Chapter 1: High Heels and Humiliation
The heels were the first thing to betray him.
Six inches of patent leather, glossy as a coffin lid, and Robert's ankles wobbled like a newborn colt's as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The left strap dug into his Achilles tendon. The right one had already rubbed a raw spot the size of a quarter. He would have kicked them off if Mary hadn't specifically instructed him to keep them on, her voice carrying that particular edge that meant do this or I'll make it worse.
The frilly pink jockstrap was worse, though. Much worse.
It wasn't the fabric itself—that was satin, soft and cool against his skin, which was somehow more degrading than if it had been coarse burlap. It was the way it cupped him, lifting and presenting his package like a gift nobody wanted. The frills were the size of his thumbnails and trembled with every micro-movement of his body. He'd been told not to look down. He'd been looking down anyway. He couldn't help it.
Twenty-five mothers stood in a semicircle around him. Twenty-five daughters stood behind them, forming a second ring of judgment. The mothers were dressed in summer dresses and linen pantsuits, their hair freshly blown, their fingers wrapped around champagne flutes. The daughters wore sundresses and heels, and all of them—every single one—held a flyswatter.
Robert swallowed. His throat clicked.
Ava held her phone up at eye level, the red recording light blinking like a tiny taunt. She was wearing a yellow dress he'd bought her for her birthday last month. She smiled at him over the screen.
"Smile for the camera, Dad," she said.
The word Dad hit him in the sternum. He wasn't her real father—her real father lived in Scottsdale and sent twenty-dollar gift cards for her birthday—but he'd been in her life since she was twelve. He'd taught her how to drive. He'd cried at her high school graduation. He'd almost cried again when she'd called him Dad for the first time.
Now she was filming him in a frilly jockstrap while twenty-five strangers turned women circled like sharks.
"Ladies," Mary said.
The room went quiet. Mary stood beside the grand piano, her back straight, her hands clasped in front of her. She wore a cream-colored shift dress and no jewelry except her wedding ring. She didn't need jewelry. She had command.
"Thank you all for being here today. I know many of you were surprised to receive my invitation, but I hope you'll find the entertainment compensates for the inconvenience of the drive."
A few mothers tittered. Patricia stood by the fireplace, her expression serene, a glass of white wine cradled in her palm. She owned this house. She'd agreed to host. She'd been the one to suggest the flyswatters.
"Robert has developed a bit of a problem," Mary continued, walking slowly behind him. Her heels clicked on the marble floor. Robert tracked the sound with his ears, every muscle in his back knotting tighter. "He's developed a fascination with this house. With its residents. With their nighttime routines."
The mothers turned to look at one another. One of them whispered. Another one, a blonde with a tight face, mouthed oh my God.
"Unfortunately," Mary said, stopping directly behind him, "this fascination has not remained private."
She placed a hand on his shoulder. Robert flinched.
"For the past six months, my husband has been watching. From our property line. With binoculars. At all hours. Through windows that were supposed to be private."
The silence that followed felt like a held breath. Robert stared at the floor. Veins of marble, gray and gold. He counted them. Five. Seven. Twelve.
"The good news," Mary said, her hand pressing down, "is that he's agreed to make amends. So let's make one thing clear before we begin."
She stepped around him, placing herself in his line of sight. She held a tray—silver, ornate, the kind of thing you'd serve canapés on at a garden party. The kind of thing that belonged in a better version of his life.
"Robert will be serving today. That's his job. He will carry this tray. He will offer refreshments. He will do this," she said, "while wearing the very expensive lingerie and heels I purchased for him this morning."
The mothers laughed. Sharp, startled sounds. The daughters laughed too, their amusement higher, crueler.
"The rules are simple. Every time Robert drops this tray—and he will drop it, because he has always been clumsy when he's nervous, and right now he is very, very nervous—the nearest woman gets five free swats."
Robert's stomach dropped.
"Five swats," Mary repeated, holding up five fingers. She wiggled them at him. "With the flyswatter. Hard. Consider it payment for every time Robert decided to spy on someone's daughter, someone's sister, someone's friend. Consider it... accountability."
Another mother spoke up. This one was older, silver-haired, wearing a necklace that looked expensive. "Five swats where?"
Mary's smile was sweet. Sweet the way saccharine was sweet—almost chemically so. "Wherever you'd like, Carol. Within reason."
Carol considered this. Then she laughed, and the other mothers followed like a wave.
"Kneel, Robert," Mary said.
