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  On Monday, Karen met an old college acquaintance named Clay Phipps for lunch. Having tagged him as a potential Hungry Kids donor and possibly even a candidate for its board of directors, she’d e-mailed him cold and asked to meet. From what she’d read in the financial press, he’d founded his hedge fund, which used a new quantitative trading strategy, while he was still in business school. He was now worth hundreds of millions of dollars, if not a cool billion, and had homes in Jackson Hole, Bermuda, and probably three other places. Though he’d hardly started out in life poor. His father had been high up at Morgan Stanley and his mother—Karen remembered someone in college telling her—was related to the Vanderbilts. Or maybe it was the Astors.

  It had never been among Karen’s life goals to suck up to rich guys and cajole them into parting with fractions of their fortunes—far from it. After college, she’d actually considered becoming a social worker. But a hands-on job leading arts-and-crafts workshops at a battered-women’s shelter had convinced her that her talents, such as they were, lay elsewhere. She’d felt awkward around the women, and they didn’t seem to connect with her either. Though a few did ask for money, which made her feel even more uncomfortable. As a result, Karen changed direction and lent her passion for social action to various left-leaning advocacy groups in Washington, DC, where she became expert at press releases.

  But after Bill Clinton more or less killed welfare in ’96, Karen realized that the groups she worked for had pretty much no influence whatsoever. She pivoted yet again, pursuing a master’s degree in public health, which also led nowhere. It was mostly by default that she wound up in the world of philanthropy. A job offer to help raise money for a national reproductive-health and -rights organization came through a friend of a friend. Needing employment in any case, Karen decided it was better to help by some means than not to help at all. She also came to believe, contrary to the mantra of the hippie era, that everything important was predicated on money. Love and good health could not always be purchased, it was true. Nearly everything else could be.

  During Karen’s first two years at Hungry Kids, she’d concentrated her efforts on grant writing, submitting elaborate proposals to faceless and secretive nonprofit organizations as well as the charitable wings of multinational corporations. But in the past few years, it had become clear to her that members of the .01 percent with autonomy over their own fortunes and family foundations were a far more expedient source of cash. In an ideal world, the IRS would be collecting enough taxes from these very people to feed the nation’s poor. But to Karen’s mind, the U.S. government had long ago stopped taking responsibility for the needy, so it was left to people like her, and organizations like Hungry Kids, to lead the effort.

  But direct fund-raising had changed her. Despite Karen’s innate discomfort with the idea of so much money being concentrated in so few hands, a part of her had come, if not to idolize, then certainly to find fascinating the very demographic from whom she solicited funds. She studied their clothes, their mannerisms, their speech patterns, and their lifestyles. The most curious of her findings? The .01 percent didn’t decorate their own Christmas trees; rather, experts were called in to distribute the baubles evenly and drape the skirts just so. They purchased wine at auctions, not stores. And each child got his or her own nanny, all the better if the caregivers spoke to their charges exclusively in Mandarin before the kids entered their foreign-language immersion programs at their exclusive private schools.

  As Karen made her way to the restaurant, she tried to remember how she and Clay had actually met, but she couldn’t. All she recalled was his undying crush on her beautiful lesbian roommate from Toronto, Lydia Glenn. To the extent that Karen and Clay had bonded at all, it had been over his unrequited love for Lydia. In fact, when Karen had e-mailed two weeks earlier, she hadn’t been entirely sure he’d remember who she was and had actually signed off Karen, former roommate of Lovely Lydia :-). But his e-mail back had been immediate and enthusiastic, which had surprised and flattered her. He’d insisted on making the lunch reservation himself—at some seafood place near his office. Concerned about being late, Karen had arrived early, and first.

  Elegant but antiseptic, it was the kind of establishment that owed its existence to corporate expense accounts. Everything about it, from the napkins to the waiters to the kayak-shaped dishes filled with glistening Italian olives, was a shade of off white. It was also eerily quiet but for the occasional high-pitched laugh that floated over the tables like a harmonic overtone. “I’m meeting Clay Phipps,” Karen murmured to the hostess, who murmured in response, “Follow me, please,” then led Karen to a corner table in back.

