She can feign illness.
But she knows she must face a backyard full of people who have just heard the most monstrous part of her come alive. They will have widened their eyes, felt their own hearts race to have experienced this display of her rage. They will feel the heat of her humiliation when they see her. Why has she done this? Why does she snap so easily at her son? They are cookies, they are just cookies. He is just a little boy.
It’s the alcohol, she can say. It’s one drink too many. They’ve all got a glass in their hands.
But it won’t be enough for what she’s done.
Her fury parts for the remorse. She puts her palms on either side of Xavier’s messy face. She feels queasy as she comes down from the familiar high of the rage.
“I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. You can stay here in your room.”
But what she means is, do not come downstairs. Do not make this any worse than it is.
She closes the door behind her.
Her legs are weak taking her down to the kitchen. It will be better to get this over with. You can do this, you can do this. She will look for Blair; Blair will pretend that this has not happened. Blair will carry on as though she hasn’t a thing to feel bad for. She sees Jacob coming toward her, baffled and red, and she smiles, she tries her best. She touches his arm, feels he is tense. She says everything is fine and they will talk about it later, and she keeps moving to the backyard, her long silk dress flowing behind her with an elegance she has betrayed.
Outside, she feels eyes averted, guests evading the uncomfortable sight of her. Conversations have slowly resumed, but they are restrained. The disgrace she feels is staggering. She stands on the rainbows Blair’s daughter has drawn on the patio, and she can’t seem to move her feet. She knows she must say something to someone, but she doesn’t see Blair. She needs Blair. Blair can make this feel better. She turns to three mothers from school who forge smiles. She winces.
“I’m so sorry about that. Xavi’s having some serious challenges lately. Mental health problems. I won’t go into it now, but we’re worried.” She pauses. She needs to give them more. “He’s seeing a behavioral specialist.”
It isn’t the truth, but it might make the height of her anger seem warranted. Necessary, even, if their minds go to the worst. They will think he had something dangerous in his hands. They will think he was going to hurt himself with that something dangerous. They will understand the explosion, reframe it as concern, they will feel sympathy. Please, feel sympathy.
And they seem to, they all speak at once. Of course. We get it. Don’t apologize.
There is a beat that feels more like minutes. And then, “We were just talking about the city’s plans for the new playground, and do you think—”
* * *
? ? ?
Blair is watching her now, and Whitney glances just slightly toward her, like she can feel her staring. Blair has heard the lie about Xavier. She is crouched with the children to hide from the discomfort, and her knees are aching, but she will not stand up. She smooths her daughter’s ponytail, patters her fingers up Sebastian’s arm to make him giggle. She imagines herself going upstairs to check on Xavier, to cheer him up, but Whitney won’t like that. Instead, she finally stands, politely interrupts the group of women with an offer to help clear the paper plates, the paper cups. Can Whitney remind her where the garbage bags are kept?
* * *
? ? ?
Whitney is grateful for the deliberate reprieve. Blair knows exactly where they are under the sink. She bends to pick up Thea and kisses her playfully, three, five, seven times. She spins her once and Thea laughs. She hopes everyone is watching this. She does it again. Thea asks for Zags, the twins’ nickname for Xavier. He’s fine, Zags is upstairs, he’s fine, Whitney says and puts her down. She asks Blair in a lowered voice if she and Aiden can stay after everyone leaves. She knows Aiden will have more drinks with her, he’ll lighten things up. There is a chance Blair will feel put off by what’s happened, but Blair says of course. Of course, they’d love to stay, and like that, they pretend the incident is inconsequential.
But the other women will talk, as though they’ve never screamed at their kids themselves.
I mean, sure, we all lose our patience, but that poor boy.
They will replay it in their private conversations about how terrible the moment felt, how completely unexpected it was. They will even use the word “frightening.” Because Whitney is the kind of mother with whom other women try to find fault.
Whitney knows this. The judgment of her priorities is something she can normally quell, because the judgment is laced with envy. But this afternoon, on her own beautiful turf, she has diminished this envy, and that loss of control will humiliate her every time she thinks of it.
* * *
? ? ?
Blair can see this realization unfold on Whitney’s face that afternoon. She’s never observed Whitney in this weakened position before, and it makes her physically uncomfortable. The other mothers from school are retreating by inches, they are talking about rounding up their children. They are checking the time on their phones. Blair wants to ease this for her, for them both, so she talks about how great the magician was. What a good time everyone is having. How lovely the cheese platters are. She can look away from her friend’s maternal transgressions with an unsettling ease. She is complimentary and upbeat, and she might even have another drink.
* * *
? ? ?
But Whitney is scanning the guests, making a catalog of every person who heard her lose her shit. The faces that will consume her for the next several weeks, or for however long it takes for the shame to dissipate.
She nods as Blair talks, looks past her, across the backyard to Aiden, to some woman who is laughing at whatever he’s saying now. She looks to the fence, to Mara’s shape moving between the slats of wood, and then up at her son’s bedroom, to the wide-open window, where she thinks she just saw him look out. She jumps at the touch of Jacob’s hand on her shoulder.
* * *
? ? ?
Something in the way Whitney has just flinched at the touch of her husband makes Blair feel anxious, and then she hears the toying of Aiden’s voice behind her. Her cheeks grow hot as she tries to diagnose his tone. And then on the other side of the fence, the back door of Mara’s house slams a little too firmly, as though she’s heard quite enough. Whitney and Blair catch each other’s eye. After the party, these few tense seconds will cross their minds again, but neither of them will understand why. Not for many months more, on a Wednesday night in June, when everything will begin to implode.
* * *
? ? ?
Two hours later, the backyard crowd has thinned, and most of the small children have been shuffled home for bed, and Whitney’s dress has slipped down so low that Blair can see the valley between her breasts. She’s taken her bra off at some point and her nipples are sharp under the silk. Her feet are bare now, too, the strappy sandals tossed onto the lawn. Blair adjusts her own plain cotton shirt. It’s new, the white is still bright. She straightens the cuff of her pleated olive-green shorts, ones she bought with the shirt. They remind her, now, of something her mother would wear. The good tequila has been opened, and although she doesn’t like to drink tequila, it was Jacob who’d handed her the glass, so she took it.
Aiden and Jacob come over, and Whitney tells Aiden to take a seat on the backyard furniture, to stay and have some fun, and then she asks Jacob to turn up the music. When he comes back, they click salt-rimmed glasses and the men talk, again, about how much of the summer was rainy, about the water levels of the Great Lakes, and then Whitney, uninterested, pulls Blair to dance.
Blair says no, she is stiff and resistant, and the party has exhausted her, and there are still too many people there. The thought of dancing makes her flush even more than the tequila. She hates dancing and Whitney knows this. She hates how incompetent and foolish it makes her feel. She hates being made to feel like a wet blanket when she won’t join. Redness creeps from her chest up her neck.