Robert knelt. The marble floor was cold and unforgiving against his kneecaps. The stilettos made the position awkward—his heels were too high, pinning his weight forward, forcing him to balance the tray with both hands as Mary lowered it into his open palms.
The tray wasn't light. It had taken him ten minutes in the kitchen to arrange the hors d'oeuvres: tiny triangles of toast topped with salmon mousse, cubed cheese on toothpicks, grapes the size of his thumb. Forty pieces in total. He'd washed his hands three times before arranging them. His fingerprints were probably still on the cheese.
"You will serve from your knees," Mary said. "You will not stand. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not drop that tray."
He'd already dropped one. During the setup, while the guests were arriving, he'd tried to walk toward Patricia and the heel had caught on the tassel of a throw pillow. The tray had tipped. The salmon mousse had painted the rug in orange and pink.
Mary had made him clean it with his tongue.
No. That wasn't right. She'd made him clean it with a cloth, and then she'd made him kneel in the corner for ten minutes while the guests arrived, the frills of the jockstrap quivering with every breath, the pink satin glowing under the chandelier like a beacon of shame.
He heard herself announce the rule now, her voice as steady as a metronome. How many mothers had already earned their five swats? Three? Four? The math made his head swim. Twenty-five women, each waiting for their permission to hurt him, each holding a flyswatter, each smiling down at him like he was the main course at a dinner party.
"Spread out," Mary said to the room. "Form a circle. Give him space to move, but not too much."
The women adjusted themselves. The mothers shuffled backward, the daughters shuffled forward. Robert caught Ava's eye for a second—she was still recording, still smiling, but something in her expression flickered. Not sympathy. Not exactly. But a question, maybe. Was this too far?
Then it was gone, and she was just Ava again, filming her stepfather in lingerie like she'd been doing it her whole life.
"Whenever you're ready, Robert," Mary said. "I believe Mrs. Patterson would like a salmon tartare."
Mrs. Patterson—a woman with prematurely gray hair and a mole on her cheek the size of a pencil eraser—tilted her head and held up her flyswatter. "I'm patient," she said. "But I'm also thirsty."
Robert shifted. The leather of the heels creaked. The tray wobbled. Eight grapes rolled from one side to the other, and his heart lurched into his throat.
Don't drop it. Don't drop it. Don't—
He shuffled forward on his knees, one at a time, the fabric of the jockstrap riding up, the satin catching on his skin. The frills brushed against the inside of his thigh. He felt them like a spiderweb, delicate and terrible.
Mrs. Patterson waited. Her flyswatter tapped against her palm. The handle was plastic, bright yellow, the kind you'd buy at the dollar store.
Robert stopped in front of her. He lifted the tray. His arms were shaking. His elbows were locked. He presented the salmon tartare like an offering.
She took one. She took another. She ate the first while staring directly at his face, her eyes never leaving his, her flyswatter never dropping.
"Delicious," she pronounced.
The room applauded.
Robert's arms gave out.
The tray hit the marble floor with a sound like a gunshot. Salmon mousse splattered. Grapes rolled in every direction. A toothpick landed point-up, quivering, inches from his bare knee.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then Mary laughed.
"Oh, Robert," she said, shaking her head. The crystal chandelier threw her shadow across his face, long and looming. "Mrs. Patterson, I believe you have first honors."
Mrs. Patterson swung before Robert could brace himself.
The flyswatter cracked across his thigh.
The pain was instant—sharp, hot, blooming like a firework under his skin. Robert gasped. His hands flew to cover the spot, but Mary clicked her tongue.
"No blocking," she said. "That's another five."
The room erupted. Laughter bounced off the high ceilings, echoed by the chandelier, multiplied by the walls. Robert hunched over his knees, his palms flat on the cold marble, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
Mrs. Patterson raised her arm again.
"Wait," Ava said.
Everyone turned. Ava lowered her phone.
"Let me get a better angle first," she said. "Can you do it again? Slower?"
Robert exhaled. It came out as a sob, though he refused to cry. He wasn't going to cry. He'd made a promise to himself in the car ride over here—or rather, Mary had made him promise—and he was going to keep it.
No crying. No begging. Take the punishment like a man.
Mrs. Patterson's flyswatter rose again.
Robert closed his eyes.
The second swat landed higher than the first—right where the jockstrap's elastic waistband met his lower back. The frills flattened. The satin pulled. His skin puckered into a welt that would last for days.
Mrs. Patterson didn't stop at two.
