The Wentworths Read online

  We as a species—yes I admit that you and I have that one thing in common, our place in the genetic cartogram—we human beings, are capable of adapting to endless configurations of adversity. A high pain threshold is crucial to survival. But three young Homosapiens, three Wentworth children, faced with the same hardships, will likely cope in very different ways. It all comes down to intelligence and natural selection. Survival of the fittest and the fittest is I.

  And what of my reproductive future, you ask? You bemoan the fact I spill my seed fruitlessly? Then you obviously still believe in the virtue of perpetuating this human race. Well, I do not share your opinion, my friend. You and I are not of like mind.

  3

  Judith’s Work is Never Done

  Judith leaned over the porcelain sink to examine the single coarse black hair. It was long and black, obviously one of the maids, but which one? She reluctantly picked up the hair. Normally she wouldn’t subject herself to such filth, she would call someone, but she had to personally get to the bottom of this. It was a long hair, at least to the shoulders, so that ruled out Graciela. Judith held it up to the light. It had the glossy sheen to it of the chemically untreated and the color was true black. Rosa. Had to be. Blanca colored her hair and Carmenita’s was Negroid-kinky. Judith dropped the hair back into the sink and stepped out into the hall.

  “Rosa.” She used her calm but authoritative voice. One needed to assert one’s position in a household full of help and Judith had perfected her leadership skills over the years. It was a terrible mistake to befriend these people. They didn’t need a friend, they needed a boss. Judith was a master at setting limits and defining boundaries. Caring for the help was a lot like raising children except that the help never matured into adulthood. They were perpetual adolescents and required a firm hand. She waited thirty seconds, counting them off in her head, then called again, “Rosa. Come down here, please.” She counted. One one hundred, two one hundred. At fifteen she raised her voice. “Rosa, I want to see you this instant!”

  “Coming, Missus,” Rosa yelled from some distant room.

  Judith looked around the bathroom. The linen hand towels were perfectly ironed and hung neatly on the towel rack. She reached over and creased the corner of one towel and crinkled another.

  Rosa’s heavy footsteps thundered down the front stairway. She arrived, panting, her mustache-prone upper lip dotted with beads of perspiration. Was it from fear or hard work? Rosa had been employed for over two years. Was she still so frightened of Judith? Judith smiled at the thought.

  “I’ve been calling, Rosa.”

  “Yes, Missus?”

  “I don’t like to have to yell.” Judith cleared her throat. “I expect you to come immediately.”

  “Sorry, Missus.”

  “Look here,” Judith pointed toward the bathroom. “What do you see?”

  “The powder room, Missus.”

  Judith nodded in encouragement. Sometimes these people could be so dense. Rosa looked reluctant to continue so Judith used her warm and supportive smile as a prod.

  “The toilet,” Rosa pointed. “The sink, the window, the soap, the hand towel...”

  “Is this room clean?”

  “Oh yes, very clean. I did it this morning.”

  “Step in here with me.”

  Rosa reluctantly stepped into the bathroom. Judith could smell the cheap floral soap and the underlying sweat. It must be the rice and beans that gave them that particular odor. Jalapeno peppers and lard.

  “Children often have trouble concentrating on the task at hand,” Judith said. She smoothed the front of cream-colored linen slacks. She would have to make this quick as she needed to change for dinner. “Follow through is an issue with the very young. You know that Rosa, you have children. Five children, correct?”

  Rosa nodded her head. There were five children back home in Guatemala. Rosa sent money each week for food and clothing. She had not seen her children in three years and had no plans to return home anytime in the near future. She could not afford to leave.

  “You and I, we are not children, Rosa.” Judith pointed at the sink and the offending hair. “We are capable of better.”

  Rosa reached out to grab it but Judith caught her arm. “We can’t really call this room clean, can we?”

  Rosa shook her head. Was that a tear forming in her eye? Judith let the arm go and Rosa snatched up the hair and stuffed it into her uniform pocket.

