by Chuck Crabbe
"Oh, what?"
"Wait on the porch for Ruiz after breakfast tomorrow, then meet me and Edward in the cellar."
When Ruiz and Ezra got down to the cellar the next morning, Harold and Edward were setting up a ladder against one of the huge wooden vats. Beside the ladder was a pile of canvas straps and a harness, like something a mountain climber might use. That morning the wine from the previous year's vintage had finished the fermentation process and had been drained out of the vat. Now, it was necessary to clean the inside of the vat, and that was the work that Ezra had been summoned to the cellar to do. His grandfather handed him a gas mask that looked as if it had been left behind during the gas attacks of the First World War.
"What's this for?" Ezra asked.
"During fermentation," Edward began, while running his hand over his bald head, "carbon dioxide is given off. That can be dangerous. Even after the wine has been drawn off, the vat is still full of fumes."
"And the straps and harness?"
"Just an unnecessary safety precaution young Ezra," his grandfather said while straightening the straps.
"In case you cannot stay awake inside the whale's belly," Ruiz interjected, patting the oak vat. "What is your word? Unconscious?"
"What?" Ezra looked at Edward.
"It'll be fine," Edward said, smiling at his surprise. "Just keep the mask on."
"And you keep it quiet," Harold scolded, pointing at Ruiz. "I don't know why I keep bringing you back every year." He turned and walked out of the room.
"Perhaps it is the company, sir!" Ruiz called after him, giving free reign to his accent. He smiled his toothless grin at Ezra.
"The cleaning supplies are already inside the vat, Ruiz. Call me if you need me." Then Edward the wine maker left too.
Ruiz helped Ezra with the harness and straps. The harness ran just under his butt and then across his chest and back. "You're going to lower me in from the top?" Ezra asked.
"No, no. There's a ladder inside to climb down. The harness is just for you if the smells put you to sleep."
"Does that happen often?"
"To me," Ruiz said, "twice."
"How will you know if I pass out?"
"I will call to you every few minutes. When I do, bang the wood with the mop handle, or pull the straps if you feel yourself getting dizzy."
"What will you be doing?"
"Sitting out here, to make sure you are safe, of course."
Ezra took a deep breath, pulled the mask down over his face, and climbed the ladder up to the top of the huge barrel. At the top, he threw one leg over the side, sat on the edge for a moment, and looked down into the container's depths. Edward and his grandfather had lowered two industrial lamps, the type mechanics hang on car hoods, into the vat. A little more sure of his safety, Ezra placed one foot on the ladder, swung his other foot over, and descended into he knew not what.
The walls inside were stained with the vintages of more than forty years. With the uneven light and shadows thrown by the lamps, it looked as if he were surrounded by primitive cave paintings, or the hieroglyphics of some lost race. The lees and debris left behind from the grapes felt like mud and leaves under his boots. He stared at the stains for a few minutes, as one stares at the clouds and sees an animal, or a face, or a hidden number, on summer days as a child. The cleaning supplies and buckets filled with water were on the floor, directly beneath one of the lamps.
"You alive in there, Jonah?" Ruiz called from the other side of the wall.
"He can't expect me to get all these stains off..." Ezra's words were muffled by the mask.
"No, no. Just clean it, they are only worried about what can be removed from this year's wine."
Ezra looked at the labyrinth of stains on the walls. He tried to discern which were recent and which were old, but could not. It was very hot inside the vat, and the gas mask made it even hotter and difficult to breath. He began by sweeping up all the loose stems and debris. Within a few minutes his t-shirt was soaked through with sweat. The muck spread out under his feet as he pushed it to one side with a stained straw broom that had obviously been used to perform the task before. After he had pushed it all together he used a shovel to fill plastic buckets that Ruiz lowered on a rope, and then pulled out again from the other side. That done, he got down to trying to mop the floor and walls. All the while Ruiz, who was sitting on the floor outside with his back against the wall of the vat, made cracks at how he was struggling and then laughed out loud at his own jokes.