The flyswatter fell again and again—five times, as promised—and each crack was met with a chorus of delighted screams and clapping from the assembled women. Robert bit his lip until he tasted copper. He kept his hands on the floor. He kept his dignity in a tiny locked box in the back of his mind, where nobody could reach it.
When it was over, Mary knelt beside him. She was close enough that he could smell her perfume—jasmine and something green, like cut grass. She brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.
"You did that on purpose," he whispered.
Mary's smile didn't waver. "Of course I did. You've been dropping things for years, Robert. I just finally found a use for it."
She stood, addressing the room again.
"Who's thirsty now?"
Twenty-four flyswatters rose in answer.
Robert picked up the tray.
The next drop came from a daughter—a girl Ava's age with strawberry blonde hair and freckles across her nose. She watched him approach on his knees and stepped back at the last second, a deliberate trip-hazard in heels. Robert couldn't stop his momentum. The tray tipped, the cheese slid, and both hit the floor in a clatter that sounded like a car accident.
The girl squealed with laughter.
"Five for me!" she shouted, and her flyswatter whistled through the air.
The pain didn't stop Robert's mind from calculating. Five swats per drop. Twenty-five women. If he dropped the tray just ten more times, that was fifty swats. If he dropped it fifteen more times, that was seventy-five.
His thighs already bore three welts. His back had two. His arms had one apiece from a close swat that had mostly caught the air but skimmed his elbow.
He couldn't survive seventy-five more.
"Time out," he said.
The room paused. Mary raised an eyebrow.
"Time out?" she repeated. "Did you just call time out?"
Robert's throat worked. His mouth was dry. The salmon mousse was congealing on the floor beside him, turning from pink to gray.
"I need to—" he started. "I just need—"
"Patricia," Mary said, not looking away from him. "Is there a timer in this house?"
Patricia's wine glass paused halfway to her lips. She smiled—a slow, thoughtful smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"I believe there's one in the kitchen," she said. "For baking."
"Perfect. Get it. We'll give him three minutes to catch his breath—every second he wastes adds a swat to the pot."
Robert's heart hammered.
"Actually," Mary added, "make it one minute."
Patricia disappeared into the hall. The mothers whispered. The daughters took pictures. Ava kept filming, her phone steady, her expression unreadable.
Robert stayed on his knees. His hands were shaking. The tray lay empty beside him, the flyswatter welts on his skin pulsing with every heartbeat like second suns.
One minute.
What could he do with one minute?
Run, said a voice in the back of his head. Run and never come back.
But his car keys were in Mary's purse. His wallet too. He was forty-nine years old, wearing a frilly jockstrap and six-inch heels, and he had no job, no money, and no friends who would take him in if he showed up at their doorstep like this.
Mary had planned this. She'd planned all of it—the outfit, the invitation, the flyswatters, the rules. She'd planned it like a military operation, and she'd won before he'd even set foot in the house.
Patricia returned with a kitchen timer in the shape of a tomato. She set it on the piano beside Mary, and Mary twisted the dial.
"One minute," she announced. "Starting now."
Robert closed his eyes.
The red numbers on the timer flickered.
Fifty-nine seconds.
Fifty-eight.
The mothers adjusted their flyswatters. The daughters whispered behind their hands.
Ava zoomed in.
And somewhere in the room, a champagne flute clinked—crystalline, delicate, the sound of celebration.
"Ready or not," Mary said softly, "here he comes."
The timer beeped.
Robert's eyes snapped open. Fifty-nine seconds had felt like fifty-nine years. His knees had gone numb somewhere around the forty-second mark, and his heels had started to cramp in a way that suggested permanent damage. But the beep meant movement. The beep meant survival.
"Time's up," Mary announced. "Everyone, positions."
The women shifted. Heels clicked against marble. Flyswatters tapped against palms in a rhythm that sounded like rain on a tin roof—soft at first, then building, a percussion section tuning up before the symphony.
Robert grabbed the tray. His fingers were slick with sweat, and the silver nearly slipped from his grip before he got it steady. The remaining hors d'oeuvres—maybe a dozen survivors from the two spills—slid to one edge. He righted them with a trembling hand.
"First customer," Mary said, consulting a small notebook she'd produced from somewhere. "Ava, sweetheart, would you like something?"
Ava lowered her phone. The red recording light blinked once, twice, then went dark as she tucked the device into her pocket.
"I'd love something," she said.
She stepped forward, yellow dress swishing around her knees. She'd worn flats instead of heels—sensible, unassuming—and somehow that made it worse. She didn't need height to tower over him. She didn't need weapons to make him feel small.
