The Wentworths Read online

  “Our baby.”

  “Not mine.”

  “A little Wentworth.”

  “I got cut years ago.” Conrad let out a bitter laugh, leaned across her and opened the passenger door. “Get out.”

  Angela had not been with anyone other than Conrad. His lie made her feel strong. “Conrad junior.” She patted her stomach. “Or Connie.”

  “You really think this is going to work?”

  “I haven’t slept with anyone else.”

  “Get out of the car,” Conrad said. “Now.”

  Angela got out. This is not how she’d planned things. In a perfect world he would have been excited and they could have shared a beautiful evening. But this world was not perfect and nothing had ever been easy in Angela’s life. She was going to have to fight. She closed the door and leaned in the window. “This is your child and it’s not going to go away.”

  Conrad shifted the car into gear, released the brake and hit the gas. Angela stood on the curb and watched him drive away.

  13

  Norman on His Big Brother

  There is no question that my brother, Conrad Wentworth, is here is no question that my brother, Conrad Wentworth, is missing several strands of his DNA and it’s my strong suspicion that Judith is, in some way, responsible. Maybe during those first few months of life, when she was fawning over his absolute perfection, marveling at the beauty of his unblemished body, fondling his superb genitalia and cleaning his sweet little asshole, maybe during that time she somehow cauterized an intrinsic part of his molecular composition. I don’t know the details, that chapter has been lost or destroyed, but I can tell you with great certainty that by the time I was born Conrad had already been transformed from a human being into a cold-blooded reptile, a Gila monster if you will, or better yet a Komodo dragon, blood thirsty and cold. The transformation is apparently irreversible. Conrad spits and his bite is highly venomous. He will tear you limb from limb. Stay out of his way.

  Conrad played one game with me and my sister when we were growing up. It was his game. He called it “Kitty in the Well” and it was the only time he paid us any attention. Of course playtime only happened when the parents were out of the house and one of the less responsible maids was left in charge. First he brought out the sleeping bag. I can remember my feelings of fear but also excitement at the mere sight of that brown nylon bag.

  “Okay, my little kitties,” Conrad would say in his nicest voice. “Time to hide.”

  Becky and I would tear off down the hall, searching frantically for a new place, one where Conrad would never think to look. Oh the thrill and the overwhelming dread. My sister and I would jam ourselves into cupboards or crawl up onto the top shelves of closets, under beds, behind curtains. And there we’d wait, barely breathing, hoping we wouldn’t be found but knowing that eventually we would. That was the fun part of the game, the waiting, because once you were discovered the fun was over.

  “Filthy kitty.” Conrad would throw open the closet door and yell, “I’m allergic to cats.”

  Then he’d fling us over his shoulder, carry us down the hall, and stuff us into that old brown sleeping bag. He used a piece of rope to tie off the opening. The first child to get caught sometimes had a long and scary wait in that dark bag. I remember worrying about running out of oxygen. More than once I wet my pants. Eventually he’d find the other kitty, stuff us both in the nylon prison and then his fun began.

  “Time to throw the kitties in the well.” He’d drag us slowly down the hallway towards the back-stairs. The back-stairs were carpeted, the front stairs were stone. That was the only kindness Conrad showed us, he always used the back-stairs.

  “What this world doesn’t need are more filthy kitties.”

  Becky and I were smushed together, side-by-side. There was no room to move in that bag and the feelings of claustrophobia and panic were unbearable. “Help,” we’d scream at the top of our lungs.

  “Is that what kitties say?” Conrad would ask. “No. Does the kitty say moooo? No. Does the kitty say bow-wow? Noooo. What does the kitty say?”

  And then we’d meow. Meow, meow, meow, meow, hoping to please him, hoping that he wouldn’t throw us down the stairs, hoping that he’d untie the rope and let us breathe, or that if he did throw us down the stairs, he’d come down immediately afterward and let us out.

  But the meowing never worked. Conrad always shoved us down those stairs, usually head first. We’d slide down fast like a load of lumber. Sometimes an elbow or a knee would snag on a step but that was bad because then Conrad would pull us back up and start the whole thing over. He liked to see us hit the bottom, hard. And then, once we were out of our minds with terror, he’d walk away and we would be left to scream our hearts out until one of the maids heard us and came to the rescue.

