by Chuck Crabbe
After he had put his work clothes on his grandfather walked into the vineyard with him. He showed him the cellars and the show room and introduced him to Edward, the winemaker, a short man with a bald head and square glasses who seemed to be very involved in whatever it was he was doing in his lab. Ezra walked out among the grapes behind the old man, between the rows of vines that went on and on, and finally ended at a wooded area off in the distance. Harold Mignon was still very healthy and blessed with a fortitude that many unconscious and insensitive people are. His gait was strong and purposeful. Ezra stared at his back as the smell of his grandfather's Brylcreem drifted back at him. Patterns of sweat showed through his t-shirt and Ezra looked them over and smiled at how tightly the shirt was tucked into the back of his pants.
On their way they came across three or four of the vineyard workers and Harold stopped and unceremoniously introduced him to them as his grandson. They smiled warmly and broadly at Ezra and shook his hand. During summer, he explained as they walked, he took on a smaller group of about twenty-five workers, to help with trimming, weeding, and spraying if it were necessary. At vintage, in October, many more would be there. In a few places the old man stopped, examined a vine that apparently troubled him, and pulled off a few shoots. "Do you see this, Ezra? If we let the canopy grow too much, it won't let the sun get at the grapes. It takes away nourishment."
Ezra nodded compliantly. "I used to help Elsie with trimming."
"So you already know something about making good wine," said Harold.
"A little, I suppose. Elsie, Sarah, and Olyvia used to talk about it a lot. The way things were when they were growing up here."
"Is that right?" Harold asked, still only mildly interested. "And what did they have to say?"
"Mostly, it was about all the stuff they'd learned," Ezra lied. "Sometimes they talked about the Mexicans and how everyone was friends and ate and danced together."
"Well, we had a lot of good times back then, I suppose."
"Do you still eat together?" Ezra asked. He was already pretty sure about the dancing.
"No, that was when your grandmother was still alive. She used to take care of all of that."
"Oh," Ezra said, thinking it best to drop the topic. He found it odd that his grandfather could talk about the past like that and never mention his mother. The thought brought a bit of anger that settled in his chest. After they reached the trees, Harold turned around and looked down the row of vines they had just walked along. "This all needs to be trimmed," he said, pointing down the endless corridor of plants.
Ezra's eyes opened wide behind him. "Okay," he said, but was doubtful that the row would ever be finished.
The old man handed him a pair of pruning shears and started to walk away.
Ezra did not begin right away and looked doubtfully at the work ahead of him. He was tired and did not feel like doing it. "Say," Harold said, turning, "are you wearing a watch?"
"No, why?"
"You can finish up around five. Yamilla will be making dinner down at the house."
"Oh."
Harold Mignon stood still for a minute, thinking to himself. Then he walked back toward Ezra. "Here, you can keep mine with you," he said, and undid the silver clasp at the back of his watch.
"It's okay, Grandpa. I can just come and check."
"No need for that," he said putting it in the boy's hand. "Just keep it in your pocket so it doesn't get dirty."
At five o'clock he was barely half done with the row. His back and knees hurt and his pants were dirty. There were hundreds of rows, and acres and acres of vines. "This is bullshit," he said to himself. It wasn't possible that this was done, manually, for the entire crop. In the distance he saw the heads of several of the migrant workers. They popped up for few seconds among the vines, performed tasks he could not quite make out, and then disappeared again into the sea of plants. He checked the watch for the tenth time that hour: exactly eleven seconds past five. Wiping his face clean on his t-shirt, he set off toward the house. He felt the eyes of the workers on him as he walked. It felt like a strange attention, but it was not unwelcome. The sun was low in the sky, and when he reached the end he looked back down the row on which he'd been working. The part of it he had completed looked cleaner, groomed, set apart by his labor. Ezra looked at his work with a sense of satisfaction that he had not felt while doing it. "I did that," he said, surprised at the pleasure he derived from it. Then he walked into the house for dinner. Behind him, among the fine and twisted bodies of the fruitful vines, and the falling sun, the Mexicans continued their work.
