The Wentworths Page 7

  Enough. Enough, enough, enough. This is my day, my time and I will not let her ruin it. Shoes. Sportswear. Accessories. Comfort lies somewhere close by.

  This department store is a kind of sanctuary for me, a true spiritual retreat. Attractive people buying expensive things, everyone is happy, the outside world far away. Floor after floor of things I need and if I get tired I can take the elevator to the top and have a delicious lunch surrounded by all sorts of celebrities. Coming here gives me such satisfaction and sense of purpose. And yet, today, Judith and her tongs keep sneaking in. I bet she’s conducting a full inspection of my room right now. Cavity searches for the staff. Lie detectors. Truth serum. Never mind.

  Here we are at the fragrance counter and it’s offering us the assurance of a fresh start. Improved opportunity. I enjoy the rawness of the male scent. I can detect the acrid sharpness of a sweaty man from a mile away. It calls to me; we are animals, after all. But I can also appreciate male enhancers: cologne, eau du toilette. Nothing like a good shower and a new smell for attracting attention. And I love the names: Pulse, Crave, Ultraviolet Man, Mambo, Red Tide, Fahrenheit One, Chrome, North Dakota. Every pot has its lid. But there’s danger in these parts. Each “sales associate” is working on a commission. They desperately need you to buy their product and will lift their arms and madly spray you with their scent if you’re not quick enough with a refusal. Wave them off because the combination of all these smells will result a skunk-like odor that may necessitate a long soak in tomato juice. Trust me, you have to be selective. Let’s move on.

  There’s nothing more exciting than the promise of a new skin care line. Who among us hasn’t stood in front of the mirror and eagerly awaited the firming and tightening of the jowls and troubling under-eye area that is promised by the latest antioxidant, collagen enhancing salves and ointments. We’ve all troweled on the night cream and waited for those fine lines to fade away. Is this foul smelling cream made from crushed up foreskins the miracle I’ve been waiting for? Will the goat collostrum from China ease my marionette lines? How do I regain that dewy freshness? Where is that next scientific breakthrough? It’s all so exciting.

  And so I head to the cosmetic counter and allow the sales woman to work her magic. She’ll start by telling me what amazing skin I have. That’s to make me feel comfortable. Then she’ll lean in and sadly discover that I do have a little sun damage and the beginnings of dullness. We will both struggle with this tough news for a moment, but then she will brighten as she informs me that, just last week, she received a new product that will solve all my problems and take ten years off my face. Ten years. Do I really want to look that young? Oh, what the hell, of course I do. And out come the samples. She cleanses me, she tones me, she moisturizes and sun screens me. She even applies lip balm. But her touch is not gentle and I do not feel soothed and so I tell her I will think about it. I leave her counter disappointed, without spending a dime, and make my way to the shoe department.

  19

  Conrad Takes the Call

  “No idea, Mother.”

  “They’re very valuable. You remember we got them in Vienna.”

  “Yeah, you told me.”

  “What about your friend?”

  “Angela.”

  “Maybe she got them by mistake.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “They’re somewhere, Conrad. Things don’t just disappear. They are sitting in a very specific location at this very moment and we need to find out where that is. I want them back.”

  “I know Mother.”

  “Ask her.”

  “Who?”

  “Your friend.”

  “Angela.”

  “She should check her purse and pockets.”

  “She didn’t take them.”

  “She might have, accidentally. Call her.”

  “We broke up last night.”

  “No, really? She was such a pretty girl. And nice.”

  “No.”

  “She wasn’t nice?”

  “Gold-digger.”

  “Maybe she stole the tongs.”

  “I don’t think so mother. Did you check Norman?”

  “He hasn’t seen them.”

  “But did you actually check? He may have turned your tongs into a tiara or something.”

  “I hate it when you do that. Norman did not take the tongs. Why can’t you be a little nicer to your brother? They’ve done studies, you know. Homosexuals are born that way. It isn’t his fault . . .”

  “You’re right Mother. I’m sorry.”

  “Please call that woman and ask her to check for the tongs. I have a feeling she has them. Please.”

  “All right, Mother.”

  “Promise.”

  “I swear.”

  20

  Becky

  Becky had just finished covering her face with the Miracle Noir Moisturizing Mask composed of secret ingredients culled from the Dead Sea. It was greasy, made with some sort of inky mud and when she looked in the mirror she saw herself black-faced and unrecognizable. She wondered for a moment: what would it be like to be an African American? But that wasn’t a thought that held Becky’s interest. She dropped her robe and turned her attention to a thorough inspection of her body. She stood facing the mirror with her ankles together and studied her legs. The knees just barely touched each other and there was a good three inches between her thighs. Very important to maintain that space between the thighs. It was how she measured her thinness. If that margin dropped below two inches she would stop eating and begin her special fast where she consumed nothing but Dieter’s Tea until she regained her desired three inches. Becky had been good lately, she’d barely touched her dinner this evening, and her whole body was bony and drawn. She kept herself well waxed so there wasn’t a sign of hair. She hated hair. It’s true that the area between her legs wasn’t quite what it once was, before the children, but the skin still retained enough firmness that she found herself slightly aroused by the sight of her neat cleft. Becky felt sexy. She turned from the mirror and was about to step into her luxurious warm bath and enjoy the Epicurean Aromatherapy Wild Lavender Bath Salts when the phone rang.

