The Wentworths Read online

  The thing is, August isn’t going to be around forever. I mean, my God, with his diet and the drinking? Look at him, he’s a poster boy for heart disease, gout, diabetes, Lou Gehrig’s disease, Alzheimer’s, M.S., Parkinson’s and God knows what else. Don’t even get me started on the cancers. I keep looking for tremors or twitching, ‘cause those are signs. So far nothing. But you gotta keep a look out. The real nightmare, the worst possible scenario would be if he has a stroke. Can you imagine? August in a wheel chair? Drooling? Diapers? Let me just say right here and now, I’m not changing any diapers. Never again. I will not be the one cleaning his foul old bottom, and I don’t want Judith doing it either. You know Conrad’s not going to do it. No. We’ll hire someone and pray that that stage of August’s life doesn’t go on too long.

  Anyway, that’s why I keep getting on mother to do some planning. What’s going to happen when August goes? What’s the money situation? She should be informed. Shouldn’t all women know exactly what to expect when their husbands kick? I want to know how the money’s going to be split. Do we all get the same amount? I’m the only one that got married. I’m the only one with kids. Will that be taken into consideration? Seems like there should be some kind of reward. I want to know what the plan is for the grandchildren. August promised he’d pay for college. But is it in writing? We can’t leave this to Conrad. Conrad would probably send Monica and Little Joey off to the local junior college or some technical school just to save a buck. No way. I want what’s coming to me. My family needs to be taken care of and I want it in writing. I deserve it.

  23

  Next Morning: Paul Gets the Kids Up

  The alarm went off at 6:30. Paul waited for Becky to swat the snooze button. BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. He shook her shoulder. BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. She insisted the clock be on her side of the bed. BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. She hated it when he crawled over her. BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.

  “Becky,” he rolled her onto her back. “Wake up, sweetie. The alarm.”

  Becky was sound asleep. Her mouth was slightly open and she made little snoring sounds on each intake of breath. There was drool on the pillow. This was not like her. She was the one that woke at the slightest disturbance and needed complete quiet to sleep. She was the one who forced Paul to get surgery for his snoring. She was the one who insisted he stop drinking fluids at seven o’clock in the evening so he wouldn’t have to get up in the night. He wasn’t allowed to read if he happened to have insomnia. In fact, she discouraged him from even moving in the bed until she had fallen fast asleep. No, Becky was not hard to rouse unless, of course, she’d gotten into the sleeping pills again.

  Paul reached over her and turned off the clock. “Sweetheart, wake up.”

  Becky mumbled something, clutched her pillow, turned away from Paul and curled into a tight ball.

  He unfolded her and gave her gentle slaps on the face. “Becky.” Slap, slap. “Becky, what did you do?” Slap, slap, slap. “Did you take the pills again?” Here he grabbed both cheeks and shook her head.

  Becky opened her eyes.

  “Are you all right, sweetie?”

  “Just tired.” She started to roll up again.

  “Did you take those pills again?”

  “A couple.” She pulled the pillow over her head. “I need to sleep. Mother and her fucking tongs.”

  Paul sighed. It was no use arguing with her when she was like this. She’d probably sleep till noon, then wake up and act as if nothing had happened. This pill thing was becoming a real problem. He didn’t exactly know what to do. It was something he’d have to think about.

  Paul put on his robe and slippers. He’d never been much of a pajama/bathrobe type of guy until he met Becky. He’d actually preferred sleeping in the nude, but Becky thought that indecent. On one of their first dates she marched him straight to Brooks Brothers and picked out appropriate PJs and a robe and Paul had been wearing them ever since. Still, the truth was, he preferred to sleep in the nude. He missed it.

  Paul walked down the hall to Monica’s room. Becky complained that Monica’s door was always locked but it was unlocked this morning. He knocked twice and went in. Monica slept soundly in her pink canopy bed. They’d surprised her with it when she was in the fourth grade. A princess’ bed for his darling angel. Monica had been thrilled and carried pictures of it to school. She used the bed as part of her school project, something about girls sleeping better when surrounded by pink. Paul looked at his little girl. She was so beautiful. He could see that she was becoming a young woman but watching her sleep, she still looked like that sweet little fourth grader who loved to sit in his lap.