  Clay arrived shortly after her. Up close, he looked surprisingly similar to the way he had in college, his dark blond hair still wavy and windswept, if somewhat wispier, his good looks still boyish. Though he was significantly shorter than Karen remembered. The most visible indicators of time’s passage were the knife cuts on the outer corners of his light blue eyes and the strands of silver that were now threaded through his hair in the manner of an Indian textile. He was dressed like a college student also, in faded Levi’s, white sneakers, and a ratty gray fleece pullover with a zipper at the neck. Against trend, he looked thinner than he had at age twenty-one, even verging on gaunt. The thought crossed Karen’s mind that he was probably on one of those strange diets involving raw kale or whatnot that the rich sometimes went on at the advice of their personal trainers. “Karen!” he said with a big smile.

  “Clay!” she said, hugging him hello.

  “So, how are you after all these years?” he said, sitting down. He propped his elbows on the table, just as Karen’s mother had always warned her not to, leaned forward, and gazed at her intently.

  Embarrassed by the attention and also feeling overdressed in her black skirt suit, Karen looked away. “I’m good!” she said. “What has it been—like, twenty-five years?” Regaining her composure, she turned her gaze back to him.

  “Probably,” he said.

  “To be honest, when I e-mailed you, I wasn’t even sure you’d remember who I was.”

  “Of course I remember!”

  “Are you still in touch with Lydia?”

  “God, no. Are you?”

  “I haven’t seen her since graduation, but we’re Facebook friends. Unless I’m mistaken, she’s the director of a women’s theater collective. I get announcements about her shows.”

  “That’s so perfect,” said Clay, rolling his eyes. “And let me guess—she lives in Portland, or something.”

  “That sounds about right,” said Karen, smiling. “Or maybe it’s Vancouver. I can’t remember.”

  “I don’t know what I was thinking,” he went on. “She was the biggest dyke on the whole planet. And yet, in my great naïveté, I somehow imagined that my charms would be enough to convert her.” He smiled back.

  “From what I recall, it was a valiant effort.”

  “—that failed miserably.”

  They both laughed.

  “I assume you eventually found love elsewhere,” Karen said.

  “Don’t assume so much,” Clay replied. “But first, I want to hear about you. What have you been doing since college?”

  “That’s a very good question—let’s see,” said Karen. “Well, the nineties are kind of a blur at this point. I worked in DC for a while.”

  “Such a boring fucking place.”

  “Tell me about it. Then, at around thirty, I got a master’s degree, which I never use. For a split second after that, I worked at Planned Parenthood.”

  “Giving abortions?” asked Clay.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Just kidding.”

  “I was actually in the communications department, but whatever,” Karen said with a quick laugh as she tried to gauge whether or not she should be mortally offended. Her whole life, she’d had a tendency toward delayed reactions.

  “For the record, I fully support Planned Parenthood,” said Clay, as if he coul
d tell she was still deciding. “I think I even give them money.”

  “Oh—cool,” said Karen, trying to smile.

  “And then what?” asked Clay.

  “Well, at some point, I began fund-raising for the causes I care about. And at another point, I got married and had a kid. My husband and I actually met at the Republican National Convention, if you can believe it. Or, really, outside the Republican National Convention. If I remember correctly, we were both chanting, ‘Hey, ho, the GOP must go.’” Somehow, Karen sensed that Clay, whatever his current political persuasion, would appreciate that last detail.

  And he did. “Of course you were,” he said, seeming inordinately pleased, if only because the anecdote fit so neatly into his picture of the world. “I love it.”

  “And our daughter is about to turn nine,” Karen went on. “And I don’t have to tell you what I’m doing right now, because you already know! What about you?”

  “What about me?” he said, popping an olive into his mouth as if there weren’t much to say.

  “I don’t know! Tell me anything.”

