“It’s your sister, we’re dealing with an emergency. Teresa needs to take you. Go tell her I said she’s taking you.… Go! The keys to the Jaguar are on the hook by the back door.”
“Get out!” Mackenzie screams at her sister. Haley runs out of her room.
“Are you on drugs? Was it that boy, Billy Montgomery?”
“No!”
“You have to stop doing this, Mackenzie.” Betsy squats down, puts her hands on Mackenzie’s shoulders, and shakes her against the bathroom door. “Do you hear me? You have to stop!”
“Stop! I’m tired! I’m tired! I’m tired of performing; I don’t want to perform anymore. I don’t want to perform.” Mackenzie curls over, buries her face in her hands as she sobs, rocking on her bath mat.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Bunny sits on the swan garden bench in Bishop’s Garden smoking, her Doc Marten tapping its claw as she exhales. An arch of thorns over her head, and decomposing leaves stuck to the stone pathway beside her. She throws her cigarette into the fountain to her left, water spewing from the mouth of a stone gargoyle, gaping like a yawning cat. She crosses her arms and wraps them around her stomach, hunching over in her red peacoat, her freckles barely visible this time of year, faded against her translucent skin. She’s wearing red Dior cat’s-eye sunglasses to shield her eyes from the flat light now ripe for giving her headaches.
“What’s with the sunglasses?” a voice asks from behind.
Bunny jumps and spins around. “Jesus, Billy. You scared me!” Bunny collects herself. Billy stands opposite her, black peacoat, tousled hair, hands in his pockets, dark circles under his eyes. Gaunt.
“The light, I got a headache,” Bunny says. “Did you just climb through the bushes?”
“Yeah. Being followed.” Billy ducks his head, peering out at the black Suburban parked across the street, tinted windows, government tags. “How come you’re not responding to my texts?” he asks.
“I can’t find my phone,” Bunny says, the tension between them like sticky residue inside of an unfinished breakup.
“Can we talk for a second?” Billy takes a few steps closer to her and removes the sunglasses from her eyes.
Bunny winces, the light stinging. “Ahh! Can you stop?” she says, squinting up at him, a glassy veil over her clear blue eyes. “Give them back!”
Billy surrenders and hands them back. “Okay, diva.”
“Fuck you. My eyes are sensitive to the light.” Bunny puts them back on, takes a seat on the bench again.
“So did you give your money away?” Billy asks, sitting next to her.
Bunny sighs, annoyed. “Not yet.” She feels the impulse to tell him about the Christmas homes tour but finds herself stuck in her own story, sinking in confusion, unsure of how to explain it anymore or what to say.
“Interesting.” Billy nods his head.
“I don’t want to talk about this, if that’s why you came here.”
Billy looks up to the sky, then puts his head back down as if looking up might reveal something he doesn’t want to see. “My dad’s being indicted for war crimes.” The words slip out matter-of-factly, unusual for Billy when he’s with Bunny, a more withholding and less sensitive tone.
“What?” Bunny says, confused. “That sounds like an oxymoron.”
“Hah. I didn’t think about that.”
“What does that mean? Indicted.”
“Honestly, I don’t really know, but I think it means prison. Unless the president pardons him, which, I don’t know…”
Bunny looks down at her Doc Martens, kicks the claw of the bench with her heel. “Wow,” she says.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Billy says.
“No you don’t,” Bunny says.
“Look, everything we have… everything my father built for my family was done on the backs of my dirt-poor ancestors—”
“Billy, everyone’s families were built on the backs of their ancestors, this isn’t unique. Why can’t you just accept that the world we live in is morally bankrupt and racist? And that your dad probably did commit war crimes.”
“Will you let me finish?!” Billy shouts.
“Finish!” Bunny shouts back, both of them angry about the same thing, but neither willing to hear it.
