The Cave Dwellers Page 2

  Jeff, late fifties, gray comb-over, puts his round spectacles on and reads from a binder: “Hi. My name is Jeff, and I am a sex addict. I will be the leader for tonight’s meeting. The focus of this meeting is the eleventh step, which states: ‘Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.’ ”

  Doug glances up from his phone to assure that no one is watching him eviscerate his secretary for not reminding him about the dinner he and his wife are hosting in a few hours. Send. He puts his phone in his lap. He waits. He breathes slowly, listening again to Jeff, but not really. He’s thinking about what Betsy is going to say to him when he arrives late, sweaty and smelling like a bottle of whatever floral fragrance Cate wears. Ping. Doug flips the switch to turn his ringer off, then refreshes his e-mail. His secretary did forward him an e-mail reminder an hour and a half ago. Goddamn it. He was with Cate.

  “We will now take a ten-minute meditation. During this time, we encourage you to reflect on the issues that brought you here and how you want to live your life in recovery. The timer will sound when the meditation time has come to an end.”

  Men around the room make adjustments in their seats, positioning themselves for meditation: arms resting on knees, legs spread with hands resting between them, chests inhaling then exhaling. For Christ’s sake.

  Washington Life Magazine

  Washington Life Magazine: The Insider’s Guide to Power, Philanthropy, and Society has been the leading DC magazine covering all of the most important social events since 1991. It often categorizes events by hierarchical rank depending on the guest list. There are wealth lists, social lists, gala lists, and power lists. Owned by a billionaire who resides in Kalorama and moved to Washington with a sense of social agency, the magazine is the ultimate symbol of Washington status, aimed at shining light on and preserving current power structures. Those who enter Washington with an ambitious appetite will avidly subscribe. Though largely unknown to those outside the nation’s capital, the magazine is important because it serves as a window into the financial funnels of the most powerful in politics and media, guided by the influence of where individuals are giving their money away, shaping politicians’, philanthropists’, and socialites’ personal and professional narratives. In an article published in the Daily Beast, it is noted that the forty-fifth president of the United States has “seen” (not read) every single issue.I

  I. Asawin Suebsaeng, “Trump Is Oddly Obsessed with This DC Society Magazine,” Daily Beast (website), December 4, 2019, https://www.thedailybeast.com/trump-is-oddly-obsessed-with-washington-life-a-dc-society-magazine.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Betsy Wallace stands in their new Artisan home in McLean, Virginia, pressing her French-manicured hands around her Peruvian housekeeper’s cheeks, and plants a wet kiss—“Gracias, cariño”—leaving a stain of lip gloss across Teresa’s sweet flesh. It’s so nice that she can speak to the help in their native language. With both children attending different campuses of the same private school, Haley at the lower school and Mackenzie at the upper school of St. Peter’s Academy, her life is just exhausting. She needs the silver polished while she goes to pick up the girls from their after-school activities. Their guests will be arriving in two and a half hours: two of Doug’s biggest donors, a venture capitalist, a tech entrepreneur, a private banker, a member of the Mars family, an attorney, a political affairs strategist (with a social media intern), and their wives. But, most important, a photographer from Washington Life Magazine: The Insider’s Guide to Power, Philanthropy, and Society. Doug, Betsy, and the girls will have their photographs taken in front of their limestone fireplace. It’s the kind of ostentatious spread Betsy has campaigned hard for in order to get just the right exposure as the new-to-town couple.

  It’s been years since Betsy lived in the district. She has managed to keep it quiet that she was once married to a powerful lobbyist twenty years her senior in the early 1990s who, shortly thereafter, suddenly died of “cancer.” Following two years of infidelity on his part, she finally left him. After the divorce and on his deathbed, he’d confided in Betsy that he had been having sex with men for the duration of their marriage; she’d held his head as he took his last breath. He’d died of AIDS. It was a good thing he never wanted to sleep with her. By then, Betsy had moved back to her hometown of Raleigh and met Doug at a mutual friend’s cocktail party. A handsome and powerful attorney with political ambitions, he was perfect. Now in her midforties, Betsy knows this is her second chance at climbing the Washingtonian social ladder. Perhaps, she thinks, it’s fate.

