Ever more convinced of Matt’s failure to do his fair share on the domestic front—even as she secretly preferred to do most of it herself—Karen returned to her computer and began typing a new e-mail.
Hey, Laura, I don’t know if Evan told you that we ran into each other this morning, but Ruby just started at Mather! Yes, it’s true. (Long story, not unrelated to yours.) Anyway, I wanted to see if we could make a plan for the girls for one day after school next week? Sadly, I don’t think they’re in the same class. But I’m hoping/assuming they will get to see each other at recess, lunch, etc.…Anyway, let me know your and M’s schedule when you have a chance. Our old sitter, Ashley the Queen of Nail Art, is back to Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday pickups, and I know she’d be happy to bring Maeve home with Ruby any of those days for a playdate. I also know R would love to hang with M! Hope all is well on your end. Karen
Laura’s response arrived only five minutes later:
Wow, I had no idea Ruby had transferred. That’s so unexpected. I thought you guys were so committed to the whole diversity thing…Anyway, it would be nice to get the girls together. But to be honest, Maeve is totally overscheduled right now, with Mathnasium on Mondays, Beyblades on Tuesdays, hip-hop on Wednesdays, rock climbing on Thursdays, and coding on Fridays. And weekends are kind of reserved for family time these days because Evan and I have been so slammed with work. But I’m sure the girls will get a chance to hang at school, and hopefully you and I will see each other one of these weeks too. Best, LC
Karen knew she shouldn’t have been surprised that Laura’s response, its superficially congenial tone notwithstanding, amounted to a wholesale rejection. After all, Karen had done the same to her the month before. But she was surprised. She also felt unexpectedly wounded that Laura apparently no longer wished for Maeve and Ruby’s friendship to go on at their new school—at least that seemed to be the subtext of her e-mail. Since there were a hundred other third-graders at Mather who looked like Maeve, Karen told herself it was no great loss.
If only she could have believed it.
How Karen got Ruby to school the next morning—in a downpour, no less—was a long story. But it involved the promise of unlimited screen time for a set period of days, as well as certain chemically enhanced and teeth-rotting sweets that Karen normally disapproved of and Ruby naturally loved. Several times during the negotiations, the compromises seemed too steep, and Karen was prepared to walk away and return Ruby to Betts and the status quo that seemed to satisfy everyone but herself. But by some miracle, the two of them made it inside Mather before the second bell had rung.
Five minutes after that, Karen was outside again, alone on the street with her umbrella and bags, walking toward the train station and contemplating an entire day and night with neither angry daughter nor angry husband telling her what she’d done wrong. Karen knew she should have felt relieved. And she did. But she also found herself apprehensive and on edge, as if an earthquake had been recorded out at sea, and a tsunami was predicted to make landfall that evening, but the exact location was still unclear. In the meantime, all was still and serene. The rain had tapered off, and the streets seemed unusually empty of traffic. In search of reassurance that she wouldn’t be among those swept away by the deluge, Karen found herself dialing Troy. Not the type to judge, he was also the only one of her friends who’d met Clay.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, sounding alarmed.
“Why?” said Karen.
“I can’t believe you called me. Who uses the telephone anymore?”
Karen laughed. “Fair point. I guess everything isn’t okay.”
“I charge two twenty-five an hour.”
“I’ll pay you back in sugarless gum.”
“Fine—go ahead.”
“My husband wants to divorce me because I enrolled Ruby at a new school without telling him, and I’m having dinner with Clay Phipps tonight and it has nothing to do with fund-raising.”
“Hmmmm,” said Troy. “Well, make sure you order the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu. I’m thinking a Chateau Lafite-Rothschild Bordeaux from the early nineties.”
“You’re no help,” said Karen.
“Kar—if you were raised by the Witnesses, you’d understand that Jehovah generously and willingly forgives even serious sins if you have a properly repentant attitude.”
“But what if I’m not a Jehovah’s Witness?”
“Then you’re screwed. Speaking of getting screwed.”
“We’re just having dinner!” cried Karen.
But were they? And what did Clay understand that Karen didn’t?
At 7:28 that evening, she found herself in a funky, old-school Italian restaurant. There were red-and-white-gingham vinyl tablecloths on all the tables and vintage black-and-white photos of famous boxers on the walls. Clay was already seated at the bar, drinking what appeared to be an orange juice on ice and staring at his phone. Excited but nervous, Karen approached and said, “Hey.”
Clay looked up and, at the sight of her, smiled and said, “Hey, what’s up?”
But he didn’t immediately rise from his stool or tell her how happy he was to see her or how beautiful she looked. Which surprised and further unnerved Karen, who was left to lean over, kiss him hello on the cheek, and say, “Not a lot,” then stand there awkwardly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, not sure if she should sit down or, if so, where. The whole exchange was so informal that, for a brief moment, Karen wondered if she’d invented their entire flirtation. But after she collected herself, Clay’s nonchalance, by taking the pressure off whatever would follow, came as a relief.
“Sorry,” he said, glancing at his phone one more time before he grabbed a salted peanut from a complimentary bowl and popped it in his mouth. “This jackass who works for me lost us a lot of money today.”
“How?” said Karen, taking a seat on the stool next to his.
“The model he was using blew up.”
“Should I flatter myself by thinking I would actually understand if you tried to explain?”
Clay laughed. “I wouldn’t bother. But the guy should have known better.”
“Can I ask you another question?”
“Sure.”
“Does anyone understand what you do for a living?”
“Not really. Sometimes not even me. But let’s not talk about work. It’s too depressing.”
“I can pretty much guarantee that how I spend my days is eleven times more depressing than how you spend yours,” said Karen.
“Fair enough. What can I get you to drink?”
“I don’t know—surprise me.”
“One Bill Cosby Special coming right up. Waiter!” Clay motioned for the man behind the bar.
“You’re a terrible person,” Karen said, chuckling and punching Clay’s arm.
“Ow,” he said, grinning back.