The Wentworths Page 12

  Of course I didn’t do it. I never fired a shot. There were many opportunities but each time I lowered my gun. Killing for survival made perfect sense to my young mind, but the pursuit of a trophy held no appeal. My father and the guide were patient with me at first but after awhile I became invisible as they went on with the hunt.

  There’s a picture from that trip of my father in the back of the pick-up truck, lifting the head of an enormous buck by the antlers, posing for the camera. He’s smiling.

  36

  Father and Number One Son

  Conrad crossed and then uncrossed his legs. Seven million things to take care of and fucking August is late for lunch. When would his father realize that other people had lives too? Conrad thought he would tell him. Today. He’d say: Dad, I don’t mind dropping everything and meeting you for lunch. I really don’t. You’re my ping Everything and meeting you for lunch. I really don’t. You’re my father and you’re a great father. But you have to realize that I’m a very busy guy and I can’t spend my whole day waiting for you to show up at a restaurant. I’ve got clients, big case coming up. I’m an important man, Dad. You need to respect that. No that wasn’t right. That’s not what he meant at all. What he needed to say was: What the fuck? You think your time’s more valuable than mine? You can just call me and drag me away? How about I start charging you by the hour? Fifteen bucks a minute, buddy, how’s that sound? Yeah, that’s what he’d say. He’d tell the old man that next time he “had an important matter to discuss” he could either do it over the phone, with the meter running, or call Norman and his son-in-law Paul. Those two losers had all the time in the world.

  Conrad looked up and saw that August had in fact arrived but was talking, flirting, with the chunky hostess by the entrance. The guy had no shame; if it was young and female then August Wentworth had to make a play for it. Conrad smiled. He remembered when he was fourteen and August decided it was time for him to lose his virginity. Conrad had not been at all sure he liked the idea of his father orchestrating his initiation into manhood but August would not take no for an answer. They told Judith they were going to the movies, jumped in the car one Saturday afternoon and headed off to a whorehouse in Culver City. At that young age, Conrad had expected the place to look like something out of the old west, complete with saloon and petticoats but when they pulled up he saw that this was just an ordinary tract house set on a block alongside countless others. He had been somewhat disappointed until he went inside and met the young woman his father had picked out for him. Her name was Molly and she was beautiful, not much older than he. It made Conrad smile to think of her now with her sweet young face and body. He’d spent three hours in that little bedroom and would probably still be there today if his dad hadn’t finally pulled him out.

  “Hello, son.” August lowered himself into the chair and signaled the waitress. His father would need to order and finish his habitual lunchtime martini before Conrad would even have a chance of finding out what this meeting was about. There was no doubt that there was a pressing issue, he could tell from the sound of his father’s voice on the phone, but he knew that the ritual would have to be played out before they could get down to business. It seemed like there were few things left in August’s life that brought him pleasure and these long, boozy lunches were high on the list. As the years passed, so too did August’s interests. He’d let his membership at the fly-fishing club in Wyoming lapse. He hadn’t been on a hunting trip in over four years. He didn’t go to the skeet range anymore and in fact had mentioned, several times, that he might want to sell his gun collection.

  “Drinking, Con?” August winked at the waitress.

  “No Dad, I gotta work.”

  This was the man whom Conrad had idolized when he was a child. A man bigger than life. Stronger, funnier, wiser than any of the other dads.

  “I’ll have a Bombay martini,” August told the waitress. “Very dirty, with four olives.” August chuckled, apparently delighted by the mere thought. “I guess my son here will stick with water.”

  Conrad nodded that water was fine and the waitress went off to the bar. He looked at his father. This man had taught him to shoot and hunt, fly fish and ride. He’d talked to him frankly about women from the time Conrad was eight years old and August had caught him looking through an old Playboy. August had outlined the best strategies when in pursuit of tail, graphic details about technique and approach. It had at first upset Conrad to learn that his father wasn’t faithful to his mother but, with time, he came to accept his father’s belief that no one woman was enough for a real man. Normal rules simply didn’t apply to Wentworths; a lesson Conrad learned early and well. His father showed him the ins and outs of privilege and the lessons had kept them close all the way through high school. August had been the king of the world then, bigger than life, Conrad’s hero.

