“Well, no, but—”
“Real love feels like—like home, sweetheart. Does this African American boy feel like home to you? Or does he feel different from home?”
“Different, he feels different, but good different. Dad, he’s—”
“If he doesn’t feel like home, then he’s not the one, sweet pea. And he never will be.”
“But I love him, Dad—”
“NAH—no, you don’t. No, you don’t.” Doug shakes his head. “I’m sorry to tell you this—he’s just not good enough for you, princess. Do you know what I mean?”
“I mean, not really, but—”
“Can you keep a secret?” Doug asks, interrupting her yet again.
“Yeah, okay.”
“Dad’s thinking about running for president.” Doug’s eyes light up as if he’s just given his baby girl everything on her Christmas wish list.
“Whoa, really?”
“You want a man who’s as good as Daddy, don’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Do you love Mommy and me?” Doug asks.
“Of course I do! I would do anything for you, you know that.”
“Good, cupcake. I would do anything for you too.…” Doug leans in and tickles her. “… like shoot one of your boyfriends!” He pushes her into her pillow.
Mackenzie giggles, not because she wants to but because she’s supposed to.
Doug leans back and sighs. Proud of his sensibility! “We good? I deleted the photos out of your sister’s phone, so no one has to know what happened. It can stay between us.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“You’re my little American princess! We’ll find you your prince, don’t you worry.” Doug kisses Mackenzie’s forehead, gets up, and closes the door behind him.
Mackenzie sits up in bed, pulls back the covers, hits the Stop button on her phone app, and sends the recording off to Bunny. She texts, This just happened. For the record, I’m NOT breaking up with him!
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Betsy and Doug have decided to stay in Washington for Christmas. The positive national attention he’s received for the amendments to the Violence against Women Act have kept them circling the Beltway in an effort to maintain the momentum, but it was the invitation to the private White House Christmas party that solidified the decision. Doug’s anxiety about Mackenzie’s behavior has kept him up into the night scrolling through Pornhub, in desperate need of some relief, someone other than Betsy to make him feel something other than dread, other than the rage still embedded from his mother and father.
* * *
The cold marble halls of the Russell Senate Office Building are empty and quiet on a Sunday morning except for the usual security detail. Doug walks holding his Compass Coffee cup, his head held high, hiding his spiral of internal shame. He unlocks his office door to find Cate waiting for him, sitting on his tufted leather sofa in a zip-back tweed skirt, her legs bare and locked together with goose bumps climbing her prickly thighs, her eternal sun-kissed highlights wavy down her chest, cheeks still rosy from the wind. She sniffles and straightens.
Doug closes the door behind him. A wooden sign on his shelf reads:
There are two things that are important in politics. The first is money and I can’t remember what the second one is.
—1896, Mark Hanna, Chief Fundraiser for President McKinley
“Thanks for meeting me at the crack of dawn,” Doug says.
“What’s going on?” Cate asks, fearing she’s about to get fired. Thinking of all the people Uncle Chuck knows to help her lawyer up.
“It’s my daughter, Mackenzie… she’s becoming a liability. And the press is hounding Montgomery, we don’t need any external stress.”
“Okay,” Cate says, relieved. “Well, I’ll check in with Bunny. Was… was this why you had me come down here so early?” She looks up at him, hoping he can take a hint.
Doug rubs his eyes, exhausted. “Look, I think—I think we should just pause,” he says.
“Yeah, that’s obvious,” Cate says.
“I just… I want to make sure you’re—we’re not getting over our skis.”
“Over our skis?”
“Ahead of ourselves.”
“I know what getting over our skis means, Doug.… You want to stop seeing me.” She stands and steps away from him.
“No, no.” Doug takes a step toward her, afraid to ruffle her feathers. What have I done? “I just mean, people are looking closely at me now because of how well I’m doing.”
“We’re doing, Doug.”