  14

  Conrad Wentworth, Fully Intact Male

  This happened one other time because Conrad does not believe it’s his responsiblity—that birth control shit. It’s the woman’s problem. This chick got knocked up early in the relationship, tried to jump on Conrad’s gravy train. Didn’t go over so well. Long story short—termination. Don’t ever try and pull something on Conrad Wentworth ‘cause your life is gonna be shit after you fuck with him. This guy don’t take nothing from no one. And he don’t give nothing away, neither. Nothing. He’s decent. Just don’t fuck with him. You don’t want to make him angry.

  The mistake Conrad made, the reason for this potential quagmire? He took her home. Why does he do that? It might be that mother thing but don’t talk to Conrad about that Oedipus shit. He’ll kill you. Don’t even think about it in the same room with him ‘cause the guy can read minds. He can look at you and see the thoughts playing across your eyeballs clear as a drive-in movie. Anyway, it’s not like Conrad looks at his mother and gets hard. Nothing sick like that. It’s deeper. Primal. Conrad wasn’t breast fed because Judith didn’t want to mess up her figure. Don’t laugh, it was damaging. Baby bottles are very destructive. Ever wonder why kids throw them on the floor? You come into the world and the only thing you want is to be held against the warm body of your mother and to suckle at the all-encompassing breast. Is that too much to ask? Conrad didn’t get that, not even once. He was bundled up and shipped off to a series of nurses who pumped him full of formula while his mother starved herself until the milk dried up and her body returned to its former skeletal self. Deny a guy those first ecstatic moments with the breast and he’s going to spend the rest of his life looking for it. And he’s not going to be happy either. Poor little Conrad, cried himself to sleep each night in that over-decorated nursery. He’d lie there on his little back, in the prison of that crib, staring at the goddamn teddy bear mobile going round and round, crying for his mama. Pretty tough stuff. Heartbreaking, if you think about it. So is it really that surprising that the women Conrad dates look like Judith? No. It’s perfectly understandable. He’s just trying to make things right.

  Still, he shouldn’t take the girlfriends home. Now he’s got a chink in his armor. This Angela knows where they live. She’s been to the epicenter.

  15

  Next Day: Judith Enjoys Her Morning

  The house was built in 1929 (two years after the California earthquake laws went into effect) and called Villa Contenta. Judith had fallen in love with it even before she and August were married. It was an Edwardian mansion, large even by Bel Air standards with ten bedrooms and twelve baths (not including servants quarters), a pool house, a guest cottage (where Norman had taken up permanent residence) and eight acres of land. There were great oak and maple trees in the front yard and the house was covered in creeping vines. Judith thought it looked like the perfect English country house and it was the home of her dreams. She convinced August that this was the place to raise their family and so he gave it to her as a wedding gift.

  Judith sat in the north courtyard and rejoiced in the fresh morning air. Not much had changed in the almost forty-five years since they’d moved here. The trees w
ere taller, the garden more mature, but when she looked around the yard she felt as if she were still that newlywed, that young girl waking in the midst of a fairy tale. Judith went to sleep a pauper and awoke one morning to find herself a queen. And this, this Villa Contenta, was the kingdom over which she would rule, with a firm but just hand, for the rest of her life.

  Judith sat at the round glass table by the Tuscan fountain and picked up the morning paper. Bad news, always bad, bad news. Judith was getting to the point where she simply couldn’t stomach it anymore. The outside world was coming apart at the seams. It was so upsetting. The Muslims and the Jews, why couldn’t those people just figure it out? Homicide, genocide, famine, drought, nuclear weapons and toxic waste. Honestly, it made one want to pull up the drawbridge and bolt the doors. Judith carefully folded the paper and put it back in its place. She would not let troublesome international affairs spoil this perfectly lovely morning. No, she had too many things to do today. Judith rang the small silver bell, time for breakfast. She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes and waited. The birds were singing in the trees, the fountain played delicately in the background. Lovely, lovely. Suddenly the gardener fired up that god-awful blower. Where was he? Judith looked around. Not close, probably down by the tennis court, but still that noise was so intrusive. A terrible sound. What happened to rakes? She thought about going down and giving him a piece of her mind but this was the third gardener in the last year and she didn’t want to chance another walk out. Gardeners were a tricky breed, especially good ones. You had to be careful how you talked to them or they’d storm off like the prima donnas they were. No, Judith didn’t want to ruin her day with another confrontation. She’d have Rosa go down and ask him to please stop until she finished eating.

