“We are gathered here today to pay tribute and honor the lives of David, Genevieve, and Audrey Banks. To express our love and admiration for this beloved family and to try to bring some comfort to those who are here and have been deeply hurt by such sudden, horrific death.”
Bunny looks around the nave, raised chins, stoic faces, she feels a lump climbing up her throat. She isn’t sure if she wants to cry or scream; she is reminded of her bike ride home that night… the raging fire truck horns as she crossed Massachusetts Avenue wrapped in her favorite hoodie. She was so close to her, she was so close… and why was it Audrey and not Bunny who was murdered? Bunny wonders if it was because Audrey could dangle trips to France on her father’s private jet for popularity, because she could host parties at their colonial mansion while her parents were racing in the Grand Prix, and drink anyone under the table. She wonders about all the Instagram posts taken in front of their château in the South of France or the summer estate in Nantucket—or pictures with the president. But other girls do it too, Bunny rationalizes, even the parents do it. And Bunny thinks about that—the visceral lack of identity; Audrey was becoming nothing but a younger version of her mother. Is Bunny destined for it too? She’s a commoner.… Or maybe Audrey’s entitlement was a side effect of age or insecurity, or a kind of privileged life so impenetrable that no amount of experience would require personal identification or self-reflection. At least Bunny’s parents kept their wealth contained. Maybe it wasn’t Audrey’s fault that she was a bad person, or kind of a bad person, Bunny thinks. She wrestles with the thought that now she’ll never get to confront Audrey for abandoning her before high school. She’s angry with herself for it. And now it’s too late.
“All rise.” The reverend makes his way back to the podium. “Lord of Mercy, hear our prayer. May our brother and sisters, whom you called your son and daughters on earth, enter the kingdom of peace and light. We ask this through our Lord Jesus Christ, your son, who lives and reigns with you, one God, forever and ever. Amen.”
As hundreds stand, Cate brushes against Senator Wallace’s shoulder as she exits her pew and heads for the winding stairwell behind Woodrow Wilson’s tomb, lit by flickering candles.
“We will now turn to Psalm Twenty-Three:
The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want;
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green; he leadeth me
The quiet waters by…”
Doug pretends to get an urgent call on his phone, pulling it out of his jacket pocket. He motions to Betsy, then puts the phone to his ear as he ducks out of the pew. He whispers, “Hello,” into the phone as he makes his way down the winding stairwell, security detail standing above it, lips forever sealed. Doug’s dress shoes echo from the cold limestone walls. Finally reaching Cate, so young in vulnerable flesh, leaning against a brass crypt. Someday I will be buried here with the generals, the presidents, the saints!
Doug grabs Cate by the face with both hands and kisses her. She gasps for air when he lets go. “You were so good on-air.” She kisses him back, rubbing her lips into his, and he does it again. Breathing harder, she moves his hand up her black dress—old enough to know better: it’s bad manners not to wear stockings to a funeral. Doug reaches the top of her thigh and she exhales as he slides his finger into her, yes, Cate’s head rolls left then right across the crypt behind her. Doug pushes harder, covers her mouth with his other hand, thrusts his erection into her upper thigh as she moves a little to her left—and that’s when Doug sees it, in letters and braille: HELEN KELLER AND HER LIFELONG COMPANION ANNE SULLIVAN MACY ARE INTERRED IN THE COLUMBARIUM BEHIND THIS CHAPEL.
Doug starts to lose his erection.
“What’s wrong?” Cate says, panicked.
“It’s Helen Keller’s crypt.”
Cate looks over her shoulder, chuckles, and places her hands on his cheeks. “Doug. She was blind and deaf, it’s fine.” She shoves her right hand down his pants. “Look at me,” she says, “just… keep… looking… at… me.”
Doug puts another finger in her, their noses touching.
“Harder,” Cate whispers as he thrusts. “Harder…”
Upstairs, Bunny scans the rows of social climbers and grieving friends standing and leaning on tombs. The reverend raises his hands, like a holy ghost in his big white robe, as two dozen men in black suits and white gloves approach the caskets. Bunny has never seen or heard of these men before. Who are they? Cousins? Brothers? And one by one, the bodies of Audrey and Mr. and Mrs. Banks are carried out and down the stone steps where a sea of grim photographers and reporters awaits beneath the carved mural of a God floating in the wind, chipped pieces of the world—a swirling universe.
The reverend bows his head:
“Goodness and mercy all my life
Shall surely follow me
And in God’s house for evermore
My dwelling-place shall be.”
Georgetown Slave Trade
Slave trading in Georgetown began in 1760 and continued for close to a century. Because of the nearby plantations in Maryland and Virginia, and its accessibility through the Potomac River, Georgetown would become the largest tobacco shipping port in the nation as well as the location of the most slave trading. By the year 1790, what is now known as the tri-state area was home to nearly four hundred thousand enslaved people, accounting for over 55 percent of the entire population of enslaved people in America.I It was no coincidence that this would become the nation’s capital. Thomas
