The beeping sound of the intercom startles him: “William?”
“Uh, hi, Dad.”
“Come down to my office.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
General Montgomery’s office is covered in historical memorabilia, a wide range of social sectors: his great-grandfather wearing a newsboy cap, proudly holding a shovel in front of a coal mine as though becoming a crown prince. Wooden frames full of cursive and presidential stamps and coats of arms. Three-pronged candlesticks along the brick fireplace mantel, a ticking grandfather clock, and a photograph of the general holding Billy as a young baby in front of a new warplane, a grin on his face. A cross hangs above his desk where he spends the majority of his time when he’s not traveling. A random portrait of Queen Maria of England from 1634 hangs over the fireplace, which may or may not have been left by the home’s previous owner, an African diplomat. A wooden vintage airplane propeller given to the general as a gift upon his nomination from a friend at the Pentagon rests in the corner.
The general carries his glass of scotch from his desk to the Chesterfield sofa and takes a seat. A chair sits empty across from him.
A knock at the open door. “Dad?” Billy tiptoes in like he’s regressed to boyhood, afraid of his father’s rage.
“Sit down.” The general does not look up but gestures his glass in the direction of the leather chair opposite him, just far enough away to inhibit real intimacy but close enough to be within range of his intensity. The green Tiffany lamp on his desk provides the dim light, the wooden shutters on the bottom half of the windows closed for privacy.
“Yes, sir.” Billy takes a seat.
“Your grandfather loved this country,” the general says, somewhat nostalgic, which in the moment feels confusing for Billy as he so rarely sees it. “He survived a plane crash in the line of duty, and do you know what he got in return?”
“Uh…” Billy flounders for an answer because he knows he won’t win; he thinks it’s better to be silent than to be wrong.
“He got nothing. Do you know why?”
“Um—”
“Because the country, let alone the world, didn’t owe him shit. And not once—NOT ONCE—did he ever complain. That is the definition of a man of honor. A man who at any cost and without any promise puts his country first—that’s what I learned from him. That’s what I’ve always tried to do… at any cost.” The general takes another sip of his scotch, squinting at the encyclopedia collection on the shelves in front of him.
Billy pulls his chin up. “I’ve always looked up to—”
“I want you to watch something.” The general pulls a burner phone out of his pocket and presses play on a video as he places the phone on the coffee table between himself and Billy.
The sound of muffling and then a shaky camera, ethnic slurs against Middle Eastern culture being shouted into the frame. It’s Billy at Stan’s party in the Russian ambassador’s house, getting ready to be waterboarded. He snorts a line of coke, wipes his nose. Stan strapping him down—it’s the video Bunny shot of them that night to see if he could beat the record without dying. His father puts his head down as Billy is forced to watch it, Chase laughing, champagne being dumped on his head and spilling over the handkerchief, himself convulsing on-camera—privilege exploding like balloons hot with confetti. The video ends. Silence. The general cannot bring himself to look Billy in the eye. He gets up and walks over to his bookshelf, stands looking at his framed medals.
“Sir… I’m sorr—”
“I built this life for us from the ground up, oh hell, from under the ground up, and this is how you want to treat our name?” He turns around, rage brewing in his tone, points his finger at Billy. “Let me tell you something. This family might be a lot of things, but we are not entitled to behave any way we like. God did not put us on this earth for the limited amount of time we do have to be a foil, but to be a leader. You have EMBARRASSED THIS FAMILY—”
Billy retreats, feeling his father’s rage escalating with each sip of alcohol he takes. “I know, it will never hap—”
“DO NOT INTERRUPT ME WHEN I AM SPEAKING TO YOU. You have embarrassed this family. There are accusations that will be released by the press tomorrow.”
Billy runs his hand through his hair, heart pounding, mouth dry.
“Accusations about not only your entitled and disgusting behavior… but an investigation has started about my role in the military, and your acting out only compounds this very serious situation. It’s goddamn Christmas morning for the press, William.” He stares him down. “ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?”
