A running lawn mower vibrates; its bent blade chops through wet grass, drowning the sounds of ice cubes knocking around in Betsy’s glass of orange juice. She takes a sip at the hand-painted desk recently shipped from Paris, opens her laptop. At the top of her home screen are trickling red letters: Breaking News: Wealthy Family Found Dead in DC Mansion. Surprised and curious, she clicks on the link. Fox 5:
Two adults and one child were found dead in a mansion, which caught fire on the 500 block of Wildwood Drive, home to some of DC’s most elite families near the Washington National Cathedral. Additionally, one woman was initially found still breathing but later died in transit to the hospital. Officials say the fire, reported in the early hours of Friday morning, is being investigated as suspicious. Police have not yet identified the victims.
Betsy takes a deep breath of relief. Despite the city’s gentrification, which Betsy is so pleased about, she still thinks of the inner city as the murder capital of the United States as it was in the nineties. She thinks Georgetown is dangerous. McLean, where they live, is home to the Cheneys, the Saudi princes, and the CIA, a wealthy enclave on the edge of the Potomac River with winding wooded roads and expanding cliffside mansions.
Betsy clicks open a new tab and googles “The Washington Country Club,” then clicks on the link and waits for the page to load. A clever slogan appears first in white letters: We Are the King of Clubs, before the rest—line by line—(history stands still…):
Rules: At all times—No jeans, collarless shirts, swimwear, bare feet, bare midriffs, or hats. Jackets and collared dress shirts and trousers for men and the equivalent for ladies. As for the Tap and Card Rooms: Country Club Casual (CCC) golf and tennis attire permitted. Please note: Public Display of Affection (PDA) is forbidden.
For a moment, Betsy can’t remember which religion she should check on the application. Do they want Catholic or Episcopalian? Should she buy a bigger diamond cross, or more Ralph Lauren? Should she confirm with the reverend at the National Cathedral for a meeting if, in fact, Episcopalian is what they want, or the priest at Holy Trinity? Lord knows she must be the right religion. Back in North Carolina, Doug and Betsy attended the local Catholic church, filling their insides with the blood, body, and soul of Christ at each Holy Communion, cross your heart, hope to die.… Betsy knows only a fool would think that just because private institutions legally can’t discriminate on the basis of race or religion, that stops the unconscious attitudes of committee members from making discriminatory decisions.
Most don’t know that Betsy was twenty years old the first time she flew in an airplane, that she attended public school and Georgetown University rejected her, forcing her to settle for Gettysburg College. Years of her life have been spent crafting a family identity in order to protect her; and because Doug is now a senator—especially because Doug is now a senator—they only have half of the pedigree needed to be accepted into the elite country clubs. All the rest will come by word of mouth and nominations, or else the damning fate of Washington rejection awaits.
Betsy looks up at her Cartier art deco rock-crystal-platinum-with-white-enamel-diamond table clock, then opens her new Instagram account to post the first digital photograph of the family that Tony has sent her via text message. She captions it, “About last night… , .” She posts the photo, then presses the refresh button several times so that she can see the notification of “likes” pop up in her feed. She had a social media tutorial with an American University student last week after Mackenzie refused to help her. Betsy types “Washington Country Club” under the hashtag search in the application. Once the page pops up, Betsy scrolls through and looks for the most elegant bridal photo she can find in order to locate the church where they were married. And what do you know: a photograph of a groom dipping his beautiful bride outside the flying buttresses of the National Cathedral is the second photo in the second row. Bingo. Episcopalian. Check. Betsy picks up the phone and schedules an appointment with the reverend. Calculated. Surely in a few weeks time, he’ll make a great reference for the family.
