Four of a Kind (23 page)

“I remember our talk,” said Vicki, frowning.

What Vicki had said to Carla and Claude in that meeting, in delicate and careful terms, was that Brownstone was prepared to give them a large break in tuition as a lure. The board of directors had issued a mandate for diversity. They’d actually set percentage goals for nonwhite students. The school needed more black kids, ideally with professional parents who had ties to the community and were out of the running for the few full scholarship slots given to low-income, academic achievers (like Joe Fandine). Competition to get into Brownstone was fierce—something like one acceptance for every hundred applicants. Her sons were no better than many who’d been rejected. Carla was glad that, for once, being black had opened doors. As for a break in tuition, Claude got his pride up, and told Vicki that they didn’t need help. Five years ago, he had been right.

That was then.

“Is Brownstone still honoring that commitment?” asked Carla. She gave Vicki a few beats to offer up some “help.” She didn’t.

“We are still very much committed to diversity,” said Vicki, delicate and careful. “And we are prepared for a higher number of families seeking aid this year.”

Carla’s turn to frown, and to be just as delicate and careful. She would not beg. “I have to assume that many Brownstone families fall somewhere between not being able to afford tuition and not qualifying for aid.”

“We’re aware of that,” said Vicki. “We’ve changed our aid policy to reflect it.”

“So what’s the number?” asked Carla. Vicki appeared not to understand. “What’s the income threshold to qualify?”

Vicki seemed taken aback by the bluntness. So much for delicacy. “All circumstances are weighed differently,” she said, “based on income, net worth, number of children, other factors.”

Carla held up her hand. “Vicki? You know my circumstances.”

The older woman sighed. Carla felt bad for a second. She didn’t want to bully her. Vicki had probably been besieged by strapped parents
all week. Carla said, “I’m sorry, Vicki. I’m being rude. My husband and I have been having serious kitchen-table conversations, if you know what I mean.”

“Of course I do,” said Vicki. Her eyes told Carla she did understand, and she was sympathetic.

“I can’t leave any stone unturned,” said Carla, picturing Zeke placing his backpack on a conveyor belt to be x-rayed, and then walking through the metal detector on his first day of fifth grade at public school. The image made her throat itch. He wasn’t prepared for such a major change. It was criminal to ask that of a little kid.

Vicki said, “Are you all right?”

Carla blinked, got her grip. “I’m fine. I’m afraid for the choices we might have to make. I need to know if we have options.”

“Let me check,” said Vicki. She started typing something into the desktop computer. Carla was relieved that Vicki seemed to care. Claude was wrong. Brownstone wasn’t trying to force out anyone. Times were tough. For people, and institutions, even 150-year-old schools in Brooklyn Heights. Vicki was probably sweating her own job.

The older woman said, “Okay. Again, circumstances are weighed individually, but I can tell you that, for a dual-income family with two students enrolled, partial aid becomes available, on a limited basis, if the gross annual income is one hundred thousand dollars or less.”

“For
two
incomes?” asked Carla. It was ridiculously low. Her salary alone was more than that.

“I know it seems low,” said Vicki. “A lot of our families, as of this year, have no income at all.”

Brooklyn Heights was a bedroom community, historically and practically, for Wall Street investment bankers. A lot of bankers’ kids attended Brownstone.

“So the message is, be grateful I still have a job?” snapped Carla. “This is unfair, Vicki. I realize people have been laid off, but they have savings, don’t they? Are they living paycheck to paycheck?”

“I can’t discuss—”

“I’m not asking about specific cases,” said Carla.

“Aid takes net worth into account,” said Vicki. “We ask for a full financial profile, including investments. Some of our new aid candidates have lost everything.”

Carla had heard rumors—from Robin, of course—about several Brownstone parents, former Lehman Brothers bankers whose entire savings had been in company stock, now worthless. Famously, there were two Brownstone families who’d given their trust and nest eggs to Bernard Madoff. Those families had been destroyed and Carla felt for them. But—they’d lived the high life for years. Carla and Claude had always been frugal and modest. They hadn’t lost everything and Carla was grateful for it, but they wouldn’t get aid, either.

