A Wife of Noble Character (9 page)

There was Nicole, another sister, slugging a light beer, and her husband—what was his name? Vivienne waved. He owned a sporting-goods store with his father; that she remembered. She passed a few unfamiliar men—boyfriends and husbands, probably; they wore boat-shoes instead of shitkickers, so she assumed they were from out of town. She slipped through their circle, avoiding eye contact, conscious of their gazes on her back. And there was Bracken, seated on the cushioned arm of a couch, regaling a trio of Sissy's friends, who were giggling and slapping at the air around him. Near Bracken, by the kitchen, was Karlie, talking furtively with—she had to excuse herself around a few people to see—Reis Hinkle, Karlie's best-friend-forever. Karlie signaled her over.

Reis held out an arm, which she draped over Vivienne's shoulders. “Hey, girl.”

Vivienne returned the half embrace. “Good to see you.”

As usual, Reis smelled like bell peppers. She had a habit of carrying a plastic sandwich bag full of the vegetable wherever she went.

“I know, so good,” Reis said, smiling. But her smile was more like a sneer.

This sneer-smile was Reis's defining expression, her upper lip wrinkled up close to the tip of her narrow nose. What Vivienne found discomfiting was the intensely sexual aura she emitted while essentially looking like she smelled shit, but maybe this was part of her appeal. There was something elemental about Reis. She had a slim stature, dark oval eyes, and enviably straight brown hair grown out below her breasts and cut into a blunt set of bangs. Hers was a come-hither sexuality that entreated the most primal butt-sniffing tendencies in men. Vivienne, a more delicate variety, who relied on precisely the opposite tendencies, found Reis repellent. For one thing, tonight she was wearing a black silk tank and jeans—very tight jeans—tucked into a pair of intricately embroidered black cowboy boots, a sartorial strategy intended, Vivienne felt, to alienate other women and make men think she wasn't afraid to get dirty. If the guys took keg stands, Reis would be the first to jump in. If she'd arrived earlier, she'd probably have run off on the hog hunt, all for effect, and all while nibbling bell peppers.

“We were just talking about Buck,” Karlie said.

“Do you know where he is?” Vivienne asked.

“I was talking to him a minute ago,” Reis said.

“Reis just got a job doing PR for Lawland's,” Karlie said. “Buck hooked her up.”

Vivienne let this wash over her expertly. “Congrats, Reis!” she said, beaming.

Reis nodded. “Thanks,” she said. “A lot of it will be promoting their charity work—”

“They do so much amazing stuff for poor kids,” Karlie interrupted. “Reis also got into law school at U of H!”

Vivienne congratulated Reis yet again and excused herself. Most of the men were in the kitchen, talking over the scream of the margarita blender and grazing the platters of fried, barbecued, grilled, and roasted meats orbiting the magnificent brisket, which glowed beneath a heat lamp. She ran into Clay.

He smelled like diesel exhaust, but he gave her the first real hug of the night. Clay was such a nice guy. He was always smiling. Whenever he hugged her, Vivienne thought that if he wasn't marrying her best friend she'd probably fall in love with him, even though he had small teeth and caterpillar eyebrows. She already loved him in a way, because she thought him worthy of Waverly, which gave her hope there was a man out there for her.

“I think Bucky's outside,” Clay said, handing her a beer.

Vivienne leaned against the counter, angling her butt on the rounded edge so men wouldn't graze the small of her back. “Could you tell I was wondering?”

“Lucky guess,” Clay said. “How are you?”

“Great,” she said, nodding. “Really great.” She had to talk into his ear to be heard over the blender.

“Still working at the store?”

“Yeah, I'm still there.” She sipped her beer. It was a Lone Star, the mother's milk of her college days.

“Bucky got a big hog from pretty far off,” Clay said. “They're breeding like rabbits out there. It's not good for the land. They're just munching it down bad.”

“Do you have to shoot them? Can't you relocate them?”

“Maybe, but problem is they're tenacious. They've got a short breeding cycle. These hogs are fancy in France. If we got serious about it, we could sell the meat.”

“I have an idea.” Vivienne clutched her beer high on the neck of the bottle and nudged Clay's shoulder with the base of it. “I'll leave the store and move to France and sell the hog meat from Texas.”

