“What do you mean?” Phyllis asks as if this is simply not possible.
“We’re being sued.”
“By whom?” She’s still not convinced.
“Hundreds of… people in rural states.” Meredith lights another cigarette.
“But this sort of thing happens all the time, darling. Look, this is capitalism and people just want a piece of the pie.”
“No, Phyllis, it will blow up if we do not keep paying.”
“Mer—”
“A child has died of cancer, a child—from the chemical dumping. Headquarters knew. They knew it would contaminate the water, they knew the fumes would kill livestock. It doesn’t degrade into the environment, and only now are we seeing the repercussions. They knew. And did nothing. And those lawyers have got doctors and specialists on their side. The magnitude… with this much demand for transparency today, at the rate things are changing.”
“How many towns?” Phyllis asks, getting to the point.
“I think… forty-three states.”
Phyllis exhales.
“They will bankrupt us if any refuse settlements and make it to trial. Chuck’s name, the family name…”
“Well, Bartholomew Industries can’t be the only ones involved,” Phyllis replies, looking for an out.
“No, but we are the only ones left now that the Bankses… and, well, their stock is catastrophically plummeting,” Meredith says with some satisfaction. “There have also been a few threats on their end, lawsuits that Chuck knows about.… We settled just one case, one, for six hundred seventy-one million under the condition no one would go to the press.”
“Well, how on earth are you responsible for this anyway? Or Chuck?” protests Phyllis. “Yes, it’s his family’s name, but seeing as neither of you run day-to-day operations—and I would assume there’s a trust and management on the ground. I mean, should the auto industry be responsible each time someone dies in a car accident? For heaven’s sake! For a century now, Americans have been benefiting in our free capital society from the products and services Bartholomew Industries has provided! This is capitalism! And I know your father—bless him—if he were still here, he would agree with me. The services and the good outweigh the bad—nothing that reaches as far and as wide as Bartholomew Industries, or the Morrison family, could possibly sustain a conglomerate without error, it’s just not possible, dear. Shit happens. We’re still human.”
Phyllis reaches for a drag of Meredith’s cigarette.
“You cannot say a word. I mean it, Phyllis. I’m trusting you.”
“How many years have we known each other now?”
“Don’t age us.”
“That’s right.” Phyllis passes the cigarette back. “Where’s Chuck? How is he handling this?”
“He’s in Ohio at a mediation meeting. Then he goes to Kentucky, and then back to West Virginia.”
“And Bunny? I’m assuming she’s in the dark and you’re keeping it that way?” Phyllis knows best.
“Yes, absolutely. She’s been struggling with—well, first it was my mother, and now it’s Audrey, and it’s all just so horrific, Phyllis. She absolutely cannot find out about this.”
“And Cate? She’s still living with you?”
“Yes, and she does not need to know. She’s hardly ever home anyway.”
“Good.…” Phyllis thinks for a moment. “Have you and Chuck discussed buying the Bankses’ assets? Whoever is in the will, buy them out. If the stocks are plummeting, this might be the move. Dear Lord, forgive me for taking it as a business opportunity.” Phyllis makes the sign of the cross on her chest and looks up to the ceiling.
“That’s what he’s thinking. If we can afford it.”
“Yes, I see…” Phyllis sighs. “The future ain’t what it used to be—” Just then the black butterfly descends onto Phyllis Van Buren’s left cheek. “Oh! Oh!” She swats at her face until the little black butterfly falls to the sole of her Chanel ballet flat and dies.
“All right, should we begin?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Bunny and her classmates gather around the museum guide, a Black man wearing a uniform with a gold pin, a tiny American flag at its center, and a security earpiece. “I call this the time machine,” he says as they wait for the doors of the elevator to open. He is missing his two front teeth. Bunny remembers the officer in front of the women’s shelter who was missing a tooth; she wonders if there is a connection or if it is a coincidence. As they wait, Bunny peers around the corner at the welcome center. A huge sign on the wall at the entrance of the National Museum of African American History and Culture identifies its donors: WALMART.
