A Wife of Noble Character (2 page)

“Rothko painted these a few months before he slit his wrists,” he said, joining her at the bench.

She frowned. “That's really sad.”

A robed ascetic sort of man told them to shush. He was sitting Indian style on an orange floor pillow. “Should everything make you happy?” Preston whispered.

“No,” she replied, like a dart. “But why purposely make yourself sad? I believe happiness is more powerful than sadness.”

“That's sweet but naïve,” Preston said. “Don't you enjoy feeling sad sometimes?”

She held out a hand for Preston to help her off the bench, despite the fact that she could have stood up on her own. But he obliged the act. “No, I don't enjoy feeling sad,” she said. “And I don't go out and make other people look at my sadness when I do feel sad.”

Preston felt the back of his neck heat up. This was exactly the kind of ambivalence he couldn't stand. As if artists have an obligation not to upset people's sensitivities.

“Why should his art be dictated by our reactions? Why should he care how we feel?”

Vivienne sighed out her nose. “Who are the paintings for anyway? They're for people to see.”

A guard in a baggy security uniform came over—a diminutive man with an impressive gray mustache waxed and twirled at the ends. He had the eager air of a volunteer. “This is a silent area,” he said. “Please go outside.”

They scooted out into the courtyard, united by a sense of mischief, Preston's budding righteousness diffused. There was something exhilarating about being scolded by an old person—it proved you were still young. You could still break rules without hurting anyone. You could still run away and leave people shaking their heads.

Vivienne blinked her eyes against the light of day and squinted at her slinky wristwatch. “It's still early. Want to take a walk?”

Then, to his bewilderment, she took his arm at the elbow and fixed it into a faux-gentlemanly promenade pose. Of course, he thought, I'm supposed to ask her on the walk that she suggested.

“My place is just down the block. I could make you a cup of coffee.”

“
Merci
,” she said cutely, in a Texan's impersonation of the French.

The walk to his apartment was five minutes through the neighborhood, shaded with old oaks. The trees were full of brown squirrels, reproaching passersby with tail flicks and terse chirps. The other passersby were harried students and academic mothers pushing strollers or clutching the hands of wobbly toddlers. Vivienne said “Good morning” to each mother they passed and paused to coo at each child, which made Preston uncomfortable, because he rarely greeted strangers and definitely never stopped to admire children. He stood by dumbly as she tickled bellies and complimented diaper bags, wondering if he should be impressed. Still, he liked that the women seemed to think they were a couple. It made him stand straighter, even while thinking over the condition of his studio apartment. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been there for more than a few minutes, and it was possible the garbage smelled or the bed was unmade, or worse. He remembered ejaculating into a sock the other day and had no idea as to the sock's current location.

“The university owns this house,” he told her as they walked up the driveway. “It's a scholarship house. I live above the garage in the back.” The garage didn't bring to mind anything collegiate. It was a building that spoke for itself: a two-car, two-story rectangle painted over in a peeling shade of beige. The garage door was open, displaying his hubcap-less 1996 Civic, his broken
LONE STAR BEER
sign, his rusty bike fit for a fifteen-year-old, his work desk piled with reams of paper and rulers and eraser shavings. She only noticed the ivy. It covered half the house, forming a sort of structural shawl, softening corners. “It's very East Coast,” she said. “I like it.”

“Fig ivy,” Preston said. “It's native to the Gulf Coast.”

Preston started up the steps. Was it rude to walk in front of her? If he walked behind he'd see up her dress, which he wouldn't have minded, but he didn't want to get caught. She stopped midway and slipped her heels off and dropped them into her gigantic purse. He suddenly felt nervous—he was sure nothing would, or could, happen. She'd already told him that he looked like hell, but, still, she was about to be inside his apartment. He'd never been alone with her for so long.

To his relief, he didn't smell anything offensive when he opened the door. There were no socks in sight. The place was in decent order. He loved his habit of underestimating himself. He was always exceeding his own expectations.