  “To me, stray hairs spell germs,” Judith sighed. It was important that Rosa not forget this lesson. “Now, we expect to find hairs in public restrooms at football stadiums or gas stations or fast food restaurants but not in the home. Never in the home, Rosa. I can’t live like this. With filth.”

  “It will not happen again, Missus.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Never.”

  “You promise me? Give me your word of honor?”

  Rosa nodded. Yes, those were definitely tears in her eyes but Judith noticed that her hands were balled in tight fists.

  “We’ll let it go this time.”

  Rosa started to leave before she was dismissed. Silly girl was angry.

  “Don’t you have something to say, Rosa?”

  Rosa turned like a defiant child. The fury in her eye made Judith want to laugh. These maids were from the third world, and yes their intelligence was not quite up to par, but they were not animals. They were capable of learning things. Didn’t Rosa know that these lessons were for her own good? Didn’t she understand that it was moments like this that would make her a better person? Judith stared back until finally Rosa dropped her eyes.

  “Thank you, Missus . . .”

  “You’re welcome, Rosa.”

  Rosa started to leave.

  “Oh and Rosa? These linen hand towels need to be pressed with a very hot iron. You see? They’re wrinkled. Do them again, please? I like everything to look nice when the family comes for dinner.”

  Rosa took the towels and hurried off and Judith continued her inspection of the house. She kept a running tally in her head of all the precious objects that she owned and all the things she intended to buy. Any thing that was lost or taken from her over the years went into a separate mental column, a special section labeled grudge or regret. Her calculations went back to childhood when she lived in a ratty trailer with a mother who had almost no money but an unlimited allowance for booze. But the conscious Judith of today had no memory of that ugly past. Her life was in order. The things that she owned, that she controlled, were comforting in a way that no human relationship could ever be. Her things were solid, and trustworthy; they had monetary value, heft and weight, and that made her feel whole. Judith Wentworth was safe.

  4

  Rosa

  Rosa’s jaw hurt from chewing the gum. She chewed and sprayed the starch and chewed and ironed and chewed and folded the linen hand towels. Snap, snap, snap went her teeth. It was a big wad of gum, three pieces. The flavor was gone but Rosa kept on working it. Missus didn’t allow gum in the house. Rosa blew a bubble. Well, Missus could just come in here and take it out of Rosa’s mouth. Let her try. She’d lose a finger, that’s what would happen. Rosa would bite that skinny bitch’s arm off.

  There were a lot of rules in this house. This palace. No gum. No colored nail polish. No hairspray. Those things were cheap. Low class. And Missus was allergic. Missus could wear her own perfume but Missus was allergic to everyone else’s, so no perfume, no scented lotions, no strong smelling soaps.

  They were crazy, these people. Missus, with her perfect things, starving herself all the time. And that horrible man, Mister Wentworth, probably had two or three families scattered around this city. Filthy dog. Can’t keep it in his pants. Rosa knew lots of men like him; she used to be married to one. No, she had no patience with this type of person. One time Mister Wentworth put that fat hand on Rosa’s back end when she passed him in the hall. Rosa turned around and scratched him with her nails. She drew blood. No man could get awa
y with that. Never again. Rosa scratched him then she let out a scream that could have raised her dead grandmother but instead brought the Missus running.

  Missus yelled, “What on earth is going on?”

  Mister Wentworth tried to cover his arm. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Oh my God,” Rosa cried. She pulled his arm out for everyone to see. “You’re bleeding! Look, Missus. Blood is dripping down.”

  And sure enough, there were three long scratch marks on his arm, all oozing bright red blood.

  “August,” Missus said. “How did this happen?”

  He said some ridiculous story about nails in the garage and falling off a ladder. Not convincing but the Missus, she bought it. She never once asked why Rosa had screamed, never even looked at Rosa. Absolutely no questions were asked. Some women are like that; they don’t want to see the truth about their men. Rosa was once like that herself until the day her husband ran off and left her with five young children and no money.

  “That could get very infected, Mister Wentworth,” Rosa said as she looked him in the eye. “A very, very big problem for you.”