  Here came Rosa with the tray. Judith had been eating the exact same breakfast for twenty years: Two pieces of whole wheat toast, dry of course, half a grapefruit, coffee with nonfat milk and one cube of sugar. That one cube was the extent of her sugar intake for the day. It was her single indulgence and she took it early in the day so that the guilt from that minor slip up would prevent her from making any more extreme mistakes at lunch and dinner.

  Rosa set the tray on the table. She poured the coffee into the cup as Judith surveyed her morning meal. Everything was in its place and there was a lovely tulip from the garden in a small, cut glass vase. But wait, something was missing.

  “Rosa, where are the tongs?”

  Rosa pretended she was confused.

  “The tongs.” Judith mimicked the pinching of tongs with her thumb and index finger. “To pick things up.” Here Judith used her fingers to reach over and take a sugar cube. “Like sugar. Silver sugar tongs, you know.” She dropped the cube in her coffee. “I use them every morning. We used them last night for coffee after the dinner party. They are a part of the coffee service. Where are they, Rosa?”

  Judith could tell from blank look on Rosa’s face that she knew exactly what Judith was talking about. These people were infuriating. Judith took a deep breath. The leaf blower whined in the distance. Judith could feel her wonderful morning slip away. “Don’t play stupid with me.” Judith pointed her index finger at the middle of Rosa’s chest. “Tell me. NOW.”

  “They were gone when I cleared last night.” Rosa clasped her hands almost in prayer. “I looked under the couches. I looked in the chairs. Nothing. I ask everyone. Pero, nadie save que donde esta. No es me culpa . . .”

  “Stop that Spanish right now,” Judith said. “You know I can’t understand you when you speak like that.”

  “I don’t know what happened.” Now Rosa looked as if she might cry. “I asked Graciela and Carmenita. Blanca was not there. No one knows. I did not take them, missus. None of us did. We would not steal from you.”

  “We’ll just have to tear this house apart until we find it.” Judith stood. “Go get the girls. I want you to search every inch of the house while I search your rooms.”

  Judith got up and headed for the servants’ quarters. She left her breakfast sitting on the table, untouched.

  16

  Norman’s Day

  Norman fashioned a loincloth from an old white pillowcase. The cotton was a poor substitution for skin and looked more biblical than tribal—Jesus was definitely not part of this scenario. No, Norman needed skin. Animal hide. But where? Where in the middle of Bel Air was he going to find a perfect pelt? Maybe kill a squirrel? Bash it with a rock. Or a little dog? Norman rubbed his body with fragrant Kukui nut oil. It soothed him. The Goldblum’s cat from next door had lovely orange fur. Perhaps he could lure the creature with a dish of tuna then drown it in the swimming pool. He could stretch the pelt across his crotch, run the tail through his legs and tie it at the back. A fur thong. A kitty G-string. Maybe hollow out one of the legs and use it as a sheath like the warriors of New Guinea. Leave part of the bone at the end of the leg to impress neighboring tribes. But a cat’s front legs are too small. Would a back leg be wide enough? Norman pulled his semi-erect penis from his loincloth and looked at it. No, a cat wouldn’t do. A dog’s legs would be good, a big German Shepherd, but the fur wasn’t as soft. Wait, if he wanted to feel the fur, he’d have to wear the skin inside out. Maybe he could line the dog with a cat so it would be fluffy and doubly warm. The idea made him smile, just one more piece of evidence that Norman should have gone into fashion. Norman Wentworth, genius. He poured more oil from the bottle and worked it into what was now a full-blown erection. The smell of the oil took him back into the deep jungle. Snakes and vines and darkness. He was a predator in this savage land, top of the food chain. His body glistened in the artificial light of his room. Drums were beating in Norman’s head. Tribal drums. Loud and fierce. They were calling him, the constant pulse. BOOM, boom, boom, boom, BOOM, boom, boom, boom. And then he heard it:

  “NORMAN,” Judith yelled and pounded. “OPEN THIS DOOR.”

  17

  What is the Meaning of This?

  When Norman opened the door, Judith saw that his body was coated in some kind of oily lubricant and he was wearing an old sheet wrapped around his privates like a ridiculous diaper. She didn’t even want to think about what he’d been doing.