“Yes, sir,” Billy says, nodding, a fragile child.
“An antiwar journalist trapped in his ivory tower who can’t accept a baby’s arm getting blown off in the name of democracy is accusing our military of war crimes, and I just can’t tell you the scope of what the media might do to blow this out of proportion. But goddamn it, William, do you understand how you have compromised us? How you have embarrassed ME?”
Billy stands, shocked and confused, assuming it is a rhetorical question, but trying to calm his father.
“SIT DOWN.” The general slams his fist on the coffee table, forcing Billy’s body back into the chair. “ANSWER ME WHEN I’M SPEAKING TO YOU.”
Billy can’t help but stutter in fear: “Yes—yes, sir, I understand how it makes us look.”
“We will have a family meeting at the farm in Virginia, where we can have some privacy during this time. Security will take you to meet your mother next week. Until then you are forbidden from speaking about this with anyone—the Bartholomews, Stanley, no one. Do you understand?” The general points his finger at Billy.
“Yes, Father.”
“YES, WHO?”
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I understand, sir.”
The general takes one last gulp of his scotch and goes to his desk, quiet anger seething. Billy waits for some kind of closure to the conversation as his father fumbles with his papers. “Stand up,” the general says.
Billy stands, slowly. The general walks over to Billy, facing him like a drill sergeant.
Billy’s nostrils flare, his chin high, his eyes dilating from the Adderall, ready for a blow. Ready to take it like a real man. He winces.
“You are not my son. Close the door on your way out.”
The general walks casually back to his desk. Billy opens his eyes, trembling as he exits his father’s office, gently closing the door behind him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Betsy power-walks through the entrance of the Washington Club wrapped in a camel-colored winter coat, swinging her brown Birkin bag. This is her version of dowdy. Her new Ann Hand pin is stabbed above her heart as she makes her way across the musty carpet.
“May I help you?” asks a clean-shaven man in a dreadful suit.
“Yes, I’m meeting Mr. Theodore Yoder for tea.”
“Right this way, to the Book Room. As Thomas Jefferson once said, ‘I cannot live without books.’ And we agree!”
Betsy smiles, hiding the fact she’s never once read a book about Thomas Jefferson.
Her guide leads her into a mahogany-lined library with green velvet chairs, gold satin pillows, a roaring fire in the fireplace, and a portrait of the founding president of the “club of clubs” clad in a red-checked bow tie and standing beside a white horse, staring quizzically at his audience. “Mr. Yoder, I have—oh, pardon me, I did not catch your name. My deepest apologies.”
“Betsy Wallace,” she says, her eyes frozen from recent Botox injections.
“Mrs. Wallace is here to see you.”
Mr. Yoder stands and extends his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Betsy is unimpressed. Theodore Yoder looks as though he has risen from the dead, a long-lost descendant of the Mayflower buried deep in the archives of the National Portrait Gallery, this upper-crust white man with his white mustache curtaining his upper lip, raw-silk bow tie, and round tortoiseshell glasses, as if Theodore Yode
r has hobbled all the way from Constitution Avenue to get here. He certainly did not take an Uber.
“Please, please have a seat,” he says. There is a tower of cucumber and egg finger sandwiches before them, pink and purple macaroons for dessert at its base. A private butler scurries around with an enormous tea box. Betsy selects Earl Grey, because that is what she notices Mr. Yoder is drinking.
“So, how did you and Linda meet?” he asks, beginning the formal interview. He pulls a manila envelope from an inner pocket and places it beside his cookie plate.
“Through our daughters at St. Peter’s Academy,” Betsy says.
“Lovely.”
“Well, and then we got to know each other at the Alliance Française.” The butler sets her teapot on the table.
“Ah! Parlez-vous français?” he asks, which both irritates Betsy and makes her nervous.
“I’m getting there.” She laughs, placing a cloth napkin in her lap.
“And how are you finding it here in Washington? Congratulations on your husband’s win, by the way.”
“Oh, thank you, we are delighted to be here.” Betsy stirs her tea.