  “Mo-mo.” Paul walked over to the bed. “How’s my little angel?”

  “Please don’t call me that, Daddy.” She pulled the sheet up over her naked shoulders.

  Daddy, just like when she was a little girl. Paul loved Daddy. Daddy came from the days of Play Doh spaghetti and mud pies in the backyard and scary ghost stories with the endless search for a secret passage way or a hidden key. It was Daddy and Mo-mo who baked chocolate chip cookies together and ate the whole batch. (Becky had to be out of the house for that.) It was a time when she’d hold his hand in public and really want to know what he thought. He was her Daddy, the most important man in her life, and she was his little angel. Why couldn’t she be sweet like that anymore?

  “Time to get up, sugar plum.” He sat on the end of the bed and gave her foot a little squeeze. “Up and at ‘em.”

  Monica sat up. “I can’t get up until you leave.” She yanked the sheet up around her neck. “I’m not exactly wearing anything. Do you mind?”

  “No, no.” Paul jumped up. He was suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry.” He quickly left the room and closed the door behind him.

  Little Joey’s room was at the end of the hall. It was a long hall, lined with Becky’s collection of cat prints and watercolors. Becky was crazy about cats. And highly allergic to them. Theirs was an animal-free home. Becky had never been able to tolerate any type of hairy pet, but she compensated by obsessively collecting feline images. She shopped for cat paintings wherever they went. One Christmas Paul had surprised her with a real Canadian hairless, a Sphynx, but Becky said the thing reminded her of an opossum with its almost reptilian pelt. She’d insisted they take the creature back to the pet store after only three days. She didn’t want a real pet. Becky wasn’t an affectionate person. She wasn’t the type to curl up with her beloved “Fluffy” or “Cuddles” or “Muffin” or “Puss.” She didn’t dote on anything and she never spoke baby talk even to her own tiny babies. No, Becky was better served by artistic renderings, little two-dimensional furry kittens and bowls of milk. It was the image that pleased Becky, the illusion of the cat. The idea of a loving pet, represented in charming scenes around a blazing fire with balls of tangled yarn and laughing children or snowy evenings and window seats, a good book and a beautiful Persian cat curled in one’s lap. This was the world that Becky brought home and hung on every square inch of blank wall.

  Paul preferred dogs. As he walked down the hallway, he wondered again about the possibility of getting some sort of outdoor dog. It could live in the backyard. Paul would take care of it, walk it every morning and evening, feed and bathe it. Becky would hardly know it was there. He’d raised this possibility several times over the years and Becky was always adamantly opposed but now that Little Joey was getting older, he could help with the dog. It would be a good father/son bonding experience. A dog would bring them together.

  Little Joey’s door was locked, not unusual. Little Joey kept his door locked most of the time. Becky complained about Monica’s door but she never mentioned Joey’s. Why not?

  “Joey.” Paul knocked. “Hey, guy. Time to get up.”

  Paul worried about his relationship with Joey. The problem was, he didn’t really have one. They spent time together at the breakfast table in the morning eating Lucy’s eggs or French toast. Sometimes they’d agree that Lucy was the best cook in th
e world. Sometimes they’d finish each other’s leftovers. But that wasn’t a relationship, not really. Paul drove Joey to his middle school everyday. Seemed like that would have been a good time for heart-to-heart talks, just the two guys in the car alone—Monica was already off to high school—but Joey usually turned his body away, gripped the door handle as if he were just waiting to escape, and stared out the window. Paul had a hard time thinking of what to say to his son, and so most mornings they rode along in silence. He’d tried to interest Joey in some sort of hobby, something they could do together—sports, model building, rock collecting—but nothing ever took. Paul and his father, God rest his soul, collected pennies. Paul still had the collection and he had offered it to his son but Joey wasn’t interested so Paul let it go. (Where was that collection? Paul would have to look for it.) At night the family ate dinner together but those times usually consisted of Becky and Monica fighting over Monica’s latest crime. Joey didn’t say much at family dinners and neither did Paul. They were the spectators to the increasingly bloody battles. The boys kept their heads down, dutifully eating their food and dodging bullets. Once in a while Paul and Joey would make eye contact over a particularly stupid accusation, occasionally they would smile at each other, but mostly it was Joey eating his food, lost in his own world. He was a loner, quiet and withdrawn. Nothing wrong with that. It’s just that Paul wished he knew his son better and he hoped that everything was all right. He would talk to Becky about a dog. He would insist. Paul knocked gently at the door.

