“Yeah, in Naples. The infinity pool was nice, I admit. But they’re honest-to-God Rush Limbaugh fans. It’s really hard being around them, to tell you the truth. They think Obama is a communist agitator—as if. I honestly couldn’t wait for school to start again. Though of course, Eastbrook being Eastbrook, they were off for practically the entire month of March. It’s like, the more you pay in tuition, the fewer days of school there are.”
“That’s crazy,” said Karen, feeling marginally better about her own life again. In Karen’s experience, as much as she adored Ruby, school holidays was an oxymoron.
“And it’s only been two months since the four weeks they had off for Christmas and New Year’s,” said Allison. “Also, can I tell you? I just found out that, for snack at Eastbrook’s after-school program, they hand out Oreos. Real Oreos. Like, the Nabisco version with the trans fats, not even the Paul Newman kind. As if the school doesn’t bring in enough tuition dollars to buy non-crap cookies.” Allison shook her head and scoffed.
Growing the tiniest bit weary of Allison’s tirade, Karen downed half the wine in her glass and began to sing a commercial jingle from her own youth: “‘Do you know exactly how to eat an Oreo’—”
But Allison didn’t get the hint and apparently wasn’t finished. “And don’t even get me started about the math program,” she went on, and on. “I swear, the fourth-graders haven’t learned multiplication yet. Or at least my fourth-grader hasn’t. They’re still adding, like, twenty plus forty. It’s pathetic…”
To be fair, Allison and Karen had a long-standing tradition of ragging on everyone and everything in their lives. Some of it was serious; some clearly for sport. But at that moment, Karen had the distinct impression that Allison was playing up her discontent for Karen’s benefit. As if the education Karen was providing her only child was so inadequate that she needed to hear that private school wasn’t perfect either. “Allison,” she said, grabbing her friend’s wrist and leaning forward. “If you hate the school that much, why do you send your kids there? I’m serious.”
Allison let out a whimpery little moan, as if she were a teenager who’d been caught at the front door breaking curfew. “I know. You’re right. It’s just—it’s complicated. David never went to public school, so he doesn’t even consider it an option. And I guess I’ve bought into that whole BS about progressive education, even though I’m not sure what it really means, although I think it has something to do with school not just being about memorization and test prep and the kids getting to dress up in fairy costumes and write their own plays or something. But mostly, once your kids are in private school, it’s really hard to go backward. Or forward. Or whatever you want to call it. Not that we can actually afford to send them to Eastbrook—this ridiculous basement-pool dig-out is literally eating up every last dollar we own—but whatever. I just have to say, I really admire you for sticking it out in public school, and not even one of the famous or selective ones.” She smiled apologetically at Karen, just as Leslie Pfeiffer had done on the street.
“Sticking it out?” scoffed Karen, because it was the easiest point to argue. “Ruby is only in third grade. I wouldn’t really call that sticking it out. But whatever! Compliment taken.”
“What do you say we order?” said Allison, adjusting her chair. “I’m suddenly starving.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Karen.
“To be honest, I get so bored talking about my kids,” Allison added while perusing her menu a final time. As if she’d been the one monologuing Karen with a jeremiad against Betts.
Karen bristled, irritated on multiple fronts. Not only did Allison’s declaration seem like a cop-out, but it also implied that Karen, not Allison, had been the one who’d forced them to talk about their children at the expense of more interesting topics. “I’m not bored,” she demurred. “But sure. Let’s talk about something else.”
“There must be something on this menu that isn’t pigeon.”
“Locally sourced rat?” said Karen.
“Ha,” said Allison.
The joke was less funny the second time around.
When Karen got home from dinner, she found Matt sprawled on the living-room sofa watching a basketball game. His dirty socks were in balls beneath the coffee table. His dirty dinner plate was on the coffee table alongside a saucer holding a morass of crumbs and melting butter. “Hey,” she said, wishing he would put the laundry, dirty dishes, and perishables where they belonged—that is, in the hamper, dishwasher, and refrigerator, respectively. Karen worked hard at keeping a comfortable and orderly home, and Matt seemed always to be thwarting her efforts with his indifference, his slovenliness, his failure even to notice when things were amiss. Then again, she was the one who’d just been out to dinner while Matt had stayed home and watched Ruby. And what if Karen was turning into one of those fussy old ladies she’d been so frightened of as a child—the type who’d reprimand you in gift shops and antique stores for touching the merchandise?
“Hey, what’s up?” he said with a brief glance in her direction. “How was your dinner?”
“Fun,” she said, pointedly carrying Matt’s dirty dishes to the sink. Not that he seemed to notice. “Though Allison was doing her usual complaining about how much her fabulous life sucks.”
“That sounds familiar,” he said.
Was he trying to imply that he’d heard all of Karen’s stories before or agreeing that Allison was always complaining? Karen couldn’t tell. Matt had never registered any particular objection to Allison. But he seemed to regard all of Karen’s old friends as types rather than actual people. “Come on, Kev!” he shouted at the TV screen.
Feeling suddenly frustrated, Karen found herself blurting out, “I feel like we’ve hardly spoken lately.”
“Aren’t we speaking right now?” asked Matt.
“Yeah, but I feel like you’re always a million miles away all the time.”
“Hey, you were the one out with friends tonight, not me.”
“I know. It’s just—I don’t know.”
“Sorry if I’ve seemed distracted. Work has been really intense lately.”
“Do you want to plan a date night?”
“Sure.”
“Also, if you want to come to the HK benefit, we have to get a sitter.”
“Of course I’ll come. What night is it again?”
“The eighteenth.”
“Oh, shiiitttt.” Matt hit his forehead with his palm.
“What?” said Karen.
“That’s the night of our dinner with the foundation people,” he said. “They want updating. And I guess we’re also hoping to talk them into replenishing the coffers, so to speak.” Karen didn’t answer. He was telling her this now? “I’m really sorry about that,” Matt continued, sounding genuinely remorseful. But a millisecond later, he was leaning toward the TV, arms outstretched, yelling, “Where’s the fucking defense?” As if the matter of his nonattendance at her biggest work event of the year had already been settled and forgotten about.
Except it hadn’t.
“I also feel like you don’t take what I do seriously,” said Karen. It was less that she believed this to be true than that she didn’t feel like letting Matt off the hook. Not yet. She also wanted his attention.