Mr. Yoder opens the manila envelope and pulls out what looks like a résumé. “So I see Doug’s parents were born in Durham. His father was district attorney, is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And you all belonged to the Durham Country Day Golf Club?”
“Yes, we did.”
“And you lived in Washington once prior, is that correct?”
“I did. That was when my previous husband died of cancer,” Betsy says, the sympathy card she’s willing to throw down.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up old wounds,” he says.
“It’s quite all right. You can either be a victim or a survivor, and I consider myself a survivor,” she says, pleased with herself.
“Would you like an egg sandwich?” he asks in a lame attempt to ease the discomfort.
Betsy has a flashback of her time in the bathroom at dinner with Linda, repulsed by the look of oozing mayonnaise. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Theodore Yoder clears his throat. “We are very proud of our membership list and, as you know, the wonderful variety of real estate our members have.…”
“Oh yes. We bought our property in McLean. Did I mention that in the application? Across from Hickory Hill, not dissimilar to our old stomping grounds and country charm in North Carolina.” Betsy sips her tea, pinkie in the air.
“And where do you and Senator Wallace like to summer and winter?”
“We spend our winters in Palm Beach, and our summers in Nantucket, Kenneth Point, named after his late brother.”
“Marvelous. Now, I do have to ask…” Mr. Yoder looks around the private library just to be sure no one else of value is around. “There was some trepidation from a particular member—one of our longest and most loyal—due to an incident that happened last summer at a rental house on Liberty Street in Nantucket?”
“Yes, we stayed there while they were doing extensive wood restoration on the house—to preserve its history. That was just after Doug had won his seat.”
“Yes, yes, of course, we have to update ours on the Cape as well. But what I do have to unfortunately ask about is an incident that happened on Liberty Street. It was brought to our attention that an arrest was made of a juvenile?”
“I beg your pardon, I’m not sure I know exactly what you’re talking about.”
“Well, just to refresh your memory, it said…” Mr. Yoder creates a silent moment of dread for Betsy as she watches him remove his round spectacles and lay them on the table, then pull his reading glasses from his jacket pocket and use both hands to place them on his nose. He begins reading a sheet of paper that he pulls from the manila envelope: “Sibling Squabble over Talent Gets One Sister Arrested.”
“Ohhh, goodness!” Betsy laughs so hard she snorts. “Mr. Yoder, they never took her to juvenile hall. Once Doug and I called our attorney, they immediately returned her home and even apologized for traumatizing her.”
“I see.…”
“The girls can get competitive. Mackenzie just slugged her sister is all, who may have even deserved it, you know what I mean?” Mr. Yoder just blinks. “I mean, who hasn’t slugged a sibling? Do you have siblings?” Betsy sips her tea again, pinkie raised.
“I am an only child.”
She sets her teacup down. “Well, in any case, they threw out the case and the Nantucket police apologized for inconveniencing us on our Saturday morning.”
“In the article it says, ‘The young Ms. Wallace was taken away screaming, “You”’—excuse my language—‘“fucking cunt” at her ten-year-old sister.’ I do hope, Mrs. Wallace, that this is not language that is tolerated in your household, as it is not language that is tolerated by any of our members.”
“Oh goodness, no. Linda—I mean, Linda of all people would know that that is not language I would tolerate, and given her position in the world of journalism, she would have known about this incident and whether it was even worthy of mentioning, having referred me—you do know this, don’t you?”
“Well, this brings me to my next difficult subject. I must do our due diligence, so please forgive me, as it does tend to get personal.… Are you aware of any suspicious activity within the Williams household?” he asks.
“You mean Linda’s home?”
“Precisely.”
“No—why, Linda was the person who nominated me, so I’m not sure what I might know that you don’t know.” Betsy is acutely aware that this interview is not only about whether or not the Wallaces are worthy of being club members, but also about how her family might reflect back on Linda and her family.
“There have been whispers,” Mr. Yoder says, “about an exposé regarding her husband, Chris Williams, and some violent and sexual behavior.”