  Little Joey was awake. He listened to his father knock at the door. Paul was a tapper, tentative, as if he didn’t want to disturb. Becky on the other hand was a banger. She took a locked door personally and attacked it with all of her strength. Little Joey lay curled in his bed, clammy sheets wrapped around his perspiration-damp pajamas. He nestled into the pillows and wondered how long his father would tap. The room was warm as an incubator and the curtains were all drawn. It was cozy and safe here and Little Joey wished his father would just go away.

  “Joey.” Paul rattled the door handle. Sometimes Paul dropped the Little, usually when he wanted something. “Joey. Unlock the door.”

  Little Joey wondered who would last longer, the pleading father or the sleeping son.

  “Please son.” Paul knocked again. “School.”

  Joey didn’t want to go to school. School was the dullest place on earth. Maybe he’d take a sick day. Maybe he’d just ignore Paul and Paul would go away. Of course there was always the danger that Becky would get involved and then all hell would break loose. “Coming, Dad.”

  The room was stuffy and humid. The smell of sweat and dirty socks made Paul realize that Little Joey was becoming a man. Gosh, the time went fast.

  “Beautiful day, son.” Paul pulled up the shades and opened the windows as Little Joey climbed back into bed and pulled the pillow over his head.

  “Five more minutes,” Little Joey said. He was not a morning person.

  Paul walked over and turned off the portable heater that Little Joey kept next to the bed. There was a half filled bottle of creme soda and an empty bag of barbecue potato chips. Becky would have a fit if she knew Little Joey was sneaking junk food into his room. But what was the big deal? All kids ate like this. Paul bent over to pick up the incriminating evidence. As he straightened up, he noticed a small tear in the mattress where the sheets had pulled off. He bent to take a closer look. It wasn’t a tear, the mattress had been cut.

  “What are you doing, Dad?” Little Joey swung his feet over the side of the bed and covered the hole with his legs.

  “There’s some sort of cut or tear . . .”

  “Yeah, it’s been like that for a while.” Little Joey pulled the mattress cover down. “I was playing swords. Don’t tell Mom.”

  “Swords?” Sounded like a pretty active game for Little Joey.

  “When I was younger.” Little Joey was up now and making his bed—something he never did as far as Paul knew. “I gotta get ready, Dad. I’ll see you downstairs for breakfast.”

  A troubled Paul left the room. It wasn’t like Little Joey to play with knives.

  Paul dropped Little Joey off at school and drove back home. Usually those drives were conducted in silence with Paul asking the occasional question and Joey giving the one or two word answer, staring out the window. This morning Joey wouldn’t shut up. He wanted to know about Paul’s work at the investment firm, asked about the difference between state and federal income tax, wondered exactly how 401Ks worked. It just didn’t make sense. So Paul parked the car in the garage and headed straight for Joey’s room.

  The bed was made with hospital-like precision. Paul didn’t know that Little Joey was capable of such fastidiousness. He kneeled by the side of the mattress and tugged the bedding loose. This was no accident. The hole was a good four inched long and cut deep. Paul worked his fingers into the dense stuffing and found what seemed to be a hollowed cavity. A hiding place. What on earth did Little Joey have to hide? This was a kid who never left the house unless forced. What kind of trouble could be possibly be in? Was it drugs? Was Little Joey a drug addict? Paul felt around. Whatever he’d been hiding, it was gone now. Paul remade the bed as best he could and walked down the hall to his bedroom to see if Becky was awake. He didn’t quite know what to do.