Betsy clicks back into Instagram, returning to the photograph of the groom dipping his beautiful bride, then taps, very carefully, on the 237 “likes” so that a list of the names of those “likes” pops up. She taps on the round profile picture of a blond woman she finds strikingly beautiful; seeing a photograph of what looks like a castle, she taps the photograph and reads the detailed caption: “We flew into Munich last week.… A few days ago… we drove miles in the Range Rover and each morning I would see a glimpse of the most enchanting Bavarian countryside, Alps with a little sugar coating of snow, spring flowers and grass, fields upon fields of yellow daisies and charming chalet villages, immaculate—it is simply the best!” Betsy taps into her 1,349 “likes” and sees another beautiful blond woman; she clicks into her page, sees a photograph of a long, regal-looking dining table with three hanging crystal chandeliers, sun striking the credenza against the wall, caption: “The brick floor! To die for! Color scheme obsession! Magic hour! Adore these ochre walls, I need these chandeliers and my winter guest list under them for dinner! ” Betsy clicks on her 1,899 “likes”; the fifth photograph down is another little circular head shot of a glamorous-looking woman: red hair blown out perfectly with trendy dangling earrings that look like three giant green balls hanging loosely from her earlobes, familiar.… Betsy taps on the image, which takes her to the one and only Linda Williams: “Mother, wife of the wonderful Fox’s Chris Williams, Washingtonian, French student.”
Betsy’s neurological reward circuits light up as if she’s had an orgasm. She scrolls through Linda’s page the way an FBI agent scrolls through suspects. Parties at embassies: Italy, France, England! Photographs of her back garden: hydrangeas in the summertime, a stone swan, intimate candlelit dinner tabletops, décor—Dorothy Draper/Architectural Digest-esque, her summer home in the Hamptons. And last but not least, a recently posted video of Linda learning French at the Alliance Française located around the corner from the embassy in the heart of Kalorama. Betsy stays on the page of the posted video so it repeats itself over… and over… and over. A broken record: “Je voudrais un croissant, s’il vous plaît,” a montage of Linda, over… and over… and over, “Je voudrais un croissant, s’il vous plaît,” “Je voudrais un croissant, s’il vous plaît.” Linda’s wearing a black Chanel sweater set and those dangly green ball earrings as she repeats, over… and over… and over, “Je voudrais un croissant, s’il vous plaît.” Betsy notices the location tag at the top of the photograph: Alliance Française, Kalorama, Washington, DC. Posted one week ago.
Betsy clicks open a separate tab, googles “Alliance Française,” and dials the number.
“Bonjour. Alliance Française, how may I help you today?” The voice pierces Betsy’s eardrums as if awakening her from a trance or emotional coma. Betsy clears her throat, covering the telephone speaker for a moment. “Yes, hello, this is Betsy Wallace calling. I’d like to take one of your classes—my husband, Senator Wallace of North Carolina, and I will be traveling to France again this summer, so I wanted to brush up.”
“Yes, of course, Mrs. Wallace, we would be delighted to have you join us.”
Betsy looks down at Linda’s hashtags to make sure she gives the right class, date, and time. “I’d like to join the Tuesday and Thursday evening class, please.”
“Not a problem, Mrs. Wallace. I’ll just need you to fill out a few forms with your credit card information and scan them back to us. Do you have an e-mail address I could send those to?”
“Oh actually, you know what, I’m going to be in the area this evening to pick up my girls—how about I just stop by and fill everything out there, easy-peasy.”
“Well, if it’s not an inconvenience for you, that’d be just fine.”
“Not at all, see you soon. Au revoir!” Betsy leans back against her newly bought Chippendale chair. If she can lock down Linda Williams to nominate her for the Washington Country Club, the family will be a shoo-in.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Russell Senate Office Building is filled with an unconscious bureaucracy of young staffers constipated on corporate chains and bad fashion: Chop’t! Cava! Potbelly! Oversize suits and Mother’s pearls, white tights and black patent leather shoes (YIKES). Most likely hired through a friend of a parent who’s a donor or does law work for a super PAC, they’re only there for the year before applying and getting into Georgetown or Harvard Law—their life: a factory of privilege. Their parents: churning out little replicas of who they used to be and who they have become.