  Before leaving the house, Betsy places three country club applications with gold paper clips on her Kellogg Collection desk: the Washington Club for the white Protestant, Columbia Country Club for the good (probably Irish) Catholic, and the Kenwood Country Club as a backup since they were the first to allow Jews. It might be a stretch, she thinks, given that they don’t have any real history in Washington like most of the other families, but her husband’s current position of power should help their chances.

  “Ciao, cariño!” Betsy takes one last look at herself in the antique gold-leafed mirror and purses her lips. Her blond hair has so much spray in it, if she were to quickly move her head from left to right, it would hold as still as a rock.

  * * *

  Betsy pulls up to the lower-school curb in her blue Jag and waits for Haley, her youngest. Also: the pretty one. Across the street young professionals sip on happy-hour frozen margaritas at Cactus Cantina; teenage girls in tight buns, ballet leotards, and windbreakers gallop with their Starbucks cappuccinos from the Washington School of Ballet nearby. Betsy is focused on the mothers in front of her in their Range Rovers and Mercedes SUVs with vanity plates like TENSTAR (Tennis Star) and BLU DVL1 (Blue Devil) and 1800-GD (1-800-GOD?). A few waving to each other and blowing kisses, reminding each other of “Lunch! The benefit dinner! Yoga class!” Democrat, Democrat, Democrat. Betsy is desperately trying to find the Republican moms she can power-walk with when she spots Linda Williams walking to her parked car ahead. Linda is the wife of the famous hotshot Fox newscaster Chris Williams, last moderator of the presidential debates before the GOP took the Senate and the House. Betsy jams the steering wheel all the way to the left so she can cut in line and get closer to Linda.

  “Li—Lin—Linda!” Betsy waves from where she is parked, but Linda doesn’t hear her or notice her frantic waving as she climbs into her Audi station wagon. Betsy looks around, frustrated, as children run to their designated cars, then resorts to tapping on her horn. Beep. Beep. Betsy waves again. Finally Linda looks in her direction—but she isn’t looking at Betsy. Linda’s daughter, Becca, mousy brown hair, a plaid skirt over her riding pants, is passing Betsy’s car. “Goddamn it,” Betsy mutters.

  Haley, blond, blue-eyed, not quite old enough at eleven to develop an eating disorder yet, but soon, follows behind Becca, pulls open the front passenger-side door.

  “Ah, ah, ah, in the back, we’re picking up your sister, she’s driving us home.”

  Haley groans and pulls open the back door. She’s wearing a red party dress and carrying a Saks Fifth Avenue vinyl garment bag in one hand and dragging her cello case with the other.

  “Oh good, you’re wearing the dress I bought you.”

  Betsy crosses Massachusetts Avenue and heads for Cathedral Heights, speeding through stop signs and flashing crosswalks.

  “Why don’t you have a playdate with Becca Williams, honey? She seems nice.”

  “Ew, no.” Haley sneers. “She’s weird and doesn’t talk.”

  “Well, sweetheart, maybe she’s shy and needs a friend!”

  Haley stares out the window.

  “I could take the two of you shopping in Georgetown, wouldn’t that be fun?”

  “Maybe.”

  They speed past the abandoned Iranian Embassy and the Naval Observatory. The sun is fading into the b
right headlights of cars. Betsy reaches the white picket fence surrounding the upper school to find Mackenzie standing curbside under a streetlamp illuminating the color of bile. She holds her violin case and lugs her Kate Spade monogrammed backpack (copied from the popular girls) in the other. Her hair is brown and abnormally thin. There are faint bald spots toward the back of her head, a few hairs matted across her forehead. Mackenzie began pulling out strands of her hair three months ago when they moved to Washington. A nervous tic Betsy’s determined to get “under control.”

  “Oh, honey, honey, honey, why are you not dressed for our dinner tonight? I repeatedly told you.”

