Motherland by Amy Sohn

Author:Amy Sohn [Sohn, Amy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781439165683
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Karen

For years after moving to Park Slope, Karen had witnessed the morning scene at P.S. 321, desperate to be a part of it: the svelte moms with Hobo bags, the parade of bikes, scooters, unicycles, and cars from all directions to Seventh Avenue, the friendly if redundant crossing guards, the post-drop-off Connecticut Muffin gabfests. She had visions of herself sitting on those wooden benches, talking about bulb planting and school lunch initiatives. Though public, P.S. 321 was in many ways more like a private school.

P.S. 282 drop-off was nothing like the one at P.S. 321. The black and Latino parents didn’t get out of their SUVs, instead dispatching the kids. The white mothers lingered at the entrance, waiting for their children to be completely inside the school building, and then bustled off to the city to work.

Outside on Sixth Avenue, Darby spotted Ayo, a boy from his kindergarten class the year before. He was with someone Karen had noticed the past two weeks of school: a tall, handsome black man with a Yankees cap over a shaved head. They had smiled at each other a few times. He looked particularly good today; he was wearing a black V-neck shirt that showed his pectoral muscles, loose jeans, and a belt. He reminded her of the actor Taye Diggs.

Parents weren’t allowed inside the school with the kids, so after Ayo and Darby greeted each other, they kissed their parents goodbye and went in together. Karen was struck by how mature Darby seemed; in kindergarten, parents went in the room with the children. Now, in first grade, the kids went in alone. Karen started to go, and Ayo’s father walked in the same direction. So as not to be rude, she slowed down. “I’m Wesley,” he said.

“Karen. I don’t think I’ve met you before. I met your wife last year.” She recalled her as a petite and frazzled-looking woman.

“She’s not my wife.”

“Oh.”

“I take care of Ayo now,” he said. “Do you live near here?”

“Carroll Street, between Eighth and the park.”

“How come he doesn’t go to 321?”

“It’s a long story. We were zoned for 321, but then they changed everything because of overcrowding. What about you? Where do you live?”

“Crown Heights. Do you feel like getting a coffee?”

“Sure,” she said, gesturing ahead to Berkeley Place. “There’s a café on this block that I—”

“Regular?” Café Regular du Nord was a tony European-style spot with a loud espresso machine and not enough seats. “I like that joint. So do you take care of Darby full-time, or—”

“I’m a stay-at-home mom, if that’s what you mean. But I’m separated, and I’ve been thinking lately that I should get a job.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I’m not sure. I have a degree in social work, but I don’t think I want to go back to it.”

“This could be a good opportunity to figure out what your passion is.”

“It’s funny you say that. I thought about starting a food business, but I’m not sure it’s practical.” She told him about the supper club.

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