“You will begin at the transatlantic slave trade, then travel through slavery, segregation, and the civil rights movement up until today,” says the museum guide. Giant glass doors of the elevator part, and Bunny and her classmates pile in. They descend to the bottom level, passing dates on the wall: 1948, 1776, 1619, 1565, 1400.
The students of St. Peter’s Academy join the clusters of little white boys wearing American government propaganda, red hats and T-shirts, strolling through a maze of history. The irony feels breathtaking for anyone who’s noticed. The exhibit is dark and there are no windows. Bunny watches in disbelief as her classmates whiz by each story and window display and photograph and map, for they are without supervision—this is a prime environment for academic escapism, flirting, and discreet raucousness. Museums are boring! History is boring!
Billy throws his arm around Bunny and reads a quote on the wall below an African queen: “ ‘I admit I am sickened at the purchase of slaves… but I must be mumm, for how could we do without sugar and rum?’!… Wanna come over tonight? My parents are going to some ambassador event and won’t be home till late.”
Bunny ignores him, reading a panel about African royalty before the slave trade.
“Hey,” Billy says, closer to her ear.
“I can’t,” Bunny replies, trying to focus on sugar plantations and growing capitalism.
“Why not?” Billy feels irked by her rejection.
“I’m… helping my mother clean out my grandmother’s closet.”
Stan walks up between them to read a description below a photograph of American slave owners: Plantation owners often enlisted their slaves to take their place in war.
“Vhat the fuck. Vhat a bunch of inferior pussies,” Stan says.
“Accurate,” Bunny replies, relieved by the interruption.
“In Rvhussia, vhe just enslave everybody!”
“Come on, you’re not going to be at your grandmother’s that late,” Billy pleads. “What’s going on with you?”
Bunny breaks her historical trance and turns to Billy, his back against a display of framed Civil War–era dollar bills. She lowers her voice. “All right, I have to tell you something, but you have to swear that you will not tell anyone.”
“Not even Stan?”
Stan skips ahead of them.
“Stop, I’m not joking.”
“Okay, okay.…”
“You can’t judge me, I mean it.”
“Okay!” Billy says defensively.
Bunny gives him a mistrustful look; her eyes dart left, then right before she steps close to his face. “I met the man who’s been accused of killing Audrey and her family.”
Billy furrows his brow; a long pause. “What?”
“I went to the DC Jail. I met him. Well, it was more like FaceTi—”
“Wait, what?”
“Shhh! I told you not to judge me.”
Billy looks around the exhibit to ensure no one is listening, Stan has gone up to the Point of Pines cabin. Billy pulls Bunny’s arm, corners her. “What are you talking about?”
Bunny jerks her arm away. “I—went—to—meet—the—man—accused—”
“I fucking heard you—but why? Why would you do that?” He runs his hand through his tousled hair.
“Because I wanted to. Because we don’t have enough informat
ion. Why the fuck would someone murder an entire family? Two reasons: he’s innocent, or they deserved it and we’re next.…”
“What the fuck, Bunny, what is wrong with you?”
“What is wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with all of you? No one is talking about this!”
“Maybe because it’s over and this shit is dark, and people don’t want to talk about it for a good reason. That psychopath has been put away. Drop it!”
“But what if he didn’t do it? Look at where we’re fucking standing! And you know what, I don’t think he did it,” Bunny says, provoking him, even if she’s still unsure.
Billy rolls his head back in disbelief. “Ohhh my God. Whoa.” He turns his back to Bunny, releasing her from the corner. He walks away.
“Stop, I’m serious!” Bunny says, chasing after him before a stranger shushes her.
Billy pivots back to her. “You’re ridiculous and fucking crazy.”
Bunny stands abandoned by her secret, betrayed by Billy’s response. Something has erupted in her and she’s not sure what it is; her legs and arms are buzzing. Looking around, she catches Marty and Mackenzie talking on a bench below a glowing portrait of Harriet Tubman. Marty’s been to the museum more times than he can count. His parents are board members. He’s trying to undo Mackenzie’s bra without getting caught.