  “I didn’t have time, Mom! I have SO MUCH HOMEWORK.”

  Betsy tries to keep her cool as she hands Mackenzie the keys to the car, then climbs into the passenger seat, careful not to scrape her Manolos.

  “Ew, you smell,” Haley says, pinching her nose.

  “Shut up, you little bitch,” Mackenzie snaps.

  “Girls!” Betsy yells. “Enough.”

  * * *

  As Mackenzie eases out onto Chain Bridge Road, Betsy decides to bring up the fact (again) that she is not dressed for dinner.

  “The photographer from Washington Life Magazine is taking our family photograph this evening. I told you this a thousand times. How could you forget?”

  Mackenzie taps on the brakes a little too hard, jerking Betsy’s head forward.

  “You’re the worst driver,” Haley says, slowly and with perfect diction.

  “Shut up, you cunt!” Mackenzie cries.

  Betsy whips around to point at Haley, tightens her lips. “No more talking until you’re home, got it?” She whips back and looks down at her diamond Cartier watch. “I want you dressed and ready for guests by seven fifteen with your violin ready, you hear me?”

  “No! I’m tired, I don’t wanna play, Mom,” Mackenzie whines.

  “Mom, noooo,” Haley cries.

  “Girls, we have guests coming! It’s very important to your fa—”

  Mackenzie hits the brakes. “NO!” The car slams to a stop.

  “That’s it, pull over, you’ve lost your driving privileges.”

  “NO!”

  “You pull over right this minute or you’re grounded.”

  “MAKE ME.”

  There’s a red blinking light up ahead at the crossing of Georgetown Pike.

  “Pull over.” Betsy tries to grab the steering wheel as Mackenzie jerks the car, her front wheels skidding over the double yellow lines, when out of nowhere a black town car appears—

  BEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

  Mackenzie jerks the car back into her lane as the town car blows past them. She screeches to a halt. Betsy throws open the passenger-side door, hysterical. Haley, now silent, remains buckled in the backseat, terrified at the potentially fatal consequences of the moments past and the moments that lie ahead.

  * * *

  Beads of sweat begin forming on Doug’s upper lip as he listens to the story of a man who can’t stop compulsively masturbating in the bathroom at work. Doug’s cell phone lights up: Babe Calling (Betsy). He knows it will take him at least thirty minutes to get over the bridge and into Virginia. Doug hits the Decline button on the side of his phone and places it in the inside pocket of his jacket. “Thank you for sharing,” the men say in unison, mirroring compassion despite such a shameful act. Doug gets up and mouths Betsy to Tim and points to his phone in his pocket, tripping over the tufted ottoman as he stumbles quickly out the door.

  * * *

  Guests are arriving in an hour. Teresa greets Betsy in a panic. Mackenzie and Haley drag their instrument cases up the front steps of the house. Betsy turns around and waits for them at the entrance and glares at Mackenzie. “Upstairs. Now,” she says through clenched teeth.

  * * *

  As guests begin trickling in, they stand among tufted ottomans, Chippendale chairs, balloon curtains, and Kellogg Collection credenzas, lamps, and pillows with fringe, plus a brand-new grand piano topped with photographs of the family in Nantucket, the Hamptons, various European castles. Eating crudités and holding flute glasses filled with Kir Royales, they’re talking about tax reform and Medicaid.

  Doug sneaks in through the garage door, tiptoeing for the back stairs, and makes his way up to the master bathroom where he splashes water on his face. His phone lights up on the edge of the sink: WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU.

  Doug looks at his reflection to psych himself up for his friends (donors) downstairs. He’s not a sex addict, no-ho-ho, he’s just a regular man with needs like his father was and his father’s father was and his father’s father’s father was. He puts on a freshly pressed shirt and blue-and-white-striped tie, then dabs cologne behind his ear and wipes away a tiny trace of lipstick.

