The Wentworths Page 16

  “Look at your body language Becky,” Dr. Rosenblatt said. “You’re indicating that this is in fact an area of some concern. I see anger. Frustration. Sadness. Embarrassment.”

  “It’s okay.” Paul reached over and scratched Becky behind the ear then remembered that she hated that. He patted her on the shoulder. “I love you.”

  “Becky, I want you to put your head in Paul’s lap.” Dr. Rosenblatt got out of his chair and came over to the couch. He gently pulled Becky’s arms apart and helped her uncurl. “That’s right. I want you to just relax in your husband’s lap. Maybe even close your eyes. We’re all friends here. You’re safe.”

  Becky curled into the fetal position and Dr. Rosenblatt removed her shoes then covered her with a throw blanket. Paul didn’t really know what role he played here. He certainly didn’t want to do anything wrong.

  “Paul, I want you to gently massage Becky’s temple.” Dr. Rosenblatt leaned over and, with his middle and index fingers, gently rubbed Paul’s right temple. “Like that. It will help Becky to relax.”

  Paul began massaging Becky’s temple as Dr. Rosenblatt went around the room lighting candles. He dimmed the lights and then returned to his chair.

  “Let’s all close our eyes, shall we?”

  Paul looked down and saw that Becky had her eyes squeezed shut as if in anticipation of some terrible calamity. Paul closed his eyes and hoped for the best.

  “Now hum with me.” Dr. Rosenblatt made a humming noise, not like a song, just a single sustained note. “Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

  Paul felt a little shy, he’d never been much of a singer, but he tried to match Dr. Rosenblatt’s pitch.

  “Louder, Paul. From your diaphragm.”

  Paul forced himself to hum louder. Becky wasn’t joining in.

  “Becky, I need to hear from you. The humming is a way for us to release our tension. We’ll bring it out into the room and let it float away like smoke. Hum Becky, Hum.” Dr. Rosenblatt hummed again. Louder. Then Becky joined in. “Good Becky. Paul, don’t stop rubbing her temples. Good.”

  They hummed for three or four minutes, long enough for Paul’s throat to start feeling dry. Ever since that surgery for his snoring, dryness had been a problem but he wasn’t going to complain. They had much bigger fish to fry.

  “And stop.”

  Dr. Rosenblatt told Becky to roll over onto her back and asked Paul to delicately outline the contours of her face with his fingertips. They were supposed to keep their eyes shut but Paul kept sneaking peeks at Becky. She still had her eyes squeezed shut and didn’t look in the least bit relaxed.

  “How does it feel, Becky?” Dr. Rosenblatt said. “Do you like how Paul is touching you?”

  “It feels like bugs are crawling on me,” she said. “It makes me want to claw my face.”

  Paul took his hand away and felt himself blush with shame. This was the problem, right here. He had no idea how to approach his wife. He didn’t have a clue how to satisfy her. What did she want from him?

  “Sit up, Becky. Open your eyes,” Dr. Rosenblatt said. “We’re going to try something else. Everyone is different. Every person has a different definition of what’s pleasurable. There’s no good or bad, right or wrong. We just need to find your comfort zone.”

  Paul felt a tremendous sense of gratitude. Someone was finally going to sort this out.

  Dr. Rosenblatt moved the coffee table away from the couch and told Becky to sit on the floor between Paul’s legs. Then he told Paul to put his hands on her shoulder and to massage her muscles.

  “How’s that feel, Becky?” Dr. Rosenblatt said.

  “Good.” Becky seemed to be relaxing.

  Paul dug his thumbs into her stringy muscles and manipulated her back with his palms.

  “Could it feel better?” Dr. Rosenblatt said.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “How, Becky, how? Tell Paul how to make it better.”

  “Harder.”

  “Use his name, Becky. Say Paul’s name.”

  “Harder, Paul. Do it harder.”

  And so Paul dug his fingers in to his wife’s boney shoulders. She felt so fragile that at first he was afraid of the pressure she seemed to be asking for. But the harder he squeezed and pushed the more relaxed she became. She started to moan and Paul found himself using all his strength to knead away her tension.

