The past classes were overwhelmingly male and white—the decades were reflected in their speckled foreheads, the deep grooves in their jutting brows, the tender wisps of hair left on their pates. They looked like children, Casey thought, very happy children. How could she begrudge them their good days? Somehow, she and these men were connected by this school. Princeton had educated her at their cost. She owed them something, didn’t she? Would she make something of her life to give something back to the school? Wasn’t that why Princeton had given her a free ride? They must have thought she’d have something to give back one day. If she got the offer at Kearn Davis and one day became a rich banker, she could send them money the way these people probably did and educate another hard-luck kid like herself. But what would happen if she didn’t? Or if she blew through her life without much to show for it? Casey bit her lip. Virginia elbowed her to keep cheering, then returned to swinging her tail. After the fifth reunion class marched, Casey and Virginia joined the class of 1993. There were fewer than fifty who’d come back. It was only their fourth year, and in this crowd, Casey tried to act more spirited.
Poe Field was vast, the grass rubbed off in large muddy patches. A tented podium housed the school officials who announced the final arrival of each class and described its time in history back when. Gradually, the throng disassembled from the march peaceably. Everyone was in good humor. Clumps of alumni stood on the field to catch up. Children played on the side with a large beach ball. The parents didn’t chase after the children who were running around, but they watched them carelessly from where they had settled down. When she and Tina were growing up, they’d never attended anything like this with their parents. What would that be like to have parents who’d gone to Princeton? Ivy people stopped Virginia to say hello, and Casey pulled back, feeling shy. But she’d agreed to go to Ivy with Virginia after the field because she didn’t feel like seeing anyone from Charter, her eating club. Already, she’d talked to a few of her classmates, and what Casey felt was embarrassment. She should never have come back. Not like this. There was nothing glamorous or interesting to report about her life.
In the flock of the class of 1991, Jay Currie was busy introducing his fiancée, Keiko, to his friends. Seeing the new girl, no one asked about Casey. Most of his friends planned to meet up at the barbecue at Terrace, and Keiko was eager to go. She talked to everyone, holding his hand the entire time. His fiancée was a friendly person, far more so than Casey, who could be outgoing when necessary but was more private than he’d wished. Casey had hated dinners at his eating club and felt neutral at best about most of his close friends at Ivy, Tiger Inn, and Colonial. He was relieved that his fiancée was a social person. But he couldn’t help thinking of Casey today. They had been good together, too, and he wondered what had happened in the end. He had loved two women in his life really: Casey and Keiko. They couldn’t have been more different.
Casey used to spend a lot of her money on clothes, but she’d also darn her socks, wash her stockings by hand, and make her own hats. She’d always had a part-time job to earn money. Keiko threw away her panty hose after wearing them once. His mother would have had a stroke if she knew. As it was, his mother was polite to the point of being awkward around Keiko and her parents.
Maybe it didn’t matter. Keiko made almost as much money as he did as an associate at an investment bank, and her parents paid for all of her clothes. Mr. Uchida was going to buy them a co-op apartment on Fifth Avenue for a wedding present. But Jay had grown up with a single mom providing for two boys. He remembered what it was like to split a small piece of beef among the three of them—his mother claiming that she didn’t feel like eating meat. He could see no reason why he and Keiko would ever be poor, but he wondered what it would be like if they had very little. He blamed his anxiety on having read too many novels in college about the reversals of fortune in a man’s life after marrying, and he couldn’t help wanting to save and invest as much as he could. There were other considerations, thankfully: Jay had liked having sex with Casey, and he liked having sex with Keiko. That was a major positive, he thought.
Could you love such different people and marry only one? In his two primary love relationships, he found himself comparing what Casey had with what Keiko didn’t. This was unfair. He knew this. The two women also shared common qualities: They were both generous and exceedingly thoughtful about his happiness. How were you to merge all the loves and their good qualities into one person? And how were you to accept that this girl didn’t exist at all except on the throne of your imagination?