The Wentworths Page 4

  6

  At Home with the Wentworth-Joneses

  Rebecca “Becky” Wentworth-Jones stomped up the stairs to Monica’s bedroom. Paul and Little Joey were all dressed and ready, waiting patiently downstairs on the sofa. Little Joey didn’t mind getting dressed up for the grandparents. Little Joey wore whatever his mother told him to wear: khaki slacks, white button down shirt, navy blue blazer, just like his daddy. Sweet Little Joey. He was a good son, loving, obedient, and delightfully malleable. He accepted that the parents knew better. Why couldn’t Monica be more like her brother?

  Monica’s door was closed. Her door was always closed. Closed and bolted with the music blasting away and tendrils of incense smoke sneaking out from the crack at the bottom. Becky wasn’t sure what her daughter was smoking behind that barricaded door but she was certain that the incense was not there to enhance her yoga experience.

  She knocked. “Monica, everyone’s waiting for you.” Becky smoothed the front of her skirt. She and mother had bought identical skirts in different colors with the agreement that they would swap every few weeks. It was so nice to wear the same size as one’s mother; sharing clothes was such a bonding experience. Monica had already reached a whopping size eight by the time she got to junior high so Becky had never had the experience of sharing with her daughter. Not that Monica would ever be interested in anything Becky had.

  “Monica. You need to come out now. I refuse to be late again because of you. It’s rude and just because you don’t care about rude doesn’t mean that the rest of us have to be brought down by your bad manners. It upsets me. It upsets your grandmother. It upsets your father. It simply is not fair.”

  Monica stood behind the door and listened. Once her mother flipped the switch it was virtually impossible for her to shut it off. She could stand there and rant until the Botox wore off and the frown lines reappeared between her brows. Rain or shine, from morning to night, Becky felt compelled to badger and harp. It was her life’s work, her destiny. Poor Becky. Hers was not a complex mind, more like the electricity experiment Little Joey did for his science project in the fifth grade. Touch the two wires together and watch the dim bulb burn.

  “Coming, Becky,” Monica said.

  “You’re not allowed to call me that.” Becky pounded the door for emphasis. “You know you’re not allowed to call me that. Mother. Mom. Mommy. Those are acceptable names. Not Becky. Never Becky.” She pounded again. “Open this. Right now.”

  It was like teasing a puppy with a sirloin steak and a long sharp stick, cruel but enormously entertaining. “One second, MOMMY.”

  “You listen to me, Monica Judith Wentworth-Jones. When I say jump, you say ‘How high?’ and I say open this immediately or I’ll call your father.”

  Monica checked her nose for coke. Becky, and just about everyone related to her, excluding Monica of course, had the brain capacity of a single cell amoeba but she did have weird narc-like instincts that forced Monica to take extra precautions.

  “Paul,” Becky yelled. “Paul, we need to break down Monica’s door. She won’t come out. PAUL. Come up here. Monica won’t open. We’ve got a real problem.”

  Monica gently tore open one end of a super sized tampon, slid the little vial of coke inside the cardboard applicator then closed the wrapper and buried the tampon in the bottom of her purse.

  “PAUL! I need some help here. Come. Now.”

  Monica took one more deep sniff, hoping to suck in some un-utilized nugget of cocaine that might be lying dormant in her nasal cavities, then opened the door and stepped out into the hallway just as Becky was heading down the stairs to marshal her forces for an all-out attack. “Here I am, Mommy. Off we go to Grandmother’s house.”

  7

  The Secret World of Little Joey

  Joey sat in the back seat behind his father, Monica behind her mother. Girls’ side, boys’ side. Paul drove, Becky fumed, Monica was all squirmy, and Joey worked the hangnail on his right index finger with his teeth. They all stared out the windows. No one spoke. What Joey would have liked to do is take his finger down a couple more layers, just to where it started to ooze, but he had to be careful. Bleeding made Becky angry. She’d say, “Paul, make him stop. Why does he do that? Do we need to take him to a doctor? Joey, is something wrong with you? What’s wrong with you, Joey?”

