Class Read online

  Now it was Matt’s turn to get defensive. Slack-jawed, he stared at Karen. Then he said, “Excuse me?”

  “I mean, have you asked her lately if she’s happy at school?”

  Clearly angered by the implication that he wasn’t around enough to know what was going on in his daughter’s life, Matt didn’t even deign to answer Karen’s last question. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, shook his head, took a swig of his beer, and walked out of the room while Karen stood there motionless, not entirely sure how they’d arrived at the place they’d arrived or whether she should apologize or dig in but feeling suddenly alone and adrift.

  Her thoughts turned to her dead parents. The truth was that, while Karen was fine in a day-to-day sense, she still hadn’t found relief from the rudderless feeling that her mother’s death in particular had engendered. In some ways, it had only gotten harder. In the first few days and even weeks after she died, Karen’s memories of her were so vivid that she almost felt as if Ruth Kipple were still out there somewhere. And they’d buoyed her through the shock.

  It wasn’t until recently, when Karen found herself struggling to remember how her mother looked and sounded, to recall her thinning auburn hair, light brown eyes, and throaty voice, that time seemed to stretch out indefinitely ahead of her, with every new calendar day bringing Karen further away from the last time she’d seen her alive. Only then did the magnitude of what had happened finally set in. So did the mundaneness.

  One day, Herb Kipple, who’d never drunk or smoked, had gotten a stomachache. A week later, he’d been diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer. He was gone in under three months. And then, just like that, Karen’s mother, not wanting to be left out or left behind, or maybe because she was brokenhearted—or maybe it was all just random chance—had received a cancer diagnosis of her own. For a brief window of time, when she was still cogent but clearly dying, she’d seemed almost relieved and even liberated—possibly because the illness had lent a certain concreteness to her discontent. But then, just as quickly as in Karen’s father, the disease took charge. Her mother’s naps grew longer, then even longer. Finally, she too shriveled up and slipped into the abyss. And that was that. The world went on as before.

  Except it hadn’t for Karen.

  For one thing, her parents’ deaths had removed a psychic barrier between Karen and her own mortality. Once a comfortably abstract notion, her own demise now seemed to be, if not imminent, then waving in the near distance. Karen was especially terrified of dropping dead before Ruby was fully grown and out of the house. She worried how Matt would manage and also that Ruby would end up subsisting entirely on junk food because Matt would fail to notice or care. For another thing, Karen felt bitter both that her parents were missing out on Ruby’s childhood and that Ruby was missing out on knowing them. Or was the real loss on Karen’s side—the loss of a mirror to reflect back her own choices and confirm once and for all that she was a good daughter and, by extension, a good person?

  In truth, when Ruth Kipple was still alive, Karen had considered her to be an endless burden. Karen had felt guilty for not visiting enough, not doing enough, as if there were anything anyone could have done about her mother’s depression and, later, her dying. To an extent, her death had come as a relief to Karen. It also felt like a terrible waste. All that suffering; what had been the purpose? It had produced no great poetry or scientific breakthroughs, only more suffering—for her family members, for herself.

  In any case, Karen had no one to talk about it with anymore. Her friends had long since ceased inquiring how she was doing. And even at the time, there had been an assumption that Karen must have been happy that the whole ordeal was over. Matt had been supportive in the immediate aftermath, but Karen sensed his patience had run out too. And Karen’s brother, Rob, who sold surf equipment in Orange County and whom Karen spoke to twice a year, if that, had seemed relatively unmoved by the events, having separated himself from the family psychodrama decades earlier. Or maybe it was just that he wasn’t willing to share his grief with Karen. After all this time, he still seemed resentful that she’d been their mother’s favorite and had played the dutiful-child role that he’d never wanted for himself. On the phone, he answered Karen’s questions monosyllabically, then made up excuses about why he needed to hang up.

  Suddenly desperate to reconnect with Matt, Karen followed him into their bedroom. She found him typing on his phone. “I’m sorry I implied you were a bad father,” she said. “I don’t think that, and I shouldn’t have said it. And I know you’re working really hard on this project, and it means a lot to you.”

  It was another five seconds before he stopped typing. “It doesn’t matter what it means to me,” he finally answered, his tone flat and his eyes still cast south. “It’s about connecting people in need with affordable housing.”

  “Matt, I’m sorry.”

  “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 w
as 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.

  As Karen took two wineglasses down from the shelf and emptied a recently opened bottle of New Zealand sauvignon blanc into them, the women commiserated about how ridiculously cold it still was outside. Then Karen pulled up a stool across from Michelle, who was already seated at Karen’s butcher-block kitchen island, and said, “So, what’s new in your life?”

  “Seriously?” said Michelle, one eyebrow lifted as she raised her glass to her lips.

  “Seriously,” said Karen.

  “My husband, Benny, Mia, and me? We’re fine,” said Michelle. “But can I tell you”—she extended her neck forward—“Benny’s ex, Gisela? She’s literally killing me right now. Like, she and my stepdaughter, Juliana, just got evicted again.”