  “Well, I’m permanently jet-lagged. And I have four kids. How’s that?”

  “Four! Yikes,” said Karen, who had noticed in her travels that only the very rich and the very poor had families that large anymore. “I can barely manage one.”

  “Yeah, well, we have a lot of help.” Clay unfolded his napkin and placed it in his lap. “But to be honest, it’s been kind of stressful lately. My wife basically hates my guts.”

  “Oh no!” said Karen, surprised at how forthcoming he was being and titillated to have such personal information in her possession but also feeling that she somehow needed to even the score. “Well, my husband and I barely see each other,” she told him. “He used to work as a housing lawyer, but now he’s building this website and app, and he’s never home. But why am I telling you this?” She laughed again, this time nervously. Now that she’d said so much, she felt guilty and keen to bring the conversation back to its original impetus in case Clay had forgotten why she’d invited him to lunch. “Anyway, I hope you don’t mind me e-mailing you out of nowhere. I’m sure you’re incredibly busy. But I heard you were involved in philanthropy, and I just wanted to let you know that Hungry Kids is an amazing cause. People think starving children exist only in Africa. But it’s a big issue right here in our own backyards. It’s even worse for these kids on weekends and in the summertime when schools are out and not providing free breakfast and lunch. By our estimates, there are currently one point seven million people living in food-insecure households here in the city and surrounding areas, one million of whom are children and three hundred thousand of whom are grown-ups who are eligible for food stamps but who don’t have them. So part of what we do is help parents file for the benefits their families are entitled to. We also help stock food pantries and soup kitchens—”

  “It all sounds very admirable,” said Clay, interrupting. “In fact, I had my assistant look up your GuideStar rating this morning and apparently you guys get five stars. But first I have a question.” He laid a hand on Karen’s forearm. “Do you think we could order before we talk any more about your good cause? To be honest, I’m fucking starving…speaking of starving.”

  “Of course!” said Karen, embarrassed. Had she come on too strong, too early? You had to time these things for maximum impact. Following Clay’s lead, she picked up her menu and quickly announced, “I think I’m going to get the wild salmon.”

  “Always a solid choice,” said Clay, motioning for the waiter.

  He ordered for them both—oysters on the half shell for himself, along with some pasta dish involving scallops, a large bottle of sparkling water, and a half a dozen exotic-sounding appetizers that Karen doubted they’d be able to finish, which struck her as ironic considering they were there to address food scarcity. But no matter.

  After the waiter left, Clay said, “So, back to your thing…I have a real question for you. I hope you’re not offended by my asking it. But the poor children one sees around the city don’t always look exactly, well—how do I put this nicely?—starving. Sometimes the opposite.”

  Karen had heard the question before. “Actually, childhood obesity has a lot to do with food scarcity. When they have no access to nutritious food, children are more likely to fill up on empty calories that taste good while they’re eating them but don’t make them feel full or provide them with adequate nutrients. You can be obese and malnourished. That’s the irony. And that’s where Hungry Kids’ education program comes in. We have this amazing troupe of young actors who visit the public schools and perform skits that teach young children about healthy eating habits. They’re actually hilarious. They all dress up as fruits and vegetables.”

  “Sounds amusing,” said Clay.

  Was he mocking her? Karen couldn’t tell. “Anyway,” she continued, “we’d be totally thrilled if you wanted to get involved. Eighty percent of donations go directly to feeding the poor and related programs. I should add that we also have this fantastic new outreach program, Keep It Fresh, which increases access to affordable and nutritious fresh food in low-income neighborhoods and enables economic development through creating or expanding food-related jobs and—”

  “I’m happy to help,” said Clay, again cutting her off and also sounding the tiniest bit impatient.

  Or was Karen overinterpreting? “Thank you so much, Clay,” she said, relieved to have gotten the ask part of the conversation over with, even as she wished she’d waited.

  “It’s my pleasure,” said Clay. Then he narrowed his eyes at her, smiled, and said, “It’s good to see you, Karen Kipple from College.”