“Oh, my word.…” Betsy places her hand over her heart.
“You did not hear that from me. And again, my apologies for having to ask such uncomfortable questions—it’s one of the things that makes my job particularly difficult.” Mr. Yoder adjusts his glasses with his right hand.
“Yes, well, anything I can do to be of help, but I really have nothing but wonderful things to say about Linda. After all, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you if it weren’t for her.”
“I appreciate it,” he says, then takes a sip of his lukewarm tea.
“Mr. Yoder… I beg your pardon, but why did you have me come all the way here to meet with you, if you don’t trust Linda’s judgment, given her family’s private troubles?” Betsy asks sincerely.
“Mrs. Wallace…” He removes his glasses. “In politics, you don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.”
“Well”—Betsy smiles—“things are heating up for Doug.”
“That’s right, and I am very impressed with his new amendment and agenda, and how he has handled the administration’s escalating problems—with dignity and grace.”
“He is a mighty winner. I knew from the moment I met him he would be a wonderful husband, father, and leader.”
Mr. Yoder closes his file. “Very good. My secretary will be in touch.”
“Wonderful, it was lovely meeting with you.” Betsy stands.
“And I do love that Ann Hand pin you’re wearing—she is a dear old friend of mine.”
“Oh, why thank you, it was a gift from… Doug’s mother.” (It was a new gift she gave herself).
“Just stunning.”
Cafe Milano
“Washington’s ultimate place to see and be seen,” says the Washington Post about the famous Georgetown staple where black government town cars and motorcades remain parked along the curb in front of the valet line on Prospect Street. Cafe Milano was founded in 1992 by Franco Nuschese, who came from the Amalfi Coast and has been a resident of Washington for over twenty years.I Designed for hosting presidents, prime ministers, diplomats, lobbyists, and journalists,
it has four different private dining areas, some with glass doors, others without. Whether someone wants to be seen (but not touched) or to secretly move about (but never be seen), the maître d’, Laurent, makes it happen. An elegant man from Nice, France, he’s worked for the café for nearly thirty years (a mini American flag always pinned to his dress coat), making both Franco and Laurent bigger insiders than a freshman politician. Ladies’ luncheons are typically held in the front private room, where they can be seen (not touched). The Cafe Milano’s only other location worldwide is at the Four Seasons in Abu Dhabi along the Al Maryah Island waterfront.
I. https://www.cafemilano.com/about/
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Hostess extraordinaire Nourah Al Hashem, the Kuwaiti ambassador’s wife, raises money each year for homeless children through one of her favorite local organizations, the Lollipop Kids Foundation. Honoring fifty of Washington’s most powerful women, including the wives of cabinet members, in an effort to feed the children, it is the nonpartisan ladies’ luncheon of the year, and no location whets the appetites of wealthy Washington insiders like Cafe Milano.
By the time Jaguars, Mercedeses, and Range Rovers begin pulling into the valet line, the Frasier Fir candles reek of Christmas, the emerald-green satin linens cover tabletops, and mini Christmas-tree boxwoods in cranberry-colored boxes stand as centerpieces. Darling! Double kiss: hands on the shoulders. Laurent knows many of the women on the invite list, the wives of the Very Important Customers. But he also knows who is ranked the wealthiest, based on the strategic seating arrangements. Those who sit closest to the host near the podium in the front of the room are those with the most money. Presumably closest so that when it is time to give, they give.
After greeting each arrival, Laurent hands her a table number and paddle for the “ask” at the end of the lunch. Though this Christmas feels more solemn than in the past—Genevieve Banks was always seated at Table One, making a splash with a $20,000 donation at the end of the luncheon—this year Betsy Wallace will take her place. Joining Betsy at Table One are Meredith Bartholomew, Phyllis Van Buren, Linda Williams, Carol Montgomery, Sissy Cowan (Chase’s mother, wife of the head of the CIA), and Galina Stopinksi (Stan’s mother, wife of the Russian ambassador).
The Cave Dwellers Page 21