“DO IT, DADDY! DO it!”
Melanie Barlow screamed with excitement, her four-year-old body jumping up and down at the edge of the pool.
“Should I do it?” her father teased. He was standing at the end of the high diving board, dripping wet, and smiling at his audience.
Two more small voices joined in. “Do it, Daddy! Now!”
Seated in a lounge chair a bit farther back from Mellie and her twin brothers, Caitlin Barlow pretended not to care, her ear glued to a cell phone. At fourteen, she was old enough to see all this for what it was, and had recently grown tired of her father’s juvenile efforts to endear himself to his children. Then, of course, there was the deep trouble in which she now found herself, and the way it had trapped her inside a vault constructed from defiance and shame.
“I’m gonna do it!” Ernest Barlow threatened one last time before leaping spread-eagle from the diving board. As he sailed through the air, the shrieks of his children filled his ears until he hit the water with a loud smack and sank beneath its surface.
Nine-year-old Matthew was impressed. “Aw, man, that’s gotta hurt!”
The smaller of the twins, John, had suddenly taken to repeating every word Matthew spoke, and now agreed wholeheartedly. “That’s gotta hurt!”
“Shut up!” Caitlin yelled from the lounge chair, shaking her head at the escalation of her father’s immaturity, and her own annoyance at his attempt to balance the scale against years of absence.
Ignoring their sister, as was common practice, the three young ones gathered near the deep-end ladder, staring into nine feet of dark blue-gray water that, to their eyes, was as mysterious as the depths of the ocean. Mellie moved closer, leaning over to get a better view of the bottom. Her brothers followed, and Matthew grabbed the straps of his sister’s suit to keep her from tumbling in. It was then, and only then, that their champion appeared, popping out with a loud roar from the edge where they were standing, scaring them into hysterical laughter.
They parted as their father climbed out, making room for him to pass through their ranks and find a towel. It was late fall and the air was crisp, sneaking in through the glass walls that enclosed the pool complex.
Barlow (as he liked to be called—partly because the alternative was Ernie, and mostly because he could get away with it) dried his face, then wrapped the towel around his broad shoulders.
“Well?”
Matthew and John offered their hands for high fives. “Awesome!” Matthew said.
His echo followed in short order. “Awesome!” John was smiling, his eyes wide.
“Check out this belly!” Barlow opened the towel to reveal streaks of red against golden flesh from forehead to knees. He tousled Mellie’s hair. “Pretty gruesome, huh?”
Mellie nodded as she took it in, not sure what she thought of their glee at watching their father hurt himself, and his willingness to do it. Then there was the inevitable influence of Caitlin, whose response, though unwelcome, seemed inherently more appropriate.
After a moment, her father’s need, which was innately felt by the four-year-old, rushed in, forcing a smile to gather around her plump cheeks and eventually overwhelming her. She fell into his arms and gave him a hug. “Good, Daddy.”
Barlow kissed her forehead, his eyes glancing first through the glass walls to the stone mansion in the distance, and then to his oldest daughter.
“Want to better that, Cait?” His tone was sarcastic, drawing a carefully perfected look of disgust that was as brief as it was cutting.
Caitlin Barlow rolled her eyes, then looked away as she dialed up the volume of her own voice on the phone call.
“I can’t tonight,” she said into the phone. “I have to help babysit.” Again, the disgust resounded in the early evening air, a silent predator circling around Barlow and the younger three. She couldn’t stop her father from employing his tactics, but she could infiltrate each maneuver, dispensing a subtle sense of doubt that would stand between Barlow and his children’s love like an invisible bullshit shield. And given the suddenness of the change in his daughter’s overall disposition, Barlow was at a loss as to how to dismantle it.
A soft monotone voice seeped from a small post built into the stone tile floor. It was Rosalyn Barlow, the mother, whose interruption of their fun had become a daily occurrence.
“It’s seven o’clock. Time to come up.”
Letting go of little Mellie, Barlow seized the moment. “Darnit! And I was just about to try one on my back.”
Matthew’s eyes were still on the post, as though his mother might somehow appear, catching up to her voice like thunder to a lightning bolt. “You have time! Do it, Daddy!” he said.
“Yeah, do it, Daddy!” John was at his side, tugging at his suit and looking at him with pleading eyes.
Barlow shook his head, feigning regret. “No, no. Mommy’s the boss. Grab your towels, and let’s go.”
His answer came as no surprise to any of them, least of all Mellie, who was already walking outside to the golf cart that would deliver them back to the house. Not one of them needed reminding that Mommy was the boss, and enforcing her rules to the disappointment of his children was as much a part of Barlow’s self-amusement as was breaking them.
Barlow gathered kids, towels, goggles, and shoes, then loaded everyone into the golf cart.
“You coming?” he said to Caitlin.
She took a long second to excuse herself from the call, then placed her hand over the receiver. “I’ll walk.”
“Suit yourself. The boss and I are leaving at eight. It’s your behind if you’re not ready.”
Caitlin waved him off. “Whatever.”
