Chapter 7 - The Gathering of Fools
Saturday afternoon arrived with blinding, oppressive heat.
The suburban streets of Crestview Estates were lined with parked SUVs, sedans, and crossover vehicles. By two-forty-five, the curb outside 1402 Oakridge Lane was completely choked with cars.
From the street, the house looked like a magazine spread of domestic bliss. Smoke from high-end hickory charcoal rose in sweet, white plumes from the massive stainless-steel grill on the back patio. A large, pristine white party canopy had been erected over the manicured lawn—the lawn I had paid a landscaping crew eight hundred dollars to re-sod three months earlier.
Pop music thudded from high-end outdoor Bluetooth speakers mounted beneath the eaves.
Inside the backyard, forty people were mingling with plastic flutes of mimosa and plates of artisanal potato salad. Beatrice was holding court beneath the canopy.
She was dressed in a fluttering white summer dress that made her look like a benevolent Greek goddess, her blonde hair coiffed to perfection, her smile wide, radiant, and utterly triumphant. Around her stood our relatives: Aunt Clara, clutching her purse and nodding sympathetically; Uncle Greg, holding a can of craft beer, shaking his head at the 'audacity' of the younger generation; and several of Beatrice’s high-paying salon clients, cooing over her immense bravery.
"It was just instinct, really," Beatrice was saying, her voice pitched loud enough to carry across the lawn as she delicately adjusted a silver bangle on her wrist. "A mother’s instinct, even if she isn't my biological daughter. When I saw that glue in her poor little hair, I didn't think about the cost, I didn't think about the mess. I just thought: *I have to save this baby.* It breaks my heart that Arthur is so insecure that he took it as an insult to his parenting."
"Arthur was always soft," Uncle Greg boomed, taking a swig of beer. "Our father taught him how to draw blueprints, but he never taught him how to be a man. Don't worry, Bea. When he gets here today, we’re going to make sure he sets things right."
"He’s bringing her, right?" asked Aunt Clara, peering through the side gate. "I want to see the poor child. I bought her a little sun hat with daisies on it."
"Oh, he’ll be here," Beatrice said, a sharp, triumphant glint flashing in her mascara-laden eyes. "He doesn't have a choice. He knows who runs this family."
Two streets away, sitting inside our dark blue sedan, Claire, Lily, and I were waiting.
Lily sat in the back, once again wearing her lavender party dress with the silver sequins. But this time, she didn't look like a victim. She sat tall, her hands folded neatly in her lap. On her head rested the soft blue knit cap Miriam had given her, the little crocheted flower sitting proudly above her right temple.
"Are you ready, Lily-bug?" I asked, turning around in the driver’s seat.
Lily reached up and touched the brim of her blue hat. She looked at me, then looked at Claire, who reached out and squeezed her knee with steady, unwavering strength.
"Aunt Beatrice told everyone a lie, didn't she, Daddy?" Lily asked.
"She did, sweetheart," I said.
"And we’re going to tell the truth?"
"No," I replied, smiling gently. "We’re not going to tell it. We’re going to let Aunt Beatrice hear it."
I checked my watch.
*3:22 PM.*
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I put the car in drive, turned the corner, and pulled up directly opposite the driveway of 1402 Oakridge Lane.
***