Robert shuffled toward her on his knees. The tray wobbled. He caught it with his chin, which sent a bolt of pain up his jaw, but he didn't drop it.
Ava plucked a grape from the tray. She held it up to the light, examining it like a jeweler appraising a diamond.
"These are good grapes," she said. "Where'd you get them?"
Robert's voice came out as a croak. "Whole Foods."
"Organic?"
"I don't—" He swallowed. "I don't remember."
Ava popped the grape into her mouth. She chewed slowly, deliberately, her eyes never leaving his face.
"You know," she said, still chewing, "my friends in the house—the ones you were watching—they wanted to come tonight. Patricia had to talk them out of it."
Robert's stomach clenched.
"They wanted to bring their boyfriends," Ava continued. "And their brothers. And one of them has a cousin who plays linebacker for the football team. He's six-four, three hundred pounds, and he was very, very interested in meeting you."
The room had gone quiet. Even Mary seemed to be waiting.
"But I said no," Ava said. "I said, 'Let's give him a chance to make it right. Let's give him a chance to be better.'"
She reached down and tilted his chin up with one finger. Her touch was gentle. Her eyes were not.
"So here's your chance, Dad. Don't blow it."
She stepped back, and Mary made a notation in her notebook.
"Excellent," Mary said. "Next."
The next hour passed in a blur of pain and humiliation.
Robert served champagne to a woman who made him hold the glass between his teeth while she drank from it. He served cheese cubes to a mother who dropped them deliberately, one by one, then made him pick each one up with his mouth. He served salmon tartare to a daughter who took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and then spat it back onto the tray.
"I don't like salmon," she said.
He dropped the tray.
Five swats.
His thighs were a roadmap of welts now—red lines intersecting and overlapping, some raised, some already bruising purple. His back had developed a constellation of marks that Ava kept photographing from different angles. His arms had stopped shaking. That was the scary part. They'd gone numb. He could barely feel the tray anymore.
The worst was the mothers. The daughters laughed because they were young and cruelty came naturally to the young. But the mothers—the mothers laughed like they'd been waiting their whole lives for permission.
One of them, a woman named Susan with a tight perm and a pearl necklace that probably cost more than Robert's car, made him kneel in front of her while she described—in exhaustive detail—what she would do if she ever caught him near her daughter.
"I have a shovel," she said, smiling. "And a very large backyard."
Robert nodded. His mouth was dry. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had water.
"That's the spirit," Susan said, and patted his head like a dog.
Another mother, a small woman with sharp eyes and a sharper voice, didn't speak at all. She just watched him. Every time he crawled past her with the tray, she'd tap her flyswatter against her leg—once, twice, three times—and he'd flinch. She never actually hit him. She didn't need to. The anticipation was worse.
By the third hour, Robert had served every woman in the room at least once. He'd been swatted forty-seven times. He'd counted. He couldn't help it. The numbers were the only thing that made sense anymore—the only proof that this was real and not some fever dream cooked up by his guilty conscience.
He was kneeling in the center of the room, the tray empty, his arms hanging at his sides, when Mary clapped her hands.
"Ladies," she said, "I think Robert has earned a break."
The mothers applauded. The daughters cheered. Ava held up her phone and gave him a thumbs-up.
Robert didn't move. He wasn't sure he could.
"Robert," Mary said, sharper now. "On your feet."
He tried. The heels betrayed him. He got halfway up before his ankle rolled and he crashed back down, the tray clattering away, his hands catching the marble hard enough to skin his palms.
The room laughed. But it wasn't the same laugh. It was softer now. Almost pitying.
Mary walked over. She crouched beside him, her cream dress pooling on the floor like spilled milk.
"You did well," she said, her voice low. "I'm proud of you."
Robert looked at her. His eyes were wet—when had that happened?—and his nose was running, and his whole body was shaking like a leaf in a storm.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry."
Mary nodded. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small handkerchief—cotton, embroidered with her initials, the kind of thing she never used because she was too practical for delicate things.
"Clean yourself up," she said. "We're not done yet."
Robert took the handkerchief. His fingers brushed hers, and he felt an electric jolt—fear, relief, something in between.
"Not done?" he repeated.
Mary stood. She addressed the room, raising her voice for the back rows.
"Ladies," she said, "I've been informed that Patricia has one more surprise for us. Something she's been saving for a special occasion."
