Late in the morning on the third of July, my friends arrive at the ranch in the in pairs, then three at a time, for a few days of holiday celebration. I intend to show off my big spread, and, of course, Lucille. A stock pond sits behind its earthen dike, surrounded by walnut trees, brimming with bass and catfish. A gleaming new fence-line rings a newly acquired sixty acres. And presiding over it all is a small house, furnished with things like teak coffee tables and decorated to the nines, with twenty-dollar-per-square-foot maple floors – the jewel at the center of an engagement ring waiting to be presented.
Mine is a life that, after thirty-five years, has come to fruition. Or so I would like it to appear even from the most intimate proximity. I have a house in a ritzy Houston neighborhood, and this ranch. A Jaguar XK8 gets me between the two, and a thriving career pays for it all. Despite all the accoutrements, at this point in my life, I do not yet have much of a story to tell. That is about to change.
By eleven, Greg and Earl, two friends from college, are seated on the back porch overlooking a hardwood grove. We’re drinking bourbon on the rocks, talking, and watching the sun’s ascent. Eventually Lucille joins us, and the conversation becomes rollickingly convivial, and before long I am sitting here thinking that this is too good to be true. All of the elements in life that I love are assembled in this one moment, and I am blessed with the measured, amiable progression of time in which to enjoy it all.
By noon, Laura and her husband Randy arrive. I fire up the grill, turn up the stereo, open the windows, and the celebration is in full swing. We fish along the banks of the pond, and cruise through the woods on four-wheelers, drinks in hand. That night, everyone goes to bed face down and incredibly drunk, and in the morning the house is roused by the sound of Laura churning out Bloody Marys by the quart in the blender. By the second afternoon, the Fourth of July, the party seems to be buckling under the weight of Bacchanalian excess, borne of copious quantities of sour mash. The fishing rods lie abandoned by the pond, the four-wheelers are randomly nosed up to the house. I take some time myself to put down the glass and escape to the cool interior of my bedroom.
The sleep is brief and restless, burdened as I am with the obligations of being host to this circus. I get up in short order and wander out to the back yard, where I find everyone lounging on the lawn furniture, lying on the grass, or sitting up, eyes drawn to the same incredible scene. Laura stands with her back to Lucille, summer dress hiked up around her waist, the blonde panty lines exposed to the hypodermic needle and plunger poised against Lucille’s thumb.
“Lucille’s giving me something for my hangover,” Laura casually explains, winking and then wincing as Lucille stabs her buttocks and depresses the plunger.
Lucille’s eyes are momentarily wide with concentration. As she withdraws the syringe, she says to Laura in a very motherly tone, “Now lie down and relax.” Laura wanders off to a bedroom, following Lucille’s instructions like a good little girl. Once she’s gone, Lucille turns to her entranced audience and asks, “Anyone else not feeling up to snuff?”
In a heartbeat, everyone lines up, unbuckling belts and exposing the crests of their buttocks to receive their inoculations. When they’re through, they all follow Lucille’s orders and retire. Soon, the house is full of my resting friends.
“So what was in the shot?” I ask once we’re alone.
“A cocktail,” Lucille says, as though such an injection were common as a gin and tonic.
“A cocktail of what?”
Bringing her arms around my neck, she says, “Something safe and legal.”
“Needles make me nervous.”
She gently bites her lip. “I should have asked you first.”
I shrug a little anxiously.
“Remember: safe and legal,” she adds.
“Safe and legal are good.”
“Please don’t worry.”
“What can I say? I’m a worrier.”
And that is that. Lucille says she needs to follow her own advice, and off she goes.
In the meantime I wander from room to room, surreptitiously making sure everyone is doing all right. An hour or so later Lucille’s patients emerge, one at a time, looking remarkably refreshed. Laura appears first. She stands before me on the lawn, blinking as if in disbelief at the clarity of her own senses, and says, “Oh my god… I feel… incredible…”
“Bet you’ve never been to a party like this before,” I say with a measure of relief.
She turns her gaze to the window and smiles secretly.
“You provide the hangover,” she says, “Lucille, the cure.”
When Randy, Greg, and Earl finally emerge, the verdict is the same. Lucille is Dr. Fix-it. This seems to have a decisive effect on Laura’s thinking. As I head for the bar to refresh her drink, she says to me, “Lucille is so sweet, Sterling. Definitely a keeper.”
There’s sincerity, even earnestness, in the remark. And a realization begins to dawn on me. I need to lighten up, perhaps embrace this vaguely illicit element Lucille has brought into my life, and allow excessive orderliness to give way to this precisely calibrated mode of fun, where any potential for mishap is held at bay by laminated medical credentials. Grown-up antics among responsible adults; a professionally guided tour through a funhouse. If only I knew then what I know now.
Once the sun is down, I set up a fireworks display. The partying recommences as the thick fuses are lit and the rockets furiously rush into the night sky. Lucille silently approaches from behind and takes my hand in hers. I squeeze her palm and the pressure is returned. She pulls me gently, turning me to face her.
“And how are you, my dear?” I say as the twin reflections of firework patterns blossom and float over the glossy lenses of her eyes.
“Never better…” And then she kisses me in such a way that makes me believe her implicitly.