As he climbed beside the driver, Barlow sized up the battle. There’d been points on both sides, but overall, he felt victorious. The young ones were happy, and he would now leave this new war with the girl who’d become a “teenstranger” to the more capable adversary waiting inside the house.
“Move over, Roger, and watch how it’s done,” he said, smiling now. In a few minutes there would be dinner, baths, homework for the boys, then bed. He listened to his children giggling behind him, and he knew. The fun was over, but at the end of this day, the fun was all they would remember.
From the window in her dressing suite, Rosalyn Barlow watched the cart bump up and down across the sprawling lawn as it made the long journey from the pool. Having pushed aside the driver, Barlow was at the wheel and moving fast to impress the kids as they shivered through their wet towels. With nothing on himself but a suit and towel, his dark overgrown hair blowing wildly against his tanned, unshaven face, he looked like a child himself. And at forty-five years of age, looking like a child meant looking like an idiot. Still, it suited him, Rosalyn supposed as she moved to her vanity table to finish her makeup. My brilliant billionaire idiot husband. She leaned forward to study her eyes, holding them perfectly still to apply a light brown liner. They were, she liked to believe, the eyes of her mother—almond shaped, pale green. Calm. Steady. Even with Barlow’s hooting and hollering coming within earshot and the image it provoked of him swerving about, tearing up the grass and endangering the lives of her children, she could hold their expression. Their absence of expression.
She finished the liner, replaced the plastic top to the pencil, and gave the mascara a slight shake. He was a complete child now, wasn’t he? It was more an acknowledgment than a judgment, and was perfectly justified. The onetime workaholic entrepreneur was now a very wealthy, but retired, little boy. Every purposeless day brought with it further regression toward infantile behavior. Then there was the alcohol. Cocktails at five. Cocktails at six. Cocktails all night until he passed out in a pool of sweat and drool on her fine upholstery.
She brushed on the mascara, then dabbed her lashes with a tissue to remove the small pearls of liquid that had failed to spread evenly. Leaning back, she placed the cap on the mascara and twisted it between her long manicured fingers.
Late nights playing poker. Driving around in that ridiculous Creamsicle-orange Corvette. Golf and tennis all summer. Paddle tennis and skiing all winter. The hockey league. Hockey, of all the blessed things. A long sigh sneaked out of her body before she could catch it, and she felt herself shudder, as though she could shake off the source of its inception. She leaned into the mirror again and checked the stillness in her eyes. Good, she thought. We’re just fine. She studied her skin tone, pale ivory, before selecting the lipstick.
Caitlin hadn’t been in the cart. Of course not. Her oldest daughter had remained behind in an effort to avoid her father. She would stay there, Rosalyn imagined, just long enough to cause them to worry about being late to the benefit. Yes, she would appear just in the nick of time for babysitting duty, which was, in fact, little more than a contrived punishment. Their two nannies could easily handle the children. Still, there had to be some consequences after what had transpired.
A soft red, just a few shades beyond her natural lip color. It would go with the neutral silk blouse and beige suit. It had been two days. Everyone would know, and even if they didn’t, Rosalyn had to make that assumption, and the decisions that followed. They would not decline the benefit. Regardless of the humiliation—which was appropriate and which she would have to display (within reason, of course)—they would attend and hold their heads high. And, of course, support Mellie’s school. The Barlows were dignified survivors of this little tragedy. That was what they would leave behind when they politely excused themselves before the dancing began. Dressed conservatively in her neutrals, discreet makeup, pinned-back blond hair, and nothing to adorn her lovely hands but a simple gold wedding band, Rosalyn Barlow would let them all have their moment of glee. If she didn’t do it now, her first real outing since the tragedy, they would hunger for it like savages. No—she had to throw them a bone. Then she could get on with the work of rising above it all.
She heard the cart pulling around the side of the house. She listened as the team of young Polish nannies bounded down the steps from the servants’ quarters to meet the children. Then the outside door closing, and those heavy accents. “Give to me towel. . . . Upstairs wid you, Miss Mellie. . . . Out of wets suits.”
She pressed a tissue to her lips, peeled it off, and checked her face one last time. She practiced a smile, went over in her head her carefully concocted responses to any comments she might have to endure. Are you all right? How’s Caitlin? How’s Barlow handling it? Rosalyn adjusted her face slightly. Pleased with the expression, she committed it to her memory, then rose from the table. She was ready when her husband entered the room, out of breath and dripping wet. His face was flushed with the thrill of childish antics and the cool evening air.
“We’re leaving at seven thirty, darling,” Rosalyn said sweetly.
Barlow pulled off his swimsuit, dropped it on the antique oriental, then used his towel to dry his hair. Naked in the middle of their room, he answered his wife. “I thought it started at eight.”
Rosalyn stood before him, seemingly indifferent to the exposed genitalia that were jiggling about as he toweled off the mop on his head.
“We should get there early tonight.”
Barlow looked up, puzzled. “Early?”
“We should be the first ones there.”
“Aren’t we always the last ones there?” The question was rhetorical. Still, Barlow couldn’t imagine what the hell she was up to now.