Billy stands, looking at her, fed up. “What I was going to say was that I fucking get it, okay? Is this what you finally want to hear—that it was all for nothing? That my father is going down in history as a murderer? Your family was responsible for the engine of our weapons of war, Bunny. I don’t see anyone in your family behind bars.” Billy throws his hands up in the air. “You honestly don’t even know—”
“I do know, Billy!” Bunny leaps from the bench. “Why do you think I was trying to give my money away?” she yells, her temples pounding.
“Giving money away to a man accused of murdering your friend is not going to fix anything, Bunny!” Billy yells back.
Bunny stands in the cold, her lip quivering, on the verge of tears, when Marty comes sprinting down the stone steps, across the koi pond bridge, and through the garden to where they’re standing. Out of breath, he throws his hands down on his knees. “You guys… oh my God,” Marty gasps, pushes his glasses up his nose, “the video, the video of us, it’s gone viral.”
Bunny wipes a tear under her eye. “What? What video?”
Billy drops onto the bench and puts his head down between his knees. “Fuck,” he whispers.
“The video!” Marty yells as if Bunny’s an imbecile. “The video of us waterboarding Billy at Stan’s party!”
“Oh my God—it was on Stan’s cell phone, he had it,” Bunny says, defensive.
“You’re the one who filmed it, Bunny,” Billy accuses her. “Give us your phone!”
“I don’t have it, I don’t have my fucking phone! It wasn’t me!”
“No, wait, she’s right, dude,” Marty says, pulling up the video on his own phone, “this was Stan’s phone. It was filmed on his phone—and I can’t find that little fucker anywhere.” He begins to dial Stan’s number.
“I tried him yesterday, he’s MIA. And he didn’t show up for our history final on Friday,” Billy says, a rare mixture of panic and confusion building in his stomach.
“Fuck, man,” Marty says in his upper register, “Harvard’s gonna rescind my acceptance if they see this. My life is over, my parents will kill me.” He sits down on the icy grass, flinging his North Face backpack to the side. “What the fuck do we do?”
Flooded with guilt for filming that night, Bunny’s unsure of what to say. “I’m really sor—”
“AGHHHHHH!” Billy stands and throws a punch into the trunk of the three-hundred-year-old oak tree beside them, its trunk twice the size of the three of them combined. A loud crunch as his knuckles splinter the bark; blood oozes over his hand.
The hour strikes. The National Cathedral bells begin to ring—first the treble, then one after another in sequence, a crescendo of overlapping bells as the Washington Ringing Society commences its practice.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Mackenzie steps out of Betsy’s Jag wearing a brunette wig. After an emergency visit to her primary care doctor, Mackenzie has been diagnosed with trichotillomania (hair pulling classified as an obsessive-compulsive disorder) and immediately referred to a psychiatrist. Instead of calling the psychiatrist for an urgent appointment, Betsy took her to buy a wig and have her makeup done at the Tysons Corner Chanel makeup counter before taking her to school.
* * *
The waiting area of the school administration office has two plaid sofas facing each other and a large globe in the corner. Marty sits across from Chase with a stiff upper lip. Billy stands in the corner spinning the globe with his eyes closed, his pointer finger stopping on one of the seven continents. All three have been called into the principal’s office after word about the video spread like wildfire. E-mails from the press are flooding the school’s general mailbox. The school principal has seen the video; Ma
rty’s and Chase’s parents have seen it; a message has been left for Billy’s father—and everyone is on their way for a meeting with the headmaster.
* * *
Mackenzie follows her mother into the office, beset by the kind of high school dread due to a complete lack of confidence, brushing strands of the wig out of her eyes, and sees Marty waiting on the couch. He stands as she enters.
“Hey,” he says, puzzled by her hair but too distressed to comment.
“Hey, what are you guys doing in here?” Mackenzie looks around the lobby area, pretending everything is normal, and sees Chase slouched over texting on his phone, Billy in the corner spinning the globe.
“Uh…” Marty puts his hands in his pockets, trying not to fidget. “It’s, uhh, it’s not good,” he whispers.
“What happened?” Mackenzie asks.
“I’ll, uhh, tell you later.” Marty takes a few steps back as Betsy approaches.
