“Like Internet viral?” Doug asks.
The sound of creaking footsteps down the hallway prevents Cate from responding right away. Gordon Bay, the president’s lawyer—eighties, disheveled hair, black bushy eyebrows, a hunched back—comes thumping down the hall with his cane. Framed by the poker room doorway, Mr. Bay stops to zip his fly, then looks over at Doug.
“Senator Wallace!” he says, delighted to see him utilizing the space as a new member of the club.
Doug switches gears as if he’s fucking Jekyll and Hyde, a charming smile on command: “Sir.” He goes to shake his hand. A young brunette bobbles behind Mr. Bay with a glass of bubbly. She wipes the corners of her mouth with her acrylic nails.
“Uhh, this is Cat,” Doug says, looking at Cate. She looks back at him confused, irritated.
“Well now, don’t you forget to tip.” Mr. Bay winks. “You know the old blackmailing legend here, don’t ya?” He tries to hit Doug in the arm but misses and almost falls over.
Doug guides him gently back out to the hallway. “I do, I do. I’ll be sure to leave double the average, Counsel.”
“Thatta boy.”
“Make sure he doesn’t fall down the stairs,” Doug says to his mistress.
“I’m taking good care of him, Mr. Senator.” She winks as they move away.
Cate stands, hand on hip, an incredulous look across her face. “Did you just imply that I was your prostitute? What is this? A flophouse for retired White House cabinet members?!”
“Relax, I told you, you’re not supposed to be here.”
“But I am if I’m your prostitute.”
“Cate.” Doug goes to her, cupping his hands around her flushed cheeks. “That was the president’s lawyer, he cannot know about any of this. If it doesn’t look good for me, it doesn’t look good for you. Particularly in your new role as communications director,” he says in a manipulative tone.
Cate places her hands over his and pushes them off her cheeks. “Fine.”
“So I need to get Mackenzie’s phone and you need to get Bunny’s,” Doug says, forming a game plan.
“And we need to not only confiscate the recording, but we need to scroll through their messages, their apps, anyplace where they could have potentially sent the video,” Cate adds.
“Right.”
“Doug, do you know how to go through the apps?” Cate gives him a patronizing look.
Doug looks flustered.
“Just get her phone and bring it to the office. I’ll send for a fixer to clean it up,” Cate says.
“Great—and you’ll do the same for Bunny’s phone.”
“Yep. We don’t have a lot of time. Where’s Mackenzie now?” Cate asks.
“Christmas shopping with Betsy.”
“Get hold of it, and I’ll meet you at the office in the morning.” Cate wraps herself in her trench coat, and heads for the stairwell.
“Oh, and Cate?” Doug turns to her. “I’m really not a racist, I swear.”
Cate swings her purse over her shoulder. “You know, Doug, people who lie to others don’t bother me—it’s people who lie to themselves that end up getting completely fucked.” A stare-down, neither one knowing if they can trust the other; then Cate turns away, leaving Doug speechless. As Cate descends the wooden staircase, the sound of a turbulent landing of God knows what—shattered porcelain and wood maybe—comes from the downstairs drawing room. Startled, she pauses on her way to the front door and peers into the room. Gordon Bay is sitting in a Chesterfield chair, staring at the floor. Split-pea soup oozes across the floorboards near the frayed fringes of a snapped rope—the dumbwaiter broke. He picks up the crystal service bell, panicked: ding ding ding ding ding ding.
CHAPTER FORTY
A black Suburban makes its way down a dirt driveway lined with anemic weeping willows and scattered haystacks. As the vehicle carrying Billy, General Montgomery, and his attorney approaches the old millhouse, an American flag whips around itself. There is only the sound of silence in the Blue Ridge Mountains as the middle of winter descends upon the grounds most notable for carrying the soldiers of the Civil War.
Having a farm in Upperville, Virginia, or nearby Middleburg, is a marker of wealth in Washington, a symbol that you are either a descendant of plantation owners or you are the first to begin building the desired legacy—the American Dream.