“Marty!” Mackenzie whacks him on the arm. “Put it back!” Marty has succeeded in unhooking her bra without taking her shirt off.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Marty laughs, trying to rehook it through her shirt. He pushes his glasses up his nose.
Bunny approaches. She needs an ally. She knows Mackenzie feels insecure about her social status. “Mack, what are you doing tonight?”
Mackenzie spins around, delighted to get Bunny’s attention and swooned by her new nickname. “Hi, uh, not sure, just homework, I guess.… You?” she asks, trying to redeem herself.
“Wanna come see my grandmother’s house? It’s like a private museum—with a little more joie de vivre,” Bunny says.
“Sure! I’ll text my mom.”
“Great.” Bunny will tell her tonight.
* * *
Bunny leads Mackenzie into her late grandmother’s town house. Mackenzie catches a whiff of Phyllis’s Chanel Number Five residue and sneezes. She drops her violin case to the hardwood floor with a pathetic thud.
“I should’ve warned you about the dust and mothballs,” Bunny says, plopping down on Meredith’s recently indented cushion on the sofa. She lights a cigarette, cracks open the Coke she picked up at the new Wawa around the corner.
“It’s okay,” Mackenzie says, wiping snot with the end of her navy sweater. She looks around at all memorabilia left on the bookless bookshelves. “Is your mom here?”
“No,” Bunny replies, relaxed.
“Oh, ’cause my mom said I could be here as long as your mom would be here too.” Truly, it was under the condition that Mackenzie would report back everything she could gather from spending time with Mrs. Bartholomew.
Bunny blows smoke in Mackenzie’s direction. “Do you always listen to what your mother tells you to do?”
“No,” Mackenzie says. Trying to relieve the tension between them, she reaches down and grabs the cigarette out of Bunny’s hand, takes a drag. Bunny studies her lips, aroused by her new and sudden defiance. Mackenzie pretends to inhale, the smoke swirling around in her hot mouth. She holds out the cigarette to Bunny.
“Keep it,” Bunny says, knowing she faked it. “So what’s going on with you and Marty?”
Mackenzie inhales again. “Uh—” She tries not to cough, her chest rising, her nostrils flaring before she catches new air. “I dunno.…”
“I think he likes you,” Bunny taunts. “No. Actually, I think he loves you.”
“You do?”
“Oh yeah. I’ve known Marty since nursery school, he definitely wants you to be his girlfriend.”
“Really?”
“Uh, duh.”
Mackenzie puts out the cigarette on Meredith’s ashtray, next to remnants of a lipstick-stained stub, black and red and scrunched. “Okay, can you keep a secret?”
“Pinkie swear.” Bunny extends her pinkie. Mackenzie follows, locking eyes and fingers.
“We made out after study group on Tuesday. He drove me home.”
Bunny smiles, lights another cigarette, then lights the Dyptique scented candle on the table while she’s at it—for ambience. “Did you go down on him?”
“Not yet, but I gave him a hand job in the car.”
“Nice.” Bunny taps the ash off the end of her cigarette.
“Well, except I didn’t make him come. My dad kept blowing up my phone because I was out past curfew.”
“Oh no, you blue-baller!” Bunny laughs.
“I didn’t mean to!”
“Okay, okay, my turn.” Bunny twists her body to face Mackenzie. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Pinkie swear.” Mackenzie extends her pinkie.
“I went to the DC Jail and met the man who murdered Audrey Banks and her parents.”
Mackenzie’s jaw drops. “Whoa.”
“I know,” says Bunny. “Let me pour us some shots.” She gets up and walks over to the wet bar, still filled with Waterford crystal decanters. She pulls out two crystal glasses and pours a few inches of bourbon in each.
“What was it like?” asks Mackenzie, on the edge of her seat.
Bunny hands her the glass. “Bottoms up.” She swigs, then slams the glass on the table. “Well, it was kinda weird because it was over video and there was a lot of static in the beginning. I think he’s like just a few years older than us, which is crazy.” Bunny doesn’t tell Mackenzie that Anthony accused her of treating him like he was her zoo animal to observe, and how the experience shook her, the violence she saw on the screen after propelling herself into a universe that wanted nothing to do with her.
