Just a Little Bit Guilty

by Deborah Smith

  VIVIAN AND AUNT VANNY sat on the back porch after lunch, wrapped in quilts and sipping mugs of hot tea, while Jake repaired a light fixture in the small shed that housed Aunt Vanny’s hatchback.

  “Let’s talk turkey,” the older woman said. She reached under her quilt and pulled out a small bottle of bourbon. “Wild Turkey.” As Vivian gaped at her, Aunt Vanny dosed Vivian’s tea with the liquor, then doctored her own mug.

  Aunt Vanny hid the bottle in her quilt again then lifted her mug. “Here’s to skunks and drunks and men with plenty of junk in their trunks.”

  Vivian nearly fell over laughing. Then she clicked her mug to Aunt Vanny’s. Jake’s aunt nodded her approval. They downed a hearty swallow or two. When the bourbon loosened their tongues, Aunt Vanny asked quietly, “So, what do you want to know about him?”

  Vivian cupped both hands around her warm mug. “He doesn’t say much about his parents. What’s the story?”

  “His daddy died when Jake was just a baby. His mama ran the dairy well enough but partied with the wrong men, drugs, drink, and so forth. Jake spent more time here with me than with her. He tried his best to take care of her, but she pretty much broke his heart. She died, drunk, in her car, when he was seventeen. He buckled down to run the dairy and keep the family farm. The boy has never gotten many lucky breaks, and he’s never had it easy. But he doesn’t complain.”

  Aunt Vanny pinned her with a calm stare. “Now, girl, you tell me what your intentions are. Because he deserves the very best, and he sure seems to think you’re it.”

  Vivian sat in silence for a moment. “No. I’m not good enough for him.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “I’m not unselfish enough. I’m not family-oriented enough. I’m a loner. And I’m a pain.”

  “Let me tell you, Miss Viv, he’s had plenty of women after him, and the one marriage that wasn’t good for him, but I’ve never seen him look as happy as he looks with you. You’ve gotten to him in a way that’s special. Can you tell me why that’s so? I mean, he’s told me what you do for people, but I’d like to hear your opinion.”

  “He says it impresses him that I try to take care of people. But it’s not my choice . . . it’s bred in me, it’s who I am. I’m the daughter of a cop. He really cared about people. He died on the job, when I was sixteeen, shot by a drug dealer. I decided then that I’d go into law. And that I’d try to make a difference in the world.”

  “That ‘difference’ doesn’t include a husband and children, honey?”

  “I thought it did. But my marriage was short and miserable. I don’t trust my judgment anymore, where men are concerned.”

  “Well, I sure do envy you that luxury.”

  Vivian looked at her warily. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been married three times. First husband? Twenty years. Died of kidney problems. I was thirty-seven. We never got pregnant. Second husband? Three years. I miscarried twice. He died of a heart attack. He was only forty-one. Third husband? Five years. We had a baby but it didn’t survive a week. And him? He died of a lung infection.”

  “Aunt Vanny, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I loved and loved and loved. I’m not too old to love again, if I find the right man.”

  Vivian sat back in her chair, musing. “I don’t know if I’m that brave.”

  Aunt Vanny hoisted her bourbon-infused tea. “What takes more courage: loneliness or loss?”

  Vivian couldn’t answer her.

  AT AUNT VANNY’S urging, Jake drove Vivian into Tuna Creek that afternoon for a tour. They rumbled down a tree-lined main street straight out of Mayberry. Pickup trucks dominated the car herd, nosing up to the sidewalks with muddy fenders and I SUPPORT THE SECOND AMENDMENT bumper stickers. Jake looked for a parking spot in front of Tuna Creek Medicinals and Soda Fountain.

  “Come on, I’ll buy you a cherry Coke, made with Coke syrup and real cherry juice and everything,” Jake said.

  “I might faint from the sugar rush. I’m addicted to artificial sweetener.” Vivian suddenly realized she was tapping the truck’s floorboard in happy rhythm to a Merle Haggard song on the radio. She stared at her foot as if it had taken on a life of its own. “By the way, I’m overdue for my twice-daily Starbucks fix.”

  Jake snorted.

  “No Starbucks?”

  He harrumphed and busied himself tucking his tractor cap atop the dash. “Caffeine addict.”