  No. Joey didn’t want that kind of attention. Joey just wanted to be left alone with his thoughts and his plans. So he sat quietly and watched the world go by and made do with the gentle nibbling of his fingers and his thumbs.

  Gnawing animals, or rodents, are a varied group. Some are cute, even cuddly. Beavers, for instance, with their fat bodies, stubby legs and big flat paddle tails, are adorable. Those darling beaver teeth can saw right through an entire stand of trees in no time flat. A beaver is an industrious animal, always building nifty little dams and swimming to and fro. Everyone loves a busy beaver. Squirrels are very popular too, their cheeks full of nuts, their dens all cozy and snug. Squirrels often store large supplies of food in the ground or in stockpiles near their nests. They defend their territory with surprising ferocity yet they are charming and sweet when not engaged in warfare. And, like elephants, squirrels have a good memory and a keen sense of smell, which helps them find and retrieve their hidden treasure during the winter months. You find sweet little beavers and fluffy squirrels starring in children’s tales throughout the world. They are beloved animals and by far the most popular of the gnawing animals.

  If you asked Little Joey which animal in the rodent family he most resembled, he would no doubt pledge allegiance to the squirrel and the beaver. He would cite his tendency to hoard supplies and compare it with that of the squirrel who spends his year on an obsessive survival quest to prepare for winter. Little Joey would say that his ability to construct hiding places for his belongings was much like the beaver’s dam building skills. He considered himself a master craftsman, clever and determined. He had his treasures secreted throughout the house and no one suspected a thing.

  It was true that Little Joey did in many ways resemble both of these animals but not in ways he would like to acknowledge. His fat body and squat legs were indeed beaver-like and the still protruding front teeth and beady eyes were very much like those of the common ground squirrel. But Little Joey was neither adorable nor charming and, truth be told, it was the rat family which could claim the most direct kinship.

  Pack rats, or woodrats as they are more commonly called, are obsessive thieves. They are nosy creatures and curious about everything that goes on around them. They covet other people’s belongings and hide or carry home small articles that catch their fancy such as silverware, nail clippers, buckles, tin foil, paper clips, jewelry, brightly colored stones and even manure. The pack rat doesn’t have any use for these stolen wares but will obsessively hide and guard them. It is the feeling of ownership that gives this rodent its sense of purpose and the quest for loot that drives each waking hour of a pack rat’s life. So too with Little Joey Wentworth-Jones.

  Little Joey started stealing the moment he could effectively use his hands. If he could grasp it, he could own it. If it belonged to someone else, he wanted it. He stuffed things in his diaper—spoons, ashtrays, books of matches, only to be punished later when the befouled diaper needed to be changed. Little Joey understood that stealing was dangerous and carried with it the potential for great consequence and so from a very young age he developed uncanny abilities in the area of stealth behavior. He stopped using his diapers as a hiding place and began his life work of seeking out the dark and forgotten places where he could safely store that which was rightfully his.

  Monica was the biggest potential problem in Little Joey’s life. She caught on to him early and knew exactly what he was up to. When he was five years old, Monica saw him steal Becky’s earring and hide it in the small space between the freezer and the wall of the pantry.

  “Paul, Paul!” Becky shouted later that evening after a few too many glasses of wine. “I
’ve lost my good diamond earring.” She got frantic whenever she lost something. “Children, help me find it. LOOK! Now.”

  Monica didn’t tell. She followed Little Joey around, pretending to hunt for the earring. When they were “searching” the library and out of ear shot from the parents she whispered, “You little shit. I’ll kill you if I ever find you in my room.”

  “Okay.” Joey pretended to look amongst the cushions on the couch. He dared not make eye contact with his sister.

  “Don’t you ever touch any of my stuff.” Monica kicked him hard on the left shin. “Understand?”

  Little Joey grabbed his shin and fell to the ground in pain but he didn’t make a noise. He lay on the floor, fighting back the tears, as his sister left the library and headed back towards the living room where her parents were tearing the furniture apart. He heard her say, “Did you find your earring yet, Mommy?”