Patricia stepped forward, wine glass still in hand. She was smiling—that same serene, calculating smile she'd worn all night.
"Robert," she said, "how would you like to see the sorority house? The real one. The one you've been watching from outside all these months."
Robert's blood ran cold.
"The tour," Patricia continued, "will be conducted by the residents themselves. They've prepared a few... interactive elements."
The daughters exchanged glances. Giggles rippled through the group.
"And since it's a special occasion," Patricia said, "we thought we might invite the boys from the fraternity next door. They've been very curious about our guest of honor."
Robert's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Mary took his hand. Her grip was iron disguised as silk.
"Come along, dear," she said. "You wanted to see inside so badly. Now's your chance."
She pulled him to his feet. He wobbled on the heels, caught himself on her arm, and stood there—trembling, exposed, welts rising on his skin like a topographical map of his shame.
Twenty-five mothers. Twenty-five daughters. One sorority house full of strangers waiting to meet him.
Robert swallowed.
"Lead the way," he said.
And Patricia smiled.
Patricia led them out of the living room, her wine glass still balanced in her palm like she'd been born holding it. The train of women followed in a tide of linen and perfume, twenty-five mothers and twenty-five daughters, a swarm of lace and laughter moving up the grand staircase.
Robert went last. His heels clicked on each marble step with a sound like a metronome counting down his humiliation. Mary guided him by the elbow, her grip firm but not cruel, as if he were a dog that might bolt.
The second floor hallway was lined with doors. The first one Patricia opened revealed a study with leather chairs and a fireplace, the kind of room that belonged in a hunting lodge. The second held a library, bookshelves floor to ceiling, a rolling ladder that looked like it hadn't been moved in years.
"These are the rooms you saw from your yard," Patricia said, not looking back at him. "The ones that faced your property line."
Robert's cheeks burned. He hadn't known anyone had noticed exactly which windows he looked at. But Patricia had. Of course she had. She'd been watching him back.
The third door opened onto a bedroom. Pink walls, white furniture, a canopy bed with lace curtains. A daughter's room, one of the girls, though he didn't know which. She stood in the doorway now with her face a careful mask of nothing, and Robert couldn't look at her.
"This window," Patricia said, crossing to the far wall, "faces your house. The girl who lives here told me she saw you standing at your bedroom window for three hours one night last spring. Watching her read. Watching her do homework."
Robert's stomach turned.
"Did you enjoy that, Robert?"
The question hung there. The mothers shifted. The daughters tightened their grips on their flyswatters.
"No, ma'am," he managed.
Patricia's smile thinned. "Louder, please."
"No, ma'am." His voice cracked on the second word.
Something passed through the room, a flicker of satisfaction that lit up the women's faces in the same moment. One of the daughters, the strawberry blonde, held out her flyswatter to Patricia like an offering.
"It's my room," she said. "I'd like the honor."
Patricia waved her hand. "Go ahead."
The girl wound up. Robert's eyes squeezed shut. The flyswatter whistled down across his back with a crack that echoed off the pink walls. He saw stars. If he hadn't been on his knees, he would have fallen.
"Thank you, miss," he whispered, remembering the rule.
The girl looked startled. Then she laughed, bright and delighted, and her friends joined in.
"Did he just call me miss?" she said. "Oh my God, I love him."
The laughter followed them down the hall. Mary kept her hand on his elbow, a gentle steering current through the swarm of women. At the far end of the corridor, Patricia stopped before a door painted matte black, the only one that looked different from the others. She produced a key from her pocket and turned it in the lock.
"In here," she said.
The room beyond was dark. Patricia reached inside and flicked a switch. Fluorescent light buzzed to life, revealing a long narrow space lined with velvet crowd ropes, the kind you'd see outside a nightclub. Photographs covered the walls.
Robert's photo was in the center. It was him, no question. He stood at his bedroom window, binoculars pressed to his face, caught mid-motion by a telephoto lens. The shot was so clear he could see the pattern on his own bathrobe.
Someone had drawn a red circle around his head and written "CAUGHT" in marker underneath.
The room filled with laughter again, but this time it was different. Meaner. The daughters pressed in close, phones out, snapping pictures of the photographs. The mothers pointed at him and whispered to each other.
Robert kept his eyes on the floor.
"There's more," Patricia said.
She walked to the far end of the hall and opened an exterior door. Night air spilled in, cool and sweet. Beyond the threshold, the wraparound porch led down to the backyard.
And there, standing in a loose cluster on the lawn, were six boys in fraternity shirts and sweatpants. They held flyswatters.
