Yesteryear

Yesteryear #5

Vanessa let out a tiny moan. As intimate and shameful as an accidental fart in mixed company.

Her face turned a bright shade of pink. I knew it was the kind of threaded offer that would catch in her molars.

She would know the offer was half-hearted but still consider the possibility anyways, because Vanessa probably wanted to see my picturesque little farm in person more than she wanted anything else in her life.

The chickens, my ladies. The big red barn, which photographed so beautifully in any kind of light.

The gardens, oh, the gardens! The pseudo-erotic fantasy of us baking my signature lemon zest cake together, the two of us laughing at some stupid thing, our children playing peaceably together in the background.

None of it would ever happen, and yet: the idea of that impossible day would sit there, growing bacteria in the back of her throat, for the next week or month or year.

A profoundly humiliating desire, as strong and confusing and animal as the ones that inspired her to watch lesbian porn on low volume while her husband was sleeping next to her.

(She was definitely the kind of woman who watched lesbian porn on low volume while her husband was sleeping next to her.)

Grind away, Vanessa, I thought, smiling beatifically.

Go ahead. Give yourself a migraine thinking about me.

A notion so pleasurable it was worth the guilt that came wrapped up inside it, like a penny candy.

She would think about my famous little farm for a year, and then she would bite the bullet and order one of my branded Dutch oven sets ($250, made in Taiwan), and she would mail it to a friend’s house, one whose name I didn’t recognize, so that I never found out that she personally gave me money.

That’s how much this woman hated me. That’s how much she hated herself.

“Say you’ll come sometime,” I said one last time, smiling wide. “Please, just say it.”

“Thanks,” Vanessa said shortly. “I will.” She looked like she’d swallowed a bottle of Advil. I beamed in reply.

We said a few more pointless things, long enough for Vanessa to take a few more obvious glances at my body (noticing, no doubt, that the skirt hanging loose around my hips was the very same one I’d worn in school a decade earlier) and long enough for me to pointedly ignore her body altogether (do I even have to say it?).

We said goodbye. As I turned the corner with my girls, Vanessa threw a middle finger at my back.

I didn’t see her do it, but I felt her do it.

I swear I did. And who could blame her? I had the life she always wanted, the life she still wanted but could no longer admit.

Vanessa was liberated, sure—but I was happy.

And it was such a shame, wasn’t it? The way some women so willingly compromised every ounce of themselves in the name of building a life for themselves that they didn’t enjoy.

I passed Vanessa once more at the checkout line and gave a cheerful wave, but she didn’t see me. She was bickering with her daughter over something in the cart. By this point, I’d regained my composure and felt nothing but pity for her again.

What do your friends think of your success online?

“They’re happy for me. Why wouldn’t they be?”

Pity. I pitied her.

But also: fuck her.

Sorry, Lord, but really, fuck her—

By the time we reached the car, it was dark out and I was practically spitting with fury.

Vanessa, that bitch, was undoubtedly going to run home to post about me in one of those stupid snarky online forums—bet you didn’t think someone like Natalie would shop at Target!

!!—and then I would have to suffer a whole week of online commentary, and Shannon!

The nerve! The absolute unbelievable nerve of that spoiled uneducated morally bankrupt little son of a—

Breathe, Natalie. Just breathe.

Clementine was in the back, buckling the girls into their car seats. I sat in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead, my hands flexed tightly on the steering wheel. I glanced down at my phone on the console. My temper settled.

Yes. That would be nice. I could share the moment myself and take the wind right out of Vanessa’s stupid little sails.

I picked up the phone and pressed record, right as Clementine was getting into the passenger seat. “Girls,” I said, smiling into the lit-up screen, “what did you get at our very special trip to Target today?”

Jessa and Junebug squealed in response:

“A stuffie!”

“Sparkly lotion!”

“What about you, Clementine?”

I angled the camera so it featured me, grinning, and Clementine’s form in the passenger seat. Clementine had gotten a new shade of nail polish. But she didn’t reply. She was facing away from me. “Clementine, what did you get at—”

“Stop filming me.”

I froze. My face flooded with heat.

She’d never done that before. Not once.

I glanced quickly in the rearview mirror: Jessa was playing with a bracelet on Junebug’s wrist, Junebug babbling quietly about the new stuffed animal.

I pressed the button to stop recording and set the phone face down in my lap.

My hands were shaking. I threw the car into drive and we rolled toward the parking lot exit.

“I didn’t know you were unhappy being filmed, Clementine,” I said as we rolled onto the quiet mountain highway toward home. “I’ve always told you to tell me if you felt that way. Haven’t I?”

I hadn’t.

Clementine rested her forehead against the window. “I’m telling you now.”

“Fair enough,” I said. None of the girls were looking at me anymore, and yet for some reason I was smiling. Stop it, I told myself sharply. Stop smiling like that. But I couldn’t. I didn’t.

When it comes to consent, do you think children are capable of—

“Oh, please.”

Pause.

Can I finish my question?

Longer pause.

“Yes. Of course.”

When it comes to consent and the use of children’s likenesses on public social media accounts—

“Actually, I need to take a quick break to use the restroom. Would that be all right?”

Later that night, Caleb walked into our bedroom and said, “I spoke to my dad again today.”

“Oh?” I was reading my emails, mass-deleting spam messages, while the nannies got the children ready for bed. At that moment, a new email pinged my inbox. It was from Shannon. The subject line read: formal resignation

I paused. Stared at the subject line for a few moments. Then I clicked on it.