  The key to not getting caught was not being noticed. Little Joey found that if he did exactly what his mother asked of him, and if he did it quietly, she would pay him very little attention and he would remain free to plunder.

  If you asked Little Joey why he stole, why he felt the need to hoard other people’s stuff, he would just shrug. Little Joey wouldn’t be able to tell you that taking things was his way of controlling the world.

  8

  Conrad on Angela Simms

  Angela Simms is the stupidest bitch I ever fucked. Stupid but perpetually in heat. She’s got a pussy that is always wet. She keeps it waxed and smooth just the way I like it. I can’t get enough of that, know what I’m saying? You might think she’s a little skinny, but I like that little girl look. Fat chicks should be killed.

  “Oh my God,” Angela says. “Conrad, it’s the size of the White House.”

  We’re at my parents’ house for dinner. This is her big meet the family night.

  “God, I hope they like me.” Angela is flipping open that mirror on the sun visor for the seventy-eighth time.

  “Honey, stop with the mirror,” I tell her. She’s driving me crazy with that shit. She’s wasting her time, anyway. Doesn’t matter what she looks like or how much preparation she goes through, they’re not going to like her. They don’t like anyone. I reach across the seat and pat her knee. “You’re perfect, honey. They’ll love you.”

  The thing about Angela, the thing that has kept me coming back long past the expiration date, is this crazy sex thing. I can send her into a fucking frenzy without hardly trying. This is the horniest bitch that ever walked the planet. Watch this:

  I lean over and kiss her. At first she pulls back, afraid to mess her lipstick cause she’s real nervous about tonight. But I grab the back of her head and force her—real rough. She loves rough. Then I suck on her tongue the way she likes it, kind of like a calf pulling on a teat. I lick her teeth and slide my hand along her left thigh. Hear that moan? I’ve been at it for what? Twelve seconds? She’s like a novelty act in the circus. I’ve never seen anything like it. I mean I can just say the word pussy, and she gets all squishy. One little word and she’s ready to go. And she’ll do anything I tell her. Gangbang, bondage, blindfold, electrical currents—it’s all the same to Angela. All sex is good sex.

  Now watch this: I move my hand up between her legs, pull her panties to one side and work that magic little button with my index and middle finger. She likes this little twisting motion—real fast. See? She’s riding my hand, immediately and completely oblivious to the fact that we’re parked in my parents’ driveway and already twenty minutes late for dinner. Anybody could walk outside and see this. Crazy, huh? Okay, her checks are all red now, that’s the sign that she’s all fired up. So, now I remove my hand and sit back. We can just enjoy the show from here on out, she’ll take care of the rest.

  The thing about Angela is that once I get her started she can’t stop. It’s like a survival thing: when aroused, she must achieve orgasm or die. Doesn’t matter where we are, if I can get her going—and I always can—she’s going to finish the deal. I’ve pulled this at the supermarket, department store, restaurants, even at the preschool where she works. It’s really a trip. Look how she’s got her legs spread wide. She’s a bit of an exhibitionist with me, but hey, it’s a pretty nice view don’t you think? See how she’s replaced my hand with hers. Here comes the audio part of our show:

  “Oh. Oh, oh, oh. Ohhhhhh.”

  Yeah, she’s not that creative with the dialogue, but still, it’s fun to watch. Should I roll down the windows and let the world enjoy the mating cries of Angela Simms? What would Judith think? Actually, if Judith happened to wander outside, we could probably forget about the dinner.

  “You make me so wet, Conrad. Ohhh. Awwww.”

  See how Angela’s using both hands now? She really gives that thing a workout. I’m going to turn on the interior lights. If Judith did happen to walk outside, we want to make sure she has a good view of what’s going on. Oops, Angela stops, confused by the light.

  “Don’t stop, baby,” I say. “I need to see you. You make me hard, Angela. Very hard.”

  See? That’s all it takes. She’s back to work with renewed enthusiasm.

  “In my mouth, Conrad,” she says. “Please.”

  “Yes, baby in your mouth.” I say. “I’ll bash out those teeth.”

  “My hair,” she says. “Do it all over my face.”