“Hello,” Betsy says, staring at Marty, who fidgets from nerves, pushes his glasses up his nose; the timing couldn’t possibly be worse—meeting the mother of the girl whose virginity you’ve just taken.
“Mom, this is Marty,” Mackenzie says.
Marty steps forward, sticks out his hand like a soldier with his chin out. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Wallace.”
Betsy smiles as if she’s sucking on a sour candy, turns to Mackenzie. “Well, they’ve got my note, you can go to class. Teresa will pick you up after violin practice. I told her you could drive home.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Mackenzie’s violin case dangles from her arm. “See you guys later,” she says to them, relieved that Marty is amidst his own crisis, which allows her to escape a conversation about her hair.
As Mackenzie and Betsy part ways in the hall, Linda Williams comes barreling down the corridor in a pastel-blue cashmere sweater and Burberry quilted coat.
“Betsy!” Linda calls.
Betsy spins around. “Oh, Linda!”
Betsy stopped attending French classes after her interview at the Washington Club, and has stopped returning any of Linda’s calls.
“Did you get my message the other day?” Linda asks.
“Gosh, I am so behind on my correspondence,” Betsy says.
“Your daughter posted a meme of me and my daughter on a fake Instagram account, and it circulated through their class. Becca has cried every day after school.”
“I’m sorry, Linda, I have no idea what you are talking about, and I have a meeting with my decorator in thirty minutes.”
Linda does her best to remain civilized in a desperate attempt to regain her upper position in the friendship. “I’m just so confused, Betsy, as we’re really not used to that behavior around here at St. Peter’s Academy, and I would hate for the principal to find out—or for anyone to know—as it will reflect poorly on you and Doug. After all, I did just write a recommendation letter to the Washington Club on your behalf.…” Linda has no idea that rumors have leaked regarding her husband’s sexual misconduct.
“I’m just curious, Linda, if you ever thought how knowing my family would benefit yourself? Particularly given Doug’s rising public popularity. You know the ratings went up on Chris’s show because Doug was on it. But a warning about certain allegations in the works would have been appreciated, given how sensitive the topic of sex has been, particularly given how delicate one’s reputation can be.…”
Gaslit, Linda looks like she’s seen a ghost. Stunned to silence.
“People talk, Linda.… Oh, what is that saying everyone in Washington uses? We don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.” Betsy walks up to the sliding doors, turns back. “Do send my love to Chris.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Bunny shuffles up the cobblestone driveway, sunglasses on, lugging her heavy backpack as if she’s just come home from war. Upon entering the front door, she throws her backpack down; it scratches the red toile wallpaper on its way to the floor, creating a rip in the façade of a family picnic. She strolls into the kitchen and sees Meredith standing at the stove, a beef stew boiling, a lit cigarette in her right hand as smoke and steam whirl up into the vent. Meredith is exhausted from the leaf blowers, the arborists grinding wood all day long, a perpetual engine spinning in her eardrums, sawing off limbs of her favorite tree. An antique trunk with golden latches is planted in the center of the kitchen, what’s left of her mother’s valuables she has yet to go through: black-and-white curled photographs of the farm in Middleburg, a debutante sash, stained white gloves. Emily Post’s Etiquette rests on top of this treasure chest of an American Dream.
Ignoring it, Bunny finds her cell phone on the counter across from her mother. She runs to it.
“My phone! Oh, thank God.” Bunny brings it to her chest, relieved.
“We need to talk.” Meredith stabs her cigarette out.
“Can we talk later?” Bunny whines, kicking off her Doc Martens, her knee socks uneven, her plaid skirt and gray sweater begging to be thrown away after all these years.
Meredith sticks out her arm like a broomstick. “Stop right there. Sit down.”
Bunny rolls her eyes and slumps into the kitchen nook beside her.
“Have you been visiting the DC Jail?”
Bunny stares up at her, holding her tongue, a tactic she learned at a young age. Instead of filling the silence herself, she’ll wait to find out how much her mother already knows, then gauge how to minimize the trouble, make it swing in her favor.
