Between dinner and dessert, the film actress glided to the podium, her head held high. She was wearing a short-sleeved black turtleneck and sequined miniskirt that showcased her insect-like legs. “I’m Nava Gresham,” she began—as if everyone in the audience didn’t already know. “And I want to talk to you about the important issue of child hunger.” Her hair was skinned back into a tight bun clearly meant to connote a seriousness of purpose, and she spoke in a dramatic and impassioned way about the shame of the city’s starving children, which she claimed to take personally. “I mean, here we are in one of the great cities of the world. And there are children in it who are going to bed hungry at night. It’s just plain wrong, and it breaks my heart, as I know it breaks yours. I’ve never been very religious but there is one phrase I learned in Sunday school as a child that has stayed with me all these years: There but for the grace of God go I. Because these children who go to bed hungry—they are part of our family too, the human family.
“In the past year and a half,” Nava continued, “in order to prepare for my next film role, I had the opportunity to accompany Molly and the other amazing staff at Hungry Kids as they visited families for whom hunger is a daily reality. In the film, I play a single mother named Clara who can’t afford to feed her son, who suffers from gigantism. In desperation, Clara turns to prostitution. The film won’t change the world, but with any luck, it will bring attention to an issue that it’s in our power to solve. The film is called Feast and Famine. Earlier this year, it was at the Berlin Film Festival, where I’m humbled to say it received the Alfred Bauer Prize, which is given to a feature that opens new perspectives. It’s being released in the U.S. next month, and I would be honored if you went to see it. I also hope you will continue to support Hungry Kids, a heroic organization doing heroic things.”
When Nava finished speaking, Karen found herself clapping politely—and marveling at the ingenious way in which the woman had managed to promote her own career while ostensibly promoting the cause of child hunger. Also, why did actresses always have to call them films while the rest of the world referred to them as movies? What’s more, the plot of Feast and Famine sounded completely absurd.
Next up was Dan Greene, the comic relief for the evening, who began by imploring the assembled guests to be sure to finish their dinner: “Just for tonight, I’m your mom, reminding you that there are starving kids in the world and that if you don’t finish your spinach, there’s no Jell-O for dessert…” Karen found the monologue pedestrian and cringe-worthy, but again she joined in the applause.
Finally, HK’s executive director—and Karen’s boss—Molly Gluck glided out to the podium. Her emaciated frame was cloaked in what appeared to be a burlap sack, lending her the appearance of a medieval monk. It had been noted by many that Molly seemed to have an easier time feeding others than herself. Or maybe it was just that she starved herself in solidarity with the poor. Whatever the case, it seemed likely that Molly had never noted the irony of her anorexia, her earnestness being pervasive—except when it came to celebrities, for whom she seemed to harbor limitless reserves of adoration. “Thank you all for being here and for feeding the poor children of this city,” she began in a wobbly voice that threatened to become weepy when she turned to the film actress and said, “And thank you, Nava, for inspiring us all. You are my hero.” Her eyes flickered before she turned to the other guests of honor and added, “I also want to thank Francoise and Dan, both of whom have done so much for this organization in the past few years, as well as our media sponsor, Fine Food magazine, and also our title sponsors, Nabisco products and Tommy Hilfiger USA…”
The acknowledgments list went on and on and included a perfunctory shout-out to Karen. At the end of it, Molly summoned from the wings two adorable seven-year-old African American identical twins with elaborately beaded hair as examples of those who had benefited from the organization’s largesse. She introduced them as “Zaniyah and Saniyah, the closeness of whose names mirror their closeness as sisters.”
This time, the guests clapped thunderously and for so long that the applause turned into a standing ovation. Though it was unclear to Karen who or what the crowd was cheering for. Zaniyah and Saniyah, for being brave in the face of their poverty, or at least brave enough to show up and face a roomful of gawking 1 Percenters? Or was the crowd cheering itself and its own generosity in helping these two fill their bellies? Also, what kind of clueless mother thought it was a great idea to give her identical twins rhyming names? Surely, Zaniyah and Saniyah would spend their entire lives trying to differentiate themselves. Or was that very assumption—and Karen’s faith in individualism—itself hopelessly bourgeois?