  His tone was teasing so she jibed back: “Decaffinated redneck.”

  “Hah.”

  “Okay, what kind of fast food places do you have here?”

  “Well, there’s uh . . .” He pointed to a tiny building with a neon sign of a dancing cow wearing a sundress. “There’s the Dairy Dip.”

  The truck rolled to a stop, and Vivian stared at the ramshackle place with a handwritten menu in the window. “How long ago was the building condemned?”

  “Hey. It’s a historic site.”

  “Preserved in ancient layers of dirt and Crisco.” She turned amused eyes on him and saw his brow furrowing. She squeezed his arm. “Ignore me. I’m a condescending snitwad.”

  His eyes glittered with restored happiness, and he popped the truck into gear again. They rolled past a row of shops nestled side by side behind plank sidewalks. “Cute,” she said gamely.

  “Wanta go meet some of my friends?” Jake asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “They usually get together at their watering hole on Saturday afternoons.”

  “Ah-hah. I love cozy little pubs and pool halls.”

  “Well, that’s not it, exactly.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Not exactly’?”

  What he meant was Burley’s Seed and Feed, a weathered place that had once been the town train depot. It still looked more or less like a depot outside, but the only trains that came by these days were slow-moving freights that, like the rest of the world, didn’t take time to stop in Tuna Creek.

  Jake steered her up a loading ramp and through a scarred door. A little bell attached to the door announced their arrival to a half dozen men and women of varying ages who were parked around a pot-bellied stove with their work boots crossed dangerously close to its hot sides. Vivian inhaled the sweet scents of feed, livestock gear, hardware, seeds, and hundreds of other items packed onto rows of shelves separated by narrow aisles. All the men stood politely as she approached. The women chorused hearty hellos and pulled another pair of rump-sprung lawn chairs into the circle. One reached into a cooler and handed her a cold can of beer dripping ice water.

  The men grinned at Jake and took turns clasping his hand. The women hugged him and then hugged Vivian. Jake introduced her and wasn’t surprised when she stuck her hand out to each man just as normally as he had. Young Ben Talbert shook it without obvious shock; Old Ben Talbert took a startled moment to wipe his hand on his overalls before he tried this unusual man-woman greeting.

  Emma Burley, a progressive businesswoman type, guffawed at the old man’s attitude and shook Vivian’s hand crisply. The blond and crew-cut Braxton brothers—Leon, Ed and Palmer—managed with shy smiles. Everyone studied her with open fascination.

  Like I’m a new breed of cow Jake bought, she thought wryly.

  Jake popped a beer for himself and held Vivian’s lawn chair while she sat down. Then he settled in the chair beside hers and sighed happily. This is where he belongs, this is where he feels at home, Vivian noted.

  Leon Braxton peered at her. “Jake’s aunt told us all about you bein’ a judge. I’ve never seen a judge as young as you. How do you scare anybody?”

  “Hey,” Jake warned.

  “No insult intended.”

  Vivian waved off the remark with a jovial hand. “City court’s pretty basic. The meat and potatoes of the justice system. Lots of misdemea
nors and petty crime. I was a public defender for several years before I was offered the position.”

  “Don’t let her looks fool you,” Jake put in. “Y’all should see her courtroom face. I’ve seen her go all Tony Soprano on folks. I call it her ‘mob boss eyes.’” He hesitated and glanced at Vivian. “No insult to your people.”

  “None taken.”

  Leon persisted, “Why, if we had a woman judge up here, I reckon we’d get away with just about anything.”

  Vivian shrugged, but Jake growled, “Who says a woman can’t be as tough and smart as a man?”

  The women hooted and nodded while the men shuffled their feet and suppressed smiles.

  “Don’t pay any attention to Jake,” Vivian said diplomatically. “He just happens to be the president of my fan club.”

  A small boy, bundled up in jeans and an army jacket, banged the door open and stepped inside. A big, shaggy, mixed-breed dog followed him, tail wagging.

  “Hey, Tobie,” Emma called. “How’d Hagrid do at the 4-H show? Did he win any ribbons on the obstacle course?”

  Tobie sighed as the big dog flopped down by his feet. “Nope. He knocked over two of the jumps and hiked his leg on the tunnel tube. Hey, Jake!”

