The Cave Dwellers by Christina McDowell (readict books TXT) 📕

Doug settles into his usual political cadence, and Cate stands erect following the script, making sure he hits every mark, the phone rings.

“Goddamn it.” Doug leans back in his tufted chair, breaking character like he’s onstage in a Stanislavski acting class.

A knock at the door; another young intern pops his head in. “Sir, it’s a producer for All the News with Chris Williams! on Fox, he wants to discuss some talking points before the show tonight.”

“Tell them you’re in a committee meeting and call back,” Walter says to Doug, who nods at the intern in agreement.

“Betsy and Linda are having dinner together at their country club,” Doug says, then buries his head back into the script. “Okay, now where were we?”

“Cate?” Walter says.

Cate fumbles with the script. “Start back with ‘Coercive control is not just low-level or high-level violence, it is insidious and calculated, causing emotional and psychological harm. Many victims are left with nonphysical scars, but emotional scars can also last a lifetime.’ ”

On display where Cate walks in the Capitol Rotunda are the carved marble heads of suffrage pioneers: Lucretia Mott, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and Susan B. Anthony. A slightly unhinged tour guide of middle-schoolers describes the chunk of uncarved marble behind the suffragettes: “This chunk of marble has been abandoned while it awaits a female president. It’s been ninety-nine years and even you probably won’t see a female president in your lifetime.”

Cate maintains her focus and walks toward the back-door exit where black Suburbans wait for their designated senators when Walter calls after her.

“Cate! Cate!!!”

She pretends not to hear him, picking up speed heading for Doug’s car, ready and waiting to take them to All the News with Chris Williams! Cate’s cortisol levels rise as she ties her Burberry hand-me-down trench coat, turning around to see Walter stumbling toward her.

“Boy, you got quite a strut there,” Walter says, a crown of sweat on his forehead, wheezing from his walk. “Look, you’re doing a great job.” He puts his hand on Cate’s shoulder, his thumb touching her neck, grazing it as if reaching for her throat. “Doug has given me the reins to let you know when he thinks you’re ready to take on more as far as additional public interviews, you know, since his schedule is picking up before election season. We need to be sure you are absolutely ready and steady to take that on.”

Cate stumbles to pretend she’s not irritated, confused, enraged. They’ve been using her language ever since the bill was introduced.

“When did this discussion happen?”

“The senator does not have the time to think about delegating right now, Cate.” Walter asserts his condescension without answering the question, then swings his tone. Moving closer to her, he places his other hand on the bicep of her other arm. “As I said, keep up the great work, you’ll be running all things press in no time.” He steps away from her, pointing his finger at her as Doug walks toward the vehicle.

“You ready?” Doug asks Cate. “Let’s go win more hearts of American women!” He gives her that charming smile, the one she fell for when she first met him.

“Cate, you behave yourself now.” Walter points at her again, laughs to himself. “I’ll see you guys at the studio after I fire an intern.”

In the car Cate is next to Doug, whose head is buried in his phone, supposedly reviewing the bill’s amendments as well as various news articles responding to the domestic violence crisis. Cate sits with her hands clasped. She remembers when, a few months ago, he asked her to hold his phone during a vote, and GIFs of men receiving blow jobs popped up in his Safari window. Cate had accidentally hit the tab but clicked out of it, pretending it wasn’t even there. It was the first time she’d felt a piercing in her fantasy, a poke in her own denial, too painful to believe—so she didn’t. How could she be so tough and so naïve?

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Mom, do we really have to go?” Haley pleads as Betsy pulls up in their Jaguar behind a 1992 Jeep Grand Wagoneer in the valet line at the Washington Club. A woman steps out of the Wagoneer in a white tennis outfit and diamond studs. Her socks have fringed lace spilling over the tops of her ankles. Betsy’s stomach turns, and she fiddles with her twelve-carat diamond before the valet attendant, a Black man in a tuxedo, walks over to open her and Haley’s doors.

“Madam,” he says, and welcomes them both to the “club of clubs.”

Betsy tightens the knot in the center of the Gucci scarf that’s draped around her shoulders and motions for Haley to grab the fox coat that is resting in the backseat. Betsy steps out of the car and swings it around her shoulders. Haley wears Lilly Pulitzer as if she’s a walking roll of floral wrapping paper.

They enter the club. Behind the whiffs of the grand display of dying lilies is a very specific lingering odor whirling from scratchy old sofas that should have been replaced forty years ago. The floral drapes remind Betsy of her dead mother-in-law’s living room in Durham. The place is a dump. And yet the legacy lives on in the sons and daughters of its founding members, proudly bipartisan—and by bipartisan they mean wealthy, the oldest dynasties mingling in an attempt to keep control of their inner hierarchy and outer legacy, for all at the club of clubs are wobbling on the tippy-tops of golden ladders built by their ancestors who climbed to the top for them.

Like living in an ugly heirloom, Betsy thinks. Dangling her alligator Birkin bag at her side, she walks up to a woman who’s let her natural gray grow out, sitting at a secretary desk with a sign-in book and fountain pen. There are no computers.

“May I help you?” the old woman asks.

“Yes, hello, I’m Betsy Wallace, I’m here