Class by Lucinda Rosenfeld

Author:Lucinda Rosenfeld
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Published: 2017-01-10T05:00:00+00:00

“Where have you been?” Matt asked as Karen closed the door behind her. But to her relief, his voice was more inquisitive than angry.

“Sorry, I ran into a friend on the street,” she said, amazed at how easily the lie spilled from her lips.

“I thought you’d gotten mugged,” he went on. “I was actually worried about you. I called your cell and you didn’t answer.”

“Oh, sorry—I must not have heard it ring,” said Karen. She went into the kitchen to put away the milk they didn’t need.

“Anyway, I’m going to hit the sack early,” said Matt. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

Karen was surprised and relieved by this small stroke of fortune. When did Matt ever go to bed early? It also felt like fate—that she should be left to her own devices that night. “Okay, good night,” she told him.

“Nighty-night,” he replied.

Karen couldn’t tell whether or not he was still mad at her for mentioning who had made the down payment on their apartment. But in truth, a good portion of her marriage in the past year or two had been conducted in a gray space between fine and annoyed, with the two of them operating at a temperature that fell between temperate and chilly. After Matt disappeared into the bedroom, she sat down at her desk and pulled the stolen bill out of her bag. Under the lamp, it revealed new attributes. A greasy brown-black smear on the top left corner suggested recent contact with a banana peel. Or at least, Karen hoped it was a banana. The sight sent a brief spasm of disgust shooting up her spine.

Recovering, Karen noted for the first time that the bill was addressed to Nathaniel Bordwell at 321 Pendleton Street, no apartment number, suggesting that Bordwell and his family lived on all four floors of their extra-wide town house. Lucky them, she thought. Feeling marginally less guilty, she smoothed the creases, wiped the stain off as best she could with a tissue, and placed the paper beneath a well-thumbed hardback of Barbara Ehrenreich’s Nickel and Dimed. At one time, it had been her favorite book. But that evening, its greatest value to her was as a paperweight.

Next, Karen opened her laptop, located a realty website that offered a free lease template, and downloaded it onto her desktop. Then she drew up a lease for herself and her family for an apartment she designated as 321 Pendleton Street, no. 2. She identified Nathaniel Bordwell as her landlord and set the rental price at a multiple of a thousand that wasn’t quite market rate but was by no means cheap, suggesting a long-term arrangement. When she’d finished, she printed out two copies that she signed and dated with two distinct signatures using two different pens, a blue one for her, a black one for her imaginary landlord, whom she somehow envisioned as having tiny, precise handwriting. Then she paused to admire her work. To Karen’s eye, it was an impressive piece of forgery. Whether she dared to share it with the outside world was another matter.

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