Ezra could not tell if he was doing a good job or not because, as he mopped, he was still not sure which stains were from that year and which ones were not. Which ones should he be removing and which ones could not be removed? The uneven light the lanterns provided made it even harder to tell. He made sure he covered the entire floor and walls with the solution Edward had provided him but did not scrub or try to clean any particular markings. As if painting, not cleaning, he followed one line of wet, stained wood with another and covered the entire surface area of the floors and walls so that they were darkened. He harbored a nagging sense that he was not doing things properly, but he pushed forward with what he was doing, rationalizing that any other approach to it would have taken him days. Ruiz had been quiet for a while, but Ezra didn't bother with him. The whole thing took him about two hours, and when he emerged, soaked with sweat and thirsty, he found Ruiz sleeping, slumped up against the outside of the vat, with his chin resting on his chest.
Now Ezra, like many young men his age, and despite his sometimes morbidly serious nature, loved practical jokes, and decided an opportunity existed here that he could not pass up. So instead of climbing out of the vat he went back inside and lay down on the floor. Then he took the mop he had been using and hit the wall as hard as he could with the butt of the handle. The noise woke Ruiz and he called Ezra's name. When no answer came he called again, a trace of worry in his voice, and Ezra heard him stand up. "Ezra?" he called over the wall, much louder this time. Again, nothing. Ruiz quickly clambered up the ladder on the outside of the vat. At the top, looking down into the huge barrel, he saw his boss's grandson lying on the floor, his closed eyes hidden behind the gas mask.
"Ezra! Ezra!" Ruiz yelled, hoping the boy would wake at the sound of his voice. But Ezra did not stir. Ruiz leapt down to the floor from the top of the vat and snatched the rope connected to the harness. Thwap! The limp body hit the inner wall. Panicking, he pulled harder, hand over hand, and put his weight into the effort. Ezra emerged over the top of the wall, his head and limbs hanging dramatically out of the harness. With gravity now on his side Ruiz turned the pulley system at the top, lowered the body down to the concrete floor, and ripped the gas mask off Ezra's face.
"Ezra! Ezra!" Ruiz whispered desperately, slapping him on the cheek. "Joder! Joder!" he cursed. Feeling that the situation had progressed entirely beyond his control, he got up and ran for help.
"You think you could get me something to drink on your way back?" he heard from behind him. Turning on a dime, he saw Ezra sitting up, wide awake and grinning.
"You little fucker!"
Ezra fell on his side in hysterics.
"You were awake the entire time!" Ruiz said in flustered English. Ezra laughed even harder and tears came to his eyes as he slapped the floor and pointed at Ruiz's face. Finally, Ruiz smiled too. "So you think you got Ruiz, eh?" Ezra nodded as Ruiz walked over to him to help him off the floor. Taking his hand, Ezra pulled himself up. "Okay, okay," Ruiz conceded, "but I must repay you for such a cruel joke."
"Ruiz, no matter what you come up with, I can promise you that the look on your face was worth it."
"Very funny, Cabra. Very funny."
That night at dinner his grandfather asked him how the job had gone, and Ezra told him that he had finished. Harold made it known that he would check his work in the morning because a vat that wasn't cleaned properly was a threat to the next vintage. If chemicals were left behind, he said, it could ruin the next batch of wine, and
that would cost him a great deal of money. Once he was satisfied with Ezra's work, there were other vats to clean.
Ezra already doubted the work he had done, but his grandfather's questions, and the prospect of the old man checking it the next day, made him sure he had not done the job properly. The strange map of the wine stains on the wood spread out before him. In the morning his grandfather would look and be unhappy with his work. The old man would run his hand along the inside of the vat and the stains Ezra had not removed would rub off on it. He would show him the reddened palm of his hand and shake his head. The image of Olyiva with the same stains on her hands, holding the cross he had made for his mother and wrapping the thread around it, opened inside him for an instant.
Ezra looked out his window at the worker's quarters and listened for the music. Ruiz and Nectario hadn't begun to play yet. Maybe he could get Ruiz to meet him in the cellar early in the morning so he would have a chance to go back over what he had done. No, ever since he had begun drinking in excess with the Mexicans, for purposes of intoxication, he had had difficulty waking up early. And, even on a good day, he would never have been up before the old man. It would have to be now, or he would have to let it go.
He silently stole his grandfather's keys from the hook by the front door. He had none of his own. First checking the windows to make sure Harold was not watching, he ran quickly across the yard to the large barn-like building that housed the show room above the cellar. He'd take maybe an hour, clean up whatever he had missed inside the vat, change into the clothes he brought in his backpack, and then head over to drink with Ruiz, Nectario, Maria and the others.