He had imagined that everyone else was wrong. Of course he had heard his aunts talk of their father as unknowable, distant, and cruel. He had listened to hushed conversations about being smacked down flights of stairs, beat back into closets, and intimidated into prolonged silences.
But surely they must have lacked sensitivity to the situation, to the nuances and necessary points of pressure and happiness in the old man's personality, things that he, with open eyes, would not miss. Yet, Harold Mignon was cold to him; he did ignore and dismiss him. At dinner, with the exception of a few grunts that served as answers to the questions he was asked, and flat inquiries about school, he barely spoke to Ezra. His grandfather ate heartily and with a clear conscience, drank a single glass of wine and two glasses of water, and then unceremoniously excused himself from the table before Ezra was done eating.
After he was finished he walked into the dimly lit living room. His grandfather sat in one of the armchairs reading the Globe and Mail. A cup of steaming tea sat on the table beside him. Ezra liked tea, but none had been offered to him. The old man eyed him over the top of the paper, adjusted it, and then continued reading. Ezra walked over to the pictures he had been studying earlier. He wanted to hear his grandfather say his mother's name. "How old are these, Grandpa?" he asked, looking at them closer. Harold continued reading for a moment. Ezra looked over his shoulder for an answer.
"Older than you," he said without looking up. Ezra looked back at the pictures then began to make his way around the room to the other artifacts. "You got all that work done, did you?" the old man asked in such a way as to make it plain that he did not appreciate the boy's hovering.
"About half the row."
The old man looked up over his paper again. "Well, that won't do, will it?" Ezra stared at him dumbly. "The Mexicans finish four or five rows a day." He did not know what he was supposed to say. The old man went back to the Globe. Ezra stood there uneasily for a moment.
"You remember where your room is, Ezra?"
"Yeah," Ezra said awkwardly, "I think I'm going to go to bed early."
"That's probably best."
He was unsure whether he should disturb him again by saying goodnight. He did not, and only looked longingly at the black TV screen as he quietly left the room. It was the only one in the house, and turning it on was out of the question.
It was too early to go to bed, but he settled into his room anyway. As he was undressing he heard the phone ring downstairs. It rang four, five, six times, but no one answered it. Again the shrill rattle repeated itself, as if a contest of wills had broken out between one that was determined to be heard and those who would not acknowledge the voice. Ezra was sure his grandfather was still sitting in his chair reading the paper. It might be Elsie calling to check up on him. Why didn't he answer?
The next two days were much the same. He worked in the vineyard from early in the morning until five o'clock. The only difference was that he brought his Walkman with him so he would not be so lonely. He put it in his pocket when he left the house, so his grandfather would not see it. Out in the fields he listened to his tapes. He listened to Pearl Jam and Soundgarden and Alice in Chains. This made the day go by faster and seemed to help him keep his anxieties at bay. Part way through the second day his batteries died so, at lunch, before the old man came in, Ezra stole the ones from the television remote control.
On the third nig
ht he lay, feeling foreign and isolated, on his bed. He stared at the slanted roof above his head. It had been very hot during the day and he was on top of his blankets in just his underwear. In some ways, he felt like being away from home gave him less control over things. Restless, he got up to open the window. The latch was stuck, but he used his pocketknife and managed to pry it open. He pushed the window up and the fresh air felt good on his bare skin. Sticking his head out he looked around and saw a fire burning through one of the windows of the worker's quarters. He paused and listened closely to the barely audible sound of a guitar. Two men stood outside of the open front door, talking. The tips of their cigarettes darted back and forth as they moved their hands. He looked over at the dark outline of the tree, the one from the old photograph of his aunts and mother on their swings. Tomorrow night, he decided, he would go to listen to Ruiz play his Spanish guitar.