But not Cate. Cate might be a Bartholomew, but her father is the bastard who left her, her mother, and her baby sister high and dry. A deadbeat alcoholic in prison for aggravated assault and tampering with the odometers of used cars. Cate was fourteen when he left. Her uncle Chuck stepped in to cover tuition costs and helped Cate secure her position on the Hill, a staunch donor to the Republican Party. No one speaks about her father; he’s been shut out of the family inheritance, left to rot in a desert state prison in central California.
Cate stomps around an intern, heels clopping along the concrete tunnel connecting all the Senate and House office buildings, where staffers travel like they’re in some kind of ant farm, the Capitol at its center. For security, they do not walk between the offices in the light of day, outside, with other people.
“Good morning.” Cate smiles, passing a security guard at a clearance checkpoint. She flashes the ID that’s dangling around her neck.
“Good morning, Ms. Bartholomew, ready for the day?”
“Putting on my rubber gloves for this one.” She winks. Her sass, she believes, is her asset. In a village so jammed with decorum, most don’t know who they are anymore.
Cate makes her way up the marble staircase, her Ann Taylor dress restricting her strides, forcing smaller steps. She passes the office intern, twenty, already has his master’s, about to sip from the water fountain.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Cate says. The intern lifts his head, gives her a quizzical look. “There’s lead in that water.”
Cate enters the senator’s office: vintage brown Kensington Chesterfield tufted sofa, the Washington Post resting, unopened, on the coffee table. Headlines read:
MASS SHOOTING AT MIDLANDS MUSIC FESTIVAL
WHITE HOUSE CAUGHT IN DOMESTIC VIOLENCE PROBE
Wealthy Washington family held hostage before slain and burned in DC Mansion
Cate stands holding a paper plate with a blueberry muffin while she waits for the coffee to finish brewing. As she picks up her muffin and takes a small bite, Walter Stevens, the senator’s top aide and lifelong friend, early fifties, fat, wearing a navy suit, swoops around her.
“Did you color your hair?” Walter asks, grabbing the muffin out of Cate’s hand.
“Um, no,” Cate replies, watching Walter take a bite, crumbs falling down his tie and onto the floor.
“Huh, looks more blond,” Walter says with his mouth full, then drops the muffin back on Cate’s plate and wipes his hands on the side of his pants. He pulls out his ringing cell phone and answers.
Cate stares at the enormous bite taken out of her muffin. Her face melts into repulsion before she turns and throws it into the trash can.
“Fox News wants a statement about the administration’s domestic violence case,” Walter says to Cate just as Doug walks through the office door. Cate side-eyes the senator, flipping her blond locks to the side as she listens to Walter give her direction, taking notes with her cell phone, knowing Doug will absolutely look at her, see her hand running through those sun-kissed strands as she serves this great nation and God will it turn him on.
* * *
Doug gives an extra formal “Good morning,” nods to his staff, trying not to acknowledge Cate out of utter fear someone will notice the undeniable chemistry between them. He walks into his office and closes the door.
* * *
Walter receives another call. “I have to take this, please handle Fox. I have to be in a committee meeting in ten minutes.”
“On it,” Cate replies delightedly, and heads for the senator’s office.
* * *
Doug leans back in his swivel chair with his arms folded above his head as Cate stands before him. They each take a deep breath, not having spoken since last night. Doug tries desperately to compartmentalize: I am not sex addict. I’m just like my father, and my father’s father, and my father’s father’s father.…
* * *
“So, Mr. Senator,” Cate begins, a little nervous, wavering between personal and professional, “we need a statement from you in light of what’s happened with the president’s chief of staff.…”
A long pause, while Doug gathers his thoughts.…
“We need to get this out as soon as possible before a replacement is announced later this afternoon,” she persists. “People want to know where you stand on this issue.” Doug is completely unfocused, his eyes locked on Cate; despite his lust for her, there’s a kind of vacancy to his intense gaze that Cate notices but doesn’t acknowledge.
“What issue?”
“Domestic violence…”
A moment before he snaps back to it. “Oh, right, right, well, reprehensible, of course.”