Doug gives her a blank look. Cate isn’t sure if it’s disagreement or a black void in giving others credit for his rising success.
“Did you speak to the Washington Post?” Cate asks—oh, she’s going there, like pulling out a gun from the back of her skirt.
“What?” Doug shakes his head. “No. Why would I speak to the Washington Post? You released those statements.”
“I know,” she says casually.
“Why would you ask if I spoke with the Post?” Doug asks, paranoid.
“I—”
“Did they reach back out to you?” Doug steps backward into his desk, unzips his leather bomber jacket. He feels hot. The heat is on full-blast.
“I meant to tell you…”
“Meant to tell me?”
“An investigative reporter came by the office.”
“AN INVESTIGATIVE REPORTER?!”
“She was asking about a man named Albert Rasmussen.”
Doug’s face goes ghost-white when he hears the name come out of Cate’s mouth, a sense of betrayal he hasn’t felt since the death of his brother.
“There’s a reporter who’s investigating accusations of sexual harassment, assault, and abuse on the Hill. She also showed me a picture of a man named Tim, but I can’t remember his last name. It doesn’t matter—”
“OH, Jesus Christ, Cate.” Doug swings his arm back as if to hold on to his desk and misses, nearly falling over. He stumbles and clears his throat, tries to stand up straight, wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.
“She said there were a few incidents with some political figures in your circle. So she came to me…”
“And? And? WHAT DID YOU TELL HER?”
“I had nothing to say to her, Doug. Everything has been one hundred percent consensual between us.”
“You told her that, you told her that we were—that you and I were—are—?” He’s starting to stutter.
“No,” Cate says calmly. “She has zero evidence or reason to suspect that we were ever together. Do you think I’m an idiot? But even if she did… it is consensual.” Cate eyes him, looking for validation, some expression of relief at knowing that she cares about him, because maybe he’ll say he cares about her too; she still wants him to want her, care for her—
But Doug—Doug isn’t thinking about her all. “Did you get her off your back? How did you get her off your back? How do you know she’s off your back?”
Increasingly annoyed by his selfishness, Cate says, “Because what evidence does she have?” Still trying to reassure him.
Doug wasn’t supposed to be like the men in that room, he thinks, he was supposed to be better than that—like the Corcorans and the Grahams!
“Nothing is going to happen. Who is she going to go to—human resources?” Cate laughs, not sure if she said that out loud for Doug or for herself.
“Does Walter know about this?” Doug asks.
“No.”
“Goddamn it, Cate.”
“Fine, I didn’t realize you wanted everyone at the office knowing,” she says.
“All right, all right. FUCK! Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Doug paces around his desk, rubs his palm over his bald head. “You have to tell him—he’s the fucking director of communications, for God’s sake.”
Cate stands in her power as best she can, which means she decides to sit, snuggle up on the couch, an air of indifference and detachment, an old-time
power move she learned from Aunt Meredith. Act aloof and no one can touch you.
“When did this happen—how long have you been withholding this information?”
“I don’t know, Doug, a few weeks maybe.”
“A few WEEKS? Oh my God!”
Cate looks up at him with Bambi eyes, watches as he paces back and forth in front of his Michael Jordan bobblehead.
He begins laughing as if he’s drunk. “Well, we have a lot more to be concerned about than my daughter’s tits ending up on Wikipedia,” he says. “What about Betsy?”
“What about your wife?” Cate says.
“Will they go to her?” he asks, dropping to a new level of seriousness.
“Mmm, probably not.”
“Probably not?”
“Doug, no one knows anything because there isn’t anything… right?” Cate bats her eyes, looks down to see if she has any split ends. “There is literally no reason at all for this green reporter to go to your wife.”
“She’s green?” Doug says, a moment of relief.
“Yes. She’s practically a college student.”
“So it’s under control?”
“It is under control.” Cate stands and moves close to him.
“And you’re going to talk to Walter.…”
“I will talk to him this afternoon.”
