The Wentworths Page 13
Norman wasn’t going to be one of those patients who spent the whole hour complaining about his mother. No simple Oedipal issues in his head, no penis envy either. Oh no, Norman had far bigger issues. The therapist would be impressed by how deep Norman’s problems actually ran. Jung, Freud, Kubler-Ross, Dr. Zachary Smith—it was all very exciting.
Of course he was going to go to Becky’s doctor. No question about that. The man was a family therapist and Norman was part of the family. Maybe Norman could be helpful to his sister’s progress by shedding some light on her early years, revealing to the good doctor some of those forgotten moments in her past, things Becky might not have gotten around to mentioning. It just made sense.
Becky thought the whole thing was a secret. She would be devastated if she knew the cat was out of the bag. But if she wanted to keep things private, she should consider putting a muzzle on Paul or, better yet, have his vocal cords severed. Paul spilled the beans to August in one of his “getting close” phone calls and Norman was right there eavesdropping on the extension, fulfilling his duty as family archivist. August merely grunted at the news but Norman felt the big bubbles of euphoria floating up through his consciousness. Things were not so perfect in Becky’s little world? How sad. He jotted the name down, Dr. Rosenblatt, and waited patiently while Paul droned on about Becky’s allergies and his deep longing for a puppy. Finally the call ended and Norman was able to make his first appointment.
41
Highlights of the Wentworth-Jones’ Personality Lists
PAUL ON PAUL
MONICA ON BECKY
She’s a good skier—She’s a total bitch
She has good taste in shoes—She never listens
She says what she thinks—She yells at everyone
She’s got nice hair—She’s way too vain
She remembers people’s names—She’s never hugged me
BECKY ON PAUL
Part Two
1
Jack Belmont (Honey’s Ex)
A PRETTY DECENT GUY FROM
A DIFFERENT KIND OF FAMILY
My mother died. I hadn’t seen or thought about her for years and then I got this telegram. I don’t know how they found me, I guess they can find anybody if it’s important enough. Pretty much all it said was that she died and that I needed to come back and deal with it. Weird. When I close my eyes I can’t even come up with a vague sketch of what she looked like. It’s been that long. She was a quiet type, my mother. Medium everything, I think. Maybe brown hair? Yeah, brown. She had brown eyes too, I remember that ‘cause mine were so blue and I always figured that my father must have had super-strong genes to overcome that brown thing. Seems like Mother should have been able to identify him as my father—the guy with the really blue eyes. But according to her, there was no way to know for sure. She couldn’t pick him out of a lineup and so the crime of my inception went unsolved. I don’t think she really tried to find him. She just wanted to pretend the whole thing never happened, only I was there to remind her of it every day. Mother was not a happy woman, that much I do remember.
I’m driving back, heading down the 99, destination Exeter, which is next to Farmersville and Lindsay and Lemon Cove and Visalia. It’s in the general vicinity of Fresno and a million other shit-hole farm towns. Same, same, same, one town to the next. Actually, the look of the place has changed since I was last here. Arby’s, Wendy’s, Appleby’s, Del Taco, Taco Bell, Jack-in-the-Box, Burger King, McDonald’s, Carl’s Junior, KFC: apparently these are the primary food sources for our great nation today. Gone are most of the crops and citrus trees along this stretch of the 99. Asphalt, concrete and stucco appear to be the fertilizers of the tweny-first century. Pour a foundation, up sprouts a strip mall. Level the orange groves and bring in rows and rows of track housing. Every now and then there are still open spaces, fields where produce struggles up out of the ground with the gentle dusting of auto exhaust, diesel fumes and a healthy dose of pesticides but mostly what I’m looking at is urban sprawl and smog. Don’t get me wrong, I’m definitely not waxing nostalgic for a time gone by. In my opinion, this valley was, and is, the armpit of our Golden State. Hot dusty summers, gray damp winters and a whole lot of nothing to do. Small minds with big problems. Petty crime was the sport I played in high school, breaking and entering my specialty. My mother, and the whole town of Exeter, were ready to see me go by the time I graduated.