“Yes, darling, you’re right. We usually are. But tonight, we will be the first ones. And we’re taking my car, if you don’t mind.”
Suddenly aware of his wife’s eyes upon him, Barlow stopped drying his hair and wrapped the towel around his waist. He studied her as she stood there before him, arms draped delicately beside her petite frame in a demure pose, bland outfit, flat shoes. Her hair was unusually casual, her face colorless. And where were the jewels he’d bought her? It was calculated, he knew. Everything his wife did was carefully planned to achieve some end result, though it was rarely apparent to him until the plan bore its fruit. He thought about this night. Nursery school benefit. They’d been to a dozen of them over the years. With the oldest boy away at prep school, it hardly seemed possible they still had to massage the preschool system. It was so very contrived. Parents got to meet one another—though this was a joke, since you had to know everyone to get into the damned place. And Rosalyn practically owned this school. She chaired the board. She donated half the operating budget. She hired, she fired, and hers was the final stamp of approval, or rejection, for the wee little applicants dying for a spot at Wilshire’s finest learning institution for the under-five crowd. This was her show, and if he was remembering correctly, this was usually her night to shock and awe.
Then it hit him.
“Holy shit.” He rubbed his face, now in a state of genuine disbelief.
“What?” Rosalyn asked coyly, though she’d enabled the battle that was coming and was fully prepared to wage it.
“Is this what I think it is?”
“What?” she asked, more fervently this time.
“Is this about Cait . . . ?”
Rosalyn waved him off as though she were surprised at the accusation. “Oh, don’t even—”
“Don’t even what? This is all about Cait, isn’t it? The clothes and hair. Taking your car. Arriving early.”
“And what if it is?”
Barlow was stunned. How was it possible he kept overestimating his wife?
“I thought this was over. She had her day of suspension. She met with the counselor. For Christ’s sake, how long is this going to be an issue?”
Rosalyn crossed her arms now, though her face remained calm. Barlow, who kept his head conveniently buried in the sand, would never understand the subtleties of their world. “This is our first night out after—”
“After what? You think anybody cares about this? She’s a teenager. . . .”
“Uhh . . .” Rosalyn was on the verge of being disgusted by her husband’s ignorance. She took a breath to retrieve her composure. Then she struck.
“Our lovely teenager was caught in a hallway with a boy’s dick in her mouth. She’s our daughter. Believe me, Barlow, everyone cares!”
Barlow stood before his wife as the vulgarity of her words encircled his head. This was her best move, the one he usually forgot in the face of her perfect breeding and skilled aloofness. Just when one was expecting a delicate pearl of wisdom, she could drop something like this, something so dreadful and ugly, yet delivered with a silky tone. It was downright eerie.
“You’re right about one thing: She’s our daughter. And I don’t want this whole twisted, morally corrupt town to think we’re ashamed of her.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
Barlow’s face was red with the heat of anger. “Of course it is, Rosalyn. You’re showing contrition. Why don’t you put on a red dress with a neckline to your navel, and we’ll dance on the tables! I mean, fuck ’em if they think they’re better than us just because our daughter was the one who got caught!”
Rosalyn let out a long sigh and unfolded her arms. “I’m not ashamed of our daughter. But if we don’t do this my way, it won’t be over. If you want it to be over, shave, shower, put on a blue blazer, and get in my car by seven thirty.” Her voice was calm, her face steady. She was right, and somewhere inside him, Barlow knew it. Whether or not he liked it was another matter altogether, and not one with which Rosalyn was overly concerned at the moment.
She walked past him, leaving him naked, standing on the wet carpet. When she was gone, her footsteps no longer heard against the wooden staircase, Barlow shook his head and accepted the defeat. He walked to the table in the corner, where he kept a decanter of scotch, and poured himself a large glass. As he let the alcohol settle his nerves, he peered out the window onto his estate. Good fortune had brought them significant wealth. They were the wealthiest family in Wilshire, the wealthiest town in the country. In the whole goddamn country. There was no way this was what life should look like after all that accomplishment. A wife he couldn’t understand. Boredom. Loneliness. And now a daughter whose teen years were slipping away from them like a wet bar of soap.
Right out of their grasp, Caitlin was sliding—into what, Barlow could hardly fathom. What would posses a young woman who would never have to rely on a man for anything to perform sexual favors in a school hallway? What world was she living in? Their oldest had sailed through these years—sports, schoolwork, PlayStation. His world had been straightforward, and Barlow had believed this to be evidence of the invincibility his wealth provided.
He closed his eyes as he swallowed more scotch. With his gift to focus, he chased from his lids the image of her on her knees and instead played across them her broad smile, the one she used to get when playing with Mellie. He let his ears remember her infectious laugh, more like a child’s silly giggle, and he thought now how he would sometimes think the sound was coming from Mellie and not Caitlin at all. Those days were months gone, but he would not believe they were over. This was a problem. A glitch. And though he recognized the arrogance his conclusion implied, it came nonetheless. He had accumulated over a billion dollars in wealth by the age of forty-five. This problem had a solution, and he was hell-bent on finding it.