"Oh," the strawberry blonde said, her voice gone giddy. "Why didn't you tell me they were coming?"
Patricia's smile didn't waver. "I wanted it to be a surprise."
Six boys. Six flyswatters. And one black-marker message painted on the lawn: ROBERT'S LAST STAND.
Robert turned. He looked at Mary, and for the first time all night, he saw something in her face that might have been mercy.
"They won't hurt him," she said. "Not permanently."
"He'll be fine," Ava added, phone already lifted. "I promise."
And all Robert could do, standing at the threshold of the black door on the edge of the lawn with the dark and the laughter and the ringing in his ears, was nod.
Robert stepped through the black door onto the porch. The night air hit his bare skin like a slap. The six fraternity boys shifted on the lawn, flyswatters dangling from their hands, their grins visible even in the dim porch light.
Mary raised her hand. The boys paused.
"Hang on," she said. "Before we get to the main event, I have one more thing for you, Robert."
She reached into the duffel bag she'd carried from the house. Robert's heart sank when he saw what she pulled out. The silver tray. The one he'd dropped twice already. She held it out to him, and the porch light caught the dents in the metal where it had struck the marble.
"Take it."
His hands moved before his brain caught up. The tray was cold against his palms, heavier than it had been an hour ago. Or maybe that was just the weight of forty-seven welts on his skin, each one throbbing in time with his pulse.
"You'll carry this for the rest of the night," Mary said. "Through the tour. Through the lawn. Through whatever comes next."
The boys on the lawn hooted. One of them, a tall kid with a backwards baseball cap, mimed swinging his flyswatter like a baseball bat.
Robert's throat clicked. "Yes, ma'am."
Patricia descended the porch steps first. The mothers followed in a stream of linen and champagne. The daughters came last, and the strawberry blonde grabbed Robert's elbow as she passed, her touch light, almost playful.
"Don't drop it," she said. "I need more swats. I only got five."
She laughed and skipped ahead to join her friends.
Mary walked beside Robert down the steps. The grass was cool and wet against his bare feet. The heels sank into the turf with every step, making him wobble. He clutched the tray with both hands, arms rigid, elbows locked.
The fraternity boys had arranged themselves in a loose semicircle around a patch of lawn covered in picnic blankets. A folding table stood at the edge, stacked with more hors d'oeuvres. The black marker message on the grass glowed under the floodlights: ROBERT'S LAST STAND.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Patricia announced, "I give you our server for the evening."
The boys cheered. The mothers clapped. The daughters snapped photos.
Robert shuffled forward. Each step was a negotiation with the heels, the grass, the weight of the tray. He made it to the folding table without falling, and the tallest boy extended a hand to stop him.
"Hold up," the boy said. "You gotta fill it first."
Robert stared at the table. Plates of finger sandwiches. Bowls of chips. A platter of fruit. He set the tray down with shaking hands and began transferring food, one item at a time, his fingers clumsy and numb.
"No hands," Mary said from behind him.
He froze.
"Use your mouth," she clarified. "You've got a good mouth. You've been using it all night to apologize."
The women laughed. The boys whooped. Robert looked at the tray, then at the sandwiches, then at the circle of faces surrounding him.
He leaned down. He picked up a sandwich with his teeth. He transferred it to the tray. Another. Another. The cucumber slices slipped off, and he caught them with his tongue, and the crowd erupted in applause.
By the time the tray was full, Robert's jaw ached. He lifted it with both hands, arms trembling, the weight pulling at his shoulder sockets. He turned to face the semicircle.
The tall boy with the baseball cap stepped forward.
"I'm Derek," he said. "And I'm thirsty as hell."
Robert shuffled toward him. The heels sank. His ankle wobbled. He caught himself at the last second, a stumble that nearly cost him the tray.
Derek grabbed a sandwich. He ate it in two bites, watching Robert the whole time.
"You know what I heard about you?" Derek said, mouth full. "I heard you like watching girls from windows."
Robert said nothing.
"That's weird, man." Derek's voice was casual, almost friendly, but his eyes weren't. "My girlfriend lives here. The one with the freckles. How'd you feel if someone watched her all night?"
Robert's throat worked. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't fix creepy." Derek pointed at the tray. "You know what fixes creepy? Hard work. So work."
He stepped aside.
The next boy took a grape. The one after that took a toothpick of cheese. They were slower than the mothers had been. Deliberate. They took their time choosing, and Robert held the tray steady through all of it, his biceps shrieking, his knees threatening to buckle.