  The problem at her house was that Becky was the only one who ever answered the phone. Paul feigned deafness whenever it rang, Monica was shut in her room with the music blasting, and anyway her friends always called her on the cell phone so why would she bother? And Little Joey apparently didn’t have any friends. So it fell to Becky or Lucy, the housekeeper, to answer the damn thing every time it rang. Well, Lucy would just have to deal with it, Becky was going to enjoy her bath.

  “Missus Becky,” Lucy called from the bottom of the stairs.

  Becky filled her lungs with air then shouted, “Take a message.” But Lucy could barely speak English. “No, never mind. Give the phone to Paul.”

  Becky slid into the yummy water and admired once again how thin her legs and stomach looked. Why, she looked like a young girl. Her body was much sexier than Monica’s. She could probably pass for a teenager, a young girl who all the boys admired, who all the boys wanted, who all the boys dreamed about at night. None of the other girls had a body like hers. None of the other girls could stay so thin, so free of ugly fat and loose flapping thighs. No, Becky was in a class all her own and the boys loved her and the jealous girls hated her. Becky ran her hand along her inner thighs and felt that delicious melting heat between her smooth legs. She closed her eyes and saw that Cushner boy who lived down the street. He was a couple of years older than Monica and drove her to school each morning. That Cushner boy had the body of an Adonis. Young muscles. Tanned. What would he look like here in the bathtub? How would his skin feel as she soaped his body?

  Paul burst into the bathroom holding the portable phone.

  “Why can’t you knock, fathead?” Becky crossed her legs and sat up in the tub. “Privacy? Personal space? It’s not that difficult, Paul.”

  Paul held out the phone in a pathetic offer of peace. “Y
our mother.”

  Becky wiped her wet hand on Paul’s pant leg and took the phone. “Mom?”

  “I can’t find my tongs.” Judith was very upset.

  “Tongs?”

  “The antique silver tongs from Vienna. For sugar cubes.” Judith talked very fast. “We used them last night.”

  Monica put the washcloth over her crotch so Paul would stop staring. “Did you ask Rosa?”

  “We’ve torn the house apart.”

  “Maybe one of the other maids. They’re valuable.”

  “The help knows better.”

  “What about that woman of Conrad’s?”

  “Becky, stop that.”

  “What? She’s a preschool teacher. I mean, come on.”

  “Conrad would never bring a thief into the house.” Judith raised her voice another octave. “You’ve got to work on that jealousy. You’ve always been jealous of your brother. It’s very unattractive. Get a handle on it.”

  Becky held her breath. It’s what she did when her mother treated her this way. She felt five years old again. How could her mother make her feel so bad? Why did she do it? Becky bit her lip and fought the pressure in her lungs. Finally she blew out the air and said, “I don’t know, Mother. I’m sorry about your tongs.”

  “Ask the children. Check everyone’s pockets.”

  “What are you saying?” Becky brought her knees to her chest. “Are you accusing us?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. They could have accidentally fallen into a pocket of a purse. Just look around. It’s important to me.”

  Becky hung up and handed the phone back to Paul.

  “What?” Paul was helplessly nosy. He had a very bad habit of eavesdropping on phone conversations. It drove Becky mad.

  “Nothing. She can’t find her fucking tongs.” Becky closed her eyes and slid down into her bath. “Close the door on your way out.”

  Becky tried to go back to the Cushner boy but he was lost to her. The bath water was getting cold and the dinner party kept replaying itself over and over. Judith and Conrad, as usual. Sometimes she hated her mother. Becky pulled the plug and let the water drain out of the tub.

  21

  Elephants Don’t Forget and Neither Does Norman

  Memories, like the corners of my mind . . .” I have a nice voice, don’t I? “Misty watercolor memories . . .” When we were children, my mother loved to hear me sing. She insisted that Becky and I perform whenever there were guests in our home. Who knows where Conrad was? Mostly I remember Christmas songs, is that possible? Did she really have us singing “Silent Night” in September? “Jingle Bells” at Easter? Quite possibly. I was shy until the song got underway and then, once the music took hold, I felt encumbered by my virtually tone-deaf sister. God, I hated Becky’s voice. Have you ever heard the shrieks of quarreling seagulls dive-bombing the carcass of a rotting sea lion? The cries of a dog whose pelvis has been destroyed by a speeding car? My sister and I would stand by the fireplace, hands clasped in front. Usually we were dressed in matching his/hers outfits, often with a cheery springtime or nautical theme. I may be gay but I didn’t appreciate being dressed like a fairy, even at that tender age. I became a big fan of purple grape juice once I realized its tremendous staining capacities. Many a Peter Pan collar was destroyed by a big glass of Welch’s. Anyway, we would stand there in front of our doubtlessly embarrassed audience and sing two or three songs until Judith tired of the show and sent us off to bed. I can remember hoping that Becky would go upstairs alone so I could belt out a couple of solos, but I don’t believe that ever happened.