  12

  When Lunch Doesn’t Sit Well

  Gus sat in the men’s lounge with his martini and a set of dominoes. It was 11:30 and most of his friends were still out on the golf course. Normally that’s where Gus would have been but this morning he just hadn’t felt like getting out of bed and when he did finally drag himself up for breakfast, he’d missed his Friday tee time. He wasn’t sick. In fact, Judith had insisted he have a checkup just the other day and everything was fine. But he was tired a lot and the things that had once sounded so appealing no longer held his interest.

  David Halliburton had been a great domino player. God, that man had a mind for numbers; he almost never lost. Luck and skill had made him club champion five years running. Even up to the end, when he’d stopped playing golf and didn’t really have the energy to stay much past lunch, David would be there, five days a week, cleaning everyone’s clock.

  Losing David was a big one. Sure other members had gotten sick and died. Crawford Eagan had that stroke. Nat Cushing dropped dead in this very lounge of a heart attack. John Mollant finally succumbed to colon cancer and just last week Charlie Henson was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer—one of the fastest and worst. Losing all those friends had been hard but it was David who really hit home. David was Gus’ best friend, the one he’d shared his entire life with, the memories, the childhood. David had been there since childhood, playing on the Santa Monica beach as boys, body surfing in the summer and later lifeguarding.

  Gus reached for his drink. When had the tremor started? A year ago? At first it had been so subtle, and so infrequent, that he attributed it to a few too many drinks the night before. But gradually he noticed that the tremor, that slight shaking of the hand, was with him most of the time. Had Judith noticed? Probably. Must be why she insisted on the checkup. The doctor said it might be related to the drinking—hell, he said it probably was, but he also said that some people just develop a shaky hand as they age. It could all be a function of getting older.

  Gus ate the olives and studied the lunch menu that hadn’t changed in over thirty years. He wasn’t hungry today. That was unusual. In fact Gus just didn’t feel well. Tired. He reached for his check, signed his name, finished off his drink and stood. He’d go home. Hopefully Judith would be out and he could crawl into bed for a nap.

  13

  Rosa Gets an Ear Full

  The Missus, she is mad. Throwing one of her little tantrums where the world is the enemy and the problems are all my fault. I’ve learned to stay away when she gets like this. Pretend to scrub a nasty stain in the sink or clean the toilets over again. But poor Carmen, she’s not so smart. She walked right up to the Misses and asked, “Do you want some tea, Missus?” And the Missus, she slaps Carmen with her ugly words. “If I want something Carmen, I will ring for it. Don’t you have something better to do than wasting my time?”

  Now Carmen is crying in the butler’s pantry and the Missus is up in her room with the pig. These people don’t have any idea what it is to have a real problem. I’d like to show them, someday. Maybe I will. What they don’t know, and what no one is ever going to tell them, is that the vent in the bedroom is like a speaker into the laundry room downstairs. I can stand by the washer and hear everything they say. Usually it’s too boring, her barking about nothing and him with his snorts and belches. Sometimes they fight. I’ve never heard them have sex. No, I don’t bother to listen most of the time. I’ve got better things to do. But today, why not? Maybe I can make Carmen laugh with a funny story.

  “Do you think she could be pregnant?”

  “God, I hope not.”

  “Conrad h
ates beets, you know.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “You had lunch with him last week. He say anything?”

  “We talked about the market.”

  “I think she followed me, August.”

  “Come on.”

  “She’s after something.”

  “Maybe she really liked your hair.”

  “Did you see the way she looked around the house at the dinner.”

  “Nope.”

  “Like she was taking inventory. Shopping.”

  “He says they broke up.”

  “So you did talk about her.”

  “Not really. Just that.”

  Pause.

  “Can you check this spot on my neck?”

  “What?”

  “This mole.”

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “Of course you do. It’s a brown mole. I can feel it.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “Does it look any different?”