“Welcome to my enormous apartment,” he said.

Vivienne soft-footed inside and looked around. “This is the tiniest apartment I've ever seen.” She set her purse on a brown corduroy armchair draped with a quilt.

Preston busied himself with boiling water and rinsing mugs in the kitchenette. “It's called a bachelor apartment,” he said, over his shoulder. “I guess because this is all a man really needs.”

“Is it all you need?”

“For now.” He turned around and leaned against the counter, drying the mugs. Vivienne was standing at his father's old mahogany shelf, scanning his books. She took one from the shelf, an old Agee first edition, also his father's. She didn't open the book, just held it, admiring its exterior.

“I'd like to have more than one room, though, sooner than later,” Preston said.

Vivienne slid the book back in place. “Do architects do well?” she said, turning her focus on him.

Preston smiled. “Territory you haven't thought to explore?”

“That's not what I mean.”

He shook his head mirthfully and went back to the coffee. “Then why ask?”

She came over to his corner, arms akimbo. “Just because I asked if architects do well doesn't mean I'm on the hunt for an architect husband. You always needle me.”

“Slow down,” Preston said. He enjoyed riling her up like this; she was all pink in the cheeks. “Who said anything about hunting for husbands?”

“Never mind,” she said.

He laughed. “I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you,” he said, even though he kind of was. He plunged the French press and poured the coffee, gave her the mug with the most crème on the top. She took it without saying anything, immediately closing her hands around it and bringing it to her face as if it were wintertime, and curled up in the armchair. She appeared to be pouting. Preston opened a window to let in some air. He sat at the edge of the bed, holding his mug on his knee.

“Architects can do very well later in their careers,” he said. “Entry-level positions in firms are slogs, though. In the beginning you're a draftsman for the principal's designs. It's rare if you get to do your own design work, especially if you're at a bigger firm. It's a trade-off. At a bigger firm you do less design, but the salaries are better. At a smaller firm you get a pittance, but you get to design.”

“You'd rather get a pittance and design,” Vivienne said.

“I would.”

She blew on her coffee. “I don't really drink coffee.”

“Said the girl drinking coffee.”

She raised her eyes and smiled. It brightened the whole room.

“I survive on coffee,” he said. As he said this, he realized how tired he was. His eyes felt dry; his head droned. Vivienne was so pretty that when he looked at her, he woke up a little.

“I'd love to have my own place,” Vivienne said. “I'm living with my aunt. The neighborhood is too expensive.”

“This neighborhood is pretty cheap,” he offered, realizing as the words left him that she was nodding in an over-polite way, probably to conceal her displeasure at the idea of ever moving here.

“Most of my friends live over there,” she said. “It's home to me.” Over there meaning West—where the money was, where the yards were green and lawnmowers and leaf blowers roared all day long.

“It's too seedy here?”

“It's not seedy here,” she said. “It's cute. It's just that—if I lived here, it would be depressing.”

Preston laughed. “Why is that?”

“Not for you, for me. If I lived here, people would feel sad for me because I was alone in a studio apartment,” she said. “For you, it's a bachelor pad.”

“I think that's a convenient exaggeration of reality,” he said, testing his coffee with the tip of his free thumb. It was now the perfect too-hot-for-most-people temperature. This was one of Preston's favorite moments in life, right up there with walking the streets of a foreign city at sunrise, reading McMurtry, and completing a difficult design: the first sip. He liked to draw it out.

He wanted to tell her to look on Craigslist for a roommate, like everyone else in the world who wasn't a millionaire, but he checked his tone. “Live with a friend. I lived in a dorm this size with another guy for two years, and it wasn't as bad as it sounds. Assuming the person is sane, you get used to each other's rhythms and manage to avoid each other, or you become better friends.”

“I lived in my sorority house with a bunch of girls,” Vivienne said. “After college I lived with Karlie and Waverly, but then Karlie got married, and Waverly met Clay. I couldn't afford the apartment on my own.”