“That’s crazy.” Mackenzie isn’t sure what to say or ask. “So, were you scared at all? Was he scary?”
“No. I’m going to go back and see him again,” Bunny says, matter-of-fact, testing Mackenzie’s newfound loyalty. She goes to pour another round of shots, hands Mackenzie another glass. “Here, on the count of three—one, two, three—” She throws it back, slams the glass down on the table.
Mackenzie leaves half of the shot in the glass.
“So do your parents know about Marty?” Bunny asks.
“No, definitely not,” Mackenzie replies.
“Why do you say it like that? Like it would be the end of the world if they knew?” Bunny asks, fishing for racism.
“Uh, I mean… I think they’d be fine with it. I mean, Marty’s applying to all Ivy Leagues, so—”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Like he wouldn’t be worthy if he wasn’t applying to Ivy Leagues? Because he’s Black?”
“No! No, I didn’t mean it like that.…”
“Then what did you mean?”
“It’s just… Okay, you really can’t tell anyone this, you seriously can’t, because I mean, I love my parents.…”
“I swear I won’t say anything.” Bunny squirms closer to her on the couch.
“There was this one time when my grandmama was really sick with lung cancer and she was in one of those homes, you know, where you basically go to die, and anyway, when my parents and I were there with her an… African American nurse came into the room and my father was, like, super aggressive with her. He was like, ‘Who are you, why are you in here,’ and the nurse was like, ‘I’m here to help Mrs. Wallace with her medication, sir,’ she was the nicest woman, and my dad was a total dick, he was like, ‘I need you to leave immediately and get someone else in here.’ And the whole thing just felt so fucking—”
“Racist.” Bunny cuts her off.
Mackenzie is visibly ashamed. “Yeah.”
“I get it, it’s super fucked up.”
“It’s so fucked up,” Mackenzie echoes, picking at the back of her head un
consciously, triggered, pulling out a strand of her hair.
“This is one of the reasons I went to the jail.” Bunny blows smoke to the side, considering. “There was this one time I was with Audrey, I had taken my dad’s Audi to pick up a dime before one of Stan’s parties, and we got lost off of I-395 and ended up in some neighborhood in Southeast, it was still light out, maybe around four in the afternoon and we came to a stop sign, had our windows down, Audrey vaping, me smoking, and there was a few Black kids standing on the corner with their backpacks on and one of them shouted, ‘Nice car!’ And Audrey yelled back, ‘Work hard and you can have one too!’ and just before she rolled up her window, one of the boys yelled back, ‘Yeah, right, your daddy bought you that car!’ And Audrey gave him the finger. And then I stepped on the gas, afraid they would jump us. And you know, that kid was fucking right. He was probably, I dunno, twelve years old. I mean, it was my dad’s car. He was right. And I felt disgusting. It was just a few weeks after that that Audrey died.”
Mackenzie gazes at Bunny, but Bunny can’t tell if she’s listening or if she’s dissociated—or if she’s staying silent because she isn’t sure how to respond and doesn’t want to say the wrong thing.… A few seconds later, Mackenzie asks, “So do you think one of those boys murdered her?”
“Noooo,” Bunny replies, frustrated that her point isn’t resonating, a stark reminder of what it is she is beginning to see and can’t understand why others might not see it too. “It’s just an example of our white privilege, and because Audrey didn’t see it, she got angry about it.”
“But if you do work hard you can have a nice car—I mean, isn’t that true? That’s what my dad always says.”
“Your dad the racist?” Bunny says.
It stings Mackenzie, hearing it come from someone other than herself.
Bunny pulls back, remembering she came here to get an ally not a frenemy. This complicated need to be heard—she’s unsure if she’s willing to accept the cost of it, and what would it mean to challenge her? “I just mean, we were born into everything and those kids saw it, like they knew it just from looking at us, and it makes me think about why this guy would want to murder Audrey’s family. Why would he torture them first? I’ve seen too many movies, and you need a motive. And… maybe the Bankses were racist. Maybe they were terrible people.”
The Cave Dwellers Page 14