The Wentworths Page 5

  August took his seat and raised his glass. This was the signal for them to focus on the wine. Very serious. Concentrate. Hard. August swirled the wine, scrutinized the color, vacuumed the bouquet with his slightly red nose. Finally he put the glass to his lips and pulled the wine into his mouth as if he were sucking marrow from the bone of a freshly killed animal. He savored the flavor, swallowed then nodded and everyone grabbed their glasses and drank.

  “Baked apple, a little caramel.” August cleared his throat. “It thoroughly bastes its spice and mineral flavors in butter.”

  Paul nodded enthusiastically. Usually they went around the table counterclockwise which meant Paul would have gone last but tonight he felt confident in what he had to say and so he jumped in even though, technically, it wasn’t his turn. To be honest, Paul had a hard time with the wine talk. He couldn’t tell the difference between cassis and chocolate, tropical fruit and tar. But tonight a light went off when the wine hit his palette. Tonight he was pretty sure he had it right. Paul cleared his throat, sat up tall and said, “I taste lots of minerals, August. It’s velvety and lush. Rich and dare I say, a little sexy?”

  Monica watched Paul. He spent his life trying to win her grandfather’s approval, as if August was the wizard who was handing out the brains, but it was a waste of time because, unbeknownst to Paul, the wicked witches at the far end of the table had his balls locked up in the freezer. They were saving them for some evil feast and no one could stop them. The demon power of Judith and Becky was far too strong for a simpleton like Paul. He was just too weak and, Monica suspected, maybe even a little gay. August couldn’t save him. No one could. Poor Paul was doomed and at that moment Monica almost felt sorry for her father, but not quite.

  Judith ignored Paul as usual. She couldn’t stand to have control of the evening slip away, even for a second. Paul should have waited his turn. Judith cleared her throat and said, “Pear. Does anyone get pear? Pear pulp? Monica?”

  Norman drained his glass and refilled. He considered slipping away for a big snort of Ketamine or perhaps a few more puffs of hash. Maybe he could bring back some rat poison for his mother.

  Angela Simms dutifully drank her wine. Would she have to perform those silly sex acts for Conrad once they were married? Would she have to be his nasty little porn star for the rest of her life? His screaming nymphomaniac? No way. Wives didn’t have to do that shit. Girlfriends did it to sink the hook but once you got that marriage certificate, it was all over. Hell, she probably wouldn’t even have to give him a blowjob once she was Mrs. Conrad Wentworth. Angela looked around the table. No way did Judith Wentworth suck on that old man’s dick. And Angela couldn’t imagine Becky servicing anyone but herself. Marital bliss was a license to shut it all down. Angela was tired of fake orgasms and constant moaning. She was tired of pretending to be turned on by every little thing Conrad said. Idiot. Did he really think he was that hot? She took another sip of wine. Men were so stupid.

  It was Monica’s turn. The Wentworths were adamantly opposed to drugs but somehow didn’t mind about children drinking wine. Monica suspected her grandmother was behind this and that it had something to do with imaginary European roots.

  Monica said, “Yeah, I got pear Grandma. But I’d say it has a fruit forward personality with a hint of quartz and although friendly, it’s certainly not shallow. I wouldn’t single out pear.”

  “Very good, Monica.” August clapped his hands then reached over and caressed Monica’s cheek. “Excellent.” She was such a pretty girl and very smart. Monica tried to pull away but August held her chin and looked into her eyes. What kind of woman would she become? What kind of man will she choose? She had her whole life ahead of her. So many options.

  Norman pushed his chair back from the table. Didn’t anyone notice that Grandpa was drooling? Didn’t anyone care? This was too much, he needed to go. Bring in Caligula. Disembowel the visitor. Let August rape his granddaughter while Conrad finally consummates the mother-son relationship he’s longed for all his life and Paul can sodomize his kleptomaniac son. Let them wallow in their incestuous filth. Let them destroy each other and burn in their self-made hell. He was leaving. Norman stood.

  Judith said, “What do you think you’re doing Norman?”

  “Just going to lie down for a minute. I think I have a fever.”

  “Sit.” Judith’s voice was like a bullwhip lashing his delicate and sensitive mind. The sting of her command took his breath away and with it his power. Norman found himself dazed and momentarily paralyzed. He gently lowered himself back down on the chair.

  Conrad brought his fingers to his nose. He looked Angela in the eye and took a long sniff. Truth was, he couldn’t smell anything, but he closed his eyes and rocked his head back. Oh baby. He opened his eyes and gave her that look. Yeah. She was getting hot. He made her hot. Look at her squirm. He would almost be sorry to see her go.

  Angela knew that landing Conrad was not going to be a picnic. She knew that bringing her home to the family was probably his farewell gift. She fully expected him to serve her with the walking papers—as early as tomorrow. He probably looked forward to it; guys like this love to break women’s hearts. Well, bring it on. Conrad Wentworth had no idea what he was dealing with. Angela was ready for whatever he could throw at her because she and the future Conrad Jr. (or perhaps Connie?) had a much better set of plans.