“And he still doesn’t know about… us?”
“No one knows, Doug.”
Doug takes a big breath. “Okay, good, very good.” He pulls her into him as he places his thumb over her lower lip, tracing its chapped crease, her breath warm on his hand.
Before he kisses her, “Wait. Wait,” Doug says. “Sit down. Where you were…”
Cate sits back down on the couch and crosses her legs.
“Now uncross your legs,” Doug says.
Cate keeps her legs crossed for a long ten seconds while looking up at Doug, taunting him, enjoying the power she feels in this moment, and not afraid to use it. Then she uncrosses her legs.
“Yes, like that. Now open them a little more.” Cate opens her legs slowly, “Oh God, like that.” Doug moves closer to her, unbuckles his belt, his broad shoulders a towering presence over her. Cate moves her hand to touch herself.
“No! No. Don’t move, just hold still.” Regaining the only sense of control he feels he has, Doug takes his hard self out, and closes his eyes until his shame spills all over her. Only this time, Cate doesn’t feel it.
* * *
Loud crows echo between broken tree limbs and blown-over garbage cans on East-West Highway as Cate steps out of an Uber XL. She approaches the front steps of a quaint Craftsman, rings the bell, and pumps herself up, bouncing on the balls of her suede boots—
A round woman approaches the glass door, opens it. “Cate, what are you doing here?”
“Hi, Janet, I’m sorry to show up like this, but it’s sensitive, and you know how technology can be these days,” Cate says.
“Oh yes, yes, of course, come in.”
“Actually, I’m fine to wait out here. If you don’t mind grabbing Walter for me.”
“Oh. All right. One moment.”
Cate’s heart pumps faster as Walter approaches the door. He throws up his arms as if to accuse her of being dramatic.
“Hi, Walter.”
“What’s all this about?”
“I’m going to make this as brief as possible.”
“All right.” Walter crosses his arms. He wears a UNC sweatshirt, a coffee stain down the front.
“The Washington Post has just launched an investigation into several power players, one of whom is Albert Rasmussen, the others—I can’t remember, and honestly, I don’t really care, but accusations have been made on record: rape, attempted rape, sexual assault, masturbating in front of staff, the gamut. Possibly even sex trafficking, looks like the Saudis aren’t the only ones! All of whom are within our circle’s reach. Doug’s circle. A young female reporter spoke to me several weeks ago and asked about the sexual misconduct happening inside our office. And since I’m the press secretary and human resources doesn’t really exist—and because I am very loyal to Doug—I want what’s best for us. I want to win. But here’s the deal: you gotta go, and you gotta be the one to initiate the going.”
Walter stands there, his facial expression morphing into that of a little boy who just got caught stealing. Stealing her dignity, her integrity, the right to do her job.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He glances behind him to make sure the front door is closed all the way so his wife can’t hear anything, somewhere in the kitchen baking snowman cookies for the upcoming cookie exchange women’s holiday event.
Cate holds her position and tries not to blush. She has spent countless nights watching and observing every single online interview of Hillary Clinton, taking notes on how it looks when you’ve got an inner core made of steel, when every single inflection sounds exactly the same, an unbreakable robot.
“Well, let’s see how all of you will look during our little Me Too movement.”
“You can’t do this, Cate, you have no evidence.”
“I just did, Walter, you can’t unhear it. I mean, the truth is, it’s either you or Doug that’s going down, and it would be such a shame for it to be both, after all of Doug’s hard work, and his daughters’—and his wife! Ooof. But a lose-lose for you, really.… Should we call Anne at the Post? I have her number right here.” She holds up her contact so Walter can see it. “How should I begin the conversation? Should I tell her how you like to graze my nipples at work? Or—” Cate taps at her phone.
“W-w-well, hold on a minute! Did Doug send you here?” he asks, panicking.
“He did, Walter—but he didn’t send me here to fuck you. I did that all on my own.” She smiles.