Her mother would say self-pity was not going to fix Carla’s problems.

Sitting in that chair, in the basement office, Carla felt herself and Zeke literally falling through the cracks. She could blame Vicki, but that would be wrong. Vicki didn’t make the policy. The board of directors did. It was Vicki’s job to deal with angry parents. Carla knew all too well what that was like.

Why was it such a big deal to send her sons to
this
school? Why was the status quo so important to maintain? Brownstone equals safe. The boys’ safety had been her only objective since she’d given birth. Now she’d have to compromise for Zeke, her baby. Logically, she knew some of her anxiety was ego related. She felt like a failure on a few counts here.

Maybe public school would toughen Zeke up, in a good way. Carla had to give Claude some credit. He wasn’t
always
wrong.

“I’m just … trying to figure it all out,” said Carla.

“We realize that many of our families need extra time,” said Vicki softly. “We’ve postponed the final deadline for signed contracts.”

“June first,” said Carla. “I know.”

Carla smiled and apologized for any rudeness. Vicki assured her
she’d been fine, giving Carla the impression that other parents hadn’t refrained from misdirecting their frustration and anger on an innocent bystander. They shook hands, Carla’s twice as big, and then she got out of there.

A diner? Bad idea, Carla thought. There was a chance she’d run into someone from the hospital. Get her nails done? Forget it. She’d bump into a Brownstone mother at a Montague Street salon. Starbucks? Paying four dollars for a cup of coffee had never been acceptable to her, even on an indulgent day of hooky. What Carla really craved, more than food, drink, or pampering, was the peace of her own company. She wanted to be alone.

Easier said than done. Brooklyn Heights was part of a big city, but the neighborhood was a tiny village. Friends, acquaintances, colleagues were on every block. So where might a hearty well-swaddled woman take her solitude on a frigid day in mid-February?

Aha
, she thought, and, like a divining rod, pointed herself toward water.

From the steps of Brownstone, it was a short walk—half a mile—to the pedestrian walkway of the Brooklyn Bridge. Carla made the time quickly. Before long, she had climbed the long stairway up to the bridge, and hiked another half mile to the apex, a thin strip of boardwalk between the Brooklyn and Manhattan towers. At this spot, the suspension cables dipped low. The view was unobstructed. Carla could look downtown, and see New York Harbor, the southern tip of Manhattan, the South Street Seaport, the Staten Island ferry landing, the Statue of Liberty, the East and Hudson rivers and New Jersey. She could look uptown, at the Manhattan and Williamsburg bridges, the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, the snaking FDR Drive, the curved, notched edges of Brooklyn and Manhattan, jigsaw puzzle pieces that would fit together perfectly.

But Carla’s eyes were downcast. She sat on a bench and stared at
her feet, throbbing inside her boots. She’d dressed to impress for her meeting with Vicki, and put on her one pair of two-inch-heeled boots. Ordinarily, at the clinic, she wore moccasins or clogs. Her feet were not used to heels. Also, her lungs ached. She needed to catch her breath. She’d walked a mile, and she was practically wheezing for air. As soon as she sat down, sweat streamed down her cheeks from under her hat, and then it chilled on her skin. The wind on the bridge, especially here, the exposed, vulnerable middle section, was whipping.

Despite her physical discomfort, Carla was content to be by herself. She wasn’t completely alone. As always, tourists dotted the walkway, posing with cameras. But they were invisible to her. She didn’t know them. They didn’t know her. They provided human company with no threat of interaction.
We are ants on a hill
, she thought,
at the mercy of forces beyond our control
.

But even as she sat there, not making eye contact, Carla felt pressure to appear a certain way. Dignified, elegant. She kept her back straight and shoulders back. Carla didn’t believe she was pretending to be someone she wasn’t, or putting on a show. She was a strong, responsible woman. That was how she appeared. And yet, she felt the constant weight of judgment upon her.