  Missus took him by the hand and rushed him off to get a Band-Aid. Mister Wentworth never bothered Rosa again. She would take what she had to from Missus, she needed the money, her children needed the money, but no man would ever take advantage of Rosa Alvarado again.

  Rosa stuffed another piece of gum in her mouth. Four pieces was a little much but she liked the sugary taste of strawberry. Something about the artificial flavor, a flavor that had nothing to do with real fruit, was soothing.

  She had been working in the Wentworth house for two years. Two years and the older children, Conrad and Becky, still hadn’t bothered to learn her name. They called her “the short one” or “the little Mexican girl.” Rosa didn’t care. Why should she? It was all about money. It was about her children, the only people she loved, the only reason she could think of to keep on living this miserable life.

  Norman made a point of asking about the children and even remembered their names. He was all right. Crazy, no question, but nice. Who cares if he dressed up in his mama’s clothes and pranced around like a fairy? He was the only decent person in this family and he didn’t really belong.

  Rosa finished the towels, turned off the iron, took the fat wad of gum from her mouth, rolled it around in her fingers to make a nice big wet ball then stuck it to the bottom of the sorting table next to all the other pieces she’d put there. It was a good collection. She made a point of buying different colored gums for variety. Soon the underside of the table would be completely covered with old chewing gum but there was still a chair and of course the ironing board. Rosa envisioned a world in which the bottom of every table and chair, counter and sofa in the Wentworth home, would be covered with her furiously chewed bubble gum. It would take a long time, but that Rosa had. Time. She would work for the rest of her life to give her children a better chance than she had. This house was her children’s future. She had to keep this job and smile no matter how bad she felt. No tears allowed in the Wentworth house, no homesickness. She was a servant and only as good as her job. Rosa picked up the re-ironed hand towels and took them back downstairs to the powder room.

  5

  Norman’s World

  Judith would say: Charming English cottage, leaded windows, stonewalls and a heavy wooden door hewed from an ancient redwood. The Cotswold’s, moss and ivy and smoke trailing lazily from the chimney. A meandering path with a sweet little bridge that crosses the babbling brook. Towering pine trees, cool and restful shade even on the hottest days. Silence and peace. Yes, it cost a fortune but it was worth every penny. You’d never guess that this was Bel Air, California. Not twenty-first century, more like seventeenth.

  Norman would say: Hansel and Gretel with a huge pot of boiling water hanging over an open fire. The wolf’s mouth, wet with blood and gristle. Ten thousand witches cackling in the gloom of an evil forest. Toadstools and poison apples. Little Red Riding Hood on her way to grandma’s house and no kind woodsman in sight. An impossible tangle of thorny branches that barred his escape.

  This was not what Norman had pictured for himself at age thirty-five. There should have been some trendy condo in West Hollywood. A townhouse with contemporary furniture and scores of beautiful young men. Models and actors of all races, everyone with a big personality and riotous sense of humor. These should have been his friends. Norman’s phone should ring off the hook. They’d all go out on Friday or Saturday or even Sunday night to Circus Disco or Fubar or Rage and party till the sun came up. Norman would have them all back to his place where he’d make eggs and bacon and they’d all slug down Bloody Marys in a preemptive strike on that inevitable hangover.

  There should be a job that he had to go to on Monday morning, something smart and stylish. Fashion or advertising or maybe magazine work. Norman had the potential to be brilliant in any number of professions. His colleagues would love him. They knew he was meant for greatness.

  But Norman didn’t live in a condo, and Norman didn’t really have any friends, and there had never really been a job. He lived here, in the guesthouse of his parents’ mansion. He was stuck in this backyard fantasy of his mother’s world. He was the project that gave Judith a sense of purpose. Taking care of poor Norman made her feel charitable and good. The constant nagging filled her time and allowed her never to examine her own existence. Norman provided her with the alibi that allowed her to believe that they were all living happily ever after.

