“Please—Mia would not have missed it,” said Michelle, leaning in to hug and kiss Karen on both cheeks, a move whose intimacy surprised and flattered Karen.
“Well, Ruby has been excited all morning too,” she said, before turning around and calling into the distance, “Rubes—your friend is here.” Then she turned back. “Come in—please!” she said. As Karen surreptitiously scanned Michelle’s face, she was reminded of how pretty she was, with her high cheekbones and saucer-like brown eyes.
“You have such a nice place,” said Michelle, looking around the living room.
“Oh, thanks. It’s amazing what you can do with Ikea furniture!” said Karen, even though no more than two things in the whole condo—a lamp and a bookcase—hailed from the big box store. But she didn’t want Michelle to think that, just because she and Ruby might be better off than Michelle and Mia, Karen thought she was also in some way better. That said, Karen had seen Michelle and Mia coming out of an attractive, brick-fronted, newly constructed mid-rise in the morning. Given that Karen understood Michelle to have a clerical job at the bureau of sanitation, she assumed that the family lived in one of the building’s hard-to-come-by, low-income, set-aside apartments. So at least Karen didn’t have to feel guilty about having a proper home.
“Yeah, but damn, that furniture is hard to put together,” said Michelle.
“Tell me about it,” said Karen, laughing. “Would you guys like something to drink?” She leaned down. “What about you, Mia? I was thinking of making hot chocolate.”
The child didn’t answer; she just stood there, clutching her mother’s sleeve and staring at Karen.
Karen stared back, fascinated not only by Mia’s shiny and perfectly executed black braids, which were so tight that her eyes appeared to be capable of peripheral vision, but also by Mia’s clothes. Karen couldn’t help but notice that they were adorned with tiny polo players. Nor did the garments appear to be designer knockoffs. The stitching was flawless, the cotton luxuriously thick and soft. Which meant that Michelle had likely spent a small fortune on the outfit, which further confused Karen. How could she afford to spend that kind of dough on her daughter’s clothing? Or was it simply that Michelle took pride in her daughter looking cute and, like all mothers, splurged on occasion, putting the charges on Visa?
But if the latter was true, was there an aspirational element to the selection? Or had the polo-player logo long since ceased to signify a desire to hang out with the kind of people who actually played polo? And how did that relate to the fact that Mia’s current best friend (Ruby) was Caucasian? Or did Michelle not think about these things?
“Mia, answer Ruby’s mom,” said Michelle.
“No, thank you,” the child mumbled.
“Well, maybe you guys can have something later on,” offered Karen.
“Can I see the Barbies?” asked Mia.
“Say ‘please,’” said Michelle, turning from Mia to Karen. “Sorry, my daughter has the worst manners.”
“Oh, she’s fine,” said Karen, waving the suggestion away.
“Can I please see the Barbies?” said Mia.
“Of course!” said Karen, suddenly regretting her accommodation of Ruby’s insistence that all her Barbie dolls have blond hair. For Christmas the year before, Karen had bought her City Shopper Barbie, who was a brunette, but Ruby had promptly cut all her hair off with Matt’s toenail clippers, giving the doll the appearance of an impossibly sexy chemo patient. “Ruby!” Karen called into the other room. “What are you doing? Your friend is here, waiting for you.”
Just then, Ruby appeared—in a rainbow-striped wig, feather boa, and leotard, her convex tummy stretching the nylon fabric to its limits. “Surprise!” she yelled while striking a showgirl pose, one leg in front of the other and hands on her nonexistent hips.
“Hi, Ruby,” Mia said, giggling.
“Sweetie—can we tone it down a tiny bit?” said Karen, embarrassed both by Ruby’s pose and by the fact of her daughter’s distended stomach. Karen feared that Michelle would think she was one of those rich, laissez-faire parents who never disciplined their children, mistakenly believing that they needed to express themselves, even when they were acting like entitled little brats.
“But I’m a celebrity,” Ruby explained.
“Funny,” said Karen, “because last time I checked, you were a third-grader.” Undaunted, Ruby began to gyrate. Desperate to interrupt the proceedings, Karen took hold of Ruby’s arm mid-swivel and said, “Mia really wants to see your Barbies. Can you take her to your room and show her? Now?”
“Come with me,” said Ruby, grabbing Mia’s wrist and yanking her away—summoning in Karen both relief and a new cause for alarm: What if Michelle thought Ruby was bossing her daughter around?
“Ruby reminds me of me at that age,” announced Michelle.
“You mean bossy and a huge pain in the butt?” said Karen. “I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, stop,” said Michelle, laughing. “Your daughter’s got character!”
“That’s very sweet,” said Karen, who found herself feeling unexpectedly warm toward her visitor. After the girls vanished, she turned to Michelle, let out a heavy sigh meant to allude to the exhausting job known as motherhood, and said, “Maybe this is crazy, but how about a glass of something? I know it’s early in the afternoon. But I’m ready if you are.”
“Why not?” said Michelle. “To be honest, I could use one.”
“I could always use one.”
Michelle grinned back at her and said, “That makes two of us,” further pleasing Karen, who hoped to be perceived by her guest as sophisticated—after all, she was easily fifteen years Michelle’s senior—without being superior.