In any event, the response made Karen uncomfortable. And she felt her chest contracting and shoulders rounding as she rose with the crowd. She had to remind herself that everybody was there for a good cause. And if the donors wanted to congratulate themselves while reducing their mainly ill-gotten gains, who was she to say they shouldn’t?
After the flourless chocolate-mousse cake had been served and cleared, the band—a bunch of middle-aged white guys in jeans and high-tops doing covers of pop and soft-rock hits from the 1970s and ’80s—began to play. Karen had recently fled to Troy’s table, not only because the Jesse James people had been boring her to tears but because Troy’s table afforded a better view of Clay’s. Two songs in, the man himself sauntered over and asked Karen if she’d care to dance.
“Uh, I guess,” said Karen, apprehensive in light of Verdun’s presence. “But—um—doesn’t your wife want to?”
“Karen, sweetie,” Clay said, lowering his chin as he laid a hand on her arm. “I’m not suggesting we have sex.”
Mortified by the way he’d spelled out the subtext, reducing their flirtation to its crude essence, Karen felt blood rushing to her cheeks. “I wasn’t saying that!” she cried, as embarrassed by the suggestion as she was somehow wounded by its refutation. He must have been kidding in his e-mail about wanting to get lucky.
“So what’s your answer, lady?” Clay pressed on.
“Sure—why not?” said Karen, feeling she couldn’t turn him down now. Besides, she had no desire to. In truth, she rarely got the opportunity to slow-dance. She and Matt hadn’t done so since their wedding night, ten years ago.
“Good answer,” said Clay, taking her hand and leading her to the makeshift dance floor. There, he rested his other hand on her waist while Karen hesitantly placed her own on his shoulder. The band had just launched into a tinny cover of Steely Dan’s “Babylon Sisters.” As the two of them began to move to the music in tentative circles, Clay belted out the lyrics without any hint of self-consciousness. “‘This is no one night stand,’” he sang while drawing her toward him. “‘It’s a real occasion.’” When he got to the line about “the end of a perfect day,” he suddenly dipped Karen backward.
“Help!” Karen cried and laughed in protest. But it was too late. Her head was already by the floor, the world upside down. And Clay kept it that way for longer than she would have liked and until she was compelled to cry out, “Seriously! Clay! Lift me up.”
Finally, he did. But when she returned to an upright position, equilibrium had not been restored. All the colors around her seemed brighter, including Clay’s blue eyes, which appeared to her like two little swimming pools. Karen longed to dive in. The music seemed sharper too, and as if it were playing inside her chest. What’s more, she found some kind of electrical charge passing between her and Clay. And Karen could tell by the way he was looking at her—probingly, curiously, suddenly half smiling as his chest rose and fell—that Clay felt it too. He had also stopped singing. They were only inches apart now—so close that tiny beads of sweat were visible in the hair follicles between his nose and mouth. But for reasons Karen couldn’t explain, their sudden intimacy felt entirely natural, so much so that she longed to lean her head against his chest.
She didn’t dare. Clay’s wife, Verdun, was just on the other side of the dance fl
oor, her head turned away but conceivably watching them out of the corner of her eye.
And Clay wasn’t just a man who wasn’t Karen’s husband. He was an unrepentant capitalist—a Moneyman with a capital M. If that objection made Karen sound like a college sophomore, so be it. Clay didn’t occupy merely another rung of the economic ladder; he occupied a wholly separate ladder than the one on which Karen and Matt currently rested their feet. His politics were another matter, if he even had any. “Did you like that?” he muttered suggestively in her ear.
Karen had just mumbled, “Maybe,” when the spell was suddenly broken for her. As the bandleader sang “‘So fine, so young—tell me I’m the only one,’” the unwelcome thought popped into her head that she was neither young nor the only one. Rather, it seemed suddenly and painfully clear to her that what she was experiencing was no more than a ridiculous, alcohol-fueled dance-floor flirtation between two old married friends. “I’m going to get something to drink,” she said, slipping away.