“There's your answer,” he said. “Get married.”

“I have a job,” she said. “I don't sit around all day getting massages.”

“I didn't say you did.” Although that wouldn't have surprised him.

“I work at Cotton and Lace,” she said. “Cotton for resort and lace for dresses. We do a lot of bridesmaid's gowns and fittings for events.”

“The other day I read that this idea that marriage is about soul mates is a modern convention,” Preston said. “Historically, it was a practical agreement. The woman committed to the man sexually, and in exchange he provided resources. It wasn't until women had more freedom in deciding who they wanted to marry that it became about romance, generally speaking. But today”—he paused to sip, wondering if the tangent was inappropriate—“women have the same expectation of resources, but they also want love. It seems that without the resources, even with love, what's the incentive for women to marry?”

“Love is the incentive to marry,” Vivienne said, as if to say,
What else would it be?

Preston conceded. “But without resources?”

“I'm not sure I'd fall in love with a man who didn't have a good job,” she said, leaning forward to rub the arch of her left foot. He would have rubbed it for her had she asked. “I want to have a family.”

He wanted to ask her to define “good job,” wanted to pry about numbers. What was the minimum annual income she'd accept? Had it occurred to her that she could be the provider? Why did she want a guy with money if her family was already wealthy? His mind sprung a fount of curiosity for this woman, arm's length away yet beyond him. Maybe that was why he needled her. If he could reach her, he wouldn't have to needle her. The sun shone through the skylight, warming his back, its outlying beams grazing Vivienne's girlishly bony ankles. She sat in his brown corduroy chair as if she'd always been there.

“But is it only about love, then?” he said. “Is it honest to say it's not about resources?”

“What are you trying to get me to say?” Vivienne said. “Whenever I see you, you try to get me to say things.”

“I'm not trying to get you to say anything.” Was he, though? “I just think for women, marriage is also practical.”

“It is for men too,” she said. “I know women think about money, but few
only
think about money.” She paused. “Are your parents still together?”

“Retired together in Austin. Yours?” The moment he asked, he remembered that her parents had died, recalled the hush surrounding this fact in high school. “Sorry if that was insensitive. I forgot—”

She waved him off. “I couldn't move into a place like this and go on with my life if I was single,” she said. “If I did, there'd be repercussions. That's the only way I can explain it.” She looked everywhere but at him. When she furrowed her brow, it made her round chin jut out a bit. Her lips pinched up, and he saw a flash of her in middle age. She was more attractive, a woman.

She picked up her gigantic purse and dropped it on the floor, took the quilt from behind her shoulders, and fidgeted it over her legs.

“My grandmother made that quilt.” He set his coffee aside and knelt beside her, to show her the embroidery:
To Preston, God Loves You.

Vivienne narrowed her eyes on him. “I've always liked you,” she said.

He wasn't sure whether to be disappointed—knowing such sincere declarations were probably reserved for guys with no chance of getting any—or happy because it was a nice thing to hear. So, this being Vivienne, he felt something like ambivalently flattered. “But I'm not a Republican,” he said lightly.

She flicked his shoulder. Preston admired her remarkably soft-seeming arms. And her wrists—such fragile mechanisms they were. It was pleasant to be near a beautiful woman.

“I've always liked you too,” he said.

“I like that you don't think I'm trying to, you know, marry you.” She squeezed the quilt to her chest.

This prompted Preston to stand and unconsciously dust off his khakis as if they were in urgent need of dusting off. “No, I definitely don't think that.” He said it with a smile, but he felt hurt. She liked him because she knew she'd never
like
him.

“You're not the type of guy to get married, or at least not for a long time. People in graduate school”—here she gestured fancily—“think marriage is a joke. They look down on people their age who get married. If a woman really wanted to marry you, you'd run away.” She lowered her voice. “My friends think the only thing that can keep me safe is a husband.”