  “For God’s sake,” she said. “Cover yourself.”

  “Sorry.” Norman darted inside. Judith forced herself not to look into the cottage. She just didn’t want to know. She tried not to think about this part of Norman’s life but sometimes it took her breath away. This boy, her baby boy, so beautiful and kind but so, so damaged. What went on in that head of his? What kind of strange world did he live in? What did he do out here in the guesthouse all day long? Most of the time Judith was able to block it out. Most times she could pretend that Norman was simply a homosexual—unfortunate but not unusual. She tried to convince herself that he spent his days designing women’s clothing or shoes like other queers, sketching away, exercising his undeniable creativity. She liked to think that he read a lot. Norman was intelligent. He was a movie buff and she thought he probably watched a lot of videos. But when she stumbled upon him in moments like this, when she interrupted one of his weird rituals and got a glimpse of the strange fantasy life he’d so carefully constructed, she wanted to fall to her knees and weep. Why couldn’t Norman just be normal?

  “I was practicing yoga.” Norman returned to the door with a large bath towel wrapped around his body like a strapless evening gown. “A very ancient form, pre-khundalini. Not many people are familiar with it but I find the physical and spiritual...”

  “Norman,” Judith snapped. She could not bear to hear another word of his charade. It was just too painful and grotesque. She closed her eyes for a moment and cleared her head. Focus, she needed to focus. There was a job to do. She opened her eyes and started again. “My sugar tongs are missing. They’re valuable. Do you have them?”

  “No.” Norman crossed his arms over his towel-clad chest.

  “Do you know where they might be?” Judith hated it when he was difficult. She wasn’
t accusing him.

  “Nope.” He was playing with his fingernails now. “Ask the maids.”

  “Of course I’ve asked the maids.” Judith reached out and stopped him from pulling on a hangnail. “We’ve torn the house apart.”

  “Well.” Suddenly Norman had made both wrists go limp. “If it was me, I’d call the Joneses. I’d ask for a thorough search of Joey’s and Monica’s rooms. I’d pull up floorboards, break through walls. I might even insist on a backhoe for the yard. If it was me, that’s where I’d start my search for the missing tongs. The Jones’ house.”

  “Norman Wentworth.” How dare he implicate her grandchildren? Pathetic fool. He was just jealous because he didn’t have children of his own. Judith clenched her teeth and forced herself not to raise her voice. “If I ever hear you say another disparaging word about my grandchildren, or any other family member, there will be hell to pay. Do you hear me? This lifestyle of yours could be gone in an instant.” Here Judith snapped her fingers to demonstrate just how quickly she could ruin his life. “We are family and we stick together.” Judith glared at him, held his eyes and would not let him look away.

  Finally he said, “I’m sorry.”

  “You better be sorry. Now get dressed and look around. Maybe you took them home with you last night, by mistake.” Judith headed back to the house. She’d tried to reach Gus at the country club but he wasn’t there. She would have to try again.

  18

  Norman Escapes from Judith and Goes to the Department Store

  As Judith ages, her sight narrows. And while her distance perception is shot, she’s developed 20/20 tunnel vision. She focuses only on the things that please her. Hers is a near perfect world and she defends it mercilessly. No ugly reality mars her day-to-day existence. When we family members drift into her view, she sees what she needs to see. She wouldn’t, couldn’t allow herself to know who we really are. A gay son would be a dark spot on her horizon. Her morally bankrupt eldest son would signal high seas and hurricane force winds, an absolute catastrophe. And the dysfunction of Becky, of the entire Wentworth-Jones family—well the shock of it could permanently blind my poor mother. In her world, if you don’t acknowledge a problem, then it doesn’t exist—that’s Judith’s recipe for tranquility. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if someone could invent spectacles that would force her to see the big picture? Glasses that wouldn’t let her look away. How would it be for Judith to walk around seeing others for who they really are and not just in relationship to herself? What would she do when reality forced itself past her barriers? Judith Wentworth, as just another human being on this huge earth, no more or less important than anyone else. How would she handle that? She would collapse. It would kill her to live in the world that the rest of us inhabit. Her lungs would shut down, her heart would stop beating, she’d have a fatal stroke. Absolute implosion followed by a wee bit of smoke. No, Judith couldn’t take it.