A Wife of Noble Character (10 page)

In a matter of seconds he was simpering, his knees twitching. She stopped then and glanced up at him. He smiled with clenched teeth. She played with him a little, feigned singing into a microphone, mimed licking a Popsicle—she often performed these little moves as an innocuous means of torturing him and prolonging her own fun—and then she abruptly stood. She wasn't in the mood to give another blow job. She was sick of blow jobs.

“Why did you stop?” He immediately started pleading. “Come on, I'm so close.” He pressed on her shoulders to push her back down, but she swatted his hands away.

“Touch me,” she said.

He looked like he'd taken a blow. “Wait, no, baby, just one more second—”

“
Touch me
,” she commanded him this time, showing his hand the way. He liked this, but when his fingers reached beneath her panties and felt the warmth there, he immediately remembered himself and whimpered, grimacing as if she'd injured him. “Come on, Vivienne, seriously.”

She laughed. “Harder.”

He obeyed, angrily wiggling his fingers. She reeled back a moment, then ducked into his neck. Abruptly again, she removed his hand and stepped back to regard him fully: naked from the waist down, bound by his own pants, like a man in the stocks, an ample pink boner protruding from beneath his wrinkled shirttail, an expression of dazed surrender on his face.

Vivienne was delighted. For her part, she also looked ridiculous, standing in heels with her dress pulled up at her waist, her thong stretched and askew on her hips. They made a strange pair, facing off in the darkness, half nude. Vivienne put her hands on her hips, both to look prissy and to keep herself from stumbling backward. “Look at you,” she said to Bucky.

He smiled at his own image of himself standing there, but whatever beast had seized his body was unwavering in its blow-job objective. “Vivienne,” he pled.

Seeing that he couldn't move without tipping over—his boots were too bulky to give him maneuvering room—she scooted back a few wobbly paces.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“Having fun,” she replied, and began touching herself. Dark as it was, she could see him flush.

“You're drunk.”

“You're drunk too,” she murmured.

Bucky had apparently given up being embarrassed and was stroking himself now. “Finish me off,” he said.

She smirked. “No.”

“Yes,” he said.

She smirked wider, stepping close to him. “No.”

He blinked at her wildly, like a galled lion. She lifted one leg and rested it in the crux of his elbow.

“Now what are you doing?”

“Shhh,” she said, and gripped him. “Lower yourself down.”

As she coaxed him inside her, his eyes passed from embarrassed to determined and finally, as he found his stride and she gasped, to something like enraged. It was rage she felt clutching her hips and jamming itself inside her, rage not from Bucky, her boyfriend, to herself, but carnal rage, from man to woman, and she loved it. Bucky grunted. She squealed. He panted. She moaned. For Vivienne, the seconds passed with the gravitas of years. She sought out his eyes, but he'd clenched them shut. Every feature of his face was clenched. His jaw was locked, his nose sniveled up, his brow knotted to folds. Her own face was a foil to his, slack in every place.

“Bucky,” she said, out of breath. If he would only open his eyes and look at her.

Suddenly his body buckled, his lips wrinkled up, and, dropping her leg, he expelled a quiet yelp, finishing himself onto the ground.

Vivienne stumbled back and almost fell, disjoined from him with a cruel slurp. They both froze for a moment, Bucky's chest heaving, Vivienne watching him. The whole thing had lasted only a minute, maybe not even that. Bucky's eyes darted around the brush and down to his pants. Perceiving his leg hold anew, he immediately bent over, pulled up his pants, and spent a few—what seemed to Vivienne, who still stood exposed and tingling—long moments situating his belt buckle, even tucking in his shirt. Only when he finished did he finally look at her.

“Why aren't you fixed up?”

She was cold, her whole body tense. The breeze picked up, rattling the mesquite. She pulled down her dress, tiptoed deeper into the brush, and crouched behind a lantana bush, waiting to pee.

Through the thicket, she could make out Bucky in profile. He was kicking at something, a root or a weed, and smoking a cigarette. What was he thinking? Vivienne was deliriously impatient with her body. Seeing Bucky made her want to hurry, but the more she tried to hurry, the more stubbornly her bladder resisted, and she sat there in an anxious squat, miserable and sobering up.