“We'll be millionaires,” Clay said matter-of-factly.

Clay was already a millionaire, she knew. Or probably would be soon enough, many times over, just like most everyone there. The question mark that was her own future wealth hung over her head unfailingly, a thought bubble brimming with Monopoly money.

“Cally Pork and Petroleum,” Vivienne said.

“I'll invest,” Clay said. “Hey, you know who I talked to yesterday? Preston Duffin. He told me he ran into you at Rice.”

Hearing his name so abruptly beyond the confines of her thoughts gave Vivienne an exposed, embarrassed feeling. She recalled their morning together like a shared secret.

She tried to be casual. “Yeah, he showed me around.”

“Rice is designing a library in the fourth ward, and he's on the project,” Clay said. “He wants me to come survey the plot. Not sure if it will ever get built, but it's a great project.”

Clay, an engineering geologist, loved to talk about groundwater and mineral rights and soil mechanics. His father was a well-known investment banker who'd expected his son to follow in his footsteps, but Clay had an eye for science and forwent his enviable opportunities in finance to “stare at rocks,” as his father had put it, and indeed he did this with an artist's passion.

He smiled. “I told him he should come up here this weekend. Doubt he will, though.”

Vivienne, though statuesquely composed, felt ripped in two by an intense eagerness to talk about Preston and an equally intense eagerness to pretend that she didn't care.

“Let's take a shot of tequila!” she said suddenly into Clay's ear, and reached over the island for a pair of abandoned shot glasses. She poured the shots full.

“To you and Waverly,” she said, holding the glass aloft, her heart brimming with an out-of-the-blue, urgent tenderness. “To love!”

Clay was laughing; he seemed happy. “To love!”

Vivienne swallowed the tequila and closed her eyes against the burn, pressing a wedge of lime to her lips. When she recovered, Clay handed her another. This second shot went down easier; instantly she deepened into the evening's embrace; Preston fell away. There was only the body and voice of the party.

Waverly appeared and nuzzled into Clay's stout, whiskered neck. “Are you getting my man drunk?”

Vivienne tried to slip away, but the kitchen was crowded. She reeled around on her toes. She spotted Bucky playing beer pong with Timmy and a bunch of guys outside. He'd changed into a clean white oxford shirt. Unsurprisingly, Reis was there, leaning one hip against a baluster, cheering the plays.

Waverly snapped her fingers. “One more!”

Vivienne hesitated.

“Come on, Viv!” Waverly protested. “I never take shots.”

Clay was nodding.

Finishing it, Vivienne dropped the glass on the counter and watched it roll onto the floor and crack. Three was enough. She threaded her way through the kitchen, toward the great room. The music, a mix of hip-hop, country, and eighties' pop, grew louder.

The demographic had changed. Bracken and Sissy and their friends had moved to other regions of the house. Vivienne passed conspicuously near the window. Bucky noticed her and raised his eyes as if to suggest,
Well, look at you.
She smiled. Nothing compelled her to go to him now. She would make him wait.

The great room teemed with animate shadows. The rack of Bracken's biggest prize, a monster fourteen-point buck he'd bagged in Pecos, loomed over the crowd. She made her way around, feeling loose inside, her heart pumping with self-possession.

Suddenly a song she loved came on. She couldn't remember the name of the song or who sang it, but she was sure it was her favorite song in the world. She closed her eyes and danced. Others joined, and within two songs it was a dance party. A sweaty hour passed, Vivienne half lost in the haze of sweat and twang and half aware that Bucky might be watching. Finally, thirst drove her to the kitchen. She drank a glass of water, holding her hair up with her free arm to cool her neck against the refrigerator door. The kitchen was a wreck of beer bottles, spilled margarita syrup, and finger-food scraps. Specks of chewing tobacco littered the floor like confetti. Leather handbags and silken clutches of various colors and designer labels lay piled on the bar chairs, and in a corner slumbered a small women's shoe department—jeweled high heels, lustrous kidskin heels, stiletto ankle boots.

Bucky came around and pinched her waist. She faced him and pretended not to be elated that he'd showed up.

“You haven't talked to me all night,” he said.

“You haven't talked to
me
all night.”