Natalie,

I’m writing to let you know that I won’t be working for you any longer.

Between what happened over the summer and all the nightmares, it’s clear that this job isn’t good for my mental health any longer.

I’ve got a bus ticket for later tonight.

I don’t need a ride; Nanny Aimee is going to drive me to the station.

For what it’s worth: I don’t think you’re a bad person. I think you’re just confused.

Please tell the kids I love them.

Shannon

P.S. I’m sorry for screwing up your content calendar.

“Natalie? Helloooo, anyone there?”

“Sorry,” I said, “I just—I need to look at something quickly. Give me one sec.”

I read the email a second time, then a third. Then I looked at Caleb. “What were you saying?”

“Is everything okay?”

I laughed a bit too brightly. “Just silly publicity emails. Now, please, I’m all ears: tell me about your father.”

“Well,” he said. He paused dramatically. Drumroll, please. “He thinks that now’s the time.”

I nodded impatiently—I already knew what he was going to say—before remembering this was meant to be the grand reveal. Play along, Natalie. Say your lines. “Now’s the time for what, darling?”

I knew exactly what was coming. In fact I had seen all this coming—my father-in-law’s political push for Caleb, Shannon’s letter of resignation—had arguably orchestrated it myself, but still, I found myself unaccountably shocked that it was finally happening.

Here we go. The dominoes are starting to fall.

And yet: how dare she! I suppose it was the tone of the email that got under my skin, more than the email itself.

Such faux maturity. Dripping with unearned condescension.

Exactly the kind of letter you would expect from a twenty-one-year-old.

Exactly the kind of letter I would’ve expected from Shannon in particular, that lost little lamb, that stupid little bitch.

Sorry, Lord. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

“Now’s the time to run,” Caleb said. “For office.”

“Oh my gosh. Wow.”

Caleb’s father wasn’t just a senator. He was a bona fide political icon.

He’d been in office for four decades, running uncontested every six years.

He was a war veteran, a family values traditionalist, the kind of guy people described with abject sincerity as a real-life John Wayne.

They weren’t wrong. Doug Mills was broad-shouldered and confident.

The ultimate patriarch. Nearly every comment he made to another man was accompanied by a hearty clap on the shoulder.

He was, if the polling was even remotely accurate, about to become the next president of the United States.

He was also my closest ally. What my father-in-law and I both knew: there was no otherwise.

There was only this plan, a very delicate one, in which two variables—my producer, my husband—were taken care of in one fell swoop.

Final question, Mrs. Heller Mills: Would you like to comment on these horrific allegations of assault at Yesteryear Ranch?

“Unfortunately, I can’t comment on an ongoing legal investigation.”

I would just like to pause here and say: another woman would have cracked years ago.

I don’t think you’re a bad person.

A bold thing to say to the wife of the man you’ve been fucking.

That was the word I was looking for: bold.

The whole email was so hair-raisingly bold that it might have caused another, lesser woman to have a complete nervous breakdown, to throw her phone across the room, to hiss at her stupid, useless, can’t-keep-his-dick-in-his-pants husband, Look what you’ve done.

Not me. As I stared at my philandering moron of a husband, I gave myself a mental pat on the back for all the work I’d done over the years to harden myself against the world.

We were facing down the barrel of our first PR disaster.

I could already see the headlines: Allegations Roil Insta-Famous Family.

Even worse: Is Natalie Heller Mills a Cult Leader? Former Producer Speaks Out.

Would a headline like that ruin a nascent political career?

Assuredly not. America didn’t care one iota about morality when it came to politicians.

If anything, we expected them to be a little sleazy.

It might improve the odds for my coddled husband in the heartland.

Might even give me a boost in followers, too.

That poor pregnant woman, doing her best to keep her family together.

Really, if you think about it: this whole situation would make for a hell of an Instagram post.

But I was getting ahead of myself. There was no need to think about that now.

No need, even, to tell Caleb about the email just yet.

This was not the kind of thing my husband was capable of dealing with.

Not the kind of thing he—who, despite his best efforts, still wore his masculinity so roughly and unnaturally, as if it were an ill-fitting sweater I’d forced over his head—would be able to fix.

If he knew, he’d only make it worse. He’d do something completely idiotic like drive to the bus stop and beg for forgiveness from Shannon in front of a crowd of strangers.

“I think it’s a great idea,” I said, exactly like I’d practiced. “I bet you’ll be president one day. Just like your dad.”

Caleb’s face lit up in relief. He would never admit it, he’d spent half his life running away from it, but this was the only thing he’d ever truly wanted: to be just like dear old Dad.

“Now,” I said, “let’s pray on it.”

We kneeled together at the foot of the couch.

I pressed my forehead into my clasped hands and tried to breathe the anger out of me, but I couldn’t.

It was like a germ. It just kept replicating in my stomach.

Usually my husband’s failures were easy to forgive, but tonight I wanted to kill him.

I could practically see his insipid prayers float past me, in little Comic Sans thought bubbles.

Please keep my kids safe, Lord, along with the chickens.

Help my wife continue to love me. A blow job would be nice, Lord, and if it’s not too much, I’d like the strength to become something memorable. I’d like to become a legend.

All men wanted to become legends. It was so embarrassing.

And what did I want? An easy answer. I wanted more of what I already had. I wanted the whole entire world to see itself through my eyes. A new level of influence. That’s not the kind of thing you ask for directly, though, so I settled for something simpler.

Please let this plan work, Lord. Please don’t let her win. And please give my husband a spine. I’m tired of him needing to borrow mine.

Amen.