The Brass Statuettes Ch. 01

Author's note: "The Brass Statuettes" is a sequel to a short story that I wrote some time ago, "The Saga of Trudy and Frank". You can read and enjoy this story without having read the forerunner. If you do you'll understand this one much better.

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Prologue

man reaches out, grasping the final, sharp-cornered stone with bleeding hands and fingers. Exhausted, urging forth his last reserve of strength, willing himself up and over the final obstacle, he pulls his weary legs under him, thrusts up the aching body, pressing skyward. A hot, dry wind stings across his face—he does not care. He surveys what he has conquered: the view of the ground below, the spent bodies of competitors, impaled on lower tiers along the way, and those few sharing the view with him. He has struggled to the top of the pyramid, realizing his dreams and promise.

He is exhilarated, yet a little bit self-conscious. As he can see all from his lofty perch, so too, can he be observed. He straightens himself, adjusting his appearance in every way, for whatever is seen says something of him. All must know why he has risen so high and why they should wish to be like him. That applies to his possessions. House, car, clothing, golf clubs, and desk spell out the details of his tastes, his standards, his desires.

His wife is his most important possession. He is the Alpha Male; they are the Alpha Pair. She must be beautiful, young and nubile. Of course, she will be intelligent and cultured. Above all, she is discreet, if not loyal. She runs in the pack with the other wives, blending in and at the same time standing out in accordance with the status of her mate. She is decorator and decoration. It is her duty to do what she must to defy time, age and over-indulgence. In return, she is granted security, luxury and a curious power.

There are such women nearby every boardroom and headquarters. They seek out, and are sought. Adorned with diplomas in Art History and French Literature; denizens of spas, salons and private gyms; they are perfect hostesses and skillful guests. They share their men's beds and secrets. They share their fortunes, too—and are well-versed in the proper use of money for pleasure and power. They are the Trophy Wives—Brass Statuettes on a walnut base.

pter 1—Watering the Garden

Juana Hernandez stood in the hallway, not far from the French doors that opened to the veranda. Although the summer afternoon was a hot one, she wore her grey, cotton maid's shift with the black trim and white buttons. She was a professional—never lowering her standards for anyone or any reason. The hot, Texas afternoon sun was reality, and her maid's attire was part of her standards. The Señora of the house was on the veranda with her friends. From her position in the hallway Juana was able to hear her mistress' summons without eavesdropping.

She looked out a spotless pane. Her husband, José, worked in the garden. She wondered if the hot sun was too much for him. He bent to his work in the garden under his wide-brimmed straw hat. He kept his pace constant, neither allowing the heat to dog him, nor hurrying to complete his work more quickly to avoid exposure. His copper skin was cracked and leathered from decades of afternoons toiling in the Texas sun. Juana and José had served the house for nearly thirty years. They lived in a small cottage on the edge of the grounds. To some, it may have seemed like a humble existence. To them it was their place in the world, sus puestos.

The house had changed hands a number of times in the three decades of their service. The new owners always chose to ask Juana and José to stay on after the change of title. It was a large house with spacious rolling grounds in the Texas style. Each family taking up residence in the palace was a little different—but the same in the important ways. They were always members of the corporate aristocracy—in chemicals or oil, or perhaps banking. Juana and José served the house, not the owners. Their obedience to them was just a part of their duties to the house.

Juana chose not to get to know the residents too well. They were, after all, just one in a line of succession. When they left there would be a new family and the house would still remain. By not knowing them she could avoid both judging and forgiving them. Wealth was always accompanied by more vice than virtue. It was a discipline instilled in her long ago. The younger maids, who came in from the city part time to assist her, didn't quite understand the rule. They gossiped and giggled in their group until Juana heard them. She chastised them in Spanish, so that the mistress could not understand, and the young girls would go back to their cleaning and polishing.

"Juana! Bring some more iced tea." She heard her mistress' command, louder than was necessary. That had to mean that the hot, afternoon sun, coupled with the iced tea laced with vodka, were having the predictable effects on her mistress and her friends.

"Si, Señora Warner," she yelled back with a sigh, rolling her eyes. Juana knew immediately that she had erred in allowing the inflection in her voice to betray her attitude.

"Bring more mint leaves, too," she heard the Señora call after her as she turned for the kitchen. "And be quick about it."