Carla suffered an unrelenting conspicuousness, if only in her mind. Black people constantly thought about race, how it underlined everything they saw, heard, said, did. White people? They thought about race only to reassure themselves that they weren’t racist.

Carla wondered if Robin felt self-conscious about being Jewish. She’d never ask Robin about it. Identity politics were not Carla’s favorite topic of conversation. Robin wouldn’t hesitate to ask Carla about hers. The Red Queen let her curiosity roam free, which Carla envied.

Drawing in a few cold deep breaths, Carla peered uptown, at the dark water of the East River. If her sons were comfortable in the white world, they wouldn’t feel the pressure, the fear of judgment. For all her misgivings about diversity at Brownstone, even paying lip
service was forward thinking. At the school, her sons would learn to be at ease with white people. What a relief and advantage it would be for them, as they grew up and found a place in the world. Like Barack growing up in Hawaii. This was the core benefit of Brownstone to Carla. It was bigger than the quality of education. She wanted her sons—both of them—to be comfortable in their skin wherever life took them.

Carla’s problem had an obvious solution. She needed $32,000. But where and how would she get it?

“Carla? Is that you?”

Turning toward the voice, Carla found Bess Steeple standing in front of her, healthy and glowing, panting lightly. The blonde wore tight black workout clothes, sneakers, a skullcap, and gloves. Bess was jogging? In twenty degree weather? This proved she’d completely lost her mind.

“Hello!” said Carla, surprisingly glad to see her.

“What are you doing up here?” asked Bess, stretching her legs, one then the other.

“Just airing myself out,” said Carla. “But it’s getting too cold to sit.”

“Let’s walk,” said Bess.

“You’ll freeze if you stop running.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Those pants are paper thin.”

“Then we’ll both run.”

Carla laughed heartily at the idea of jogging a yard, much less a mile—in midheel boots, or at all.

The two women started walking back toward Brooklyn.

Walking, not talking.

“How’s the nihilism going?” asked Carla finally.

“Very well, thank you,” said Bess.

“If nothing matters, why on earth are you
jogging
?” asked Carla.

“I enjoy it,” said Bess.

“Hmmm, now I know you’ve gone over the edge.”

Bess laughed. “Will I see you Saturday night?”

“I’m not sure if …”

“I won the poker game,” said Bess. “And you promised to come to my event as payment. If you don’t show up, you’re going back on your word.”

“Claude thinks it’s sending the wrong message. Casino night. A gambling fund-raiser,” said Carla. A partial truth. Claude hated the Seventies theme (“Should I dress like Huggy Bear?”), and he absolutely loathed the idea of giving more money to Brownstone beyond tuition. Just to walk in the door of the event, you had to buy tickets at $50 a pop. And then they were expected to buy chips. All cash went into the Parents Association coffers to buy the school extras (the PA had financed the faculty gym, for example).

“I’ll have tickets for you and Claude waiting at the door,” said Bess. “Also for Alicia and Tim.”

The charity cases. “I can afford to pay my way,” said Carla, who, like Claude, was too proud to take charity.

“Pay, don’t pay, doesn’t matter,” said Bess. “But you must show up. I need bodies, Carla. The room has to feel crowded. I want lines to get at the gambling tables. People are more likely to buy chips if they see other people doing it. Not that you have to. I’m just saying.”

Carla suddenly felt an itch to run. To get away from this conversation, from this woman who had zero clue what other people went through. Not to say Bess’s life was perfect. But it was pretty damned close. Emotionally, she was like a child, using the words “need” and “want” only as they pertained to her personal desires. Forty going on sixteen.

“Just come yourself,” said Bess. “Please, Carla! I’m sure Claude can survive one night without you.”

If Robin had said it, Carla would have laughed. Coming from Bess? The remark sounded like a dig against her husband.