  Judith turned her attention to Little Joey who was sucking on a butter knife. “Little Joey, tell your grandfather. What do you think of the wine?”

  Little Joey was thinking about what was in Angela Simms’ purse. He was working on a plan. Two minutes, that’s all he’d need. He put the knife back on the bread plate and addressed his grandfather. “Toast?” He took a deep breath. “And maybe raspberries with a little apple?”

  August shook his head and laughed. “Where in the world did you get toast?”

  Little Joey examined his hands.

  August looked around this table at his family. They shared his blood. Three generations enjoying yet another meal, together. August felt proud. He looked at his grandson. Couldn’t really see a resemblance but maybe, as the boy got older.

  “Try again, Joey,” August said. “Clear your mouth with water first.”

  Little Joey had some water then took another sip of the wine. “Honeydew melon?”

  “Yes,” August said. “Very good, Joey. It’s subtle, you really have to look for it but I definitely get honeydew melon.” August reached over and patted the boy on the head.

  “I got a cold.” Little Joey said. “Couldn’t taste right the first time.”

  August smiled and then raised his fork and knife. This was the traditional Wentworth signal to begin.

  10

  Norman Goes Back to His Room

  Exocannibalism: members of a group or tribe kill and then eat people from other tribes. Eating the body and brain of an enemy will make you stronger and provide you with great magical powers.

  Endocannibalism: members of a group or tribe that eat their own, usually after they’ve died of natural causes. This is a way to honor the ones you love and to keep them with you forever. The practice is often referred to as “Mortuary Cannibalism,” and is considered the most compassionate way of devouring one’s fellow man.

  Then there is the very pedestrian Survival Cannibalism, which in Norman’s mind didn’t even count. Cannibalism should involve conscious decision in the face of other options. One must choose to eat another person even when faced with an abundance of other dining options. Fingers and toes instead of hooves or claws.

  Deviant cannibals are what Norman called the crazies: the impotent guy who killed women then ate their genitals (hair and all?). The gay guy who drilled holes in his victim’s skulls, thus rendering them zombies, then raped and finally ate them. These guys weren’t proper cannibals. They didn’t run with a tribe. They weren’t warriors and Norman had no interest in them.

  If Norman killed and ate his family would he be an exocanni
bal or an endocannibal? There was no question that they were the enemy. Judith and August were the king and queen of psychological punishment, the masters of intellectual enslavement, heroes of repression and dimwitted dogma. Oh yes, Judith and August and all their offspring were his evil foe and should be destroyed. But there was no denying the fact that Norman was one of them. He shared their blood. He was the fruit of those wretched loins. So would it be exo or endo?

  There would be a fire and a spit made from jungle logs. He’d have his family tied in groups of two. Judith and Becky. August and Conrad. Monica could have her own log. Little Joey would be left at home.

  “Help, help,” they’d scream.

  He’d lift them onto the spit and roast them slowly over that raging flame. Norman would delight in their screams and horror.

  “You see?” he’d say. “You see what you get?”

  Drums would keep a constant beat and he would dance around the flames, as they died their slow and torturous death. And when they were perfectly cooked he’d tear their flesh off with his hands, scoop out the eyeballs, crack the skull and gorge himself. Eat and eat until his stomach was close to bursting and his face and body were greasy with their succulent juices. Then later he would defecate, huge piles of shit. Family shit. And he’d leave those piles there on the ground in the jungle clearing as a monument to what they’d done.

  11

  Who is Paul?

  Paul started the engine. He was full from dinner and tired from all the wine. Little Joey and Monica were fighting in the back seat about the armrest. Monica wanted to use it as a pillow, Little Joey didn’t want her hair on his side. Becky sat looking out the window. She didn’t seem to hear the battle; somehow it never seemed to bother her that the kids fought. But it broke Paul’s heart. Families are meant to be close. Brothers and sisters are meant to love each other. Why couldn’t Monica and Little Joey just be friends?

  Paul had an older sister named Mary who died of cancer when he was ten years old. He could still remember the smell of that hospital and the sound of his sister’s labored breathing just before she slipped away. He’d never forget the emptiness of the house when they came home without her. The loneliness. Paul loved Mary, they had been fiercely close, and life without a sister seemed impossible. But he managed. He had to. His parents needed him to be strong and so he didn’t cry at her funeral. He didn’t cry at all. He was afraid that crying would tear something open inside him that he would never be able to fix. So he put the pain away, where it couldn’t hurt him, and focused on his mom and dad.

  There was a lot of activity around the Jones house for the first month or two after the funeral—they needed people to help fill Mary’s void. But eventually the people went home and the Jones family was left with Mary’s absence. His mother, once so young and pretty, dried into an old woman. She spent her time sleeping, often with Mary’s pillow clutched in her arms. Paul’s father wasn’t around much. He claimed to be working, but Paul knew he was avoiding them. Both parents suffered and neither had the strength for the other’s pain.