His breath was all whiskey and heat. “You look pretty. I like your dress.” Somehow his choice of words, compounded by his droll delivery, failed to live up to her expectations, even if the sentiment was exactly what she'd hoped he would express. She checked her annoyance by running her hands over his shoulders and clasping her arms around his neck. She grazed her breasts against his chest, to give him the hint:
Kiss me.

He went for it. She relaxed against the counter and steadied his lips, holding her hands to his face. A group of girls passed through the kitchen. Karlie, among them, hollered out, “Buck, you want to smoke?” Reis was at Karlie's side, already lighting her cigarette. Vivienne turned around and shot Karlie a why-would-you-ask-him-that-now look, to which Karlie pled ignorance, holding her palms up.

They moved outside. The night was humid and full of stars; thin, stretchy clouds obscured the moon now and then, shifting the pattern of silhouettes over the land.

“Hey, Lawland!” Timmy called from the lounger, where he lay reclined with a Lone Star, like a gorged Bacchus.

People were scattered around in clusters, smoking and talking. The ten or so patio chairs were taken, so Bucky dragged an empty Adirondack near Timmy and instructed Vivienne to sit in his lap. “Come on, baby,” he said.

Vivienne was irritated but complied.

“What year were the Texas Rangers formed?” Timmy asked, out of a slurred smile.

“The actual Rangers, not the baseball team,” Clay said. He was sitting beside Timmy, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, looking mirthfully at his friend. “He's on a trivia kick.”

Bucky said, “Is it already that point in the night? I don't know—1920?”

“Come on,” Timmy said. “Way off.”

“1835,” Clay said.

Timmy sat up on his elbows. “How'd you know that, man?”

Clay shrugged. “What can I say? I paid attention in Mrs. Lang's Texas history.”

The recollection of seventh grade caused a tide of belly laughter from Timmy, the sight of which induced an additional tide of belly laughter from Clay.

In his glee, Timmy rolled full on his back and unfurled himself like a doodlebug. “Holy shit! I remember I forgot the pledge once, and Mrs. Lang told me there was a special place in hell for Texans who forgot the Texas pledge.”

Clay feigned serious. “Dude, there is. You don't know that?”

“I have one,” Vivienne straightened her back to garner the full attention of the men. “Who was the first female governor of Texas?”

“Jane Long?” Clay said.

“No, man,” Bucky said, flicking his cigarette butt at Clay. “Jane Long was, like, Sam Houston's girlfriend.”

Timmy shrugged. “That lady who made the flag—Betsy something.”

“Miriam Ferguson,” Vivienne said, and whispered into Bucky's ear,
“Let's take a walk
.
”

He scrutinized her for a moment and grinned, realizing her meaning.

“'Scuse me, fellas,” he said, standing.

“Don't be a pussy, Lawland,” Timmy groaned. When he drank, his talk changed. Vivienne didn't like it. His sweetness went sour.

Vivienne followed Bucky along the flagstone path into the brush beyond the yard. The voices of the party quieted under the hum of night critters. The dry buffalo grass crunched beneath their feet. Vivienne's heart raced. She'd forgotten her drunkenness, forgotten that her feet ached walking on uneven stones in heels, forgotten the need for restraint in dealing with this man. No, she hadn't forgotten; she just didn't care anymore.

“Let's stop here.” She squeezed his arm.

They were in a grove of mesquite, romantic by Texas standards. The bare moonlit trees bent in warped directions. A warm breeze blew low, shuddering the high grass, leaving the trees still.

“Watch out for rattlers,” Bucky said, pinching her waist, pulling her close. “I was watching you dance. Every guy in there wants you.”

While he kissed her neck and squeezed her breasts, she stared skyward. A moving star, a satellite, was sailing over Texas. She lowered her eyes and kissed him; when she looked up again, it had traveled to the far corner of her vision, somewhere over the Gulf, she imagined. Bucky spanked her.

“Hey, space cadet,” he whispered.

Now that his groping urge was satiated, he wanted to display his boner. She fiddled with his big belt buckle and within a minute had him standing in the open air, his boxers at his ankles. Drunk as he was, he was steady in this pant-leg hold as he guided Vivienne to her knees.

She took him in her mouth. He smelled sweet, like sweat and talcum powder.