The Wentworths Read online

  Lewis the ancient, charcoal, maitre’d bowed as they mounted the steps to the dining room. He’d been wasting away for years but the club never thought to buy him a new tuxedo and so now it hung from his shoulders and puddled on his shoes.

  “Good evening Mr. Wentworth, Missus Wentworth.”

  “Lewis.” August slapped him on the back with what Judith considered a bit too much force but Lewis stood his ground.

  The dining room was nearly full. Judith loved this room. It was right out of one of her girlhood fantasies. High vaulted ceiling with four huge crystal chandeliers, the far wall of the room was all windows with gigantic French doors that opened on a magnificent terrace. The golf course spread out in every direction and from this room you would never know you were in the middle of Beverly Hills. It was a magical oasis.

  Lewis gathered the menus. “Right this way.”

  Judith and August weren’t able to keep up with Lewis. There were people at every table who had to be addressed. August had belonged here all his life and there weren’t many members he didn’t know. Plus Thursday night was the seafood buffet, very popular. You could always count on seeing those whom you cared about on Thursdays. Judith kissed the ladies and hugged the men and she felt entirely happy and secure as she sat down. These were her friends, her peers, her people. She let her eyes scan the room. Was there anyone she missed? They’d said hello to the Schwinns, the Carters, the McManns, and the Adamsons. She waved to the Gillettes. Then her eyes landed on that awful Charles Worthington. Why he was still a member here, Judith could not understand. Such a creepy man and there’d been that run-in with the law, something about muscle-bound prostitutes and drugs and hidden cameras. Of course he was acquitted, with that kind of money who wouldn’t be, but there was no question of his guilt. Honestly, his membership should have been revoked but the Worthingtons were one of the original families and there was something in the bylaws that stopped the board of directors from expelling the wretched man. Talk about a black sheep. He never socialized with the other members. He just came in, several nights a week, and ate his meals alone at the table in the far corner by the kitchen, then left. Judith turned her chair away and put him out of her mind. She was determined to enjoy this evening.

  Judith ordered a glass of champagne and August asked for a double scotch and soda. When Pedro, the waiter, walked away Judith said, “Double scotches are not part of our agreement.”

  “Put a cork in it, Judith,” August cleared his throat. “I had a rough day.”

  “What, you lost at dominoes?”

  August glared at Judith with all the built-up anger of forty years of marriage. Then he started cracking the knuckles on his left hand, a habit that she found absolutely revolting. Judith smoothed the napkin over her lap. She needed to get a hold of herself. What was she thinking, starting a fight here at the club? Maggie was due to arrive any minute.

  “I’m sorry, darling.” She took his right hand, before he could start cracking it, and squeezed. “I guess we’re all a little shaken up. David’s death and all. Forgive me?”

  He extracted his hand from hers and set to work on the cuticles. This man was such a child. Were any of their friends watching? Judith scanned the room. All seemed to be engaged in conversation.

  Judith started over. “Tell me about today, sweetheart.”

  August dropped his hands and straightened his spine. “What do you mean?”

  “You said you had a rough day,” Judith said. What was that look on his face? “You all right, August?”

  Just then Maggie arrived. She wore a turtleneck under a slim fitted jacket and a tight skirt with kick pleats. All black. Very flattering. The stylish, beautiful widow, Maggie Halliburton brave, stunning and all alone to the world. August stood to welcome her even though Maggie was all the way across the room. It would take her awhile to reach them because she would stop at each of the tables to receive condolences. Judith watched as the husbands gave long, warm hugs while most of the wives looked on with false sympathy. Beautiful widows were not particularly welcome amongst the married women here. Once your husband died you were cast out of the inner circle, especially if you posed a threat. Judith suspected that Maggie didn’t have any real friends in this room and that soon she would stop coming to the club altogether as did most of the widows. Maggie was never much of a golfer so there really wouldn’t be much of a point to her hanging around. No, it wouldn’t be long before they were asking each other how Maggie was and no one would really know.

