When We Were Bright and Beautiful(2)

“Oh, I don’t know, Cassie. Maybe because he’s busy with his son being in jail and all. Why does it matter?”

I try for a conciliatory tone. “It doesn’t matter. I was asking rhetorically. Where’s Billy now?”

“In custody somewhere near Princeton. Cops don’t dick around with a rape accusation, Cass. He’s been arrested, fingerprinted, and tossed in a cell. They’re holding him while they investigate.”

“But he and Diana know each other. He’s not some guy in a dark alley. They have a long, sordid history.”

“Which will work in our favor, eventually. But last night, he and Diana left a party together. At some point after, the cops responded to a 911 call, and carted Billy off. Dad’s down in New Jersey, trying to get him out, but it’s the weekend so no one’s around.”

“Who called 911? Diana?”

“I don’t know. I told you, Dad and I only spoke for a second. He said Billy will be home tonight and wants us both there.”

I hate when Lawrence makes Nate his messenger, but of course I jump. “I just need to figure out my schedule. I have midterms next week.”

I’m up at Yale, taking a refresher class in Statistics and Introduction to Arabic, before I start a six-year PhD program for political science in the fall. No one in my life is happy about this. Last May, when I graduated from Columbia, I was supposed to work at the Stockton-Quinn Foundation, our family’s charitable nonprofit. Instead, I moved to New Haven and applied to grad school. I’ve been living here for six months. I love my coursework. I’m thrilled to be on my own. And yet my family is still waiting for me to give it all up and come home.

“Blow off the exams, Cassie. We’re in crisis. And Thursday is Dad’s birthday.”

“I know it’s his birthday, Nate. But I can’t disappear.”

“For fuck’s sake.” He snorts. “No one is asking you to disappear. Why do you always have to be so dramatic?”

“I don’t know, Nate. Why do you always have to jump all over me?”

My brother gets irritated when I talk about Yale. He’s on the equities desk at Bessemer Trust and has hated his job from day one. The plan was for me to graduate, for him to quit, and for the two of us to join the foundation together. Instead, I took off. But rather than leave Bessemer—which he can do, at any time—he chose to stay. He’s still miserable, but now he blames this on me. Obviously, there’s more to the story than impulsivity (mine) and inertia (his), but rather than discuss it explicitly like adults, we taunt each other with insults that are steeped in resentment (his) and guilt (mine).

“So, what happens next?” I ask.

“Dad’s at the jail with the Bowtie, trying to get answers.”

“He called Burt?”

“I know. The guy can’t handle a bank deposit. How’s he gonna deal with a felony? But it was three o’clock in the morning, and no one else was around. So, for the moment, the Bowtie is our holy savior, shepherd, and redeemer.”

Nate and I laugh, pals again, united in our animosity toward the Bowtie. Burt Archer is a longtime friend of our mother. During parties, he stands in the corner like an antique spindly lamp, feigning a friendly affect while pointing out who got fat and who went broke. My parents’ circle is lousy with Burt Archers, but my brothers and I loathe the Bowtie the most.

“Is he helping?” I ask.

“Fuck no,” Nate replies. “He told Dad he knows a few judges in New Jersey, so he’s calling in favors to get Billy released. But he’s, like, five hundred years old, so most of his cronies are retired or dead. One thing he can do, though, is stave off the press. The Bowtie is a gossip whore with enough dirt to make a few media dons back off, at least for the moment. If this gets out, Billy will get hammered.”

“Maybe not. Billy hasn’t had it easy, Nate. He’s had his share of problems—”

My brother cuts me off. “He’s had rich-people problems, Cassie. Park Avenue problems. The kind of problems that evoke disgust, not sympathy. Billy is the whole trifecta: rich, white, Ivy League athlete. Put those together, and you’ve got a story everyone knows. The one where the loudmouthed jock gets tanked, loses control, and attacks the nearest female.”

“Loudmouth? Billy stutters, Nate. He doesn’t drink. He rarely goes out. He was in therapy for years—”

“Speech therapy.”

“Therapy is therapy, Nate. It counts.”

“Look, Cass. You know I agree with you. But these days, it’s hashtag–believe women. The world is gunning for white guys, and the rich rapist is a fan favorite. Especially the ending, where he’s convicted and dragged away in handcuffs, leaving his family disgraced and penniless.”

The chances of our family ending up penniless are nil, even if we’re saddled with exorbitant legal fees. But the image of Billy in handcuffs pierces my heart.

“Thankfully, Billy’s situation is different,” Nate continues. “Diana is unreliable, and her behavior is erratic. Dad said the cops will drop the charges once they get a clearer picture of her and Billy’s relationship. In a perverse way, it’s better that she was the one who accused him rather than some random girl he met at the party. But in the meantime, we have to keep his name out of the papers and off the internet. Otherwise, his Google hits will follow him the rest of his life.”