Cate waits for him to finish, assuming he has more to say.… He does not. Cate knows that part of the job is thinking on her feet. Swift. She must prove her worthiness over and over. She won’t admit it because the chemistry between them is too blinding for her to see that she is in a vast ocean, alone, treading just to keep her head above water, all while smiling and making sure her hair looks great and the office’s public relations strategy is bulletproof.
“How about this: ‘I was shocked to hear of the allegations released against White House Chief of Staff Tom Derby. There is no place for domestic violence anywhere. I look forward to a prompt and orderly resignation.’ ”
Doug thinks hard for a moment. “Were you a journalism major at UCSD?”
Cate smiles and lifts an eyebrow. “Mr. Senator…” Doug smiles back at her, exuding the kind of charm that makes all the southern women swoon over him no matter how shiny his bald head might be. “I have to finish this.”
“Excellent, publish it,” Doug replies, removing his arms from behind his head, repositioning himself at his desk as if he is ready to get to work.
* * *
Cate takes a few steps forward. Doug, regretting having just flirted with her, tries to take an action, any action, to stop her from getting too close to him. He grabs the newspaper, shuffles it around, and throws it on the corner of his desk as though he were a childish boy trying to throw something at his kid sister to keep her away from him.
* * *
Cate stops Did I misread him? She looks down at the strewn newspaper.
WILDWOOD DRIVE MASSACRE: WEALTHY FAMILY SLAIN.
“That’s not far from where I live. When did this happen?”
“Oh, umm”—Doug glances at the headline—“last night, tragic, just tragic, a classmate of one of my daughters.”
“Oh God.” Cate moves a little closer but notices Doug is not engaging; his personal cell phone lights up.
* * *
Tim Cell. Doug looks at his phone, trying not to believe that this is God’s way of telling him he has a problem.
* * *
“Ah, I’ll let you get that.” Cate runs her hands through her hair again, disappointed. “Got to get this statement sent out.” She waves her cell phone, where she has written notes, then turns toward the door. Doug’s eyes revert straight to her butt, staring at it as if staring into an abyss, losing himself completely. Cate glances back, catching him in the act. She smiles, she loves it, bites her lower lip, validated, then spins around to shut the door ever so gently behind her.
* * *
Doug’s personal cell phone is now violently vibrating on his mahogany desk.
“Hello? Tim?… Yes, yes, all was fine last night, it was my wife, Betsy. I felt terrible, I ha
d to get back, you know, with everything that’s happening right now, it’s never been a more important time—it really made me realize how much Betsy loves and supports me, it just threw me into gratitude.…”
He listens to Tim. Then interrupts: “I really appreciate the concern, I really do, and you know, she was just in my office, and it was professional. Last night was the last slip, you know, or… I just don’t think, Tim, that I’m an addict. It’s not like I’m grabbing women by the pussy! Look at my life; I couldn’t have made it this far if I was so self-destructive. I appreciate the concern, Tim, but I’m just not one of you.”
Doug hangs up and sets his personal cell phone next to his work cell phone. He bobbles back and forth in his chair and locks his arms above his head again. He stares at the framed vintage original print of Ronald Reagan with a gun in his pants and a cowboy hat on his head. The film: Law and Order. The tagline: His Guns Were the Only Law!
Doug picks up his phone—the brilliance, the control he has! He searches for Cate’s personal number; without a thought, he texts: Did I tell you how sexy that dress looks on you ? He puts the phone down with a sense of relief, a rush of excitement!
He waits for her response.
Ten minutes pass. He waits. For Christ’s sake—more crises than the Hill can handle, and Doug hasn’t looked at one goddamn e-mail.
He waits.
He picks up his personal phone and goes to his messages. There’s no text thread with Cate. But he just texted her, how can this be?
Oh no.
In this utterly blasphemous moment, Doug freezes. He quickly gropes for a reason, any reason, to justify why he has texted her from his work phone and not his personal phone. He prays, Please, please, do not let her respond on my work phone. You can’t expense sexting with taxpayer money!
The Cave Dwellers Page 5