She already had a fresh pitcher of iced tea ready in the refrigerator, and fresh mint leaves in a jar. She also thought to bring more ice and a set of clean glasses, though not specifically asked to do so. She was a professional, after all.

Juana returned with her trayful of supplies. "I wose teenking dat chu would be niding more ice, too, Señora," Juana declared in her Mexican accent as she stepped onto the veranda. "And, 'eer are some clin glasses."

"Fine, Juana," her mistress acknowledged. "Just set it all over there on the bar."

"Weel dee Señora take a nap before dee dee-nair?" the servant inquired.

"No!" the mistress snapped back. "That will be all, Juana. You can leave us now."

Juana shuffled away. She nearly shook her head in sadness, but held back. It would have been, after all, an act of judgment to do so, and that would have presumed closeness that she was determined to avoid.

"¡Es borracha, otra vez!" she said silently. "¡Ah, Señor Alvin; el povrecito!"

She returned to her windows, out of sight of the women seated around the circular table on the veranda.

"That maid of yours has some kind of attitude, Gloria," Juana heard one of them say.

"She acts likes she's the queen of the house," another added.

"I know, I know," Gloria sighed. "If it were up to me I'd have fired them both long ago. But, Alvin likes them; what can I do?"

"Don't let her get under your skin, Gloria."

"That's good advice, Brenda. Now, be a dear and pour me a glassful of that special iced tea."

"Sure thing, Gloria. Anyone else?" Brenda asked as she rose from the table. The two other women held up their own empty glasses, shaking them.

Brenda dropped the ice and mint leaves into the bottom of the clean set of glasses. She poured in the vodka and tea and set the full glasses on the tray that Juana left and placed it in the middle of the large table. Each woman took a glass and eased back into their chairs.

"You did that without spilling a drop, Brenda," Ashley joked. "You must've fallen behind us in your drinking."

"Practice and training," Brenda replied. "I can be totally soused and carry a tray of food or drinks anywhere. It's a skill that often comes in handy."

"It was a lovely dinna' pahty Friday night, Gloria." Darlene, the most youthful of the quartet said in her Georgia accent. She hadn't quite been able to lose it, regardless how hard she tried. "It was all so perfect."

"Careful—accent," Gloria admonished the young woman.

"Oh, you're so right, Gloria. I do need to shed this way of talkin'. Sometimes I slip when I've had a drink or two. But the fact remains; I did so enjoy the party."

"When you've had a few drinks is when you need to remember it most," Gloria said. "I know it's hard. It was hard for me when I moved here from Dallas."

"It was your first, wasn't it?" Ashley said, already knowing the answer.

"Well, Ah just loved it!" Darlene replied. "All the beautiful gowns, the lights, the music; it was all so grand!" she gushed.

"And all of the important people," Brenda added.

"Ah suppose so," Darlene admitted with a slight pout.

"Don't be so glum about it," Ashley retorted. "Those old geezers are the contacts that make sure that our dear husbands keep on VP-ing in this grand company."

"And keep that cash rollin' in," Brenda agreed.

"So, who's the man with the pot belly and no hair?" Darlene inquired.

"Jim Sweeney," Brenda answered. "A retired oil company executive."

"Well, that Mr. Sweeney thinks that he has one foot in my bed and one hand in my panties," Ashley proclaimed. "He took liberties more than once while we were dancing."

"And I saw you there in the corner with him, letting him think exactly that," Brenda laughed.

"Well, you wouldn't, would you?" Darlene demanded; her eyes were wide.

"Probably not," Ashley answered in honesty, "but one never knows when one's talents can serve one's needs."

Darlene gasped.

"It's part of your wifely duty, dear," Brenda admonished. "A little secret favor— someday, it might be that final push that puts your husband over the top."

"And you, right along with him," Ashley added.

Come now, Brenda," Gloria scolded. "Don't get Darlene all upset. That kind of thing isn't usually necessary. You just have to make a guy like Sweeney think he has a chance to bed you. That's usually enough."

"And that you would just love him to, if only..." Ashley added with a fake romantic swoon.

"And let your husband think it was his leadership and analysis that got him the job," Brenda put her last two cents in the pot and all the women shared the laugh.

Darlene leaned back in her chair, appearing unsure.

