“Sure, Mom. I just . . .” His face wrinkled with questions he wanted to ask, things he wanted to say. He turned away from her to stare at his two gerbils. They were still too traumatized from the move to explore the maze he’d set up for them. They lay huddled together in a corner.
“You just what, sweetie?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you have questions? I mean, about what happened? I know we talked to you about it a while ago, but is there anything you want to know?”
Hunter raised his eyebrows and straightened up in his chair a bit. “Um . . . I don’t know.” Why did we move? What is wrong with you? What really happened in Boston? Hunter gauged her uncomfortable posture and decided it wasn’t worth upsetting her. “No. It’s okay, Mom. I’m sure everything will work out.”
“You sure? I’m worried about you, sweetie.”
“I’m okay.” He shrugged to prove it. After a moment’s pause, he decided to risk one question. “Are you okay, Mom?”
“Uh, sure, honey. I’m fine.”
Out in the hallway, Margot winced. Are you okay, Mom? She shook her head at the closed door and then at the ceiling. She debated changing her computer password and checked her watch. No time.
She quickly returned to her studio and set up her equipment. Computer. Cameras. Music. Tits. Smile.
“Good morning and namaste!” She pressed her palms together and bowed to the front camera. “Today we’re going to be turning up the heat on our thighs . . .”
She spent the next hour talking to the tiny web cameras, bending this way and that, holding impossible pretzel poses. She did it all in a sports bra and skintight yoga pants, often pointing to her own ass or stomach to describe the tightness, the breath. “If it doesn’t burn, you’re not doing it right.”
Forty minutes later, lying on her back, her legs spread eagled, she led her audience through a guided meditation. “You’re walking along a sandy beach. Do you hear the waves crashing along the shore? Mmmmm. Smell the salt in the air. Doesn’t that sun feel good?”
The soundtrack turned to ocean gulls and rushing water as Margot’s voice faded until it was just her breathing. In and out. Chest up and down. The sun from the windows lit her serene face. After a full minute of silence, she sat up and smiled at Camera 2. “Doesn’t that just feel wonderful? Stay still until you’re ready to come back to reality. Until next time, friends, remember. The light in me sees the light in you. Namaste.”
Her arm reached for the laptop and tapped a button. She grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from her face, dabbing gently to not smear her makeup. After several gulps of water, she turned to her computer and scrolled down for feedback.
A line of text made her smile.
She clicked into a new computer screen and tapped a few keys, then turned her head back to Camera 2. “You missed me, huh?”
A husky voice answered from the laptop. “Babe, I could watch you all day. You know what you do to me.”
She raised an eyebrow at the camera and gave it a slow smile. “What do I do to you?”
“You wanna see?”
She turned back to the laptop screen and stared into the fleshy glow. An embarrassed laugh caught in her throat. “Is that for me?”
“Why? You want it?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want. I’m a married woman.”
“I know. That’s what makes it kind of hot, right?”
“How old are you again?” She glanced at herself in the full-length mirror, pushing her chest out ever so slightly. The camera sat beside it.
“Old enough to know you’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Is that right?” Margot gazed into the lens as though debating. Then she got up on all fours and slowly crawled across the floor to Camera 1. Gone was the worried mother and the nagging wife.
In front of the camera, she was someone else altogether.
12
The Rawlings Family
Black Tuesday, October 29, 1929
The back door slammed open at 5:35 p.m., and Mr. Rawlings stormed into the kitchen without bothering to close it. Not even glancing at the maid cooking at the stove or his son picking bits of apple off the kitchen table, he pushed past them and into his library, flushed red, reeking of brown liquor.
Ella flashed a reassuring smile at little Walter, whose face had fallen so far down he looked ready to cry. His father often had this effect on the boy. Always stern. Always demanding. Always disappointed. A fist would drop onto the dinner table, making the silver jump. Hasn’t anyone taught this child how to hold a fork properly?
Four-year-old Walter Junior was to be seen and not heard. This phrase was repeated at least once a week when the boy attempted to interject something during the evening meal or couldn’t sit still for lectures on law and commerce. Do not speak until spoken to, young man.
Ella would wait until Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings were out of earshot to pluck up his spirits or give him a warm hug. Just a wink from her was enough to lift the anchors of the boy’s heart. They shared secrets, the two of them. Secrets little Walter would never tell his parents.
“Walter.” Ella put her elbows on the table in front of him and whispered, “Did I ever show you the dukkerin? How to tell the future?”
His eyes went wide as he shook his head.
“There are many ways,” she went on, picking up her mug and drinking her tea.
Three rooms away, Mr. Rawlings was slamming drawers and cursing to himself. The sound of papers rifling through his shaking fingers ruffled the air, and then his voice. “It can’t be . . . it just can’t.” He rubbed his red face, nearly purple now, and collapsed into his leather chair. “That son of a bitch! We should’ve gotten out. We needed to get the hell OUT! ‘Ride the wave,’ he says! God DAMN IT!” His fist slammed into the top of his desk hard enough to make the floor quake.
In the kitchen, both Ella and Walter flinched at the sound of his voice. It was a curse on them all. The maid shot a fiery glare toward the library and slapped her tea on the counter, clearing her throat loudly.
The only response from the other end of the house was the splash of liquor into a crystal tumbler.
Rolling her eyes to the heavens, Ella muttered to herself, “Prikaza!” She excused herself from Walter and plodded loudly across the butler’s pantry and past the breakfast room to the library door the man hadn’t bothered to close. “I get you something, sir? Coffee, perhaps?” she asked sharply.
Mr. Rawlings didn’t even bother to look at her. He just stared glassy eyed into his tumbler of whiskey and shook his head. In that moment, he resembled little Walter so completely she almost smiled. Little boy. Lost.
“I leave you in peace then.” With that she quietly shut the french doors to separate whatever mess the man had made for himself from the rest of the house. She studied him through the glass for a frowning moment. Lost wallet? Lost deal? Lost client? The man is always gruff, but this . . .
He must’ve felt her staring. His murderous eyes caught hers on the other side of the glass an instant before she turned and hurried back to the kitchen, clutching her heart as though stabbed, muttering, “Bengla!”
Back in the kitchen, little Walter was waiting. “How?” he asked.