Class(14)

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 na?veté, 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 could tell she was still deciding. “I think I even give them money.”