"Look, Darlene," Gloria went on, "it's part of the executive game. You don't have a choice whether you want to play. Just being here makes you a player."

"But, why can't..."

"Because that's the way it is," Gloria interrupted. "Sex and power just go together—like wine and cheese." The older woman peered over the top of her sunglasses to make sure her pupil was listening. "Don't look so sad," she went on, wearing a wry smile. "Sex is fun, after all. No one said that we can't enjoy our work." The last remark brought another round of tittering, except from Darlene who was adapting to her new code.

"If you say so, Gloria," Darlene mumbled into her drink.

"I do say so," Gloria replied sternly. "Do what you have to do. Don't do anything for free and be sure to keep your secrets secret."

"Not secret from us, of course," Brenda quipped. They all laughed again. Even Darlene finally joined in. The sun was merciless and Brenda made the fresh drinks strong. They would have laughed at anything.

"By the way, Darlene," Gloria said, "your gown the other night was lovely. It so suited your petite figure"

"Oh, thank you Gloria," Darlene answered with a self-conscious blush. "Your gown was..."

"Just make a few improvements next time," Gloria cut off the young novice. "The rule of two's," she explained. "Double the cleavage; spend twice the money on the gown; divide the extra fabric around your derriere by two. It will pay off double, believe me."

"I had on a little thong under mine the other night," Ashley declared. "Why bother going to the gym if you can't flaunt it once in a while?"

"It was just me underneath," Brenda confided. "Panty lines would have ruined it."

"Oh, mah goodness!" Darlene exclaimed. She covered her face in embarrassment, giggling and blushing at the naughtiness of it.

Ashley took a big swallow of her drink. "You had your set on display as usual, Gloria; that's for sure."

"It wasn't by accident, dear," Gloria acknowledged. "Alvin's the CEO; I'm his wife. It's up to me to sport the best tits in the place!"

"That," Brenda snorted, "you so ably did." She set down her empty glass.

"Pierre knows what I like and just how to do it," the mistress of the court explained. "That's where the 'spend twice as much' rule comes in. Trim a little fabric here and there, some underwires, the right color and some sequins. Pierre knows just how to do it."

"Voila, as Pierre would say," Brenda breathed out with a tiny slur.

"I noticed that none of the men looked me in the eye when they were talking to me," Gloria asserted with a chuckle, "except for Frank Bennett—he's so straight-laced."

"They may not have looked you in the eye, but they won't forget you," Brenda slurred, slumping down in her chair and pulling the brim of her hat over her eyes.

"I would have never guessed underwires," Ashley admitted.

"They make them out of plastic now, so they can move with you, instead of you with them. They're really pretty good—a modern technology breakthrough," Gloria informed the others as Ashley poured more elixir into the empty glasses. "I think that our husbands' company actually makes the plastic—or has something to do with it."

"To plastic!" Ashley hoisted her glass in a mock toast, spilling a little. The others followed suit, laughing in their derision.

"Speakin' of husbins," Darlene asked, "shouldn't ours be headin' home right about now? Aren't we afraid they'll see us in this slightly tipsy condition?"

"Mine's gone to New York with Frank Bennett," Gloria replied. "Don't worry about him."

"New York?" one of the women queried.

"Something to do with bankers and Wall Street. They left this morning. Then, Alvin's going on to Europe and Frank's coming back day after tomorrow."

"Speakin' of Frank Bennett, what did y'all think of Trudy's gown the other night," Darlene asked.

"Certainly no underwires in that!" Ashley put in.

"Didn't need any," Brenda said, still slumping in her chair. "She never does; there's nothing to hold up."

"Poor Frank," Ashley mocked. "Do you think he knows how deprived he is? Does he ever wonder what a real handful feels like?"

"I don't think he does," Brenda answered for the others.

"Maybe one of these days, I'll let him sample a handful of mine," Ashley mused. "And while he's doin't that I'll get my hands around somethin' that belongs to him."

"Keep dreamin', girl," Brenda warned.

"Well, he just makes me think that he'd be a real handful in the sack," Ashley continued, "and I could be just the one to put him through his paces."

"It was disgusting!" Gloria declared. "Did you see how all the men's eyes just followed Trudy around the whole time? That includes our own dear husbands, mind you."

"Maybe they were in a fog and thought Trudy was a lighthouse," Brenda quipped.