My mother’s name was Claire. Claire Belmont. She was nineteen when I was born. I can’t tell you much more about her life. I guess I was never very interested. I don’t think she was even interested in her life. There was the rape story, but now, come to think of it, who knows if that was true. She might have had a boyfriend or a lover. There could have been a scandal. It’s impossible to say what kind of person Claire Belmont was before I came along. She might have been a young, lovely girl on the edge of an exciting life when fate pulled the rug out from under her. She may have had hopes and dreams. Who knows? All I can tell you is that the woman I grew up with was almost invisible there in the house with my grandparents. I don’t remember her laughter or her tears. What I come up with are three disappointed adults shuffling around, from room to room, in a house where the curtains were always drawn and voices kept to a low murmur. Shame and guilt and sadness. Then, when I was around eight or nine, the grandparents expired and it was just Claire and me in that big dark house. You think she might have come to life then, with the parents gone. She could have started again, had a life. But no, nothing changed. Our house was filled with one silent mother and one unhappy boy dreaming of escape.
Seems like, when someone dies, there should be an organization or something that comes to straighten things up, a government agency that rushes over to the house to tie up loose ends and comfort anyone left behind, an official condolence committee. Shouldn’t there be efficient procedures and understanding agents? And shouldn’t there be someone in charge who cares or at least pretends to care like those priests who perform funerals for people they never met? At least those preachers pretend to mourn the 0 you’re just gone and nobody’s gonna miss you. You’re reduced to a series of forms and all that’s left of you is a little bit of paperwork. The world’s not even gonna skip a beat and that does not seem right to me. My mother died and nobody cares and that’s just wrong.
2
Norman on the Perfect Man
I’ve always felt a deep connection with the Marlboro Man. He was perfect, sitting there on his horse in that suede vest and worn shirt, cowboy hat, squinting into the sun, scanning the horizon. His lips and that cigarette, how could you not smoke? I studied how he sat in the saddle, reins in hand, boots secured in the stirrups. I wanted to be his horse. Can you imagine? The Marlboro Man riding me. Giddy-up. I would have taken him out at a full gallop; you know I would. The Marlboro Man haunted my dreams, still does. The model changed over the years but my attraction never wavered. My perfect man is a smoker.
He must have nice nail beds. I can’t tolerate stubby hands. Long fingers, in my experience, indicate a superior level of sensitivity. Swollen knuckles—deal breaker. I won’t even consider a man who’s spent his life cracking.
Yes on full lips, but the mouth has to be masculine. Some of the models today with those girly mouths? Not my thing. I’m not into boyish either. I want a full-grown man, preferably with a scruffy beard. Understand that once I get him back to my place, I’ll have to shave his face—whisker burn. But for that initial attraction? Let the beard grow.
My perfect man drives a truck. Probably never washes it. Or maybe he does because if you don’t wash your car it rusts. Right? I’m not sure about that. If you need to wash your car in order to take care of it, then he would wash his truck from time to time because he is not a wasteful person.
My man is very handy. He can fix anything. The mysteries of plumbing and electrical are simple problems for him. He can take apart your engine and put it back together with his eyes closed. Your horse is going lame? He can ascertain
the problem and provide a cure for your beloved animal. Build a house? Sail a boat? No problem.
Money means nothing to the perfect man. He is about experience and adventure. His values wouldn’t even register on the L.A. Richter scale. There’s a purity to his spirit unheard of in this city.
He’s tough. He’s been through it and the lines on his face are a map of hard lessons. He’s been hurt, spent a lot of lonely nights, and he’s broken many hearts, but underneath it all, he’s decent. He will always do the right thing in the long run.
