Billy takes the card with both hands, overcompensating for his human error, studies it, eagerness swapped from general to pupil. “Thank you, sir. That’s very generous of you, I will take you up on it,” Billy says, waiting for his father to interject, express an opinion, tell him what a great idea that might be. Instead, General Montgomery stands, letting him know in the gaps of his silent actions that the reception is over. And if earth were on the brink of World War III or his father was disappointed in Billy’s answers, he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
General Montgomery slams the front door behind him. Both Carol and Billy flinch as they stand in front of the coat closet.
“Here, Mom,” Billy says grabbing his mother’s jacket from her shoulders, ignoring the palpable tension. The Montgomery household, always under the illusion of control, a thick veil of order and tradition. Billy tries to fill the silence. “Here, Dad, I’ll take your jacket,” he says, extending his hand. The general moves toward the closet, forcing Billy and Carol to step out of the way.
“I’m going to put some tea on, honey, do you have homework to catch up on?” she asks to clear the air, walking into the kitchen.
Billy follows. “Nothing due until Monday. I, um—Stan is having some people over tonight, so…”
“Oh, a party?” Carol asks, aware that the general is still lurking in the hallway just beyond where they are standing.
“Well, no. I didn’t want to say anything earlier because… Well, I got a message from Bunny.… Did you know or ever interact with the Banks family?”
“Hmm, it doesn’t really ring a bell,” Carol says, putting the kettle on the stove. Billy starts to pull up an article on his cell phone that Bunny text-messaged him earlier, but the general walks into the kitchen, and Billy pivots, changing the subject, intuitively wanting to correct the tension. “Dad, it was great to talk with—”
“Listen, no more bullshit uka-whatever-the-fuck lessons.”
“Ukulel—”
The general slams his hand down on the counter, an explosion: “GODDAMN IT.” His eyes light up with anger as he finally makes eye contact with Billy.
“Honey, it’s okay.” Carol raises her hands in the air in an attempt to mediate, stepping toward the general from the stove. “We had a lovely afternoon—”
“Carol, I AM NOT TALKING TO YOU,” the general yells, locked on Billy. Carol takes a step back into the kitchen counter, turns to take two teacups out of the cabinet.
“A four-star general asks you about hobbies, wants to be a reference for the National War College, and you talk about YouTube videos?”
“I—I was just explaining that, or thought since he asked about hobbies, you know my lov—my interest in music…” Billy says, trying to deescalate where he predicts his father is going. Ever since he was a little boy, he’s gotten better and better at reading the general’s body language. The first time the general slugged Billy, age five, over a toy airplane that had been left in the living room, it had given him a heightened ability to read other people—to read a room, whether his or someone else’s, and without any help or intuition from his mother.
“I have been nominated by the president of the United States as the secretary of defense—do you know what this means now for our family, goddamn it? My son will not be seen looking and sounding like a goddamn homosexual—”
“Father, I’m… I’m just—”
“DO NOT INTERRUPT ME WHEN I AM TALKING TO YOU.”
A sudden and eerie moment of silence captures the three of them before the teapot screams. Carol runs to turn off the burner, her hand shaking as she twists its knob.
“I want that thing out of this house by tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir,” Billy says. He knows it’s an order. He puts his hands in his pockets, surrenders.
The general turns around and walks out the door, down the hallway, and into his study; the door slams.
Carol comes over with a cup of tea. “He’s going to be under a lot of pressure for a little while until the confirmation, just cut him a little slack, honey.”
Billy takes the teacup, puts it to his mouth for a sip, and flinches. “Hot,” he says.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The arrival of the arborist had interrupted Meredith Bartholomew at her Baker Queen Anne secretary desk in the study, copies of the New Yorker and the Washington Post piled in a straw basket at her feet, the exclusive Green Book resting on top, for the Bartholomews have always been listed each year. Meredith had already spoken to Maureen Harrington, Mary Haven, Jane Smith, and Karen Miller about the Banks family, a game of telephone prompting accusations, suspicions, and blame—gentrification, immigration, the gas company, poor house management—anything to give a semblance of meaning and control over the shocking and grisly news.
Relieved at the interruption, the hysteria beaten to a pulp until further information is released, Meredith stands in the middle of her front lawn with a camel quilted Ralph Lauren coat draped over her shoulders, arms crossed, vintage Cartier Tank watch peeking beneath one of her long sleeves, the cold air blowing the blunt pieces of her hair toward the back of her neck, which is cranked at a ninety-degree angle as she stares up at the
