Class(18)

“Mommy!” cried Ruby, matching Karen’s exuberant tone as she jumped up and ran toward her. Mother and daughter embraced as closely as flesh allowed. The word miracle got thrown around a lot when it came to children. But Ruby’s existence often struck Karen as that very thing—not only because Karen had spent two frustrating years trying to get pregnant, but because Karen had put all her own unrealized dreams of changing the world into her daughter’s not-quite-four-foot frame.

But Karen’s sense of well-being lasted only so long. On the walk home late that afternoon, their fingers entwined and arms swinging in unison, Ruby informed her mother that Maeve was still out. Somehow, Karen found the news disturbing and kept returning to it throughout the evening, wondering if she’d underestimated the severity of Maeve’s injuries. Having resolved to send Maeve’s mother, Laura, a carefully worded e-mail inquiring about her daughter’s condition, Karen then struggled to get Ruby to bed. Ruby claimed not to be tired and fought all of Karen’s attempts to convince her otherwise until Karen’s entire body was in a tangle of frustration.

She’d only just gotten Ruby down for the night—nearly an hour later than normal—when Matt waltzed through the door. He was late, as usual, but even later than usual. And Karen was as irritated as ever, but even more so. Sometimes it seemed as if Matt considered raising Ruby to be Karen’s project rather than a joint one. Or was that unfair? Maybe she was just mad at him for not being as complimentary as Clay Phipps. “What’s up?” he said, taking off his coat.

“What’s up?” she answered, her voice rising on the up. “It just took me, like, two hours to get Ruby to sleep. That’s what’s up. She only quieted down, like, five minutes ago. And I’m completely fried.”

“So go to bed,” said Matt.

“That’s not the point.”

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, seeming finally to comprehend. “But you won’t believe this story.”

“What story?” said Karen, softening slightly.

“You know the old Dominican guy down the block who’s always sitting on the stoop—Miguel?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s getting kicked out of his ground-floor apartment after forty fucking years. I mean, the guy fucking grew up there! But his mom died a few years ago, and she was the only family he had. And now this scumbag developer has come in and is planning to turn it into a single-family, state-of-the-art ‘passive house’”—Matt made quote marks in the air—“whatever the fuck that is. Anyway, I offered to represent him for free in housing court. We were out on his stoop talking strategy.”

“Well, that was nice of you,” said Karen, feeling torn. On the one hand, she admired her husband for taking up cases he didn’t need to take up. She also felt sorry for Miguel, who had always been friendly to her and Ruby, sometimes making funny noises with his cheek and thumb for Ruby’s amusement as they walked by. Moreover, the loss of Miguel would undoubtedly make the neighborhood a tiny bit less diverse and a tiny bit more like a community with invisible gates. It wasn’t hard to imagine the guy ending up on the street either.

On the other hand, she couldn’t help but feel that Matt’s time might be just as well spent paying attention to his wife and daughter as it was helping out a neighbor. There was also the fact that Karen was terrified of Miguel’s pit bull, who had a thick black ring around one eye, giving him the appearance of a canine pirate. Then there was the deafening salsa he played at all hours of the day and night, apparently unaware that others might not enjoy his music as much as he did. Karen also secretly considered the building as it existed now to be a blight on the block, with its plastic-sheathed windows and chipping stucco. The fetid garbage smell that emanated from the front yard was another matter, as was the Dominican flag that Miguel flew out his window, the sight of which Karen found difficult to reconcile with her interior-decorating taste. Not that she was prepared to admit any of this to her husband. “But if the building is already sold,” she said, “I doubt there’s much you or anyone else can do. I’m sure Miguel didn’t have a lease.”

“He didn’t have a lease, but he’s always paid his rent,” said Matt. “And—most important—he’s a human being who deserves a roof over his head.”

“Well, I feel bad for the guy,” said Karen. “But in all honesty, I won’t miss his dog. I actually cross the street when it comes near me.”

“Jesus! Whose side are you on?” cried Matt.

“I’m on Miguel’s side!” replied Karen. “But I also think pit bulls are scary. They’re illegal in England, you know.”

“Pit bulls aren’t even a real breed of dog—look it up. It’s just a blanket term. But whatever.” Matt grimaced. “So, what did you do today?”

As generic and open-ended as the question was, it still irked Karen. “You mean in addition to getting our daughter fed, bathed, and to sleep? Well, I made a hundred grand for the organization at lunch.”

“Wow, good job.”

“Yeah, I had lunch with a college acquaintance—this preppy guy named Clay Phipps who’s made a gazillion dollars running some hedge fund. He actually wrote a check on the spot.”

“Nice tax write-off, I guess. Or at least it would be if he paid taxes, which he probably doesn’t, being a hedgie and all.”