The Wentworths Read online

  “Of course.” Graziano reached up and ran his finger through Angela’s hair. “Anything for the Wentworths. You look like a young Judith.” He turned to Judith. “Doesn’t she?”

  “Please,” Angela said. “I’m no where near as beautiful as Judith. But thank you. That girl at the desk said you were booked up for months.”

  “Nonsense.” Graziano turned and yelled across the room. “Chanty, find a place for Angela this week. Cut and color.”

  Chantal nodded but did not meet Angela’s gaze.

  “Great.” Angela hugged Graziano. “I’ll let you guys get to work.” She bent and kissed Judith on the cheek. “Mrs. Wentworth, I’ll have Con call and set up that dinner. We have a big announcement to make.”

  “Really?” Graziano said.

  Angela giggled.

  Judith heard a ringing sound in her ears. What on earth was this woman, this bloodsucking floozy, up to?

  Graziano hugged Angela. “Want to whisper it in my ear?”

  “Can’t.” Angela laughed. “Don’t want to ruin the surprise.” She winked at them and walked to the front desk where she paused and said something to Chantal, something that made Chantal flinch. Then she walked out the door.

  “Do you know?” Graziano said.

  Judith tried for her most neutral look and shook her head.

  “Sounds like an addition to the family,” Graziano said as he began to comb her out. “Lovely woman. You must be so happy. Why haven’t I heard about her before?”

  What Graziano wanted, what nourished his soul, was gossip. The slightest hint of a scandal would send him into a frenzy. He could flit around the room, going from station to station like an oversized bumblebee, and have a story spread in the time it took to get your hair washed. So Judith smiled. She would rather die than to let on that Angela Simms was a problem. A threat. A possible scandal.

  8

  Honey Carries On

  Honey spent most of the morning vomiting. She’d felt thirsty but every time she drank a glass of water it worked like a trigger and her stomach would heave.

  “Mommy?” Kimmy stood in the bathroom doorway staring at Honey who was kneeling by the toilet.

  “Baby, go back to bed.” Honey retched and some bile came up, burning her throat.

  Kimmy started to cry.

  “No, no baby. Don’t cry.” Honey tried to stand but another wave of sickness forced her to her knees. She threw up then wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “Mommy’s got the flu but it’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

  “Miss Angela said you had the flu last night.” Kimmy’s voice was shrill. “She promised you’d be all better this morning.”

  “You saw Angela?” Honey’s body flashed hot with panic.

  “When she got me from Mrs. Rappaport’s. She wouldn’t let me see you. Said you were sleeping.” Kimmy started to cry again. “She’s mean.”

  Honey forced herself up off the floor and hugged her daughter. The relief she should have felt was overridden by the hangover. God, she was sick. Her whole body shook as she stood there and held Kimmy. How was she supposed to be a mother when she felt like this? Why did everything have to be so hard? Her body temperature kept fluctuating and suddenly she was cold.

  “Tell you what.” Honey released Kimmy and turned her around. “Let’s get in my bed and watch cartoons all day.” She guided Kimmy down the hallway to the bedroom.

  It turned out that barbecued potato chips and Dr. Pepper had an incredibly medicinal affect on Honey’s hangover and as she lay there in bed watching the third episode of Dora the Explorer on Nickelodeon, she felt her body coming back to life. They would move. It was the only solution. She never wanted to see Angela again, she hated this city. There had to be better places and she would find one. She’d done it once under far worse circumstances, she could do it again.

  Honey rolled over, so her back was against Kimmy’s, and put a pillow over her head. She could see herself, that young girl all those years ago, sitting there in that truck behind the racks of bread and rolls.

  There had been no plan B. If they caught her, her life would be over. Her stepfather would come into her bed every night. Her mother would look on approvingly. Honey’s body had been numb with adrenaline and she felt herself shaking as she sat in the back of that truck. No tears. She didn’t have the luxury of tears anymore. This horror had gutted her and left her completely defenseless. She rocked and rocked trying not to think. Then she stopped moving and held her breath as she heard someone load something into the back. Please God, please God, please God. The door shut. It was completely black and silent. The engine started. And in that blackness, as the truck pulled away, she allowed herself to hope.