“Answer me.” Meredith hovers over her, then whips her arm from behind her back and slams Bunny’s Moleskine journal on the table in front of her. “Goddamn it, Bunny, we have all been through enough.”
Bunny’s cheeks flush. “Okay! So I wanted more information about the case, what’s the big deal?” Trying to minimize her connection with Anthony.
“You have been visiting a man who has committed murder.… This is—this is beyond inappropriate.…”
“Inappropriate?” Bunny mocks.
“Is this why you’ve been acting out? Because you’ve been having conversations with a man accused of murdering an entire fucking family!” Meredith is becoming unhinged.
“Well, maybe if someone would tell the truth, I wouldn’t have had to do it!”
“Christ,” Meredith says, the back of her hand across her eyes and forehead. “How could you be so stupid, so reckless… to put our family in DANGER like this!”
Bunny scoffs. “See, you think we’re in danger, don’t you? We’d be in more danger if I didn’t go, didn’t see, didn’t try to find out what’s happening. I KNOW that the Banks family has killed innocent people, and we should make it right, we have a chance to make it right so it doesn’t happen again.…” she warns.
“Elizabeth, goddamn it, I am at the end of my rope. You have stepped out of bounds—OUT OF BOUNDS, do you hear me? You have acted foolishly out of character. Not only have you tampered with their case, you have put yourself and our family at risk—”
“Then tell me the truth!” Bunny stands up.
“What more truth do you need, he was arrested, goddamn it! And I know what you’re saying, I know how it looks, trust me I do, and I don’t know what kind of game you think this is—some kind of American trope fantasy you’re acting out because it was a Black man they arrested, but it’s not going to fly with your father and me.”
“Trope? Here’s your fucking trope.” Bunny walks over to Emily Post’s Etiquette and slams her hand on it, its spine so old it pops off, pages slithering out like loose feathers. “You know what etiquette was founded on, Mother? Racism, classism, CAPITALISM—and by etiquette we mean manners, and by manners we mean pedigree, and by pedigree we mean white. Like those fucking ugly white gloves.”
“Watch your mouth. If Mimi were alive, she would slap you.”
“Well, that wouldn’t be very polite, would it? Because being polite and having manners isn’t the same as having morals, huh? Nope, nope, nope. It’s about the way I hold my fork and wear my
scarf and withhold words and keep up the gatekeeping—like you. This—this—unspoken obstacle that controls access to money. Speaking of money, my money still hasn’t arrived like you said it would. Just admit it—you’re so scared of losing power not just for power’s sake, but because of what might be done to you if you were no longer protected by it.”
Meredith lifts her hand and smacks Bunny hard across the face. Bunny stumbles sideways, tripping over the vintage trunk; more loose pages of Etiquette go flying into the air, swaying between them, before reaching the kitchen floor.
“You do not have a monopoly on truth, you ungrateful child. Your place doesn’t exist in this world without a social and economic hierarchy, your privileges, your education, the neighborhood and home in which you grew up—your grandparents would be ashamed of your uncalled-for juvenile behavior. Would you rather I cut you off? Dump you on a street corner downtown? Because I am goddamn close to doing it.” Meredith’s hands begin to shake as she reaches for her pack of cigarettes on the counter behind her.
Bunny holds her cheek and fumbles to put her shoes on with her other hand. “This is why they died, always some justification,” she mumbles, on the verge of tears, “all those innocent people. And Anthony is next.…”
“That’s it, I’m calling Georgetown Hospital’s psychiatric department. This is not normal. You should have never been in contact with that psychopath; you could have been killed going down to that jail! When your father finds out, he’s going to sue the whole goddamn city!” Meredith says, overcompensating for her own ugly truth—the lawsuits, the covering up, that Chuck in these very moments is meeting with attorneys in glass high-rises, blocking testimony by families riddled with cancer who can’t pay their medical bills, whose minimum wage is so far behind inflation they can’t eat three meals a day. That she is happy—relieved!—to be in negotiations to take over the Banks business assets, to stay forever planted as they were, as they are: legacy pioneers in the creation of social and economic hierarchy.
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