Karen resolved to do as Troy had said.
But breaking free of Clay became that much harder to conceive of after a bike messenger arrived at the office that afternoon with a package for her. Inside was a palm-size pale blue box containing a pair of diamond studs the size of shirt buttons. While there was no accompanying card, Karen didn’t need one to know who they were from. For a few moments, she sat staring at the earrings and reveling in their scintillating splendor, which made her feel brilliant and desirable by association—and even more desirous of Clay. (The most recent piece of jewelry that Matt had bought her was her wedding ring, a simple gold band that owed its existence to a small-scale mining cooperative in central Peru.) At the same time, she couldn’t get past the notion that the earrings were, in some sense, payment for sex, which in turn made her feel like a prostitute. Disgusted with both herself and Clay, Karen closed the box and stuck it in the top drawer of her desk behind a three-pack of Post-it notes.
And that evening, gathering courage, she made a first attempt at repairing her marriage. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask your opinion before I enrolled Ruby at Mather,” she told Matt. “It was wrong of me.”
“Thank you for your apology,” he replied.
While hardly effusive, Matt’s response seemed like a positive indicator. And for a brief window that evening, Karen allowed herself to be encouraged about her chances for a peaceful old age. But when a message came in from Clay at eleven, just as she was climbing into bed, her heart thumped with such ferocity that she thought it might come catapulting out of her body. He’d written:
Already missing the puppies—and you. Animal Planet redo next week, same time? Xoxo—p.s. Forgot to ask if you had pierced ears…
For several seconds, Karen stood frozen and with her fingers poised over the screen of her phone. Every part of her wanted to write back, Me too, and yes. She felt so aroused, but also embarrassed to feel that way. Lust was such a crude emotion—so primal and unsophisticated, really. So selfish too—not unlike Clay. It was true that he wrote checks for good causes. But what social value was there in taking high-risk bets on obscure financial products? Matt, by contrast, might have been unromantic, but he was also impressive. And he was committed to improving the lives of others, not just improving the bottom lines of his already fabulously wealthy clients. Besides, there was no evidence that Clay was prepared to make any changes to his personal life. Though even if he was, Karen couldn’t see herself as the second wife of a billionaire, ordering around the staff. She felt guilty even asking Ashley to load the dishwasher. If Karen left Matt, it would be just her and Ruby, their voices echoing through the apartment. Before Karen had a chance to change her mind, she wrote back:
Wish I could, but I can’t. Hope you understand…
Thank you for the beautiful earrings—they will always remind me of you (and the puppies). Karen
Then she proceeded to check her phone every two minutes for the next half hour to see if Clay would write back. He didn’t.
When Karen checked again in the morning, there was still no response. To her disappointment, he seemed to have understood only too well—and fallen silent. Then she felt as lonely and invisible as a speck of debris floating in outer space.
The following night, Karen received her first group e-mail as a Mather parent. It was from the Gladiola Street Block Association, and it bore the alarming headline Urgent—All Mather Parents, Please Read. Admittedly, there was a certain frisson in finding herself among the lucky few who’d played the game well enough to be receiving such an e-mail. But the feeling quickly gave way to something more uncomfortable. The e-mail read:
Dear Mather Parents:
As residents of the neighborhood, we want to make you aware of a project that will have a significant impact on your school community. The Department of Corrections (DOC) is opening a parole center on Gladiola Street, just three blocks from your school. The DOC made the decision to combine two existing facilities into one location, which will service all six thousand parolees in the city. The center is scheduled to start operations early next year.
While those of us who live on the block recognize the important role that the DOC plays in the city, we feel that the location of a parole center in our neighborhood is unjustified. First, the lack of public-transportation options near the proposed site means that parolees will be a constant presence on our streets, potentially impacting both the surrounding retail landscape and the quality of life enjoyed by neighborhood residents. Second, the existence of such a facility near an elementary school raises serious safety concerns.
If you share our concerns, please join us for a strategy meeting next Tuesday night. Details are below.
Thank you,
Gladiola Street Block Association Executive Board
Karen supposed you could argue that parolees, insofar as they were already mixed up with the criminal justice system, were inherently dangerous no matter their skin color. Conversely, you could protest that the criminal justice system was hopelessly racist and therefore indicative of nothing. Whatever the case, Karen suspected that, more than safety concerns, what the Gladiola Street Block Association really objected to was an influx of poor black and brown men into the neighborhood. But who was she to pass judgment when this was the very community she’d taken desperate and even duplicitous measures to become part of? After clicking Delete, she did her best to forget she’d ever read the e-mail.
She did her best to forget about Clay too. But it wasn’t nearly as easy. At various intervals throughout the day, Karen imagined him pulling her toward him, bending her over, as she heard in her head the low murmurs he’d made while he was inside her. She’d lost her appetite too. Even so, she kept cooking, kept trying to impose order and regimen on the chaos. But the hole in her heart wouldn’t stop oozing raw matter or insisting on body over mind. On Friday night, while preparing dinner for Ruby, Karen nearly gagged at the sight and feel of raw chicken breasts in her hands, as slippery as they were dense. She pictured a row of bulbous white maggots crawling along the skin.
But dinner brought relief as well. Seated across from her, Ruby told Karen about a girl in her class named Lulu who was in love with Justin Bieber, then about another girl named Charlotte who had given Ruby an extremely desirable Shopkin called Milly Mushroom in exchange for Ruby’s D’lish Donut. It seemed that Ruby was actually starting to make friends at Mather. Karen could have wept with relief.