Not wanting to attract attention, he felt his way across the showroom to the stairs without turning on lights. He was not afraid, and the building smelled of wine and the fresh bread that was delivered every day to serve guests and tours. There were no windows downstairs, so he thought it safe to turn on the lights in the long stone corridor.
Everything was as he and Ruiz had left it earlier in the evening. The old gas mask was on the table along with the harness. He set his pack down, put the mask against his face, and pulled the bands that held it in place over his head. The harness was of no use now. He plugged the two mechanic's lamps back into the socket and threw them over the wall and down into the vat. At least it wouldn't be as hot as it had been during the day.
Ezra drew some fresh water into one of the many buckets around the industrial sinks and, steadying it carefully at his side, climbed up the ladder. At the top he balanced the bucket on the thick wooden wall, swung his leg over and onto the ladder inside, took the water up again, and went down into the vat.
Inside the old behemoth's belly he was again presented with the hieroglyphics and the riddle of the wine on its walls. Ezra ran his hand over the wood as he had imagined his grandfather would in the morning. He looked at his palm and saw that it was stained red, as if the walls had never been cleaned that day. No one had given him proper directions as to how to clean it, or how clean it should be, and this agitated him.
Adding more solvent to the fresh water, he took his mop and started scrubbing. While the wood stayed wet it looked like he had done a good job, but as soon as it dried it looked exactly as it had before. Over and over again he scrubbed it. He was worn out from the day and the weight of his thoughts and frustration. As he worked harder he became very tired. A twitching in his arm muscles caused him to examine them. Even in the brief time he had been away from home he had grown stronger. He wondered at the strange ticks he felt under his skin and decided that they had to be from the day's work. Ezra pushed the mop faster and harder and under his gas mask his breathing turned quick and irregular, more so, it seemed, than it should have given how hard he was working. For a moment he almost gave in to the impulse to pull off the mask, but then he remembered that he could not because of the chemicals.
His heart hit hard and quick inside his chest. The flushing of the skin...a skip...a beat...a beat...a skip. Now where has that thought gone? Turned to one that should not follow. I am weary. Long gasp chases short breath...torture follows reward...a skip...a beat...a skip. His head suddenly hurt. Patches...red...spreading outward...to where? I spilled the wine on the tablecloth... O Harlequin...stolen powers...for a time...A skip...a beat...a skip...away...now the joke is on me...I am the sleeper.
His thoughts and breath and skin and heart irregular and strange, Ezra stumbled inside the vat. The river being flushed out...flood...a heart...a beat...a beating...a skip. Has another perished behind this mask...1132...the silver of a traitor...put on the full armor of God...to become greater than them. He fell over the mop and knocked over the bucket of water...water carrier...when will you arrive...or are you here and hidden? No longer knowing where he was, he lay in the pool of water on the floor of the vat, his eyes and muscles fluttering...do I bother you...a chain, a sun, an unchained sun...the stranger...a fall, a slip...bless my speed...ah, Balyn, you are the most tragic of knights...you listen to ole Tituba now...and you turned sheep into goats...a breath, a gasp, a breath...Eriphos...For you yourselves know.
The poison ran through his blood and his eyes closed. Behind the old gas mask, lying in a pool of dirty water, alone and unconscious in the bowels of the huge wooden wine vat, his muscles still fluttering as if moths had made his flushed skin their temple, Ezra was dying of carbon dioxide poisoning...and dreaming of the peril to which his mother had led him.
He lay on his back on the beach and listened to the waves hitting the shore. The water's even rhythm calmed him and the tears on his face slowly dried. Comfort came, and came again, as he heard them crash, and by degrees he stopped thinking altogether. Everything around him stood still, and his breath was so slight that he was not even sure he was still breathing. He felt the ocean's spray against his skin now, but had not noticed it when he first collapsed. The sounds around him became clear and distinct, each important and necessary in their isolation, and in their connection. His awareness searched for the riot of anxieties that had besieged him after his mother had vanished, but he found nothing. The hidden quiet opened.