  When she finally got close to their table, Judith jumped up and threw her arms around Maggie before August could move in. “Darling, darling, darling.” Judith held her tight and rocked her back and forth. “I’m so glad you’re here.” Maggie hugged back with surprising passion and her body shuddered with a sob.

  “Come on,” Judith said. “Sit down, let me get you a drink.” And Judith helped Maggie into a chair thus depriving August of the chance to physically show his support.

  When Gus looked at Maggie he still saw that seventeen-year-old girl with the clear, clear brown eyes and the brilliant smile. She was frozen there in time for him, so full of life and possibilities. Part of his brain registered the fact that Maggie’s skin was papery now, thin and vulnerable. Her lips were no longer full in the way they’d been in high school and her hair was not that same deep lustrous brown. But as he reached across the table to take her hand, it was the Maggie of his boyhood, the beautiful Maggie of his young dreams whom he sought to comfort. He had always loved this girl and part of him always would.

  “How you holding up?” Gus took her hand.

  “She is holding up just fine.” Judith took Maggie’s other hand. “Aren’t you, Maggie?”

  Sometimes Gus wished that Judith would just evaporate. A little puff of wind and she’d be gone. His wife’s whining voice and constant nagging tore at him over the years, physically, and now she was like the chronic but not quite lethal ailments that he suffered on a daily basis. Judith was his arthritic hip, his achy low back, his very painful tennis elbow. There was no cure for Judith, just pain medication and a stiff upper lip.

  “I’m going to be fine,” Maggie said. She withdrew her hands and put them in her lap. “Thank you both for inviting me. I don’t seem to want to leave the house very much. I don’t want to do much of anything except sleep, but I know that will change. Eventually. I’ll be fine.”

  That’s what Gus liked about Maggie, she was straightforward. Ask her a question and she’d give you an honest answer. No drama, no silliness.

  It was awful, David dying. He was too young, wasn’t he? Wasn’t this too soon? It seemed very unfair to Gus, and it scared him that his group of friends, these lifetime companions, were entering that final stage where memories became the focal point and the future no longer seemed so sure. He wanted to hug Maggie and tell her he’d always loved her. He wanted to cry with her over David’s death but instead took a good long pull on his scotch and let his thoughts drift to more immediate problems while Judith took over the conversation.

  33

  A Reflective Moment with Norman

  My parents: August and Judith, Incubus and Succubus. He rapes and pillages while she sucks the life and humor out of all who enter her realm. They are a perfect match, made in hell. When I close my eyes I see August with his tongue lolling out of his mouth, chin wet with spit and mucous, eyes bloodshot with lust and rage. His hunger is all consuming. He is a feverish creature who can never be satisfied. And over there, crouched in the corner, is Judith with her pinched narrow face and her single row of teeth waiting, like a spider, to drain the joy from any being who tragically stumbles into her web. An evening with Judith will render you gray, devoid of color. You will feel very cold after just a few moments in her presence. She will steal and destroy any hope or dream that you hold close and leave you devastated, filled with despair. They will stay together for all eternity, my parents. Avoid them and their offspring at all costs.

  I am immune, vaccina
ted by right of birth. I am only here for a few more moments, treading water, awaiting my next instruction. It is long overdue, no question, but it’s coming and I will be ready when it comes. My antenna is up, receivers switched on, full volume and I’m at the controls. Any minute now, I’ll be gone and you’ll be left on your own. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  34

  Paul Springs into Action

  Paul knew, in his heart of hearts he knew, that his son had a problem. Something was not right with this boy, and his attempts at conversation, man to man, had been a complete failure. The kid was withdrawn and sullen. Paul had gone to the library and done a lot of research. Joey was definitely exhibiting some troubling symptoms: the secrecy, the locked doors, the withdrawn behavior. Paul had to get to the bottom of this, and if his son was a drug addict, well, he’d deal with it. After careful reading, Paul realized that both Joey and Monica were at risk, genetically at risk. Look at Uncle Norman, clearly he had substance abuse issues. Grandpa August was an alcoholic who hid his addiction behind an extreme enthusiasm for collecting wine. And unfortunately it looked like Becky might be developing a problem with sleeping pills and possibly anti-anxiety medications. So yes, his wife and children had a little defective DNA but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. These things could be solved with early detection and intervention. There were steps he could take and a whole army of people out there who could help if needed. But the first thing he had to do was determine exactly the extent of the problem. There was only one solution—a thorough search of the premises.