  “It’s good to see you too!” said Karen, deciding that, in all likelihood, he was just feeling nostalgic for his Sigma Chi days and mistakenly thinking she’d been a part of them.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he went on while fishing an olive pit out of his mouth, “but you’re one of the few people I know who looks better than they did when we were young.”

  “Oh, thanks!” she said, not sure whether to be flattered or hurt. It struck her as the ultimate left-handed compliment. “Was I really ugly then?”

  “Not at all, but you wore some kind of ring thingy in your nose, which I hope you don’t mind me saying I’m glad to see gone.”

  “Why would I mind?” Karen said. Though, in truth, she did mind. The hole had eventually become infected, and she’d had to let it close up. But there had been a time and place when that tiny gold ring had made her feel subversive, which was the attribute to which everyone in Karen’s social circle had aspired back then.

  “You also had a baby face, and now you’re kind of chiseled and hot,” said Clay.

  “Tell that to my husband!” Karen laughed, shocked by the direction in which the conversation had turned.

  “Tell me his name, and I will.”

  “It’s Matt. He’s a great guy. But you know how it goes after you’ve been married for a while. People basically stop seeing each other.” Was she being disloyal? “I could seriously be wearing two different shoes, and I don’t think he’d notice.” What Karen didn’t tell Clay was that one of the things that had initially attracted her to Matt was his self-reliance—a reliance so evolved that it sometimes bordered on benign neglect of the people around him. Matt didn’t seem to need or want anyone’s help, and that realization had come as a huge relief to Karen—at least in the early days of their marriage.

  Clay took a sip of his sparkling water and wiped his mouth. Then he looked straight at her—straight through her, it seemed to Karen—and said, “I’d notice.”

  Was Clay Phipps just one of those people who used flattery the way others used humor—to put others at ease? Or was he flirting with her? Was that even possible? And if he was, why? “Is that right?” was all Karen could think to say back. It had been so long since she’d been complimented on her appearance that she’d forgotten how gratifying it was. With her mop of unruly hai
r, small breasts, and proportionally wide hips, she’d never conformed to any American ideal of femininity. But there had been a very brief window in her midtwenties—after she’d finally slimmed down, thanks to a strict if unhealthy diet of salads and nonfat frozen yogurt, and learned how to defrizz her hair—when she’d attracted a certain amount of attention from the opposite sex, which she’d rewarded with short-term flings. At its most intoxicating, being a sex object had felt like an escape route from the mundane and from the burden of her upbringing. At its worst, it had felt like a full-time job. There had been endless hairs to pluck, StairMasters to master, scales to stand on and lament the previous evening’s caloric intake, and lotions and potions to rub in and rinse off again. But to have experienced even a taste of the strange kind of power that accompanied youthful beauty was, to some extent, to mourn its passing for the rest of your life.

  Karen and Clay filled the rest of the hour with discussions of long-lost friends from college—mostly his fraternity brothers, the majority of whom Karen barely recalled but, for Clay’s benefit and, by extension, the benefit of Hungry Kids, pretended to have vivid memories of…

  “I assume you remember Scooter, my roommate in the house—the dickhead with the American flag bong?”

  “Of course I remember!”

  “Well, after Lehman folded and his marriage blew up, the guy hightailed it to Tortola for a breather and apparently never left. Rumor has it he now rides around in a fucking pizza boat, if you can believe it, offering pepperoni slices to passing yachtsmen.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  All of the old brothers apparently worked in tech or finance, or used to do so until their midlife crises, and were about to remarry or were busy disentangling themselves from their old marriages and going through messy divorces. When the bill came, Clay reached into his coat pocket and Karen didn’t bother objecting. After laying out his Am Ex black card on the tray, he pulled a rumpled paper check out of his pocket with the name of his family’s LLC at the top. “How much does Starving Children or whatever it’s called need?” he said. “Sorry—I’m terrible with names. Though I’d never forget yours.”