The strawberry blonde came up last. She looked at the tray, then at Robert, then back at the tray.
"I want," she said slowly, "everything."
She swept her hand across the tray. Everything went flying. Sandwiches scattered across the grass. Cucumbers rolled into the dark. A bowl of dip upended onto Robert's bare chest.
The tray hit the ground.
"Five for me," she sang.
Her flyswatter cracked across his hip before he could even kneel to collect the mess. Robert gasped, dropped to his knees in the wet grass, and started gathering the scattered food with his bare hands.
Behind him, the boys laughed. The mothers applauded.
Robert was still on his knees in the wet grass, scooping cucumber slices into the tray with trembling fingers, when Derek laughed.
"Seriously, dude," he said, turning to his brothers. "His old lady dresses him up in a jockstrap and he just takes it? I'd never let a woman do that to me."
The other boys laughed. The tall one with the backwards cap elbowed his friend.
"Damn right," Derek said. "No way."
Mary's voice cut through the laughter like a blade. "Stop."
The boys froze. Derek's smile faltered.
"What?" he said.
Mary walked toward him. Her heels left small divots in the grass. She stopped three feet from Derek and looked him up and down, slowly, the way a person inspects a cut of meat.
"You heard his story," she said. "You know what he did. And yet you stand there, laughing at him for taking responsibility. For making amends. For doing the work."
Derek shuffled his feet. "I mean, I'm just saying—"
"You're saying you'd never let a woman tell you what to do." Mary nodded. "That's very interesting. Patricia?"
Patricia stepped forward. The mothers and daughters had formed a loose ring around the boys now, flyswatters held loose at their sides. The boys had stopped laughing.
"I think," Patricia said, "the young men have a point. It's easy to stand there and judge. But it's harder to be on the other side of the swat."
Mary smiled. "My thoughts exactly. Boys, line up."
"Wait," Derek said. "Wait, what are you doing?"
"Bend over the table," Mary said. "One at a time. You wanted to see what accountability looks like. Here's your chance."
The boys looked at each other. None of them moved.
"Fine," Mary said. "Robert, show them how it's done."
Robert scrambled to his feet, the tray clutched to his chest. He shuffled to the folding table, set the tray down, and bent over it without hesitation. His jockstrap rode up. The welts on his back and thighs glowed pink under the floodlights.
"See how easy that is?" Mary said. "His pride's been dead for months. Yours is still alive. Which makes this much, much better."
Derek stared at Robert's bent back. His face had gone pale under the porch light.
"You can't be serious," he said.
Patricia raised her flyswatter. "Oh, I'm very serious, young man. You came to my house. You made jokes about my girls. You stood here laughing while a man apologized for his crimes. Now you'll see how it feels to be the one on the other side of the grass."
The strawberry blonde grabbed Derek's arm and tugged him toward the table. "Come on," she said, her voice sweet. "I'll go easy on you."
She didn't go easy on him.
Her first swat cracked across the back of his thighs with a sound like a gunshot. Derek yelped, gripped the table edge, and the other boys burst out laughing. Then the mothers moved in.
Susan with the pearl necklace went second. She chose the backs of his knees, swinging hard enough that his legs buckled. Carol took his lower back. The silver-haired woman who'd asked where the swats would land took both of the backs of his calves, one after the other, her flyswatter whistling through the air.
Derek's bravado evaporated in the first minute. By the second, he was gripping the table with white knuckles, his jaw clenched, his eyes squeezed shut.
"Ah, don't," he said. "Please—"
"Please what?" Mary asked. "Please stop? Robert never asked to stop, and he took forty-seven."
"Forty-seven?" one of the girls whispered.
Robert stood at the edge of the circle, the tray still in his hands. Nobody was looking at him anymore. The mothers had surrounded the six boys, and the boys were bent over the table one after another, each taking their turn under the flyswatters. The daughters took photos. The mothers laughed. The boys' grunts and yelps punctuated the night air like firecrackers.
The last one, a quiet kid with glasses, took his swats in silence. When it was over, he straightened up, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and slunk to the edge of the lawn.
Derek was last again. The strawberry blonde gave him ten extra swats, her arm windmilling, her aim precise. By the end, he'd stopped clenching his teeth and started making small, wounded sounds with every impact.
Robert felt something shift inside him. He wasn't alone anymore. He was still wearing the jockstrap, still barefoot in the grass with his welts burning, but the boys had the same red lines now. The same purple blooms crawling up their thighs.
