“Mer—”
“A child has died of cancer, a child—from the chemical dumping. Headquarters knew. They knew it would contaminate the water, they knew the fumes would kill livestock. It doesn’t degrade into the environment, and only now are we seeing the repercussions. They knew. And did nothing. And those lawyers have got doctors and specialists on their side. The magnitude… with this much demand for transparency today, at the rate things are changing.”
“How many towns?” Phyllis asks, getting to the point.
“I think… forty-three states.”
Phyllis exhales.
“They will bankrupt us if any refuse settlements and make it to trial. Chuck’s name, the family name…”
“Well, Bartholomew Industries can’t be the only ones involved,” Phyllis replies, looking for an out.
“No, but we are the only ones left now that the Bankses… and, well, their stock is catastrophically plummeting,” Meredith says with some satisfaction. “There have also been a few threats on their end, lawsuits that Chuck knows about.… We settled just one case, one, for six hundred seventy-one million under the condition no one would go to the press.”
“Well, how on earth are you responsible for this anyway? Or Chuck?” protests Phyllis. “Yes, it’s his family’s name, but seeing as neither of you run day-to-day operations—and I would assume there’s a trust and management on the ground. I mean, should the auto industry be responsible each time someone dies in a car accident? For heaven’s sake! For a century now, Americans have been benefiting in our free capital society from the products and services Bartholomew Industries has provided! This is capitalism! And I know your father—bless him—if he were still here, he would agree with me. The services and the good outweigh the bad—nothing that reaches as far and as wide as Bartholomew Industries, or the Morrison family, could possibly sustain a conglomerate without error, it’s just not possible, dear. Shit happens. We’re still human.”
Phyllis reaches for a drag of Meredith’s cigarette.
“You cannot say a word. I mean it, Phyllis. I’m trusting you.”
“How many years have we known each other now?”
“Don’t age us.”
“That’s right.” Phyllis passes the cigarette back. “Where’s Chuck? How is he handling this?”
“He’s in Ohio at a mediation meeting. Then he goes to Kentucky, and then back to West Virginia.”
“And Bunny? I’m assuming she’s in the dark and you’re keeping it that way?” Phyllis knows best.
“Yes, absolutely. She’s been struggling with—well, first it was my mother, and now it’s Audrey, and it’s all just so horrific, Phyllis. She absolutely cannot find out about this.”
“And Cate? She’s still living with you?”
“Yes, and she does not need to know. She’s hardly ever home anyway.”
“Good.…” Phyllis thinks for a moment. “Have you and Chuck discussed buying the Bankses’ assets? Whoever is in the will, buy them out. If the stocks are plummeting, this might be the move. Dear Lord, forgive me for taking it as a business opportunity.” Phyllis makes the sign of the cross on her chest and looks up to the ceiling.
“That’s what he’s thinking. If we can afford it.”
“Yes, I see…” Phyllis sighs. “The future ain’t what it used to be—” Just then the black butterfly descends onto Phyllis Van Buren’s left cheek. “Oh! Oh!” She swats at her face until the little black butterfly falls to the sole of her Chanel ballet flat and dies.
“All right, should we begin?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Bunny and her classmates gather around the museum guide, a Black man wearing a uniform with a gold pin, a tiny American flag at its center, and a security earpiece. “I call this the time machine,” he says as they wait for the doors of the elevator to open. He is missing his two front teeth. Bunny remembers the officer in front of the women’s shelter who was missing a tooth; she wonders if there is a connection or if it is a coincidence. As they wait, Bunny peers around the corner at the welcome center. A huge sign on the wall at the entrance of the National Museum of African American History and Culture identifies its donors: WALMART.
“You will begin at the transatlantic slave trade, then travel through slavery, segregation, and the civil rights movement up until today,” says the museum guide. Giant glass doors of the elevator part, and Bunny and her classmates pile in. They descend to the bottom level, passing dates on the wall: 1948, 1776, 1619, 1565, 1400.
The students of St. Peter’s Academy join the clusters of little white boys wearing American government propaganda, red hats and T-shirts, strolling through a maze of history. The irony feels breathtaking for anyone who’s noticed. The exhibit is dark and there are no windows. Bunny watches in disbelief as her classmates whiz by each story and window display and photograph and map, for they are without supervision—this is a prime environment for academic escapism, flirting, and discreet raucousness. Museums are boring! History is boring!
Billy throws his arm around Bunny and reads a quote on the wall below an African queen: “ ‘I admit I am sickened at the purchase of slaves… but I must be mumm, for how could we do without sugar and rum?’!… Wanna come over tonight? My parents are going to some ambassador event and won’t be home till late.”
Bunny ignores him, reading a panel about African royalty before the slave trade.
“Hey,” Billy says, closer to her ear.
“I can’t,” Bunny replies, trying to focus on sugar plantations and growing capitalism.
“Why not?” Billy feels irked by her rejection.
“I’m… helping my mother clean out my grandmother’s closet.”
Stan walks up between them to read a description below a photograph of American slave owners: Plantation owners often enlisted their slaves to take their place in war.
“Vhat the fuck. Vhat a bunch of inferior pussies,” Stan says.
“Accurate,” Bunny replies, relieved by the interruption.
“In Rvhussia, vhe just enslave everybody!”
“Come on, you’re not going to be at your grandmother’s that late,” Billy pleads. “What’s going on with you?”
Bunny breaks her historical trance and turns to Billy, his