  Becky is older than me. Of course you knew that, it’s obvious. She’s two years older and when you’re a little boy, that’s significant. Sometimes when we were children she treated me as her pet, her babydoll, her precious, precious love. She dressed me in her old Tinkerbelle outfits, made-up my face, included me at her tea parties with Barbie, the stuffed animals and the trolls. She painted my fingernails and tried to style my hair. Often I wore her fancy Easter hats. I loved those hats, they were right out of Go Dog Go: “Hello. Hello. Do you like my hat? No I do not like your hat. Goodbye. Goodbye.” Becky and I would sit there, in those tiny white wooden chairs, sipping imaginary tea and eating invisible cookies, talking with the plastic and furry figurines about their complicated lives and the challenges they faced. She had an enormous dollhouse in the corner of her room and we were constantly putting sick children to bed and calling the doctor. There was always a chance that someone might die. Or else we would get Barbie ready for her date with Ken. Would Barbie let Ken kiss her? Not on a first date, no way on a first date. Barbie had a big wardrobe. My job was to fold and put away her dresses, organize the Barbie carrying case and keep track of the Barbie high heels. I loved those tiny pumps! They were nice afternoons, just Becky and me, ideally suited to my young temperament. Nice until Judith snuck up and pounced upon us. Mother would throw open the door, gasp in horror, and reprimand me for not being manly enough. I lacked that incessant male need to yell, pound my chest and constantly destroy things. Why wasn’t I outside climbing trees and pulling wings off butterflies, like other boys? Why didn’t I like football or hockey? Maybe because I was only six. Mother would send me out to play in the yard and Becky would be taken aside for yet another heart-to-heart talk. Usually, after one of Judith’s raids, Becky treated me like a freak and I was left to play on my own. Sometimes my exile would last for a couple of weeks.

  Becky struggled with her weight during her early childhood. She wasn’t fat, she was a normal and healthy little girl, but Judith and August thought her pudgy. August cleverly nicknamed her “Fats” and Judith spent the day policing Becky’s portion size and food selections. By the time Becky hit puberty, she was a goner—a lifetime of eating disorders, guaranteed. Thankfully that was one area I escaped criticism. I’ve always had a brilliant metabolism.

  My sister got older, started to develop, and without much prompting from Judith stopped inviting me into her room. She would slam her door in my face, lock it, and tell me to go away, calling me a poof or a fruit or a faggot. For a long time I told myself that this was just another game we were playing, a game that I hadn’t yet mastered.

  When Becky started junior high, she talked the parents into putting a phone extension in her room. I found that if I laid flat on the carpet and wedged my ear to the crack at the bottom of the door, I could hear pretty much everything she said. It was thrilling, listening to her read the note that Johnny or Tommy or Billy had passed to her in social studies class. “Will you go to second base with me? Yes. No. Maybe. Check one.” Becky would squeal and giggle. I didn’t always know what she was talking about but I always found it fascinating. It went on for a long time, her chatting and me listening until she caught me there late one afternoon. She threw her door open and before I had a chance to stand up she kicked me in the head so hard that my ear bled. She screamed about me being a freak until mother came running. I remember there was a trip to the emergency room. I don’t think she caused any permanent damage to my brain, but you never know.

  22

  The Night: Becky Can’t Sleep Even With Two Sleeping Pills

  I don’t know who took the tongs. Frankly I don’t care, but I’ll tell you one thing: I don’t trust Conrad. I actually think he’s a little evil. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He’s capable of doing anything. He might have taken those tongs just to stir things up, make someone look bad. And why hasn’t he ever married? I don’t think you should trust men over forty who haven’t married. I mean, there’s a reason. Either they’re secretly gay, or they’re pathologically self-involved. But unfortunately, I’m the only one in the family that sees Conrad clearly. I mean, I don’t know, maybe Norman sees it but Norman doesn’t really count. Conrad has made a career out of sucking up to the parents. They’re so proud of him, it makes me want to puke. He acts so sweet with mother. God, if only she could see the way he tenses when she takes his arm or pets his hair. That stony look he gets
when he kisses her cheek. He is absolutely not interested in the latest acquisitions at the museum or the dinner-dance at the country club but to see him sitting there, listening to her, you’d think she was describing some live sex act with teenaged girls and a burly Great Dane. It makes me crazy that she can’t see it. Judith has bought into his show 100 percent and so has August. Their son, the famous attorney. “Look, Conrad’s in the paper again.” August spends a good part of his day searching for more evidence of his eldest son’s success. He brags about how Conrad is one of the highest paid attorneys in this city. But trust me, Conrad doesn’t care about law. He certainly isn’t interested in justice. I swear he went to law school just so, when the time came, he could screw Norman and me. And he will if he can.