The general had bought the old property during the economic recession—a place for his in-laws to retire and a gathering spot for the family on weekends and holidays. Once a corn mill in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, it was the first plantation set on fire in the “burning raids” of the Confederacy as American troops marched up to the bloody battle of Gettysburg. When the general became chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, when all the power and status he would claim in Washington culminated, this was the country home he’d chosen—his thumbprint pressed upon another part of history. The only spoiler was the perpetual smell of jet fuel and engine noise from the home just a mile down the road, where the scion of an American banking dynasty had added a goddamn airstrip for the private jet to fly his family to and from New York.
A roaring fire climbs up the stone chimney. Wooden beams cross fifteen-foot ceilings in the living room, where military sketches of various battles cover the walls between warped windowpanes. Carol sits in the corner of a beige sofa, her red reading glasses on top of her head. Crow’s-feet stretch the length of her upper cheekbones; she’s exhausted from the buried tears, her silent days escaping in books at the library. Her parents sit side by side opposite her, a simple couple just grateful to be there, as the general enters in his blue uniform. His lawyer and Billy follow in his shadow.
“Carol, Shirley, Bob, this is my attorney, Rod Bernstein. He’s going to walk everyone through what we should expect in the next few weeks and how to handle it in public.”
Rod Bernstein is one of the most prominent “fixers” in Washington; with a little too much Botox, he drives a Maserati and is currently having sex with a twenty-four-year old computer “engineer.” He’s the guy to call when a senator kills a prostitute, news of a president’s shell company gets leaked, a congressman crashes his car after too many whiskeys—or when the nominee for secretary of defense is being investigated for war crimes.
Billy takes a seat next to his grandmother, who gives him a warm hug, smelling of lavender potpourri.
“Hello, everyone,” says Bernstein. “So, we will start with you, Billy, because I know the general only needs you for part of this preparation for what we’re about to be dealing with here.”
Billy looks at his father, then to his mother at this discriminatory move—he’s intentionally being left out of the “grown-up” conversation as punishment for his recent overdose; he’s a liability to them now. The general stands next to Mr. Bernstein, arms folded, brow furrowed, zero shame regarding the hefty price he’s paid to get him here.
Bernstein continues, “If the press follows you to school, to your basketball games, girlfriend’s house, or whatnot, ignore them. Do not talk to them. If they heckle you, keep walking. Those tailing you are lowest on the totem pole, and despite it being illegal, no one with half a brain will care what you’re up to unless the video gets released. The point is to keep your online presence clean, etcetera. But before I go to the video—”
Billy’s grandmother interrupts: “What video? What video is he talking about?”
“Please, Shirley, do not interrupt him,” the general says with the predictable irritation of a son-in-law, “he will get there.”
“Okay, sorry.”
“Before I go there, I want you, Billy, to keep your head and chin up when you walk, stand tall and proud. Appearances and first impressions are half of the battle. And if images end up online, you will at least look confident. Only celebrities look down. You are a product of a legacy that requires you to keep this confidence in the face of adversity.”
“Yes, sir, okay,” Billy says, his clammy palms folded in his
lap.
“Now,” Bernstein says, “if the video of you being waterboarded with champagne and using language that would be perceived as bigoted is released, we’re dealing with something a little more serious.”
“WILLIAM MONTGOMERY,” his grandmother says, looking at him in disbelief and shame. He has betrayed her legacy, her daughter’s legacy, his own good judgment, and their family’s reputation. Carol can’t bring herself to look at him.
“IF the video is released and catches fire with the media, it will call for a period of isolation. In which case, you will be driven to and from school by security. You cannot, at any time, be seen in public, as it will perpetuate the story in the gossip columns.”
The general nods his head to concur with his attorney, despite being in uncharted waters.
“Presumably there will be threats, violent or otherwise—”
“Oh my God,” Carol says, on the verge of tears.
“If so, we’ll be monitoring, so there is no need to worry. I guarantee this, Carol. But, if it is released, at least it’s now and not later, as the news cycle tends to slow down during the holidays. But it also makes the situation ripe for anything particularly salacious to go viral. So we’ll need to keep watch. If it does, there is nothing we can do to stop it. You will need to ride it out as best you can, and complete the instructions given to you by my team regarding the isolation period.”