“When is this article coming out?” he asks, his paranoia escalating. He looks over Cate’s shoulder, anyone parked down the street?
“Mmm, not sure, but you can call Anne if you like and ask—or maybe you can call Albert, or a guy named Tim, or any of those sex-addicted men whose careers are surely over.”
“What do you want, you want money?” he asks.
“No, but that’s so predictable and thoughtful,” Cate says, cocking her head, then settles into the role of negotiator. “I want you to resign effective immediately. Tell Doug you’re done, and that I’m the only person for the job. You’re handing it to me.”
“That’s it, you want my job?”
“That’s right.”
“And you won’t go to the press.”
“Nope.”
“How do I know you won’t go to the press anyway?”
“Doug is hitting a high point—you think I’m going to jeopardize his inevitable run for the presidency because some old washed-up aide grazed my nipples?” She laughs, seeing that Walter’s more offended by being called old and washed-up than by being pegged as a sexual predator.
The front door opens, and Walter jumps; it’s his wife. “Are you two chilly out here?”
“Jesus!”
“Oh, sorry, sweetheart.” She laughs. “I didn’t mean to startle you, just wanted to offer you some tea?”
“Oh, I’m fine, thank you.” Cate smiles.
“No, no, I’ll be in in a minute,” Walter says, shooing her away. “Please close the door.” When she’s gone, he says, “No press.”
“No press,” Cate says, affirming the deal.
“Nothing in writing.”
“Nothing in writing, just a verbal agreement and your resignation letter by tomorrow.… I can draft a public statement about your decision to retire and focus on family matters, the usual.”
The reality of this sinks into Walter and he starts to get emotional as he says, “We have a deal.”
“Great, cc me on the e-mail.” Cate pulls out her phone and orders her Uber.
“Doug’s not going to be happy about this.”
“Oh yes he will, Walter, he doesn’t need you ruining hi
s legacy.”
Walter takes a moment to think about his twenty-year friendship with Doug. Was any of it worth it? At least he can go quietly. But the shame will never leave him.
An Uber XL pulls up to the curb. Cate steps off the porch. She turns around before she gets in the vehicle. “Oh, and Walter, don’t try to pull a fast one on me. Lest you forget, my uncle’s donation dollars are wrapped around Doug’s balls. This is in my blood.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Running as fast as she can in her black snow coat and backpack, Bunny pulls out her wallet to grab her fake ID, but she can’t seem to find it. She stops in front of the blue guardhouse with mirrored windows, plops her bag down, and digs, pulling out a Bernie water bottle and crumpled receipts, when a door swings open. “Can I help you?”
“Found it!” Bunny holds up her fake ID. “Just thought I lost my ID for a minute,” she says, breathing hard.
The guard stands with his hands on his hips, his back to the mirrored door. Bunny collects her things, throws everything back in her bag, and leaps for the trailer.
* * *
Bunny sits holding the receiver to her ear, waiting for Anthony, when a man she doesn’t recognize appears on the monitor in his place.
“Well, aren’t you fine,” he says.
Bunny looks at him, her jaw drops; confused, she spins around thinking she should call for security, but thinks better of it, then hears on the other end of the phone, “Get the fuck outta here!” It’s Anthony who’s threatening the man who picked up his visiting call; the inmate gets up, starts laughing like he’s medicated, and strolls off. Anthony takes a seat. “Motherfuckers trying to take our calls.”
“I can see that,” Bunny says, trying to act unaffected, to ignore how much skinnier Anthony looks than the last time she saw him, and that his right eyelid is swollen. “Are you okay?” she asks.
“I’m probably gonna end up in solitary ’cause someone tried to put a shank through my arm but I stopped it, threatened the motherfucker. He backed off, but he’ll come back. Jail’s trying to make me a real murderer.” He shakes his head. “How you doing, Grace?”
The Cave Dwellers Page 19