Finally, by dropping her head and fixing her eyes on her toes, she peed. It burned.

Her drunkenness was both ebbing and overwhelming, as if it were just now realizing itself. She felt a sort of clearheaded nausea. When she reached Bucky she wanted to punch him, but instead she mumbled sweetly, “I'm back.”

He motioned with a nod toward the house, and she followed. With each step she felt more depressed, as if a hand had come down and was pushing her—literally depressing her—into the earth.

Bucky was a few steps ahead, snapping every twig in his path and silencing the surrounding grasshoppers with the deliberate swoosh of his boots through the grass. He was smart enough to avoid the crowded back patio, cutting around to the garage. Vivienne put one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other. He waited for her at the door. Maybe if she invited him to her bed, he'd say yes? She was too scared to ask. The fiery mettle of minutes earlier had gone, pulled from her along with his body.

“I'm gonna go back out with the guys,” he said. “Thanks for the treat tonight.”

 

V

Vivienne woke to knocking at her door. She burrowed beneath the covers, imagining that the offender would go away, but instead the door opened: It was the housekeeper, requesting, on behalf of Sissy and Waverly, her presence downstairs.

“Why?” Vivienne groaned, rolling over to look at the alarm clock and knocking over the bluebonnets, which had dropped their petals overnight.

“
Necessita ayuda con la
wedding,” the housekeeper said apprehensively, abashed by the state of the woman in bed, still wearing last night's dress.

“
Por favor,
close the door please,” Vivienne said. “I'll come in a minute.”

It was early—nine-thirty—way too early. Sissy would never bother any other guest at this hour on a Sunday morning after a party. Vivienne often wondered if Sissy's generosity came free. Since Vivienne was the only purely unattached friend in the house, Sissy expected her to be available. At least today the chores would be wedding-related. Sissy usually instructed Vivienne to organize a file drawer or tutor her on using her email account or wrap baby shower presents according to her ruthless specifications.

Vivienne burrowed again, refusing to come to terms with her hangover. Within a minute she was back asleep. She'd been dreaming she was wide awake and already downstairs when she woke half an hour later to sunlight searing her face. The sunlit room could not have provided a more precise antithesis to her state of mind. She was verging on tears, but the pain in her head at the very thought of crying was enough to drive her up to splash cold water on her face. As she stood at the sink, the awfulness migrated to her stomach, so she knelt at the toilet and gagged herself. Nothing came; the alcohol had long soaked into her blood.

Her dress stunk of cigarettes and sweat. She peeled it off, resolved never to wear it again. With effort, she slipped on her cute-casual ensemble: a pair of hip-hugging sweatpants and an artificially faded workout sweatshirt, which hung just so off the shoulder. The outfit had a thrown-together look, appropriate for morning without being too frumpy.

She went out to the balcony for air. The yellow light infused the day with optimism, despite her pulsing head. The hills, cast in the eastern sun, took on a thirstier shade, a rockier texture. She found the spot where she'd gone with Bucky; from her raised view it looked much closer to the house and less private than she'd thought. Had Bucky been more drunk, equally drunk, or less drunk than she was? These details mattered. She hoped that he'd been more drunk. She hoped she and Bucky could keep what happened between them—the drunken night they had sex standing up in a clearing, something to laugh about.

Her flip-flops made a plastic snap against her heels as she made her way down the cool, gray hall, past the many closed bedroom doors, and descended the staircase. At the base of the stairs she froze. There, visible through a half-open door, was Bucky, collapsed on a guest-room sofa. She stepped out of her flip-flops and went to the door. He lay on his side in striped boxers, his pale, hairy legs tucked in close to his body, a cashmere throw blanket covering his chest. Seized by curiosity, and with extreme hesitation, she peeked in further to see his face, smushed against a couch pillow. He looked prepubescent. Some other guy was passed out on the floor.

“What are you doing?” It was Reis, fully dressed, leaving the bathroom. She brushed past Vivienne and went to an empty club chair, carrying her boots.

Vivienne noticed her purse at the base of the chair. “Did you sleep in here?” she asked, whispering.