There is a moment where Billy stays silent, prompting the general to say, “ARE WE CLEAR, WILLIAM?”
“Yes, sir,” he says, a lump in his throat, his world closing in on him, the unknown, an unbearable feeling to hold inside.
“Great. So you understand?” says Bernstein.
“Yes, sir,” Billy replies.
Bernstein looks to General Montgomery and says, “So I think we’re done with him, yeah?”
The general turns to look at Billy. “William, you’re excused now.”
Billy struggles to ask his father if he can stay for the grown-up conversation, assuming Bernstein would serve as a great buffer, which might provide more wiggle room for a yes answer. He sits a beat longer on the couch, hoping someone other than himself will change their mind.
“I said, you’re excused.”
Carol pours herself a large glass of red wine. Billy stands and exits with his head down and takes a few steps up the old wooden staircase. Then, as quietly as he can, balancing on less-used steps, he tiptoes back downstairs and stands with his back against the wall, ear turned to the door—he’s a soldier in his own home, a CIA agent, a private investigator; he wants to understand what exactly is happening to his father, the anxiety reaping each breath he takes.
Muffled sounds. Lowered voices. Scattered words. “Naval base… Iraq… investigation has not yet been made public. Picking off a schoolboy… sniper… SEAL witnesses… blackmail. Over a dozen charges… premeditated murder and attempted murder charges are included in the indictment.”
The sound of his mother’s crying, his grandfather’s belligerent rage, the general reassuring them, Bernstein: “… the president is on your side.”
Billy’s heart pounds heavier with every word; he’s consumed by shame and self-hatred for compromising the family reputation—the stakes have never felt so high. He feels violent inside, his hormones racing through his bloodstream, and suddenly all he can think about is calling Bunny.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
In the middle of the night, Doug creeps down the long hallway from his master suite and into Mackenzie’s bedroom while she is fast asleep. Holding his breath, he reaches for her cell phone on the nightstand, unplugs it from its charger, then tiptoes out of her room as fast as he can without getting caught. It’s the next morning when Teresa, the housekeeper, is in the kitchen packing Haley’s Maleficent lunchbox for the last day of school at St. Peter’s Academy before Christmas break that all hell breaks loose.
* * *
Mackenzie storms into the kitchen. “Where’s my cell phone? Did you take my cell phone? It’s gone.”
“Niña, check under the bed,” Teresa tells her.
“I did check under the bed.”
Betsy strolls into the kitchen wearing a pink floral kimono, her hair pinned up in hot rollers, her foundation without the eyes and lips done creating a kind of geisha look. “Good morning, sweet pea.” She pulls a coffee mug out of the cabinet. “Did you get your violin practice in this morning?”
“Did you take my phone? I can’t find my phone.”
Betsy pops an Illy coffee pod into the Keurig, slams it shut; above the sound of gurgling, she says, “Sweetie, why would I take your phone?”
“I don’t know, but it’s missing.” Mackenzie begins throwing around pillows in the sun-room next to the kitchen, searching.
Betsy looks at Teresa. “Look at this, she’s completely addicted, these kids have a serious problem.” She sips her coffee without a solution.
Mackenzie knocks over a fake hydrangea arrangement.
“That’s enough,” Betsy says, storming over and grabbing Mackenzie by the arm. “You need to be out this door in thirty minutes.”
“Stop!” Mackenzie swings her arm around, wrenching out of Betsy’s hand, and begins to hyperventilate: “I have notes… for my… test… ON MY PHONE!!!” She stomps over to the kitchen island, frantically opening and slamming cabinet doors.
“All right, that’s it, I’m calling your father.”
“Good! Ask him where it is!”
Betsy holds her phone above her head; the sound of ringing over speakerphone. Teresa zips Haley’s lunch bag, unfazed by the usual family chaos.
“Yes?” Doug says, picking up, a curious but playful tone.
