Bunny raises her hand in angst. “When was the home built?” she prods.
“Wonderful question,” the real estate agent replies. “It was built in the eighteen-fifties and used to be a neighborhood chapel for African Americans.”
“Oh. So you mean slaves,” Bunny corrects him.
“Well, perhaps—but remember, slave trading was banned in Washington City by 1850… so, many were free men and women,” he says.
“Well, actually,” Bunny rebukes him, “slaves weren’t emancipated until 1863, and just because it was banned doesn’t mean it wasn’t still happening. So this was a church for people who were most likely once enslaved.”
Meredith, embarrassed, nudges Bunny: Be quiet.
“Well, yes, it was a neighborhood church primarily for the African American community. I do believe some were free and others perhaps had not been, but it was where they congregated.”
Women’s heads tilt up at the high ceilings. “Fascinating,” says one, ignoring Bunny, viewing her as nothing more than a rude teenager. They move toward the kitchen.
“Fascinating,” Bunny mocks under her breath, following them.
“As you can see”—the agent thrusts his arms forward—“they blew out what was once the back of the church and extended the walls in order to create this stunning white kitchen.”
“Oh, feel this marble counter, Marianne,” a gray-haired woman says, placing the palm of her hand on the kitchen island, “to die for.”
“Ah, yes, I believe the owners had that shipped from Rome,” their guide says.
Bunny squints her eyes, rage building as the real estate agent shepherds everyone back into the living room. He stops in front of the enormous arched window overlooking the back garden, which holds an ivy-covered brick wall. Enclosed by the wall are four headstones. HEADSTONES.
“As you can see, there are still grave markers from the former burial grounds, adding some wonderful historical texture to the home,” he says. A blow-up white Santa Claus sits on top of where the bodies were buried.
“Extra texture??” Bunny says, nearly exploding in continued shock.
“Elizabeth,” Meredith says. Other white women in their bootees and sprayed hair under bonnets turn their heads, look at the art, the new French molding, the limestone fireplace, ignore what’s happening. Pretend it’s not happening.
“Oh, it’s quite all right,” the real estate agent says, composed.
“What did they do with the Black bodies?” Bunny asks. She has always heard rumors that thousands of bodies are still buried beneath Volta Park across the street, where she learned to climb the monkey bars and ride her bike.
“Elizabeth Bartholomew.” Meredith grabs her by the arm. Bunny whips her arm away.
“We get asked certain questions occasionally,” the agent says, as more women squirm in their bootees with nowhere else to look. “Once the chapel was bought, I think around 1925, the new property owners were able—through the church—to contact the families and have the bodies returned to them after they turned it into a private residence.”
“They returned the bodies?” Bunny says, beside herself.
Meredith clutches her arm again, digging her nails into Bunny’s jacket. “Enough.”
Bunny yanks her arm away and walks around the real estate agent.
“Yes, but they kept the tombstones as part of the historical legacy,” he says with righteous indignation.
Bunny laughs at him, enraged. “Historical legacy? Why don’t I repeat the HISTORICAL LEGACY for you: we enslaved you, beat you, killed you, raped you, now we’re going to take your place of WORSHIP and buy you AGAIN so we can turn it into a mansion and hang these STUPID fucking plates!” Bunny storms the wall of decorative plates. She plucks one from the hook and slams it to the ground, shattering it. “Ugly”—she takes another plate, slams it on the floor—“fucking”—she grabs another, chucks it as hard as she can against the wall—“PLATES”—backing up now, breathing hard—“with little fucking—what the fuck are these?—cockatoos on them! And pat ourselves on the back for how rich and white we are. Lock ourselves inside of our ivory castles like nothing else fucking exists!” She stands, a boxer in the middle of a ring. Possessed.
“Oh my God,” Meredith says, covering her mouth, shell-shocked. She runs over to the plates and gets on her hands and knees, collecting jagged pieces of porcelain. “I’m so sorry,” she keeps repeating over and over.
Bunny’s entire body trembles with rage and personal legacy when Meredith approaches her. “Get away from me.” She charges through the foyer; slipping in her bootees, she tips over a china bowl, then runs out the front door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Meredith sprints down Thirty-Third Street in her blue bootees calling after Bunny, “ELIZABETH BARTHOLOMEW!” following her toward Halcyon House on the corner of Prospect where Richard Ewell once lived, a Confederate general under Stonewall Jackson and Robert E. Lee, a colonial redbrick mansion with proud Doric columns and a view of the Lincoln Memorial, now used as a hub for young entrepreneurs who want to change the world.
Bunny stops to remove the bootees from her Docs, chucking them into the trash can on the corner. She sees Meredith sprinting after her. A pang of guilt and shame strikes her gut, the kind that hits when you think maybe you’ve taken things too far—enough to keep her from running away.
“Stop right there… please,” Meredith gasps, uncomfortable, sweating in the cold. “I’m not going to yell at you, please just stop running.”
Bunny faces her, her eyes blue and translucent; the veins in her temples travel down the sides of her head like lightning strikes.
“The check bounced,” Bunny says, “the bank called me. It bounced.”
“That’s not a reason to have a meltdown, goddamn it, you will get the money!” Meredith shouts, as if Bunny should be punished for asking about it—the shame behind the family name tumbling from mother to daughter.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Bunny yells.
“Do what?” Meredith asks, softening a little.
“I don’t want to be here anymore.” Bunny bites her lip to keep from crying.
“Sweetheart,” Meredith says, catching Bunny