“Yeah, a few of us were up late talking.”

“Talking? About what?”

“Work, spirituality. Lots of stuff.”

“Spirituality?”

Reis ticked her head. “Yes—is that okay?”

*   *   *

I
N THE GREAT
room, a small, silent army of maids was busy wiping surfaces and scrubbing corners. They didn't look at Vivienne as she passed among them into the spotless and glistening kitchen, every trace of the party a memory. The smells of ammonia floor polish, coffee, and bacon filled the room. Vivienne took a few pieces from a platter on the counter.

In Sissy's office, she found Waverly and her mother sitting opposite each other at the big maple desk, which was framed by a stately pair of windows draped in muslin. Sissy's office was in its usual perfectly disheveled state. Papers—it seemed to Vivienne every piece of paper in Sissy's office was pastel-colored or flower-pressed—were set in neat piles on the carpet, on the seat of the tartan armchair, on the built-in shelves covering one full wall.

“Well, good morning,” Sissy remarked. “We thought you'd forgotten us.”

“Hi, sweetie,” Waverly said, sounding tired.

Vivienne wheeled over a chair and joined them. Sissy, fully made up, her hair tucked behind her ears by a leopard-print headband, was in full exasperation over the impossibility of finding fresh-squeezed passion-fruit juice in Texas. The fact that it was so difficult to obtain in large quantities only made her want it more. Laura Bush served fresh passion fruit juice at her luncheons—Sissy saw no reason that she couldn't serve passion-vodka cocktails at her daughter's wedding.

Waverly, always mitigating her mother's desire to impress, rolled her eyes. “Mommy, I doubt the Bushes' juice was even fresh. It was probably from a can. Who would know anyway?”

“
I
would know,” Sissy sniffed.

“Please,” Waverly said.

“You can order it online,” Vivienne said.

“The planner can handle the passion-fruit juice,” Waverly said. She stood, shook out her knees, and then bent down to touch the toes of her floppy sheepskin boots. She too was cute-casual, in fitted sweats and a gray T-shirt.

“People have no manners anymore,” Sissy said. “I can't even count how many of these wedding vendors take three days to get back to you, and then it's an email.” She held up a tense, flattened hand and sliced the air with it. “It's the limit.”

Vivienne yawned.

“Princess would rather be sleeping in her bed,” Sissy remarked, in the sweet, veiled tone Vivienne dreaded most.

“I'm just a little tired. How can I help?”

“I'd love it if you could stamp these.” She handed Vivienne two stacks of envelopes and a roll of stamps printed with a photo of Clay and Waverly smiling, cheek to cheek. The paper was soft as fur. “Those are for the shower thank-you notes.” Waverly's shower, thrown by Sissy and sixteen of Sissy's closest friends.

Vivienne felt oppressed by the stamping chore but glad to have her hands busy. “What's the plan today?” she asked.

“I'm never taking shots again,” Waverly said. “I feel sick.”

Sissy shook her head. “You'd think the world was ending. To answer your question, Vivienne, the plan is to finish these invitations.” She paused and narrowed in on a spreadsheet. “Who is Preston Duffin?”

Waverly tugged at the sleep tangles in her hair. “Preston is a friend of Clay's. I think he's coming up today.”

Vivienne stopped stamping. “Really?”

“That's what Clay said.”

“Is he married or engaged?” Sissy asked.

“I don't think so,” Waverly said.

“No he's not,” Vivienne said, definitively.

“Then I'm not putting him down for a guest on his invitation,” Sissy said. “I don't want my baby's wedding full of strangers who probably don't even write thank-you notes.”

“Preston's been here before,” Waverly said. “He's an architect. He did Tim and Karlie's addition.”

“Huh,” Sissy said, fishing a pair of reading glasses from a slim giraffe-print case. She rested the glasses on the bridge of her short nose and began tapping at her laptop. “I don't remember any architects.”

“He's tall,” Waverly said. “Kind of awkward.” Here she paused philosophically and added that she didn't think Sissy had ever met Preston's mother.

“He told Clay he was coming today?” Vivienne said.

“Are you blushing?” Waverly said.

“No, hardly,” Vivienne said, too swiftly.