  “Mommy.” Kimmy shook Honey’s shoulder. “I’m just gonna go to the bathroom. Be right back.”

  When Jack opened the truck doors and saw her, he looked for a long moment before he spoke. “Wait here,” he said. “Don’t move and don’t make any noise.”

  Honey didn’t know why she trusted him. She couldn’t remember a man in her life worthy of trust. But something about his face, his beautiful eyes, was kind. And anyway, she didn’t really have a choice.

  He went and got his pickup truck. He helped her get in the passenger side and told Honey to crouch on the floor then he covered her with a blanket. Honey never said a word. She didn’t tell him she was running away. She didn’t say why. He just seemed to know and he wanted to help her. Honey could feel that he was good.

  They drove to his apartment. He gently took her arm, guided her into the building and up the steps. It was a nice place, a bedroom, small living room with a kitchenette. Honey remembered being surprised by how neat and clean everything was. Jack sat her down at the table and made her a turkey sandwich. He didn’t ask if she was hungry, he just knew. When she’d finished, after he’d taken her plate and washed it, he sat opposite her and asked her name.

  “You’re running,” he said. His voice was so kind. “You sure you want to go?”

  Honey nodded. It was the one thing she was absolutely sure of.

  “Then we’re gonna have to get you some clothes. People don’t wear old fashioned prairie dresses like that in the real world.” He stood. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any money?”

  Honey shook her head. The whole concept of money wasn’t something she’d given much thought.

  Jack studied her. His manner changed slightly. “How old are you, anyway?”

  With that question, Honey’s survival instinct took over. She knew instinctively that this man would not want the responsibility of a fifteen-year-old girl. A child.

  “I’m eighteen and a half.” Honey’s voice cracked. She cleared her throat, looked him in the eye and said forcefully, “My stepfather wanted me to be his fifth wife. My stepbrothers abused me. My mother stood by and watched. I want a new life and I’m willing to work hard for it.”

  That was enough for Jack. He went out and bought her two pairs of jeans and a couple of blouses. Honey wondered how he figured out her size, but that was the kind of thing Jack always seemed to know. He could look at her and figure out exactly what she needed.

  Kimmy climbed back into the bed and Honey took the pillow off her head.

  “Can I have another soda, Mommy?”

  “Sure baby.” Honey didn’t normally let Kimmy drink soda. “Get me one too.”

  It was the kindness Honey remembered most. The way he anticipated her needs. She almost never had to ask for things those first few months but Jack always knew what she wanted. He’d make her breakfast in the mornings before he went to work and then she spent the day watching TV. The commercials, the soap operas and the talk shows painted a picture of a life she’d never imagined, ugly but real. It was a world where people were jealous and angry and deceitful but it was the people themselves and not God who decided the consequences. People cheated on each other. They lied and they stole. Children ran away or self-destructed. Drugs. Alcohol. A lot of sex—talked about on TV but not really
shown. Money. These were the triggers for disaster on those long afternoon shows. People lusted after each other’s spouses. They envied the rich neighbor. They hid deep and ugly secrets. And with each installment of heartache and misery, Honey started to feel that maybe her life wasn’t so weird after all. Yes, she’d come from a perverted universe but now she was a new resident in an equally distorted world. With each General Hospital, Honey felt her confidence grow. She could live out here. She could become one of these people. There really wasn’t much difference between them and her. Life was going to be okay.

  Jack usually got home around 6:00. He always brought dinner. Sometimes it was hamburgers and French fries but Jack didn’t like junk food and, so just as often, he cooked. The idea of a man in the kitchen was ridiculous to Honey. She’d tried to take over but Jack seemed to like cooking and truthfully, he was better at it. He made simple things, broiled steaks, baked potatoes, salads, but his food was the best Honey ever tasted.

