Class(37)
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.”