The Cave Dwellers, Christina McDowell [ap literature book list .TXT] 📗

“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