  Honey washed the dishes and kept the house clean. Her mother had trained her well. She was good at scrubbing and dusting and vacuuming. Thinking of how spotless she kept that apartment gave Honey a pang of anxiety. Why didn’t she keep her own place in order? Why did she allow dishes to pile up and the floor to go unmopped? What happened to that young girl who took pride in doing a job well? All that would change. They would move and start fresh.

  Kimmy came back with two more cans of Dr. Pepper. She handed them over for Honey to open then slid under the covers for more TV. Honey took a sip of her soda then put the pillow back over her head and closed her eyes.

  The sex didn’t start until much later, weeks after she’d moved in. Jack sometimes gave her back rubs after dinner or he’d massage her feet. She’d never been touched like that, gently and with kindness. He never asked her to do anything and it was Honey who initiated the first kiss. He was lying on the couch taking a nap. He looked so beautiful, lying there with his eyes closed, so vulnerable. Honey kneeled next to the couch, leaned over and lightly brushed her lips across his. She kissed his eyelids and his cheeks. She hadn’t known that she was going to do these things, her body just took over and some buried instinct directed her. Jack opened his eyes and smiled. He sat up and brought Honey up on the couch with him and kissed her. It was slow, and long and it gave Honey’s body time to fill with longing and pleasure. It was a kiss she would never forget.

  9

  Norman is Not Going Back

  You? You’re the village idiot. You’re an insular, corn-fed bigot. You, who has never ventured beyond the perimeter of the white picket fence, are you really going to lecture me on the dos and don’ts of drinking? Hazards of mixing? Try and offer a life lesson while feeling smug about your superior sense of well-being? Listen, guppy face, I am the foremost authority in the field of abuse and recovery. Your helpful hints are like throwing pebbles at a battleship. I can’t hear you.

  I’m coating my stomach with Cozy Shack vanilla pudding. It comes in a six-pack, lasts forever in the refrigerator. Monochromatic foods after a night like that one. Milk. Pure whipped butter. I know, I know, the dangers of dairy. Well let me tell you something, puka shell, you get behind an eight-hour night with crystal (methamphetamine, pea brain), and you’re going to be begging for maternal sustenance. I’d suck it right out of a baby bottle if there was one on hand, nipple and all. White food is step one in my program for recovery. Make a note.

  Dr. Rosenblatt? You will be forced to leave if you mention his name again. Don’t even bring it up. I will only say that I’m not interested in neuro-linguistic programming or the suppression of my fight or flight instinct. The whole thing is totally irrelevant and he’s a fool, albeit an earnest fool. Oh yeah, the good doctor rolled up his sleeves, got out his tool box and put on his hard hat. He offered himself up as a hero, someone upon whom I could model my behavior. He stroked my inner child, balanced my right and left brain and concentrated positive energy on the enneagram of personality. There were foot rubs under the guise of reflexology. Pressure points. He proposed scream therapy as the route to self-actualization. But how could a man like that ever hope to understand an individual of my caliber? Hopeless. No, it was a complete waste of my valuable time and the therapy has unequivocally been terminated.

  Now that I have lined my stomach with creamy white freshness I can proceed to step two. Watch and learn. This is the secret to success and it’s one word: Cheetos. The body is dehydrated and in desperate need of salt—that’s one reason for Cheetos. But, you might ask, can’t one find salt in a wide variety of snacks? True. But Cheetos have a unique chemical composition that works with your metabolism and quickly breaks down the toxins in your body. It’s the only food in the world that has these properties. I’ve tried to get the recipe, so I could replicate it here in my kitchen, but that information is highly classified. So, I will now devour this entire bag of Cheetos. Just one bite and I’m feeling better already.

  He’s an M.D., you say? You offer up his medical credentials as evidence of his competence? Let me tell you something, any idiot can go to medical school; it’s simply a matter of memorization. But I’m going to surprise you here when I say that I think Dr. Rosenblatt is actually a very competent doctor for a certain type of person. He is uniquely qualified to treat most of the shortsighted, shallow thinking, morons that inhabit this earth. He is perfect for my sister, perfect for her entire family.