  The waitress brought the drinks and August winked at her again. She didn’t seem to notice his rather pathetic attempt at flirtation and walked quickly away from the table. August cleared his throat then took a long pull on his drink.

  “Your mother wanted me to ask you about those damn tongs.”

  “Yeah, she called me.”

  “You didn’t find them?”

  Conrad shook his head. “I’m sure they’ll turn up.”

  “They’d better.” August took the toothpick out of his glass and ate the olives. “Otherwise we’re going to have to fly back to Vienna and find her another tea set. Pain in the butt.”

  Going East to college had changed everything for Conrad. He was surrounded by arrogant, hard working kids, just like himself, who expected nothing less than surrender from the world in which they lived. California was considered a joke and Conrad had to work very hard to prove himself worthy of their friendship. Many of these students came from old families with connections to wealth and power that made August seem absurdly provincial. These were educated people, unlike his father who may or may not have finished college, and the more time Conrad spent with them, the smaller his father became until one morning Conrad woke up and realized that August was nothing but an overly pampered clown, and not a particularly bright one at that. It was a liberating realization and it set Conrad free. From that moment forward, he rebuilt his self-image according to his own rules and discarded August as a role model.

  August blew out a great gust of air and settled into his seat. If you looked closely you could see the broken blood vessels on his nose and blotchiness in his cheeks. It was amazing that this man could drink as much as he did and still look so healthy, so vibrant. But Conrad suspected it was an illusion. The guy must be rotting from the inside out, only a matter of time.

  “The thing is, she’s twenty-one and she loves me.” August took another sip of the martini, his second. “Tell me you could resist twenty-one.”

  “So Angela thinks you’re helping the kid.” Conrad cut into his steak and took a bite. His father hadn’t touched his food yet. “Big deal.”

  “No. She knows.” August speared another olive and popped it in his mouth. “Just like your mother. You know how she looks at you when she knows? Exactly like that.” He drained his glass and held it up, expectantly.

  “And you’re worried that what?” Conrad looked at his father. His mouth was starting to sag with the alcohol. “She’s going to tell on you? Come on, Dad.”

  August shook his head, picked up his knife and fork, and started in on the bloody steak. “She’s trouble.” He chewed with his mouth open. “Trouble with a capital T.”

  “So you’re warning me.” This was taking far too long and his father was definitely getting drunk. “Because Angela’s not an issue.”

  “There are certain kinds of women, Conrad. Dangerous ones.” August put his knife and fork down on the plate. “I know you’ve been out there but this broad... She’s ruthless, all teeth and claws. She wants something from us.”

  “You’re talking 95 percent of the female population.” Conrad drank his water. “98 percent. I ca
n handle it.”

  “I don’t know.” August’s third martini arrived. “It worries me.”

  “Everything’s okay.” Conrad reached over and patted his father’s hand. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “You ever get dizzy? Suddenly, out of the blue, you’re all disoriented? Like you don’t know where you are?” August looked into Conrad’s eyes. “That ever happen to you?”

  “Come on.” Conrad laughed and gently took the drink from his father’s hand. He set it on the corner of the table, just out of reach. “Eat some food.”

  “I’m just saying, be careful.” August cut into his steak. “We all need to be real careful.”

  37

  Ask Miss Katie

  Dear Miss Katie:

  For the last week or so I’ve been waking up in the morning not knowing where I am. I look around my bedroom and don’t recognize my own belongings. I don’t know who I am or why I’m here. I’ve lived in this house and been married to this same woman for seventeen years but somehow, in the mornings, everything looks strange and slightly hostile to me. I feel scared and hopeless for the first couple minutes of consciousness then I start to remember my life and the fear subsides. But still, I don’t always want to get out of bed. I’m wondering, is this normal for a forty-two-year-old man?