  “How the hell would I know? I’ve never seen it before.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about. I think it’s bigger. Is it black and mottled?”

  “I don’t know, Judith. Go to the goddamn doctor if you’re worried.”

  “Are there any hairs growing out of it? That’s a good sign if there are. Did you know?”

  “I can’t see anything.”

  “Lean in. Please.”

  “Looks okay.”

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “No.”

  Pause.

  “I can smell it on you. It’s one o’clock in the afternoon and you’ve been drinking. Honestly August, don’t you have anything better to do with your day? Not to mention the health risks.”

  “Cork it, Judith. I had one glass of white wine. Big deal.”

  “You know they’ve proven that excessive drinking does cause cancer and I’d say getting drunk at lunch and dinner seven days a week constitutes excess.”

  “Is there any setting other than NAG?”

  “You’re starting to get one of those W. C. Fields noses. You want that? August?”

  Rustling.

  “Where do you think you’re going? We need to deal with this Angela situation.”

  “Call Conrad.”

  “He’s in Geneva. I tried.”

  Door slams.

  “She’s obviously after money.”

  Silence.

  “And I’m absolutely positive that she’s the one who took my tongs.”

  Knocking on the door.

  “August.”

  Shower starts.

  Footsteps pound down the hallway.

  Uh-oh. Here she comes. Time to hide. She’ll be breathing fire because her husband, the pig, is locked away in the shower and there’s no place for her to put the rage. Maids are dumpsters for the rich. Angry? Disappointed? Sad? Unload it on us. Yell, scream, say whatever you want. We’ll take it, that’s what you pay us for. We clean up messes, make your life feel a little better, a little cleaner. It’s our job.

  14

  Paul and Becky Explore

  Paul and Becky made real progress in their couples therapy. Dr. Rosenblatt had helped them see that there was really no area too strange or embarrassing to explore. At first Becky was very hesitant to participate in this aspect of the treatment. Sex with Paul had never been a real priority. In fact, sex had never held much interest at all for Becky. She found that she was most satisfied when alone, perhaps in the bathtub, or in front of a mirror after a good massage, thinking about herself and how she was admired by those around her. “Oh Becky, you have such a beautiful body.” “Oh Becky, your breasts look so young.” She had sexual feelings but she didn’t necessarily have them when anyone else was in the room. It was more of a private thing for her, a solo thing. Dr. Rosenblatt said he could fix that, he could help her enjoy sex with Paul, if she’d just trust him and follow his instructions.

  Paul was more than game. He’d always found his wife to be beautiful, and he was tremendously attracted to her, but with Dr. Rosenblatt’s help, he was able to admit that there were times that he found her indifference to be off-putting. He wished that she wasn’t so cold.

  They’d started with simple massage, the touching and exploring of each other’s bodies in a non-sexual way. Paul found that he liked to have his stomach rubbed in a circular motion and, once Becky talked him into waxing his torso, she didn’t mind accommodating him. Becky discovered that it felt good to have her arms pulled straight back behind her body so that her hands touched. She told Paul that it was the stretching across her chest that she liked. What she didn’t say was that it hurt a little bit and that the tiny bit of pain was enormously relaxing. They both reported their progress to Dr. Rosenblatt who was very pleased and gave them permission to advance.

  The next phase of therapy involved massage in a sexual context. Intercourse was still strictly forbidden. Nipples, breasts, buttocks, scrotum, penis, labia, clitoris, anus, perineum, all these areas were to be explored with the gentle touch of hands and copious amounts of lubricant. The point was to learn each other’s body while learning about one’s self. Again, Paul found that his torso was tremendously responsive. He liked to have Becky start on his stomach then work her way down to the pubic area. Again Becky was put off by the hair and so Paul waxed his entire body, including the hair on his scrotum—a terribly painful procedure. Once the hair was gone, Becky was much more attentive.