  Jake spread an arm and the boy bounded inside it for a hug. Grinning, Jake introduced him to Vivian. Tobie tipped his child-sized tractor cap to her. “Aunt Vanny told my mama about you. You gonna marry Jake?”

  “Here’s ten dollars,” Jake interjected hurriedly, pulling a bill from his jean’s pocket. “How about you and Hagrid trot down to the Pick n’ Go and bring us back some tater chips? And get yourself a candy bar.”

  “Thanks, dude!” Tobie hit the door running, with Hagrid galloping on his heels. Jake’s face was as red as the red plaid in his shirt. Vivian decided to be magnanimous and change the subject.

  “I had a dog when I was growing up. I named him ‘Democrat.’”

  Silence. Everyone looked at the floor. The air prickled. Palmer Braxton snorted. “Poor little dog.”

  Old Ben Talbert announced, “Might as well name a dog, ‘Satan.’”

  “Or ‘Hitler,’” one of the women said.

  Vivian’s hackles rose, but she kept her voice light. “Or even worse: ‘Reagan.’”

  Eyes flashed. Smiles froze. Jake urgently made a time out T with his hands. But Emma laughed loudly, breaking the tension. “Y’all are all about to step in a big pile of politics.” She gave Vivian a look of gracious warning. “Leave their beehive alone . . . and you—” she jabbed a finger at the others,“—stick a sock in it.”

  The group sighed and shrugged.

  Emma smiled. “Don’t take their big talk too seriously. They may buzz at you for being a Democrat, but about half of them voted for Obama.”

  “Not me,” Leon Braxton said loudly. “He’s a Muslim socialist.”

  That produced groans and head shaking from half the group but hearty nods from the other half.

  Vivian chewed her lip. Keep quiet, zip it, don’t say another word.

  Leon added, “You watch. He’ll outlaw barbecue pork and take away our guns and make our kids read the Koran.” Leon pointed at her. “Because you crazy liberals voted him into office.”

  Vivian sputtered. Jake stood up, his jaw tight. “Come on, darlin’, let’s get outta here.” He slipped into a heavier accent and hometown grammar. “This bunch ain’t got nothing better to do than play poker this afternoon, and we’d prob’ly just fall asleep watchin’ the wild excitement of that.”

  “Poker?” Vivian said carefully. “If you wouldn’t mind a heathen liberal joining the game, I play poker a little.”

  Jake groaned silently as the group welcomed her behind thin-lipped smiles. They were poker sharks. They played penny-ante games but those pennies added up. They’d gleefully wipe Vivian out.

  “Viv, they’re pretty serious hands . . .”

  His voice faded as she turned her face up to him and gave him a reassuring wink.

  Yep. Mob boss eyes.

  A FEW HOURS LATER, Vivian slid into Jake’s truck with a satisfied smile. He settled into the driver’s seat, his expression restrained, and started the motor.

  “Are you mad at me for punking them?” she asked suddenly, studying his hard-set mouth.

  He shook his head. “Sssh. They’re watchin’ out the windows. I’m trying to be neutral, at least as long as we’re on public display.”

  He drove out of the feedstore’s lot. Then he whipped the truck around a corner and pulled into an alley. Vivian gazed at him worriedly as he gripped the steering wheel hard and rested his forehead on it. He began laughing.

  He laughed so hard he wasn’t even producing a sound. He pounded the steering wheel with one fist. Finally, a deep roar broke free.

  “I swear . . . every time you won another hand their mouths fell open a little wider. By the end, they looked like stunned trout.”

  “My grandma taught me to play poker when I was seven years old. She was deadly. No mercy. She’d even take money off priests and nuns.”

  They were both laughing so hard now that the truck felt like it was rocking. Vivian leaned on Jake’s shoulder and stomped the floor with one foot.

  HER GLOW OF victory was short-lived. Shivering in the evening cold, she stared at Aunt Vanessa’s brown-and-white milk cow, and knew she’d met her match.

  Claire the cow looked huge and sinister in the shadowy light of the bare bulb that swung over the milking stall.

  “All right, darlin’, come have a seat,” Jake directed.