  My wife and I are happily married and have two kids, thirteen and fifteen. I think my son may have a little problem with stealing and I discovered drug paraphernalia in my daughter’s room but both kids are good students, so I’m hoping that these problems are just typical teenage issues that will work themselves out. My wife tends to get overly excited about the smallest little thing, she’s a nervous type of person who sometimes needs medication, so I don’t really want to burden her with the kids’ problems especially since I think they’re not such a big deal. But I’m not that comfortable with keeping secrets and I wonder if that could be contributing to my morning confusion.

  I had a surgical procedure to correct a snoring problem that my wife found intolerable, and now I suffer from dry mouth. But otherwise I am in excellent health. Do other people wake up foggy or do you think I have a real problem?

  Signed,

  Muddled

  38

  Miss Katie Says

  Dear Muddled,

  Your solution could be as simple as a new mattress, a good air purifier and a fresh set of sheets, but I don’t think so. Kleptomaniac son, drug-using daughter, overly medicated wife and you don’t want to get out of bed in the mornings. HELLO. Not normal, I don’t care how old you are. These are real problems and you have to DO SOMETHING right away. You need to stop tiptoeing around the issues and talk to your wife. Your wife needs to lay off the pills and pick up the parental reins. You and she need to start working as a team because your kids are in trouble. Do you want your boy to end up in jail? Do you want your daughter to drop out of school? That’s the road you’re on. I say run, don’t walk, to the nearest professional. Get your son in therapy, your daughter in rehab, and gather round in one big circle for a few good hours of family counseling. It is your job as a parent to sort out this mess. Get busy!

  Miss Katie

  P.S. Let me know how it all turns out. I really care.

  39

  Group Dynamics

  The Wentworth-Jones family sat around a coffee table in the therapist’s office. Joey held the smooth river rock in his lap and Dr. Rosenblatt wanted to know how he felt about his father.

  Joey turned to Paul. “Fucking pirate.”

  “Pirate,” Dr. Rosenblatt said. “That’s very good Joey.”

  “It’s my room.” Joey savagely tore a piece of flesh off his thumb. “You had no right to sneak in there and take my stuff.”

  Monica snorted and said, “Your stuff...”

  “Monica.” Dr. Rosenblatt held up his hand to stop her. “Joey has the talking piece. When he’s finished I’ll have him pass the rock to you but for now we must respect his turn and listen.”

  Monica rolled her eyes.

  “Go on, Joey.” Dr. Rosenblatt held his pen over his note pad, ready to scribble down any relevant tidbits as they came spilling out.

  “Everyone can just fuck off.” Joey switched from thumb to index finger. “This is stupid.”

  “Pirates, Joey,” Dr. Rosenblatt said. “Can you talk about pirates? What do pirates do? They steal. They invade. They plunder. Do you feel violated by what your father did?”

  “I’ll give the stuff back, okay?” Joey said. “I won’t take anymore junk if we just end this? I’ll call grandma and tell her I took the tongs . . .”

  “You will do no such thing.” Becky stood up. Her voice was loud and threatening. “Mother will never find out. Clear? No one will ever find out. This is private.”

  “Rebecca.” Dr. Rosenblatt stood and took her arm. “You can not interrupt the person who holds the stone. We’ve been over this. I don’t want to make you leave the circle but I will if you don’t control your outbursts.”

  “Excuse me.” Becky pulled her arm away. “I’m paying you, right?”

  “Everyone follows the rules or there’s no point.” Dr. Rosenblatt tried to ease Becky back into her seat but she resisted.

  “You don’t understand the dynamics of my family, Doctor.” Becky slashed the air with her index finger. “There’s a lot at stake and I can’t afford to have my children labeled as troublemakers. My mother could turn on us and then where would we be? There’s college and trust funds . . .”