"Tonight you will come and be part of our company," Ruiz said when Ezra spoke to him the next day in the vineyard.
"The others won't mind?" Ezra asked.
Ruiz smacked Ezra with the back of his hand. "They are all very curious about you."
"About me? Why?"
"Many of us have worked for Mr. Mignon for a long, long time. But I am the only one who had ever met anyone from his family, and I have only met his daughter Sarah. We all think he must be very sad."
"Oh."
"So they all wonder about you, my friend. Perhaps tomorrow you will even be able to take a woman, eh?"
Ezra smiled back at Ruiz.
"But not Maria. She is a diseased whore."
"I don't think I even know who she is."
"That is best," Ruiz said thoughtfully. "Ezra, tell me now, do you know what all great guitarists know about guitars?"
"No, what?"
"That they are really women. A guitar, but especially a Spanish guitar, is really a woman, and a man must learn to play it as he must learn to hold and touch a woman."
"Is that so?"
"Indeed, it is."
"So which does he learn to play first?"
"If he is to be a good guitarist, he must learn to play the instrument first."
Ezra nodded. "What time should I head over?"
"It doesn't matter. We stay up very late."
The walls of the living quarters were very thin. As Ezra approached, just after dark, the walls glowed with the light of the lanterns and the fire inside. Music and loud voices pressed outward into the silent vineyard. He looked back at the house through the few large trees in the yard. A few lights were still on but they were not welcoming. His grandfather must still be reading the newspaper. Not sure if he should knock or not, he paused for a moment outside the door.
The knives flew end over end, and then stuck firmly into the dartboard, their handles still shaking on contact, and the two young men who had thrown them rushed to see who had come closest to the center. One measured the distance with his index finger. It was close, and a playful shoving match began, until, seeing that Ezra had come inside, they stopped and quickly pulled the blades out. The sound of warm music and the smell of fire and drink filled the large, open space. Several sets of bunk beds, some with colorful blankets, and some with what must have been the standard set, lined three of the four walls. At the foot of each was a trunk where the workers could keep their possessions. A simple fireplace and chimney stood against the far wall and the entire center of the room was filled with scattered fold out chairs and long, collapsible tables. Ezra saw Ruiz sitting in the corner with a red guitar in his lap, beside a younger man with a guitar that looked slightly different. Another one sat beside them, tapping on a pair of drums with open hands, and laughing. The people around them listened without looking and sat in small groups drinking and smoking. On one side of the room a group of men had cleared some space and they were passing a soccer ball back and forth and trying to keep it in the air. There was only one child, a boy of maybe eleven, who had found a big exercise ball somewhere and was performing a feat of balance that Ezra could hardly believe was not the center of everyone's attention. The boy was standing on the ball with both feet, teetering back and forth a bit, with his hands up in the air. A big muscular man sat, thoughtful and disinterested, on a stool just across from him. No one else seemed to notice.
Ezra felt them all staring at him as he made his way to Ruiz. When Ruiz saw his guest he smiled broadly, revealing his missing teeth. He put his guitar down, walked over quickly, and put his arm around his new friend. The other musicians seamlessly picked up the slack.
"Ha! So you came after all," Ruiz said above the music and gave Ezra a squeeze.
"Yeah," Ezra smiled back at him, "I said I was going to come, right?"
"Of course! Of course!" Ruiz said. "I will get you a drink."
"Ruiz," Ezra said from behind him, "why is everyone staring at me like that?"
"They probably think you are an espia."
"An espia?"
"Yes. What is your word for it?" He shifted his eyes to the ceiling as if looking for the answer there. "Ah, a spy! They probably think you are a spy for your grandfather. Here, perhaps, to see if we drink too much..."
"Really?"
"Never mind. Have some drinks, many drinks, and listen to the music, and they will see that you are a good man." It was the first time anyone had ever called him that.