  “Are you sure she won’t kick at me again?” Vivian sat down gingerly—practically under Claire’s shifting back feet. Jake put his hand over Vivian’s and guided her fingers gently into place on one of the cow’s teats. Claire snorted.

  So did Vivian. “Ugh. It’s like grabbing a limp hot dog.”

  “Ssssh. You gotta pull just right.”

  “You do it, and I’ll just watch. I like to watch.”

  “Viv, don’t wrap your fingers around it so hard. No wonder nothin’s happenin’! Stroke it, just stroke it.” He chuckled. “You’re gonna have to buy that teat a drink if you scare it any worse . . .”

  “Listen, dude, I know how to stroke a . . . nevermind.”

  “Let me stroke it for you, Jake,” a drawling female voice said from the barn hall. Vivian and Jake looked up quickly. Claire kicked over the milking stool, and Vivian bounced onto the sawdust-covered floor.

  “Marleen!” Jake exclaimed. He pulled Vivian up with one hand then clasped the other one on the shoulder of a tall, robust blonde who wore her extra pounds in all the right places. Vivian brushed herself off, watching the proprietary way Marleen eyed Jake.

  Marleen’s big, hot body was outlined by skin-tight jeans and a striped sweater under a man’s hunting jacket. Her hair hung halfway down her back in a thick mane.

  “You must be Vivian Costa,” Marleen said.

  “The one and only.”

  Jake cleared his throat. “Viv, this is Marleen Burcher. Marleen, meet Viv.”

  Marleen smiled at him. “I just dropped by to say hi. I left Donny in October, you know. The kids and I have moved in with Mom and Memaw temporarily. I’m back in college. Should finish up my nursing degree in a year or so.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  Marleen gazed down at Vivian. “I’ve known Jake all of his life. We dated in high school. You should see my picture of him in a tux at the senior prom. Hot stuff.”

  Vivian drew herself up to at least five-foot-five. “I’ve known Jake all of four weeks. But I feel like we’ve spent years together with this cow.”

  Marleen smirked.

  “Marleen, why don’t you show Vivian how to milk?” Jake said gallantly. “She’s a little leery of Claire.” Vivian
shot him an amazed look. He had no comprehension of this competitive female situation.

  “Nothin’ to it,” Marleen said coolly. She plopped down on the milk stool, slapped Claire’s rump to let her know who was boss, and immediately coaxed long streams of frothy white milk into the bucket. Vivian squatted on her heels to watch, praying that Claire would kick the highlights out of Marleen’s blonde ’do. But Claire contentedly munched the sweet feed in her trough. Traitorous bovine angel.

  Tiger, Aunt Vanessa’s gray tabby, crawled into Vivian’s arms and meowed.

  “Wanta see a neat trick?” Marleen asked suddenly. “You’ll like this, Vivian. Here you go, Tiger.”

  She aimed a stream of milk at Tiger, and he expertly caught it in his mouth. He slurped and swallowed while Vivian held him delicately away from herself. She was staring at the cat when the thick jet of milk moved. It trailed over the left side of Vivian’s hair and hit her squarely between the eyes.

  “Whoops! Ohmygawd. Vivian, I’m so sorry.”

  Vivian dropped the cat and dashed milk off her eyelashes. “The milk facials at this spa could use some re-thinking.”

  Jake knelt down beside Vivian and tried to help, but one of his hurrying fingers poked her in the eye.

  Marleen stood up. “Well, Jake, I’ll be runnin’ along. Don’t see me out. I can tell you’ve got your hands full. You always did have a soft spot for helpless women.”

  With that parting shot, she stomped off. Jake frowned while Vivian muttered obscenities in Italian and wiped her face on her sleeve. “Marleen’s not the spiteful type,” he murmured. “We broke up after graduation and she married Donny. We’ve had no history since. I don’t understand what just happened here.”

  “The only females you understand have horns and an udder.” Vivian stopped cleaning her face long enough to stand up. He stood, too, and she glowered at him. “She left Donny. She’s on the make again. I’m crowding her action.”

  “Okay, but why get mad at me? I’m not encouraging her.”

  “I just got served, Coltrane. Capiche? That was a womanly throwdown and I lost. I’m not a farm girl, okay? I can’t milk or do anything else farmy. And I’m seriously buffaloed by this freakin’ cow. I admit it.”