Suddenly, an arm closed around his throat from behind as if it had risen out of the sand. A flurry of blows, too many to be from one or even two men fell on his body and face. He tried to see who his attackers were but saw only heavy arms and fists and their shadows as they fell. Shouting things he could not understand, they dragged him to his feet. Ezra tried to free himself from the arm around his throat by sliding his hand under his attacker's grip, but as soon as he was able to push it away, it was replaced. He fought free again, only to have two arms replace the one. This time he saw the thick blue veins. Just like Doctor Octopus, he thought. Someone grabbed his wrists and he felt the cold steel of handcuffs close around them. A fist crashed into his heart and he collapsed.
His enemies stood before him, the sun at their backs. Their features were darkened and he tried to discern who they were by their shape. In a language he could not understand they made strange gestures to one another and seemed to be discussing what to do with him. Finally, some conclusion having been reached, they pulled their prisoner back to his feet and, as they did, the light changed, and their faces came out from the dark.
The two police officers that had arrested him stood on either side of Christopher Pentheus, his first communion teacher from Walpurgis. Ezra moved to speak but the powerful man behind him covered his mouth with his hand, while another, crouched in the sand, bound his legs in chains, and then rose. It was Alex DaLivre, and he was smiling.
After his father had left, Ezra's mother had destroyed all of the pictures of him, except one. She had thrown them into the fireplace without thinking of Ezra and Layne and the questions they might have in the future, but when she removed the final Polaroid from the album the thought suddenly struck her: They would wonder what he looked like. So Moira kept it, and after she was killed, Elsie took it and put it away for the boys. Sometimes, when they were younger, they would ask about him and she w
ould begrudgingly bring out the picture and show them. It was of him holding a fish he had caught. The hook was still in its mouth and he held it up to the camera by the fishing line. Whenever he thought of his father he thought of this picture, and it was precisely in this guise, the face the same, the clothes the same, that the man holding his mouth shut from behind stepped around and revealed himself.
All of them, in some terrible league with one another, some conspiracy he had felt but never recognized, seized him violently and forced him along the beach. They whispered behind him and finally, after making their way around a headland, came to a ship. It was a huge old ship, perhaps from thousands of years ago, with high black sails that pushed back and forth in the wind. It was anchored off shore and looked to be deserted in the waves. Pastor Mark was waiting on the shore in front of it.
"Who is this with such a delicate face?" the pastor, in words Ezra suddenly understood, asked them.
"He's to be sold and bought in the marketplace to the master and the judge and the distant stranger," one of the cops answered.
"You have made a grave mistake," Pastor Mark said.
"The master and the judge and the distant stranger are free from blemishes, no mistake can be made."
"And yet one has been made, by you, or by him..." Looking at Ezra, beaten and bloodied, he continued, "Pardon us, young man, for I see the shadow and vine in you."
"What shadow?" Ezra asked, tasting blood in his mouth.
On the ship the pastor was behind the captain's wheel. Ezra was bound, lying on his side, on the worn wooden deck. He watched the pastor and saw that he was unsure at sea. Mr. Deshamps, Ezra's ninth grade teacher from St. Anne's, was lying on a huge beach towel allowing his frighteningly pale belly to burn. He couldn't tell if the fat man was awake or asleep behind his oversized sunglasses. The two cops—Ezra tried to remember their names—sat at a big table closer to the front of the boat. The table was covered, just as it had been on the night he had been arrested, with coins, stacks of bills, and the muddy clothes that the police had taken from the boys as evidence. A huge book hovered over their head like a roof, giving them shelter and comfort, and at the same time blinding them to the sun and light. They still wore their police uniforms but impotent wings had grown out of their backs. Mr. Pentheus had apparently finished his time at divinity school because he now wore a proper minister's collar, over which he wore a loose, richly ornamented, ceremonial mantle. Attached to his ankle by a long prisoner's chain was a lamb that was either unconscious or dead, and attached to the lamb by another length of chain was an iron crown run through by a heavy anchor. The young minister, his arms flexing with the effort he was making, pulled his burden towards a beautiful woman who was lying further up the deck, naked, her back arched and her full chest heaving toward the sky. Heavy streams of sweat ran down his face. Alex DaLivre danced round a heavy bag that hung from one of the masts. It was the same bag that hung in his grandfather's cellar.