  “Oh my God, are you serious?” said Karen, amazed at how forthcoming Michelle was being—it was almost as if she’d forgotten that she and Karen didn’t actually know each other—but also flattered to be entrusted with such personal information and happy for the distraction from her own problems. In truth, it alarmed and excited her to think that her daughter was only two degrees of separation away from the kind of people who got evicted.

  “Totally serious,” said Michelle.

  “What a nightmare,” said Karen. “So where are they living now?”

  “Probably someone’s floor. Or a shelter. I don’t even ask anymore!”

  “That’s terrible,” said Karen, shaking her head.

  “I just feel bad for my stepdaughter, Juliana,” Michelle continued. “She’s, like, a sweet kid. But when she comes over to our house, she cries when it’s time to leave ’cause Mia’s got all these games to play with and her own room and stuff. And Juliana’s got, like, nothing.” She shrugged.

  “Who can blame her?” said Karen, shrugging herself.

  “But what can I do?” said Michelle. “I don’t have room for her. And I sure as hell don’t have room for Gisela.”

  “Well, she can’t really expect you to put them all up.”

  “I don’t know what she expects. But seriously, Karen?” Michelle pulled her stool in even closer. “Benny and I worked to get where we are. Like, we worked our butts off. So did my mami and papi—they always paid the rent on time. But Benny’s papi left his mami when she was eight months pregnant with Benny. Then he got AIDS and, like, died on the street, but that’s a whole other story.”

  “Oh my God, that’s awful!” said Karen, even as a part of her wondered if Michelle was playing up her and Benny’s hard-knocks background for Karen’s own edification.

  “Anyway, Benny knows that I will chop his you-know-what off if he leaves me for another girl. And he’s not going to, because he’s not like that. He’s working the night shift right now.”

  “What does he do? I mean, where does he work?” said Karen, correcting herself. To her mind, the first question implied that the subject had selected one or another specialized field that provided, along with money, some sense of personal fulfillment, whereas one couldn’t presume that working-class people did their jobs for any reason other than that they had to. Or was that patronizing?

  “He’s a security guard,” said Michelle. “It’s not ideal hours, but it’s steady money. And that’s where our priority is right now. We want to do what’s best for our family.”

  “That’s why your life is good, and hers isn’t,” said Karen.

  “Exactly. And Gisela—she wants to get high and buy stuff she doesn’t need. Hello? What about food for your children?” Michelle gestured elaborately with her long, perfectly manicured red nails, making Karen suddenly self-conscious about her own unadorned, vaguely filthy, and partially chewed-off ones.

  “God, that is so depressing. I feel so sorry for Juliana,” said Karen, hiding her hands under the table.

  “I feel sorry for her too. But I’m sorry—I have no sympathy for Gisela.”

  “And why should you?”

  “Seriously, Karen? I want to take her by the shoulders and shake her and say, ‘You know what? You need to get your shit together. No one is going to bail you out anymore.’”

  “Gisela has to learn that,” Karen heard herself agreeing, even as she realized that the faith in self-reliance that Michelle was preaching and that Karen was now seconding was right out
of the Republican Party playbook that Karen had spent a lifetime claiming to abhor because it placed all the blame for being poor on the poor.

  “Oh! I completely forgot,” said Michelle, reaching into her bag and, to Karen’s secret horror, pulling out a large package of Chips Ahoy! chocolate chip cookies. On closer inspection, they appeared to have Reese’s Pieces candy embedded in them. “I bought a treat for the girls,” Michelle went on.

  “That was so sweet of you!” said Karen, dark visions of polyunsaturated cooking oil filling her head. As she took the package out of Michelle’s hand, she racked her brain for an excuse why it shouldn’t be opened just then. “Will you forgive me if we save them for later?” she spluttered. “The truth is that we had a super-late lunch, and I let Ruby have this huge cupcake for dessert. And to be honest, she goes a little insane when she gets too much sugar! I mean, even more insane than she already is.” Karen laughed to hide her discomfort with lying.

  “Of course!” said Michelle, shrugging and seeming unbothered.

  But Karen couldn’t tell if it was an act or not. And really, why should Michelle believe her? Hadn’t Karen just offered the girls hot chocolate and, when that was turned down, promised to give Mia another sweet treat later? Also, who had lunch at four o’clock? “Anyway, back to Juliana’s mom,” Karen said shakily. “Doesn’t she have any other family she could live with?”

  “I wish,” muttered Michelle.

  Was it Karen’s paranoia or had Michelle’s voice grown suddenly chilly? Ten more minutes passed, during which time the two women wound up discussing the hell of pregnancy-related nausea—likely one of few common threads in their life histories. Then Michelle stood up and announced she had to run an errand, if that was okay.

  “Go ahead!” said Karen.

  “I shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes,” said Michelle.

  “Please, take your time,” said Karen, hoping it was more like an hour and twenty minutes, not because she didn’t like Michelle—really, she felt the opposite—but because she was now convinced that Michelle could see right through her. That is, see her for the neurotic elitist she really was. “The girls will be fine,” she continued.