  24

  Norman’s Jamhoree

  Both my brother and sister participated in the Scouting program. Imagine cute Becky in her Brownie uniform and Conrad as an Eagle Scout. The uniforms were fantastic—so HJ (Hitler-Youth). And yes, the scouts do salute. What a lovely feeling it must have been to truly belong. Did you know that when you start the program as a Cub Scout you are a member of a Pack? A Pack can be quite large and so it is divided into smaller groups of six or eight boys, called Dens, and these smaller groups meet once a week with an adult who mentors them in the ways of scouting. The Pack usually meets once a month unless there’s something special coming up, like a group campout or sing-a-long.

  Cub Scouts go places and do things: crafts, games, sports, songs and puzzles, and of course badge work. Badge work is one of the principal elements in the overall scouting experience for both girls and boys. Cub Scouts work hard to obtain their Tiger Cub, Bobcat, Wolf, Bear, and Webelos badges. The ultimate honor, of course, is the Arrow of Light merit badge. With each badge, the uniform becomes more impressive. A young Cub with a chestful of badges is a proud boy indeed. Group goals include the Emergency Preparedness Award, Outdoor Activity Award and the all-important World Conservation Award. Busy Cub Scouts have global visions.

  The neckerchief is essential and practical. It serves as an attractive part of the overall uniform but, when unrolled, it is also the perfect size for use as a triangular bandage during any first-aid emergency. You never know when someone is going to fall in the woods and impale themselves on a sharp stick. And, in cases of wilderness accidents, a well-trained scout in a neckerchief is exactly the person you want on hand. There are a number of neckerchief slides to help keep everything tidy. My favorite is the classic brass rounded-knot with the scouting eagle emblem, although the 3-hole leather neck-slide is also quite elegant.

  Me? No, I was never a Scout. I wanted to be. As a very young boy, I dreamed of finally growing big enough to fit into my Cub Scout uniform and joining the troop. But although it was a good program for my brother and sister, Judith and August didn’t think that I would fit in with the Boy Scouts of America. And so I was left to my own devices on Tuesday afternoons. I remember playing long games of tetherball out there on that asphalt playground, all by myself, waiting for one of the housekeepers to pick me up, while Troop 243 met next door in the community room. No matter, I’m fully versed in the program and I’m sure I can answer any questions you might have.

  25

  Angela Sims—Owner and CEO of Happy Helpers Preschool

  Angela Simms stood behind the shiny red door and looked at her watch. 7:55. She could hear them out there, parents with the children. They�
��d been lined up since 7:30, eager to unload their kids. The same group showed up half an hour early every morning and stood there in the front yard with the stupid hope that maybe today would be different. Maybe today Angela—sweet Miss Angela —would be kind and let them get rid of their precious angels thirty minutes early. No dice.

  Angela was in a very bad mood. She hadn’t heard from Conrad in days. Motherfucker. She’d thrown up again this morning. Her fingers were swollen. She was tired and there was just the faintest hint of that dreaded estrogen mask on her upper lip and chin. Also, she was hung-over. Fucking pregnancy.

  8:02. Another minute or so, one of the parents would tap on the door. They had to get to work, didn’t Angela understand? There were appointments and meetings and urgent documents to be signed. These were parents with lives that mattered and they couldn’t waste any of their oh-so-valuable time waiting outside a preschool. When she opened the door, they’d place one hand over the cell phone, give little Clay or Yoko or Zoë a gentle shove into the school, and say, “Gotta run. Big day.” And then, on retreat, “Bye honey, I love you. Thanks Angela.” You could tell they were pissed but no one ever confronted Angela directly. They didn’t want to anger her because, who knows, then maybe little Connor or Madison or Beau wouldn’t get to make potato prints or use the blunt tip scissors or sit on the teacher’s lap.

  Of course it was a completely different story on the other end. None of these people worried about her schedule when the day was done. Most of them sent nannies to do the pickup and the nannies didn’t seem to be able to tell time. 2:00 Los Angeles time translated into 2:30 or even 3:00 Latin American time. No matter. She charged late fees, one dollar per minute, and the school made quite a nice profit on penalties alone.