  Dr. Rosenblatt caught her hand and lowered it forcefully to her side as he said, “When Joey’s finished . . .”

  “I’m finished.” Joey tossed the stone onto the coffee table where it landed with a loud crack. Dr. Rosenblatt dropped his note pad, fell to his knees and ran his fingers over the surface of the table. There was a scratch where the rock had landed but the glass did not break. He wet his index finger and worked the mark, trying to erase the damage. Monica snatched up the stone.

  “I’d like to know what the good doctor thinks about the fact that my mother is obsessed with my weight and my sex life.”

  “That is a goddamn lie.” Becky’s nostrils flared. “How dare you accuse me? I don’t even know how much you weigh. And as far as sex... You’re not having sex, are you? Are you having sex? Oh my God, Paul.”

  Dr. Rosenblatt stood up and sighed, whether because of his scratched table or Becky’s outburst was unclear. “Rebecca, I’m going to have to ask you to please sit in the corner chair. You can rejoin the circle when you’ve calmed yourself.”

  Rebecca didn’t move. Paul stood and hugged her. He whispered in her ear, “I know it’s hard, but this is for the family.” Becky hesitated. “Please, sweetheart.”

  Becky walked over and threw herself in the chair.

  “Please continue, Monica,” Dr. Rosenblatt said. “You were saying how you feel that your mother has an inappropriate interest in your personal life and your physicality.”

  “Is it weird that she examines my underpants all the time, Doctor? Cause that’s what she does. I’ve seen her standing by the washing machine. She examines them and accuses me of stuff.”

  “Fifteen is too young to be having sex.” Becky jumped up out of the chair. “It’s that Cushner boy, the one who drives you to school, isn’t it?”

  Monica ignored her mother. “I am not having sex. But if I was, wouldn’t that be my business, Dr. Rosenblatt?”

  “Her underpants are often stiff,” Becky said. “And why would a fifteen year old want thong underwear if she wasn’t having sex?”

  “That is disgusting.” Joey put his hands over his ears. “I don’t want to hear about my sister’s underpants.”

  Paul flinched and turned a dark red.

  Dr. Rosenblatt frowned and made some notes.

  “I’ve seen how she acts around that boy.” Rebecca was talking fast now. She knew that at any moment she’d be cut off. “She gets all breathless and giggly. That’s not the way to get a boy, Monica. Acting all stupid isn’
t going to impress him. He’s just using you, you know...”

  Dr. Rosenblatt stood up and grabbed Rebecca forcefully by the arm. She immediately surrendered and he guided her out of the room. Monica looked at Paul and said, “I’m not having sex. I don’t even like him.”

  Paul sat very still. This was uncharted territory. He held his breath, waiting for Dr. Rosenblatt to reenter and show them how to proceed.

  Dr. Rosenblatt came back into the room. “We’ve made some progress here today.” He smiled. “Opened up some new doors, I think. Your assignment for next time is to write down five things you admire about each family member, including yourself, and five things you’d like to see change. We’ll review the lists and discuss them. Remember, we are trying to be CONSTRUCTIVE, not DESTRUCTIVE.”

  “What about my mother?” Monica said.

  “Your mother has promised to follow the rules. No confrontations outside of this office. Make notes. Understand?”

  Paul, Monica and Joey nodded.

  “Good work. See you on Wednesday.”

  40

  Norman Wants to Play

  When Norman heard the Wentworth-Jones family was seeing a psychologist, a light bulb switched on. Therapy. Even the word itself was soothing. He wanted in. Norman had problems too, why shouldn’t he get help? Three, four, five times a week, someone listening to him, focusing on him, exclusively discussing his dilemmas and pressing issues. The idea was enormously appealing. He wondered, would the good doctor seat him in a chair or on a couch? Would he lie down? Would there be a clean paper mat on the pillow to keep everything fresh, or would that pillow be soaked through with other people’s hair secretions, stale and smelly? He would have to bring his own protection, just in case. Nothing worse than the stench of dirty hair.