Troy caught up with her at the bar. “Well, hello there, dancing queen,” he began.
“Oh God, I was making a complete fool of myself out there, wasn’t I?” said Karen, horrified to think that he too might have been watching.
“Hardly! You looked smart and chic! Especially upside down,” he added with a smile.
“Ha,” said Karen.
“But last time I checked”—Troy leaned toward Karen’s ear, so his words were only barely audible—“that was not your husband out there on the dance floor with you. Though far be it from me to get all Moral Majority on you.”
Karen shut her eyes. “I actually wish you would get Moral Majority–ish on me. I think I’m having a midlife crisis.”
“He is sort of handsome in a windswept, captain-of-the-Sail-America-syndicate sort of way,” offered Troy.
“The what?” said Karen.
“Don’t ask me how I know this, but I believe they won the America’s Cup a few years ago.”
“How do you know that?” asked Karen just as Clay reappeared, a toothpick in one corner of his mouth. At the sight of him, Karen experienced another swell of attraction and misgivings.
“Drink?” he said.
“Sure,” said Karen, breaking her own two-glass policy.
When he returned with a sweet Bellini for each of them, Karen said, “Clay, this is Hungry Kids’ outreach director, Troy Gafferty.”
“Hello, man of good deeds,” said Clay, extending a hand. “I myself am a man of worthless numerical manipulation. Though I do try and donate a few of the proceeds to deserving causes. And I pay my staff well.”
“Well, good for you,” said Troy in a vaguely mocking voice. “So, are you having fun tonight?”
“A boatload,” he said. “Though I can’t say the same for my wife.”
Karen’s heart raced at the mere mention of her existence.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Troy.
“Unfortunately, she left early with a migraine,” Clay went on. “So I’m on my own for the rest of the night.”
Was he saying this for Karen’s benefit? And was it even true? Karen glanced across the room and confirmed that, in fact, Verdun was no longer seated at table 12. Had she seen her husband flirting with another woman and stomped off in a rage? If so, Karen didn’t blame her. Matt would have been infuriated by the sight of her and Clay on the dance floor. Or had Verdun really had a headache? As Karen considered the possibilities, dread and excitement commingled in her chest. It had been ages since she’d been the possible center of any drama.
“Oh, dear—benefit parties give me migraines too,” offered Troy. “Maybe it’s because everyone is so pleased with themselves—present company excluded, of course.”
Clay laughed. “Maybe that’s it.”
“Well, I hope she feels better,” piped in Karen, realizing it was the most generic possible thing she could have said but feeling she needed to display concern.
“I’m sure she’ll be fine after a night without me,” said Clay.
“My husband is on his own tonight too—at some dinner,” offered Karen. “No doubt enjoying himself on account of my not being there to nag him about his disgusting table manners.” Had she really just said that?
“Well, I’ll leave you two married people to discuss the infinite joys of conjugal relations,” said Troy, stepping away. “I’m going to see how Molly is doing—a woman for whom, it must be said, joy does not come easily.”
“And it has been said many times before,” added Karen, turning to Clay to explain. “We’re talking about the woman in the burlap sack who got weepy at the podium while thanking the movie star.”
“Ah,” said Clay, chuckling.
Troy laughed too. Then he took off in search of their boss. “Finish your drink and come with me,” said Clay, taking Karen’s free hand.
“There’s no way I’m dancing to ‘Footloose’!” she cried.
“Oh yes you are,” he said, dragging her back to the dance floor, though admittedly with Karen’s tacit consent.
More dancing led to more refreshments, which led to more dancing and more alcohol. By ten, Karen was on the precipice of being wasted. “It’s a marvelous night,” Clay murmured in her ear while they slow-danced to Van Morrison’s “Moondance.” Karen had to agree. At the same time, she wasn’t so wasted that she could escape the conviction that she was betraying both her husband and Clay’s wife. That Verdun wasn’t white somehow made the perfidy even more inexcusable.
Karen was also neglecting her work.