Betsy locks eyes with Mackenzie, holding the phone midway between them. “Your daughter seems to have misplaced her cell phone and believes one of us took it.”
“Oh no! Sugar pie”—Doug feigns surprise—“listen, I’ll send one of my interns to do a sweep at the house today, we’ll find it, don’t you worry.” Mackenzie stares at the phone. “… And look, babycakes, Christmas is around the corner—if you’re good, Santa will bring you an upgrade, how about that?”
“I need this one, Dad, I have everything on my phone, I have my life on it.”
“Okay, don’t you worry, I’m stepping into the office now.” Doug is actually stuck in traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue.
“Fine.”
“Hey, Cate, will you send someone over to sweep the house for Mack’s phone?” Doug says to his empty passenger seat.
“Thank you!” Betsy says.
“Thanks, Dad,” Mackenzie says.
“Talk to you later.” Betsy hangs up. “See? Now go get dressed, don’t make your sister late for school. And don’t forget your violin case like last time.”
* * *
Mackenzie stands clad in her school uniform: green plaid skirt, black leggings, blue collared shirt, and gray V-neck sweater with Fidelitas et Integritas, the school crest, sewn on its pocket.
She scans her body in her bathroom mirror, reaches for her cell phone like a phantom limb, then remembers it’s not there, just a bunch of loose music sheets in her bag and her violin in its case on the marble floor next to her. Mackenzie grunts into the mirror, “Guuuuuaaaaaahhhhh!!!!” As if it’s Judgment Day, she flips her hair over to the left side of her head, carving out a part with her pointer fingers. Holding her breath, she lets her fingers crawl along the root of each piece of hair. She smudges her pointer finger against her scalp, scratching then collecting several hairs, releasing the ones she doesn’t want; they fall like paper in the wind. For a moment, Mackenzie tries to stop herself, resist the pull, but it only makes her anxiety worse, like a truck driving into her lungs. She yanks without thinking, without any pause—like the tiniest stem in a dying garden, she yanks it hard and fast from the root, a crunching sound as it’s torn from the skull. She exhales with pleasure, an easy look across her face once it’s out of her head. She opens the palm of her hand; the tips of her finge
rs are covered in pink blood. She rinses them under the tap, and watches the pink water swirl down the drain.
“Mackenzie!” Betsy yells through the intercom. “We’re going to be late!”
“I’ll be right there!” She wipes her fingertips on an embroidered hand towel, then hops up onto the sink, scoots as close to the mirror as she can. Butterflies swirl in her stomach as she thinks about her upcoming exam, her father telling her Marty isn’t good enough because he doesn’t feel like home, her new violin piece. She parts her hair to the other side of her head, her fingers crawling along the roots. She rubs the root with her pointer again, her obsessive ritual, then curls the thin, tiny strand of hair around her finger and yanks hard, holding her breath. She exhales just as Betsy bursts through the bathroom door. Startled, Mackenzie turns her head and it hits the open medicine cabinet.
“Ow! Jesus, Mom, can you knock?!”
“What are you doing?” Betsy grabs Mackenzie’s hand, sees the blood on her fingertips. “Wash this off right now.”
“I am!”
“Let me see.”
Mackenzie tries to swat her mother away. “Mom, stop!”
“Let me see right this goddamn minute.” Betsy wrestles her, forcing her into a headlock, her diamond Cartier watch digging into Mackenzie’s cheek.
“Ow!”
Betsy flips her hair over. “Oh my God, you’re bleeding.” Several new scabs have formed against the fresh patch of Mackenzie’s bloody and picked roots.
“Mom, stop!” Mackenzie begins to sob, now limp in her arms. “Stop!”
“This isn’t normal! This isn’t normal, Mackenzie! Why are you doing this?!” she yells, letting her daughter fall from her arms as if she’s dropped her over a cliff.
“I don’t know!” Mackenzie sobs, up against the bathroom wall and sliding down to the floor.
“I’m calling the doctor right now.”
Haley walks into Mackenzie’s room with her backpack over her shoulders, ready for school. “Mom? What’s going on? I’m going to be late!”
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