  The final step of my cure is a sixteen-ounce glass of Dr. Pepper. Prune juice, no prune juice—not important. The interaction of Dr. Pepper with Cozy Shack pudding and Cheetos acts as a cleansing agent. Dr. Pepper, a quick nap, and I’ll be as good as new, better than new. I’m going to sleep now. It’s time for you to leave.

  10

  Monica and Joey One-on-One

  “I do talk to you.”

  “As if you like me, Joey.”

  “This is stupid.”

  “Remember rule number three? ‘Family first’.”

  “Trying to make me puke?”

  “If we can convince them we’ve grown closer, like happy, happy siblings, then maybe we can stop going.”

  “Mom needs it.”

  “I’m not talking about Mom. She’s going to be in therapy for the rest of her life. Just us. I’m getting along with Dad really well. You are too. So all we have to do is show that we’re good and that’ll be it.”

  “What about Mom?”

  “Huh?”

  “We’re not getting along with her.”

  “Nobody gets along with her. But they can’t blame us for that. All we have to worry about is each other.”

  “Is Mom ever going to get better?”

  “She’s not insane. She’s just a bitch.”

  “Will that get better?”

  “Do you want to keep going to Dr. Rosenblatt? Cause if you do just say so and I’ll stop wasting my time.”

  “No. I just wish Mom wasn’t so...”

  “Some people are naturally angry. It’s not our fault.”

  “She makes it feel like it is, though.”

  “Maybe you should keep seeing Dr. Rosen-face.”

  “Shut up. I hate him.”

  “So start talking to me. Let’s pretend like we’re friends and then we’ll be free.”

  11

  Just Paul and Becky

  Paul and Becky were waiting to see Dr. Rosenblatt. This was their first visit without the kids and Paul felt nervous but also excited. Problems needed to be addressed—that was the bottom line. No secrets, no hiding. He knew he wasn’t giving his wife what she needed but felt confident that if they could just identify what was missing, he could fill that gap. He could make Becky happy. He would. He must.

  Becky was a reluctant patient. The appointments made her grumpy. She thought Dr. Rosenblatt looked like Ralph Nader, and Becky hated democrats, liberals. And there was no denying that they’d gotten off on the wrong foot with that first visit. But things were better at home, the kids were better, and so she continued to show up.


  The door opened and Dr. Rosenblatt invited them in. It was a little awkward without the children. Should they take their regular seats? Should they share the three new things they discovered they liked about each other this week or was that an exercise for the family as a group? Would they use the talking stone for just the two of them?

  Dr. Rosenblatt asked them to sit on the couch. He encouraged them to sit close so they could hold hands. Becky was never much of a hand holder but things were changing fast and who knew what might happen?

  “Go ahead, Becky. Take Paul’s hand.” Dr. Rosenblatt settled back into his chair. “Touch is a very important element in the human experience. I’m sure you both know that.”

  Becky’s hand felt boney, almost cold. Paul was surprise by the dryness of her skin, seemed like she was constantly applying some kind of lotion. Shouldn’t she be softer?

  “Today I hope we can begin to explore the more intimate side of your relationship,” Dr. Rosenblatt said. “I’d like to discuss your sex life, the way you both feel about romantic relations and what you might want to improve.”

  Becky let out a loud sigh. Paul could feel her whole body tense.

  “I know Becky, this can be a bit uncomfortable at first.” Dr. Rosenblatt smiled. “If it helps, I’ll tell you that I’ve been married for fifteen years to a wonderful woman but we’ve experienced our share of ups and downs. I’ve sat in your spot many times and frankly the couples counseling and sex therapy has saved my marriage more than once.”

  “I don’t want to do this.” Becky yanked her hand away from Paul, pulled her knees into her chest and locked her arms around her shins. “There’s nothing wrong with our marriage. We came here ‘cause of the kids.”