Still, didn’t she deserve some fun? In truth, there had been a paucity of it in her life over the past few years—really, a paucity of it throughout Karen’s lifetime. She had no one to blame but herself. Friends of hers had devoted long periods of their youth and even their thirties to nothing more than the privileges of their age—that is, to altering their brain chemistry via drink and drugs, skydiving and having sex with strangers, all with the single goal of amplifying the experience of being alive. They’d traveled too—far and wide and back again—while Karen had always had a tendency to shy away from experience. Ever conscious of what she perceived to be wasting time, she also struggled to be in the moment, to stop eyeing the clock and wondering and worrying about what came next and thinking she really ought to get home.
But that night, she had no desire to leave. Apparently, neither did Troy or Clay. The band had packed up; the bartender was loading dirty glasses into plastic crates. But the three of them were still there. They were the last to walk through the front entrance when, at eleven, the lights in the ballroom were switched off.
It was drizzling and still unseasonably cold. Usually obsessed with the weather, Karen hardly noticed. It was enough that Clay was near. What’s more, the blur of streaky lights and whizzing traffic made her nostalgic for her youth, when the very idea of urban living, with its heady mix of grit and glamour, had been compelling to her—at least in theory. In recent years, Karen’s romance with danger, to the extent that it had ever even existed, had been replaced by the desire for comfort above all. But what if that impulse, too, was on its way out?
A part of Karen wished that Troy had left earlier and on his own. Another part was relieved by his presence, since it removed any potential question marks or awkwardness regarding what happened next with Clay. In any case, all three were headed to different neighborhoods, so there was no possibility of any of them sharing a taxi or Uber. When the first cab pulled up, chivalry prevailed, with both men offering it to Karen. With as much subtlety as she could manage, she tried to put them off, pointing out that Troy had to wake up earlier than the rest of them.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” he said, ignoring her cue, whether by accident or intent. “You go ahead.”
“Okay—well—good night, everyone,” she said. What else could she say? Besides, it was clearly for the best. She hugged one, then the other. Though her embrace of Clay had a wholly different, more languid feel. “I’m going home to sl
eep this off,” she told them both.
“Night-night,” said Troy.
“Sleep tight,” said Clay.
Karen pulled the door closed, and the car pulled away.
Out the back window, she watched the two men watching her until they shrank to the size of matchsticks, then disappeared from view, just like they all would someday.
On most nights, Karen fell asleep reviewing the to-do list she kept on her computer and in her head and, despite her fatigue, half wishing it were morning already so she could begin checking things off, from amending the data plan on her phone, to purchasing more individual organic applesauces to put in Ruby’s lunch box, to calling the plumber about the dripping showerhead. Her dreams typically followed suit, the majority of them so prosaic that she sometimes felt embarrassed when she woke up. They also made her wonder if the myriad mundane responsibilities of motherhood had shut off some invisible valve that controlled the imagination until all that was left was the directive to purchase more paper towels. But that night, as she lay in bed—thankfully, Matt wasn’t home yet—all thoughts of household products gave way to thoughts of Clay: the way he stood, the way he danced, the way he murmured in her ear.
Too drunk and aroused to sleep, Karen replayed each of the seemingly magical moments that they’d shared, already half convinced that they would never be repeated. Clay belonged to another world than hers, as well as another marriage. And Karen was under no illusion that there was any vehicle that could successfully transport her between the two. Though it was also true that, at times, Karen felt as if her own husband belonged to another universe. Once, she’d found his lower-middle-class origins to be winningly authentic. She admired the fact that he was the first one in his family to have gone to college and that he wasn’t impressed by wealth. But as she’d gotten older, she sometimes found herself wishing he’d come from a family that was a little more landed, a little more bourgeois, if only so he could appreciate her own occasional longings for luxury and comfort. Matt was always keeping it real, whereas Karen increasingly longed to escape reality. It also drove her crazy the way he mispronounced words and names. She still hadn’t forgotten the time he’d referred to her college-era hero, the French Marxist social theorist Michel Foucault, as Michael Foo-colt.
Class Page 12