  Paul walked into Little Joey’s room and closed the door. The kids were at school and Becky was off at one of her exercise classes but Paul didn’t particularly want Lucy, the housekeeper, to know what he was up to. This was a Wentworth-Jones issue, a private family matter, and so he locked the door behind him. The bed was made, neatly as before. That in itself told Paul that something was wrong. Little Joey, the slob, was suddenly making an effort to take care of his room? No, Little Joey had obviously instigated a cover-up. Paul knelt by the bed and checked the hole in the mattress. He didn’t expect to find anything but it was the easiest place to start. Nothing. Then removed the covers and pulled the mattress off the box springs. Bingo. There, towards the middle of the box spring, lay a small green canvas pencil pouch, the kind that kids used at school. The momentary thrill of discovery was instantly replaced by fear as Paul sat on the bed. He knew it, Paul had always felt he had better than average instincts and here again was proof of that fact. His son was in trouble. His son needed help. Paul took a deep breath and reached for the pouch. He would do whatever it took to make things right. Joey was young; they were catching this thing early. Paul slowly opened the zipper and told himself that no matter what he found, he could deal with it. They would all work together and get counseling, as a family.

  Paul dumped the contents of the pouch on the bed and stared. A set of nudie playing cards, a pen with a women in a disappearing swimsuit (depending which way you held the pen), a plastic miniature female doll with a strong resemblance to Helen Hunt that was anatomically correct complete with pubic hair, a cheap belt buckle that spelled F-U-C-K, an extra large flavored condom and a small aerosol spray labeled Pussy in a Can. He actually laughed out loud. This was Little Joey’s big secret? Paul picked up the pen and drained the swimsuit halfway so the woman was topless. This was the healthy collection of a normal heterosexual boy and Paul almost felt proud. He sprayed a little of the pussy scent into the air; it actually smelled like a woman. What kid wouldn’t want this stuff? Good for Joey, and it would be Joey from now on. He wasn’t Little anymore, he was becoming a young man and the family needed to treat him as such. Paul was happy and relieved as he reloaded the boyish treasures, replaced the pouch and reassembled the bed. There was nothing wrong with his son, he was just growing up.

  The room looked just as it had when he entered and Paul was about to leave when he decided he should look around a little more, get to know his son better, double check that there wasn’t anything else going on. He went to the shelves and pulled out a couple of random books, checking for hollowed out secret compartments. He’d once seen a movie where the bad drug dealers taped their stashes to the back of the toilet and so, just for fun, he looked there. He cleared out the towels and searched under the sink. Nothing. Then he walked into the closet and opened the drawers. T-shirts, underwear, socks. Boy stuff. An ordinary closet. Paul was going to leave when he spotted a neon pink hippopotamus tucked away in the corner on the upper most top shelf. It was the kind of stuffed animal you might win at a carnival, ugly and very feminine with a lavender bow tied at its neck and huge plastic eyes. He reached up and pulled the thing down. It was heavy. Too heavy. What the hell was in this thing? Paul ran his fingers along the seams then flipped the animal over. Sure enough there was a split in the stomach that was held shut with tiny gold safety pins. He opened the seam and pulled out a Ziplock bag full of pennies, Becky’s lost diamond earring wrapped in tissue paper, a set of old cuff links that Paul had misplaced years ago, a porcelain ashtray from the Treetops Hotel in Tanzania and a glass eye. Paul picked up the bag of pennies and checked the dates. 1907, 1919, 1923. His childhood collection here in a bag in Joey’s closet.