What I can tell you, with absolute certainty, is they don’t grow them like that here. You will not find a perfect man in Los Angeles. Or if you do, he’s just passing through. This town would not hold his interest. He would not be fooled by the thin veneer of this ersatz culture. No. He is a product of a different place and perhaps a different time. And when he loves, he will love deeply and forever.
3
Welcome Home, Jack
The house looked the same. Faded blue stucco box set on a dusty patch of barren ground. The curtains were drawn in those small windows, the fabric yellowed by the years of relentless sun. Jack parked the truck on the street and walked the fifteen feet to the door. The octagonal concrete paving stones were still set in dirt and he made a point of stepping on each one just as he had as a boy even though they were set too close together for an adult stride. Jack remembered how muddy this yard got during the rains and how he would perch on that last stone making mud pies until his mother would catch him and force him to go inside where she would scrub his hands with a soapy nail brush and insist that he stop causing trouble. Jack could hear her telling him to hush. Always be quiet. Don’t make a sound.
There was one sad tree off to the left of the house. This was a tree whose frail trunk barely supported the canopy of brittle leaves. The too few branches never filled in enough for climbing nor did they offer much shade during those blistering hot summers. It was a useless tree to a lonely boy and as far as Jack could tell it hadn’t changed or grown a single inch in all the years since he left. Jack walked over and ran his hand along the scarred backside of the trunk. The deep slashes that he’d made as a child were still there, dark now like a cattle brand, but clear. They were the marks of an angry boy and he could remember how good it felt to cut that tree and dig at it with his sharp knife.
So here he was, at the house where he grew up, his family’s house, searching for something familiar, a feeling that he belonged, a hint of comfort. But Jack didn’t feel anything. This house could be anywhere and belong to anyone. It was as anonymous as the other twenty identical stucco boxes that lined this sorry block. Whatever history he had with this place was meaningless to him now. Standing there on that front step, Jack felt for the first time that he was alone. He’d spent his life moving from one town to the next, never settling long enough to form any real connections, and now he was as invisible to the world as his dead mother. He could shoot himself in the head, right here, right this minute, and no one would care.
Jack put the house key back into the envelope and walked to his car. There wasn’t anything in that house for him. He didn’t need to go inside. He would return the packet to the lawyer and sign the papers. They could sell everything, send him a check. Jack Belmont needed to get out of Exeter, right now. Jack Belmont needed to get a life.
4
Heart to Heart with Conrad
“I didn’t take your mother’s fucking tongs.”
“You’re like every other bottom feeder out there with a pussy and a pair of legs.”
“I swear I didn’t. I don’t even remember seeing them.”
“Do you know who I am, Angela?”
“I’ll call her and tell her myself.”
“What I’m capable of?”
“Give me her number.”
“You are not calling anyone. Stay the fuck away.”
“You know Conrad, another few weeks and the baby will start kicking. Pretty exciting.”
“That’s not going to work, stupid bitch.”
“I just think your family would want to be a part of this. A new grandchild? It’s not fair to exclude them.”
“Listen, ‘cause I’m only going to say this once: Disappear. One way or the other—up to you. I don’t want to hear another word about Angela Simms from anyone. Got it? I’m going out of town and when I get back, you’re gone. You never existed.”
5
If Wishes Were Fishes
What Honey didn’t expect was for Miss Angela to turn all friendly. Honey had been fairly certain that Gus could pull some strings and get Kimmy back into the Happy Helpers. She assumed that he threw money at the problem and made it go away. Was there anything that money couldn’t fix? But Honey never imagined, not in her wildest dreams, that snobby Miss Angela would change her tune.
First there was the phone call:
“Honey,” Miss Angela said. “I’ve made a terrible mistake and I need you to forgive me.”
Honey didn’t even have a clue how to respond to Miss Angela begging so she stayed quiet on the other end of the phone.