  The divorce was quick. One minute Paul lived in his childhood home, the next he was in a penthouse apartment with his father or an isolated beach house with his mother, surrounded by strange things and lost to himself. He was shuttled back and forth —a childhood spent trying to revive his parents. His identity hung on the success of the Jones family unit. Of course they never reunited. Some things just can’t be fixed. Beth and Robert Jones both died when Paul was in his early twenties. Not only did he fail in his efforts to save their marriage, he never even made a dent in the crippling sorrow that finally stole both of their lives. Paul stumbled into adulthood with an overwhelming desire to please, a tremendously large inheritance and a terrible sense of loss. But now he had his own family.

  “Please, guys.” Paul turned in his seat and looked at his angry children. “We’ve had a lovely evening. Let’s not fight, okay? I love you both so much.”

  “Ignore them.” Becky reached over and turned on the radio. “Let’s get home.” Becky searched for a station she liked then cranked up the volume.

  Paul turned, put the car in gear and drove his family home.

  12

  Angela Takes a Ride

  Agela couldn’t sit still. The Wentworths were better than she imagined: that house, those things, the manners, the maids— a lot of maids. She turned in her seat and said, “They are all so fantastic, Conrad.”

  Conrad drove as if he hadn’t heard her.

  “I love Norman. He’s quiet but seems so nice.” Angela touched his knee. Maybe she would give him a blowjob right now. “And your sister. Paul seems like a really good father to those kids. Such a nice family.”

  Conrad drove on.

  “Thank you, sweetheart, for taking me.” She moved her hand higher on his thigh. “I couldn’t have enjoyed it more.”

  Conrad put his foot down on the gas pedal. They were speeding down Sunset. He was obviously mad, freezing her out again. What the hell had she done this time? She had barely uttered a word—as instructed—and she’d kept her attention focused on him exclusively. She’d done the hot and bothered show whenever he gave her the look. A perfect performance. No, Angela hadn’t done anything, it was Conrad. He was such a moody guy but nothing a little sex wouldn’t fix.

  “Darling,” Angela said. She ran her hand up and down his inner thigh. “Why don’t we go to your house for a change?”

  “No chance.” Conrad accelerated around a corner.

  “But it’s Saturday.” Angela leaned over and whispered in his ear. “We could hang out in bed. Have Alison come over? Maybe get out the video camera?”

  “Nope.” Conrad removed Angela’s hand and down shifted as he came to the intersection. The engine roared.

  “Okay,” Angela said in her cheeriest voice. “We can stay at my house.” She put her hand back on his leg, this time a little higher. “I’ll run you a bath.”

  “Not gonna happen.” The light changed and Conrad gunned the engine. He would have her home in minutes.

  “Sweetie,” Angela said as she started to unhook his belt. “What does ‘not gonna happen’ mean exactly?”

  “I’m not coming in.”

  “I can make you feel so good.” She unzipped his pants. “You know I can.”

  “Stop it.” Conrad turned onto her street and hit the gas. They we going almost fifty. “This is getting really old, you know?”

  Angela took her hand back. She could see her house up the block and she knew this was going to be bad. Wouldn’t it be nice if she were in a normal relationship where the man and woman loved each other with a healthy balanced respect? Equal partners longing to explore the beauty of marriage and family with hope and joy and great expectations? Why couldn’t she ever find a guy like that? Conrad pulled the car up to the curb. Angela braced herself and waited.

  “I realized it tonight when I saw you with my family.” Conrad turned his head and looked at her for the first time since they’d climbed in the car. “You’re just not the type of girl who would really fit in. You know what I mean? Your background doesn’t mesh with ours. I mean, you look the part, but when it comes down to it, when you actually open your mouth, you just don’t pull it off. Not that that’s bad. You’re one of the hottest little numbers I had in a long time, and I’m sure there’s plenty of guys out there who’d appreciate you, but for me it’s not working on a cultural level, you know?” Conrad pulled the emergency brake and put the car in neutral. “You should find someone more on your level.”

  That class card was the one thing Angela was defenseless against. He must have sensed it the minute he met her. Was it that obvious? Angela spent her life working to fill in the gaps. She took a deep breath. She would not let him win.

  “Excuse me, my lord,” Angela said in her best British accent. “I’ve forgotten my place. How presumptuous of me to think that someone of your stature could possibly love me?” She wanted to scratch his eyes out but she keep a smile
on her face and played the joke.

  “There’s no way I would ever marry someone like you. You must know that.” Conrad rolled down the window. “So really there is no point in going any further, is there?”

  “Actually there is.” Angela felt like she’d just stepped out of a tenth story window. She was falling and she needed a plan before she hit the ground. She needed to regain control. Fast.

  “I’m sure there’s a lot of guys who could appreciate a gal like you.” Conrad leaned across and pushed open the passenger door. “Bye bye, Angela Simms.”

  Good. Now he’d made her angry. Angela was once again in control. “It would be nice if I just quietly went away wouldn’t it?” Angela smoothed her skirt. “There are two problems, Conrad. One, I love you. I’m sure they all say that to you, but in my case it happens to be true. And, number two . . .” Here she paused. She knew before she even said it that this was the wrong context but what the hell. “Number two is that I’m pregnant with your child.”

  “Bullshit.”