After Betsy flushes the toilet, she falls from her knees to her back against the side of the stall, mucus running down her nose. She gasps as her stomach begins to gurgle, the feeling of a leaf blower in her lower abdomen, a new wave of panic. She attempts to stand, gripping the white tiled wall—“no, no, no”—when she loses all control, a warm oozing sensation flooding her underwear, please, God. Then, the mortifying smell… “Oh God, oh my God.” Betsy shimmies out of her leather YSL pencil skirt and throws it to the side of the stall. She stands in her control-top pantyhose, which are squeezing her bum closer to her bones, making the mess all the more slathered and unbearable.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” She peels down her stockings while kind of scooting her buttocks over the toilet. She burps and breathes. Then she hears the door to the bathroom open. It’s club housekeeping.
“Everything okay, miss?” the voice asks in a thick Spanish accent, indicating to Betsy that whoever bore witness to her explosion has tattled.
“Fine! Thank you, no need to be in here!” The woman withdraws. Betsy wipes herself again, and again, and again, and flushes. She pulls her skirt back on, then takes the pantyhose covered in feces and debates whether to flush them down the toilet or wrap them up and shove them in the trash can. The clock is ticking, Linda is going to begin to worry. Betsy stands within these milliseconds wanting to cry like a high school girl who’s just gotten her period at a boy’s house with no pads, tampons, or toilet paper—humiliation in its highest form, except that this moment is worse. Betsy must act fast. Pull it together for the sake of your husband’s—your family’s—Washington reputation.
Betting against the plumbing of the building, Betsy dumps the stool-covered pantyhose in the trash can. After washing her hands and spraying half a bottle of air freshener in the stall, she manages to make a sly exit sans underwear without another soul from the dining hall noticing.
“Everything all right?” Linda asks, shifting her attention away from her conversation with Becca and Haley, who refuse to make eye contact with each other at the table, picking at their chicken fingers.
“Just a little bit of a wait in the powder room.” Betsy takes a seat.
“How bizarre, there’s never been a wait in all my years coming here,” Linda replies.
Betsy smiles and shrugs, and places the new napkin in her lap covering her bare knees, hoping Linda won’t notice her stockings are missing.
“Mom, Daddy’s show is on,” Becca says.
“Oh my goodness, let’s get the check.” She calls for the server, then says, “Guess who’s on Daddy’s show tonight?”
“Who?” Becca asks.
“My dad.” Haley smirks.
Becca squints at Haley, then asks, “Mom, are Haley and her mom members of the club too? Haley said they were.”
“Haley, that’s not true, why would you say that?” Betsy says, horrified.
Linda, embarrassed for Betsy and her daughter, tries to save the awkward moment. “Oh, that’s okay,” she says, then turns to Haley. “Would you like to be a member here, Haley? It’s awfully fun; you can go swimming, and ice skating, and have a bowling birthday party! There’s even a high-dive at the swimming pool for big kids.”
Betsy smiles, mortified.
“Just make sure you’re on your best behavior so that Mommy and Daddy can become members. You wouldn’t want to ruin it for them would you?” Linda finishes.
“No,” Haley says, feeling ashamed.
The server places the check in the center of the table.
Betsy grabs it. “Let me—it’s the least I can do, you were so sweet to invite us here for dinner.”
“Oh no, no, they actually won’t let you since you’re not a member… yet.” Linda winks and lifts the bill out of Betsy’s hands.
Outside in the valet line, Linda examines Betsy in a more sober light.
The girls stand in the fall chill under the large green awning, a large bouquet of orange chrysanthemums behind them. As Betsy’s Jaguar pulls up and Haley hops into the passenger side, Linda pulls her in. “Betsy, hon, before you go… listen, the club really appreciates an understated look. I would come without the diamonds and alligator next time—you know how fuddy-duddy they can be.” She tries to make light of the social divide. “See you at French class this week?”
Betsy smiles. “Of course. See you then.”
“Oh, and don’t mention you were a practicing Catholic either.” Linda makes a slashing gesture with her hand. “You know those crazy Catholics!!” She throws her head back and laughs.
“Never!” Betsy jokes back. “You’re the best.”
“Can’t wait to go home and watch our hubbies debate, how fun!”
It’s ironic how comfortable Linda feels shaming Betsy for her wealth when the Williamses’ net worth is three times the amount of the Wallaces’. But a real cave dweller never reveals such information.
Part Two
The Mayflower
The Mayflower, carrying English Protestants fleeing religious persecution by King James of England, anchored at what was to become Plymouth, Massachusetts, on December 18, 1620. It has been documented that the ship was meant to dock in Virginia, which at the time included land up to the Hudson River in what is now New York, but was unable to do so due to severe winter weather.I As well as 30 crewmembers, there were 102 passengers, known today as the Pilgrims, of whom 41 wrote and signed the Mayflower Compact, providing the framework for the creation of a civil government—the first government of and by “the people” (white men) in the history of the New World.
During their first winter, many of the settlers died from disease and hardships, leaving only fifty-three in the New World. Given how many had died, it was evident they needed help. A Native American by the name of Squanto from the Patuxet tribe taught them how to harvest corn, among other things.II Though peace