"Ruiz," he said, motioning to the boy standing on the ball, "who is that kid and how is he doing that?"
"That is my son, Pablo. He is always playing around on that. He wants to be a circus artist perhaps..."
"Your son?"
"Yes. This is the first year he has been here with me. He usually stays in Chiapas with his mother."
"Chiapas?"
"That is the part of Mexico that we are from."
"So this is where you all stay?" Ezra took a sip from his wine. It was in a red plastic cup.
"Yes, my bunk and my son's bunk are over there," he pointed to a pair of beds near the men throwing knives.
"Isn't it sort of crowded?"
"No. Your grandfather is very good to us. We are much luckier than most of our brothers and sisters that work in America. Many of them are not given any place to stay. They live like the homeless when they go to California to work."
"Really?"
"Yes, it is very sad. But I don't want to be sad now. Come, I will introduce you."
Ruiz took Ezra around the tables to meet everyone. After a while, he felt welcome and at ease with them. Many of them joked with him and offered him cigarettes and a place at their table. Ruiz went back to playing his guitar and Ezra sat with a group of workers and played cards with them. He drank and enjoyed the music and laughed. For the first time in what seemed like a very long while he forgot himself and all the circumstances that oppressed him. A strange and unfamiliar joy came over him as he realized he was becoming drunk. Ezra liked how it felt and opened himself up to the place the wine was taking him. A woman came and sat on his lap and told him her name was Maria. He knew it was the woman Ruiz had warned him about but she felt good against him and he didn't care about warnings anymore. She drank with him and helped him play his cards and laughed loudly at the things he said to her. Someone tapped him on the shoulder and pointed over to Ruiz who was still playing his guitar with the other musicians. Ruiz looked at him with a half comical, half panicked expression on his face and shook his head insistently. Ezra laughed at him and went back to his card game, and to Maria. Soon a group of them were up and dancing, and he danced with them. In the growing splendor of his stupor he hopped around with Maria and the other men and women and laughed at himself. Each time he made eye contact with Ruiz, Ruiz mouthed the name "Maria," made a cutting motion across his throat with his hand, and smiled at him disapprovingly. Ezra let his body move around blindly to the music, stopping now and then to catch his breath and to take a drink. Oblivion he had not experienced before slowly spread out underneath him, and he willingly plunged into it.
In the minutes
just after midnight, the music now silent, he stumbled across the rows of vines between the living quarters and his grandfather's back yard. Only the porch light was still on. At the edge of the vineyard he tripped over some stray wire and fell onto the lawn. Drunk, he rolled over playfully on the freshly cut grass and set off the motion light. It shone down on him and lit the backyard. "Come on, leave me alone," he said and then waved his hand dismissively at it. "Do I bother you? Do I bother you?" he slurred. He laid his head on the ground and laughed at his words and at the stars in the black expanse above.
The roof spun above his bed when he looked up at it. He sank into the mattress, which was too soft, and allowed things to be as they were. His body felt wonderful to him. Underneath him he felt the bed giving way, and he sank deeper and deeper into it. Some hymn of gravity, one that should have frightened him but did not, was calling to him. The bed opened up, as did the floor beneath it, and Ezra Mignon disappeared into the mysteries of the forsaken god.
Throughout the next day his body ached as he tried to work. He stopped pruning several times and tried to find refuge from the sun, and from his headache, in the thin shadows the vines provided. He shut his eyes and turned off his Walkman so he might hear someone approaching. There would be a scene, he was sure, if his grandfather caught him resting. But he was tired, and he felt ill, so he had a hard time staying awake. Suddenly, just as he was nodding off, someone grabbed him from behind by the shoulders and yelled loudly. Ezra spun round, ready for action. But it was only Nectario, the young man who had been playing guitar with Ruiz the night before. Looking at the odd posture that Ezra had assumed, he broke into hysterical laughter. He hopped around happily, taking pleasure in his prank.