"Hey," he said. His voice was hoarse. Derek flinched at the sound.
Robert shuffled over to the folding table. The tray was still half full. He picked up a sandwich and held it out.
"Want one?" he said.
Derek looked at the sandwich. Then at Robert. Then at the circle of laughing women who had just spanked him raw.
"Thanks," he muttered, and took the sandwich.
The sandwich hung between them like a peace offering. Derek took it with fingers that trembled, and for a moment the night went quiet, the laughter dropping to a murmur.
Then Susan with the pearl necklace cleared her throat.
"I believe," she said, "the entertainment isn't over yet."
Robert's stomach dropped. He turned, still holding the tray, and found the mothers forming a loose ring around him. The daughters drifted in behind them. The boys, still rubbing their thighs, stepped back to the edge of the lawn like spectators.
"The rules," Mary said, "were simple. Every time the tray drops, five swats. That tray is still in his hands. Which means we haven't finished."
Susan stepped forward. Her flyswatter was yellow, plastic, the kind you'd buy at a dollar store. It looked almost comical in her manicured hand.
"Let's see how long he can hold it," she said.
The first swat came without warning. Susan swung from behind, catching Robert low across the back of his left thigh. The crack echoed off the house. Robert's arms shot out, the tray wobbled, and he caught it with his chin, sending a jolt up his jaw.
"He's steady," Carol observed. "Good."
Another swat, this time from the right. A mother he didn't know, red-haired, freckled, swung with both hands. The flyswatter whistled through the air and landed square on the back of his right calf. Robert's knee buckled. He staggered, heel sinking into the grass, and somehow kept the tray level.
"Come on, Robert," the strawberry blonde said. She'd circled around to face him. "You're doing so well."
She swung at his hip. The plastic edge caught the jockstrap's waistband, and Robert felt the sting travel up his spine. He grunted. The tray tilted, cheeses slid, and he righted it a hair from disaster.
"Hold it," Mary said. Her voice was calm. "Hold it, or it's fifteen."
Robert gripped the tray with white knuckles. His arms had gone past numb into a place of pure pain, a bright wire running from his shoulders to his wrists.
The mothers took turns.
Susan. Carol. The silver-haired woman. The redhead. A tall woman with a tight bun who swung from above, the flyswatter coming down on his shoulders like a riding crop. Each crack punctuated by a laugh, a cheer, the click of a phone camera.
The tray rattled. Cucumber slices slid toward the edge. Robert leaned backward, compensating, and the motion cost him his balance.
A swat caught him behind the knees. His legs gave out. He went down hard, the tray flying, silver spinning, food scattering across the grass like a burst piñata.
"Count it," Mary said.
"Ten," Susan said. "That's ten."
"Twenty," the strawberry blonde corrected. "He dropped it twice."
Robert knelt in the grass, head down, hands flat on the turf. The mothers closed in. The flyswatters rose.
The first one fell.
And then they all fell at once. A rain of plastic and sting, landing on his back, his thighs, his shoulders, his arms, the welts overlapping until they blurred into one continuous wall of fire. Robert pressed his forehead to the grass. He made no sound. He'd stopped making sounds an hour ago.
The boys watched from the edge. Derek had stopped eating. His face was pale.
Ava stepped closer, phone held high, the red light steady. "How many now, Mom?"
"Twenty." Mary counted aloud as a swat cracked across Robert's shoulder blade. "Twenty-one. Twenty-two."
Twenty-seven. Thirty-one. Thirty-six. Each number punctuated by the snap of plastic on skin, the grunt Robert couldn't quite suppress, the wet sound of his breath against the grass.
At forty-five, Mary raised her hand.
The rain stopped.
Robert stayed where he was. His back was a single red field, crisscrossed with raised lines, some already swelling fat and purple. He didn't move. He wasn't sure he could.
"Count them," Mary said softly. "Count your blessings, Robert."
One of the daughters knelt beside him. The strawberry blonde. She touched his shoulder, and he flinched, a full-body jerk.
"Hey," she said. "Hey. That's the most anyone's ever taken here. That's something."
He didn't look up.
Mary walked over. She crouched, her dress pooling in the grass, and laid a hand on his head.
"You've earned the right to stand," she said. "On your feet."
Robert's hands moved first. Then his arms. Then his knees, shaking, grinding against the turf. He rose on the heels, wobbling, and stood clutching the empty tray.
"Good boy," Mary said.
And the women applauded.