  Paul tore the room apart. He found hiding places everywhere. Joey had cut a hole in the drywall behind his shoe rack. He’d loosened a tile in the bathroom and hollowed out an area of the flooring. He had things stashed in the heating vents, the stereo, the television and even in the base of the humidifier. Paul turned that room upside down and when he was finished he was faced with a pile of stuff that made him dizzy with confusion. What was this thing he was dealing with? Why did Joey have three sets of Becky’s keys, Paul’s shoe horn, a toggle wrench, lipstick, golf balls, an engraved gold watch with the inscription Conrad August Wentworth, teaspoons and salt shakers, a framed picture of five Latin children standing outside a church somewhere in South America, necklaces and bracelets, knives, sun glasses, a yellowing set of dentures and Judith’s antique silver tongs? What on earth did this kid need these things for? Why would he steal from all these people? Paul sat there on the floor of Joey’s room and realized that his son was an absolute stranger.

  35

  Norman: Into the Wild

  Have you ever killed anything? Watched the life force expire while you stood by holding the smoking gun? Did it thrill you? Give you the kind of release you’d always hope for in the bedroom? My father took me deer hunting in the Sierras when I was thirteen. One time only. Conrad had gone off to college and I think August was lonely in a house full of women. He was determined to make me into a man.

  There were several months of preparation for the trip. I was taken to the skeet-shooting range every Saturday and encouraged to learn the ins and outs of annihilating the clay pigeons. During the week my father would come home early and the two of us would have target practice in the backyard with tin cans and a pellet gun. To everyone’s surprise, I was a pretty good shot, better than Conrad when he was my age, and for a brief moment my father gave me his undivided attention.

  At night, after dinner, August and I would retire to his study and close the door. He’d sit behind his desk and I’d perch on one of the ostrich skin sofas. I always sat on the edge, sure that any minute he’d lose interest in me and I would be asked to leave. But that never happened. He told me long stories about hunting in Africa, the close calls, the incredible thrill of the hunt, the victory of the kill. I listened carefully and pushed down all feelings of revulsion. This was my big chance to have a relationship with my father.

  There is a lot to learn about the killing of an animal and I was surprised by the complex ethical code that my father shared with other hunters. One must aim carefully, shot selection and placement is key. A good hunter never takes the “frontal” shot. The vulnerable area is too narrow and there’s a good chance that you will wound but not kill the animal. Likewise with the “rear” shot, or the “Texas heart shot” as my father lik
ed to call it.

  “On a rear shot, you’re not going to get a kill,” August would say while sipping his port. “And no creature needs two assholes.”

  Ideally the deer would “quarter away” so that the angle of the shot would enter the body in a straight line aiming towards the opposite front leg. In a perfect world, your bullet would pass through both lungs but if you aimed a little farther forward you would have a good chance of getting the heart. Either way the animal would, in theory, die quickly and you would have exercised responsible sportsmanship. We talked about the challenges of selecting an animal in a herd, the importance of waiting for the exact right moment. He cautioned me to avoid moving shots and skyline shots. Never shoot through a barbed wire fence as it might deflect your bullet and always know what lies beyond before you fire your gun. It was a lot to take in but I paid close attention.

  We headed out one weekend in early fall. I liked dressing in the warm camouflage jacket and matching pants even though they were too big for me. There was a guide, Phillip, someone whom my father knew well. We headed off into the trees, me being careful not to step on branches or trip over rocks—it was important to be absolutely silent. I had trouble keeping up.

  Is your mouth watering? Are you thinking that I’m going to take you through the most traumatic incident of my life, step by step? The experience that will allow you to finally understand me? Perhaps you’re anticipating tears and an overwhelming sense of sympathy? Empathy? Do you think that once I’ve recounted the details, you will be able to label and tuck me away into one of your neat cubbyholes?