“We need Kimmy here, with us, where she belongs. It’s all my fault.” Miss Angela cleared her throat and lowered her voice. “Honey, I’ve been having a lot of trouble with mood swings. Do you ever have mood swings?”
“Not really,” said Honey.
“Well, bad moods. You have those sometimes, don’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Sometimes I feel like the blood in my body turns poison and I just lash out. Hurt those that I care about the most. Do you ever feel like that, Honey? Like some sort of viper?”
“I don’t know.”
“I did it to you. You and little Kimmy. Two of the sweetest people at Happy Helpers.” Miss Angela’s voice caught. She was definitely choking back tears. “I switched medications about a week ago. I think I had a bad reaction, obviously I did, and you were the victim.”
“Wow,” Honey said. She couldn’t believe it but she actually felt bad. “What kind of medicine?”
“Antidepressants.” Miss Angela blew her nose and it was loud. Honey held the phone a few inches from her ear until Miss Angela finished. “I just can’t tolerate Prozac and the Welbutrin doesn’t seem to work at all. Personal problems. It’s a mess. But the point is, I’m sorry and I really want you back at the school. Will you come back? Please? I promise I will make everything right.”
“Okay,” Honey said. “Sure.”
“Thank God,” Angela said. “Everybody was so mad at me when I threw my psychotic little fit. The staff and the children just love Kimmy. She’s very popular. They’ll be so relieved.”
Honey knew that Angela was making that last part up. Kimmy was a great kid, but she was not one of the favorites at Happy Helpers. Angela was obviously the kind of person who just had to exaggerate everything. Lots of people were like that. So Honey accepted the invitation to reenroll and marched Kimmy back to preschool the very next morning, much to Kimmy’s dismay.
A few days after the phone call, Angela invited Honey for coffee. They walked around the corner from the school to the local Starbucks. Angela was so nice, she’d obviously found the right medicine, and the two of them sat there for over an hour just yapping away. Actually it was Honey who did most of the talking. Once she started, she just couldn’t stop and before she knew it, she’d told Angela the whole story about her father dying and Colorado City and Kimmy and Jack and the heartbreak she suffered when he left her. It felt so good to talk. Honey heard herself say, out loud for the first time, “I’m still in love with Jack Belmont. I guess I’ll always be in love with him.” And Angela took her hand and squeezed it tight. They were becoming friends, real friends, and Honey felt she could talk about anything. Anything but Gus. He was a secret she did not want to share. If Angela asked, Honey would say he was like a father to her or a grandfather, but Angela didn’t ask.
And now there was an invitation to dinner, just the two girls. A real night on the t
own, Honey’s first. Her neighbor, Mrs. Rappaport, volunteered to baby-sit and Kimmy was happy to go, so now all Honey had to worry about was what to wear. What to wear? Miss Angela, Angela, was always so stylish with her beautiful shoes and slim-fitting pants and skirts. Even on the days when she actually worked with the children she looked like a model in her casual clothes. Honey opened the closet. Her wardrobe consisted of dull, graying synthetics. No-iron cotton/poly blouses, stretch pants, old-fashioned jeans. Honey pulled out the jeans and held them up. High-waisted pants went out long before Kimmy was born. Honey had never felt so stupid or so ugly in her entire life. She didn’t have any nice clothes and even if she did, she’d still be a geek.
Maybe she shouldn’t go. She could call Angela and say she was sick or Kimmy was sick. But Angela would probably just reschedule and then Honey would have to go through this all over again. Or maybe Angela wouldn’t reschedule and that would be even worse. So Honey took a deep breath and sorted through every article of clothing in that sorry closet and the best she could come up with was a black stretchy skirt that she wore to work sometimes and a purple fuzzy sweater. It wasn’t fancy, but it wasn’t too embarrassing either. She put on some mascara and lip-gloss, brushed her hair and teeth, and promised herself that she would not look in the mirror again for the rest of the evening. This was about friendship and Honey was not going to let her unhip-ugliness ruin the night.