  As Doug heads down the corridor for the front staircase, Mackenzie appears in the doorway of her bedroom. Finally changed for dinner, she wears a tight black miniskirt, maroon Doc Martens, and a peach spandex tank top from Reformation. Her hair is teased in the back to hide her bald spots. Doug can’t help but notice, in this passing moment between them, her enormous breasts spilling over the brim of her top like bobbleheads. It stops him in his tracks.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Huh?” Doug, tongue-tied, is suddenly reminded that his daughter is only a few years younger than Cate. As if coming out of a trance, he snaps, “Christ, Mackenzie, go put a sweater on. We have guests.”

  Mackenzie backs up into her bedroom and slams the door.

  * * *

  The doorbell rings. It’s one of those cheesy singsong tunes. Tony, the photographer from Washington Life Magazine, steps into the foyer. Trendy Warby Parker glasses, bronze skin, he wears skinny jeans and a button-up. Chic. He carries a camera case and appears more Hollywood than Washington. Tony photographs the Who’s Who of the political and financial power players—mostly the wives—and he’s always at the most exclusive social events: book parties, embassy parties, election parties, charity balls, luncheons, and funerals.

  Betsy greets him in the hallway with a wide smile and open arms as though she’s known him for years despite not knowing him at all. “Tony, darling!” She kisses him on the cheek.

  “You look stunning,” Tony says, grabbing her forearms. He knows the game. “And where is that brilliant husband of yours?” He shakes his head a little.

  Doug comes up behind them and pinches Betsy’s ass. She lets out a high-pitched squeal, hops around, and places her French-manicured hand on his cheek.

  “There you are!”

  Doug leans in to shake Tony’s hand. “Doug, pleasure.”

  They walk toward the living room where Haley has set up her music stand; her cello rests beside her, ready to be played. Guests mingle by the piano overlooking the tennis courts, while others sit on the floral sofas eating Brie and carrot sticks. The wives cluster together in their layers of gold necklaces and diamond pins—a firefly, a horse, a cross—while the men stand, some in red bow ties, others in white polos and sports jackets, silk handkerchiefs peeking through the tops of pockets. Except for the tech entrepreneur, who’s in jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt—he doesn’t need to impress these people; he just needs Doug to ensure the tech world remains free of regulation and maintains net neutrality, as God and Mark Zuckerberg intended.

  Mackenzie appears in a conservative dress holding her violin and bow. She pulls a chair over next to her sister’s, making a screeching noise across the wood floor and smiling with her mouth closed.

  * * *

  To the donors and constituents, the night is seemingly smooth. Betsy stands holding her flute glass, smiling at her daughters as they strum their instrument strings with fevered passion. Doug comes around to place his arm around Betsy’s waist. Tony snaps candid photographs from each corner of the living room before the final still as guests are in awe—of the parenting, the couple themselves, and the political agenda. They’re all so charming in that initial meeting kind of way, in the way that you can only see fro
m afar: in an article, a Facebook profile picture, a family Christmas card—or a photograph in Washington Life Magazine.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Elizabeth (Bunny) Bartholomew gazes through a large window. The glass is ancient, the kind that makes the world look wobbly. Her reflection: pale face, freckles, strawberry blond hair, distorted and staring back at her. The sunset behind the glass is colorless; the white Adirondack chairs are scattered at equal distance under an enormous oak tree, its bare limbs poking every which way; the scene: traditional yet uninviting. Almost every single staff member at the Washington Club—server, bartender, valet driver, bathroom attendant—is Black, and every single club member being served in the dining hall is white.

  This is fucked up, Bunny thinks.

  The Washington Club was one of the first country clubs in the United States, originally known for its fox hunting pursued by cabinet secretaries and generals and various top government officials. Over time it became a haven away from city life for the white Protestant families in the district, and Bartholomews have been members since the founding.

  Bunny wears a pleated skirt and baby-blue cashmere sweater because jeans aren’t allowed (club rules!) and sits between her parents, Meredith and Chuck Bartholomew. She turns back to the main dining room and sees that every single father wears a white or pastel polo shirt and every single mother wears a silk scarf around her neck with diamond studs because pearl earrings are for the teenagers.