  Norman had tried to leave countless times, but the outside world sent him running back. It was just so damn hard to concentrate out there. So many things tugged at him. It took all his strength to keep track of the pieces. The struggle to remain whole, to keep his soul intact, required every ounce of strength that Norman had. He knew it wasn’t like this for everyone. Other people functioned just fine. Even the imbecilic members of his family managed to live in the real world. Norman knew that some key part had been left out of his constitution. Someone had fallen asleep on the assembly line just as Norman slid by. They forgot to include the tiny engine that would power him up those steep mountains and now it was too late to start again. And so Norman lived here, locked away in this dark room at the back of his parents’ house, surviving on anger and delusions and any kind of drug he could get his hands on.

  Norman lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He could feel the chemicals mixing with his blood. He waited. So relaxed. This was where he belonged, here in his bed, away from the world. And suddenly he was in Egypt with the Pharaohs and the Sphinx. They were waving. Hello, old friends. Magically, Norman was flying through the Valley of the Kings. He felt welcome here. Ramses II called out his name as he went by. Swish. The majestic pyramids were beautiful in the afternoon light. And here came Cleopatra with her shiny black hair and snaky bracelets.

  “Hello, Cleopatra,” said Norman.

  She approached, whispered in his ear and offered him some feta cheese.

  “No thank you, Cleopatra,” Norman said. He flew on.

  Tutankhamen was there. He had a very nice beard, not like the punky little goatees you see today on every street corner but a nice thick pelt spilling down his chest. It was regal and manly. The stuff of kings. And remarkably he showed absolutely no body hair. What a handsome man! His skin was taught and tanned and flawless, the kind of body Norman dreamed about. Norman was about to invite Tutankhamen to join him on the bed when the phone rang.

  Norman lay perfectly still.

  Ringggg.

  Norman clasped his hands over his ears.

  Ringgggg.

  “No. No. No.” Norman curled into a ball.

  Ringgggg.

  “Stop.” Norman squeezed his eyes tight in an effort to hold onto his Egyptian friends but the constant ringing banished them from the room. He rolled over and covered his head with a pillow. If only he could make the noise go away. But the answering machine picked up and he heard the voice that was always there,
tearing at him, pulling him down into her special kind of hell.

  “Norman. Honey. Pick up.”

  Norman played dead and lay very still.

  “Norman. Pick up now. I mean it.”

  Norman held his breath.

  “Norman!” Judith’s voice was battery acid in his eyes. “There’s a lot to do before everyone arrives and I need you to come light the candles and start the fire in the living room.”

  Norman opened one eye and checked the machine. He had to make sure that Judith wasn’t somehow using the device as an entry to his room.

  “Norman.” She screeched into the machine, “NORMAN.”

  She couldn’t hurt him. Not in his room. He wouldn’t let her.

  “I’m going to count. If you don’t pick up this instant I’m coming out there. One. Two . . .”

  Norman sat up. He couldn’t allow her toxic aura to invade his tranquil lair. This was his place in the universe, his domain, and no one was allowed inside. The single small room and attached bathroom, this “guesthouse,” was the source of all his power and he must protect the integrity of his sacred space. His life depended upon it. Norman switched gears and picked up the phone.

  “Sorry, Mother. I was in the shower.”

  “I need you.”

  “Coming.”

  “Slacks,” Judith said. “Wear the slacks that Rosa left outside your door. You look so nice in those and Conrad’s bringing a date.”

  Norman walked to the mirror and gazed upon his naked self. Could he grow a beard like Tutankhamen’s? Yes, of course he could. Anything was possible. He opened his closet and took out his leather-riding chaps. How would mother like these? Just the chaps and nothing else? What would she say if he came to the dinner with his prized possession highlighted in such a creative and unusual way?

  “My, Norman. You have a beautiful penis. No wonder you’re so popular with all the boys. August, look at Norman’s lovely penis. Too bad Conrad didn’t get one like that. Turn around Norman. Let me look at your bottom.” And Norman would turn and the family would all agree that his was the nicest ass on the face of this particular planet. But no. Not tonight. Not ever.