"They just couldn't believe how homely she is," Ashley said.

"Imagine—wearin' royal blue in the summer," Darlene sneered.

"It's not that," Gloria corrected her pupils. "The men don't care for any of that. They watch her because they like her. They'd like us to be just like her, too—all smiley and nice. They like her because she's not one of us. She talks to them like they're just regular people and she doesn't join in with us wives. She's what we were like before we got these higher responsibilities."

"Well, she did look gorgeous in that simple gown, being so tall and slender," Ashley said.

"No, it's 'cause they like her!" Gloria insisted, raising her voice. "And, they don't like us. They need us—but they don't like us. Trudy's got them wrapped around her bony little finger, and we just can't have it any more."

"You tell 'em, Gloria," Brenda intoned, her eyes half-closed.

"If the men are gonna' like Trudy, she's got to be made to be just like us!" Gloria commanded. "I won't play second fiddle to that flat-chested, homely giraffe!"

"How are we supposed to accomplish that?" Ashley asked.

"That's the part I haven't got yet," Gloria admitted. "But, if we don't figure it out soon, our men will be having us be just like her, and none of us can do that."

"Imagine ending up in divorce court for having big tits," Brenda mumbled from beneath her pulled-down hat brim.

"It's happened for less," Ashley warned. "I guess it depends on you pre-nup."

"What kind of silly name is 'Trudy', anyway," Darlene asked, but no one heard, or no one bothered to answer.

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As Darlene and Ashley rose to take their leave Gloria and Brenda cast each other quick glances. "Be careful driving, girls" Gloria called to the women over her shoulder. "The sun is so hot," Gloria turned to Brenda, "It makes the vodka seem stronger than it really is. I wish they would use their drivers." Juana cast a furtive glance at the women as they tried to steady their feet under themselves before staggering out and getting behind the steering wheels of their cars.

"They're afraid the drivers will tell their husbands," Brenda countered. "Besides, the drivers are on call at the office."

Gloria shrugged. "Enough of that; let's finish our drinks by the pool."

It was late in the afternoon; José and his helpers had finished for the day. The pool was to the side of the veranda, about thirty feet away. Along side was an out-building that served as a changing room and mini gym. As the two women stood up, the effects of the alcohol hit them as it had their friends and they stumbled a bit descending the few steps of the veranda.

"Did you bring your suit?" Gloria asked.

"I always do," Brenda replied. "I put it on under my skirt and blouse. I'm always ready to go in the pool when I'm at your house."

Brenda set her drink on a small table next to a chaise lounge, and her necklace and sunglasses alongside her drink. She quickly stripped off the tee-shirt she was wearing to reveal a bikini top. Two combs held back her honey-colored hair in place, but she removed her dangling earrings.

Her bikini top was bright red, which highlighted her fair-skinned breasts spilling out over the top. She was very proud of them. They weren't as big as Gloria's, of course, but they were plenty big and stood up by themselves on her broad-shouldered frame. They were all hers—nothing added. She enjoyed the way they were looked at when she had them out on display.

Women gazed at them in envy; men in longing. If she liked a man, or if she wished him to want her, she would treat him. First, profiles; then, a strategic bend at the waist face- on to the target always did the trick. She'd casually look away to allow the man to get a proper eyeful while staying discreet. She pretended not to realize that her nipples were stiff and pressed through the fabric. The excitement of it all made the little buttons send out their message, without the necessity of touching them. She allowed Gloria the pleasure of claiming to have 'the best tits in the place'. Brenda knew better and for the time being, it was enough.

Of course, there were men who helped themselves without permission. They were men whom Brenda disliked, or who hadn't the standing to over-presume—usually plant managers, or staff people visiting from the field. She knew how to handle them. There would be the enticing display. Gradually, a man would loose himself, allowing his eyes to linger a few seconds too long, or venture too close. Sometimes he would manifest his interest in an involuntary, physical way—a very unfortunate mistake at one of Gloria's pool parties. Brenda would allow more and more. All at once she would snap her head around, catching the interloper in mid-gaze. She would stare at him for a few long seconds; then she'd throw her head back and laugh, erasing the man's dignity and hopes all at once.

"I'm fixin' to finish this drink before I go in for a swim," Gloria said as she sank into a chaise and watched Brenda finish undressing. "You go right ahead."