  See how she’s yelling now? These fantasies of hers seem to be more powerful when the decible level rises. Crazy wench.

  “Oh no. You put it in my BUTT,” she cries. “It’s in my butt.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes honey, it’s in your tight little butt and I’m going to bust you wide open.”

  “Ouch. Ouch, oh ouch.”

  I gotta roll down the windows. This is too fucking good. I need to share it with the whole family. Look at her, the fucking car is shaking. She is driving those hips so hard.

  “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts it hurts.”

  See? That’s the thing. She likes pain. ‘Cause seriously, orgasms don’t hurt but she always says ouch. I dig that. Something about hurting a woman really turns me on. I’m actually getting pretty hard talking about this. You?

  “Make it stop. Stop. STOP.”

  Okay, she’s done now. It always ends with a big STOP! She’ll sit there quietly for a while. Looks like she just ran a marathon, doesn’t it? It’ll be a couple of minutes before she realizes where we are and what’s just happened. It’s like she’s had some kind of seizure—an X-rated epileptic fit—and she often doesn’t completely remember what she did. Only difference is, she doesn’t foam at the mouth. Pretty fucking wild, huh? Watch this:

  “Baby, give me your panties.”

  She got those things off fast, huh? I take a big sniff. Women love it when you make of show of loving their stink.

  “I’m gonna keep these, sweetie. Every time you see my hand in my pocket I’m playing with your panties.”

  “Oh Conrad, you’re making me hot again.”

  “I’m gonna rub the crotch and you’re gonna feel it all the way across the table.”

  She’s reaching down there to start all over again but you’ve seen enough.

  “Sweetie, you keep your eyes on me all night.” I lean in and give her a kiss. “I’m gonna make you cum all over my mother’s velvet chair.”

  She’s swooning but it’s time to get this show on the road. I climb out of the car and walk around to open her door. This is her farewell dinner. She doesn’t know it, but we’re at the end of the line. As good as she just was, it’s getting old. I’m giving her dinner with the folks and then adios Angela Simms.

  9

  Family Dinner (Norman’s Not Hungry)

  Norman was a robin’s egg, all fragile and baby blue. His shell was thin and vulnerable but his yolk, which floated gently inside, was firm, plump and yellow. And there he sat in a room full of egg sucking predators. They had long sticky tongues and waddled vulture’s necks. Sharp talons. The sap of their dishonest lives ooze
d from their eyes and noses and gaping pores. Mouths opened and closed. Razor teeth. They were taking up too much space, these people, with their dinner plates and salad plates and bread plates and knives and forks and glasses. Laughing. Yes, they would like to break his beautiful delicate shell. They would drop him out of his nest and watch him smash on the ground far below then walk away without a second glance. Norman closed his eyes.

  Judith was telling the story about the magazine people who wanted to photograph the house. She said, “You know, we simply don’t associate with people like that. Can you imagine?”

  Everyone nodded in agreement as August walked around the table and poured the wine.

  Conrad said, “Mother, Angela thinks this is a beautiful house, don’t you Angela?”

  Angela nodded, enthusiastically. Judith thought she was a pretty girl. Beautiful, in fact. Conrad certainly had good taste in women.

  Becky watched Angela lick her lips and run her hand along her throat, down towards her chest. God. It always came down to sex with Conrad. Why couldn’t anyone else in the family see how sick he was? Look how she squirms in her seat. She’d do anything for him, just like all the others. Girl after girl, year after year. How did he find them? Conrad only went for the one model—Judith Wentworth circa 1969. His women were identical down to the thin upper lip, sharp chin and the long fingers and nails. He always brought them at the end of the relationship, just before he dumped them; no girl was ever invited twice. It made Becky sick. Conrad was the overindulged house cat who didn’t hunt out of need but for sport and when he was victorious he instinctually brought home his trophy to Master Judith and proudly displayed the bloody carcass, feathers and all. The strange thing was that instead of being repulsed by this twisted ritual, Judith seemed to enjoy it. She liked meeting these pathetic women. Becky took a sip of water. Goddamn it. It just wasn’t fair.