  Becky found pleasure through penetration. Because they were restricted in what they could do in this phase of the program, because Paul was not allowed to enter his wife, they improvised with household items and store bought toys. Then one day Becky brought home a variety of monstrously large zucchini from the farmer’s market. She spent a good deal of time washing her purchases, even though they were organic, and then secreted them up to the bedroom. At first Paul had been put off by his wife’s request but when he saw the longing in Becky’s eyes, he acquiesced. He started with the smallest of the vegetables and was frankly shocked when he discovered how large Becky’s appetite really was. But, as Dr. Rosenblatt constantly reminded them, there was no wrong or right, only pleasure.

  At the week’s end, they dutifully reported back to Dr. Rosenblatt who was very pleased. He insisted they describe, in great detail, the highlights of their exploration, focusing especially on Becky’s success. It was good work, he said, very good work indeed. Dr. Rosenblatt gave his blessing and granted permission for them to move on to the next phase: Intercourse.

  15

  Assaualt on the Inner Sanctum

  Becky pulled her car up to the valet station, grabbed her liter bottle of Fiji water, took the ticket from the attendant and rushed inside without bothering to say hello or thank you. Becky was in a hurry. The 4:00 class was about to start and being late meant a spot at the back of the class where Rico’s fine young face and body would be obscured by thirty other ladies vying for his attention. This was The Yoga and Spinning Institute of Brentwood and competition was fierce. They only hired the most attractive of instructors who offered exquisite motivation by way of suggestive smiles, full body hugs and, for the truly outstanding student, the occasional pat on the bum. Here you could find Brentwood matrons sitting on a stationary bikes seven days a week, pedaling as fast as they possibly could in an effort to escape the dreaded cellulite that threatened every woman’s back end. Or if you came on the odd numbered hours 9, 11, 1, 3, 5 or 7, you would find those same matrons twisting and honing their bodies through the vigorous yet enlightening pursuit of yogic perfection.

  Becky signed in at the front desk and rushed to Studio 7. Just as she’d suspected the front three rows of bikes were completely taken, mostly by regulars, but there were a couple of newcomers, one of them in the very first row. There should be a law against that: new people should have to stay in the back until they establish themselves. Becky had been attending this same 4:00 class with Rico for over a year. Fourteen months to be exact. It was the highlight of
her day and frankly she was probably responsible for his huge popularity. She talked about Rico’s class to everyone who would listen, even brought her mother along when he was first starting out so there’d be more students. That’s loyalty. They ought to reserve a bike for her. Would it kill Rico to go out of his way? Everything she’d done and especially after that nice Christmas present she gave him? Becky climbed on a bike in the forth row and pulled on her riding gloves. She would have a word with him, give him a piece of her mind.

  The woman on the bike in front of her turned. “Becky?”

  Who was this?

  “Angela,” she said. “Conrad’s girlfriend.” She got off her bike, gathered up her stuff and came back to Becky’s row.

  “Oh. Yeah.” Becky considered switching bikes. What did she care about being rude to one of Conrad’s women? But before she could make her move Magda Birtch, a regular, swooped in and grabbed the spot.

  Angela climbed on next to Becky. “What a nice coincidence.”

  “It’s an advanced class, you know.” Becky checked her watch. 4:03. Rico was late. “Mostly hill work. Real fast intervals.”

  “Great.” Angela pulled on her riding gloves and tested the resistance settings on the bike. “Saw your mom at Faberge’s earlier today. Graziano does you too, right?”

  “For years,” Becky said. What the hell was this poser doing at Faberge’s?

  “I’ve got an appointment later this week,” Angela said. “Can’t wait to see what he does with my color. Your mom insists he’s the best and you both look so great.” She cleared her throat and smiled. “Listen, Con and I are having your parents for dinner when he gets back from Geneva. Why don’t you and Paul come?

  Becky looked at Angela. No way. There was absolutely no chance that this girl, this average little nothing, this conniving bitch, this preschool teacher, had made it past the farewell family dinner. She had to be lying. Or maybe Conrad was losing his grip? Angela and Conrad, that made Becky smile. They deserved each other.