Saving Grapes

by J. T. Lundy

  “I live in Paris.” She pulled a strand of hair behind her ear and I skipped a breath.

  “Oh, Paris. Lovely,” I said, like I knew the place intimately. “I adore Jacque’s Chocolatier.”

  Jacqueline’s face beamed. She touched my hand. “The croissants and coffee are superb.”

  “The best,” I agreed.

  “And you are from K—K—”

  “Kankakee—the heart of Illinois. How did you know?”

  “I did my research. Do you have a favorite café in Kanky?”

  “Lucky Mike’s,” I said enthusiastically. “Two buck drafts and the best brats around.”

  She smiled and raised an eyebrow. “What are a buckdraft and a brat?”

  “Cheap beer and you know, brats. Bratwurst.”

  “Oh, yes. Bratwurst.”

  “And free popcorn.” I had a pang of homesickness.

  “Americans and corn. Why do you eat so much? Corn is for animals, no?”

  “Mostly, but sweet corn is a delicacy you should try.” I became animated. “Roasted sweet corn, yellow or white …” I circled my fists. “… or a jumble of both kernels with butter and salt right off the cob, it’s like America’s buttery baguette.”

  I don’t think I convinced her, but she smiled. “You make it sound like a party.”

  “It can be. You should see my buddy Stumpy devour a dozen ears in under a minute at the county fair.”

  She laughed.

  “He’s not so bad at mud-wrestling pigs either.”

  “You are joking me.”

  I held up my hand. “God’s honest truth.”

  “I want to meet this Stoompy.”

  “You will, soon enough.” We were getting along pretty well, I thought. I took a drink of wine to congratulate myself, but the husk was, I wasn’t even trying. I was at ease. I felt a comfortableness talking with her that I found soothing.

  An older waiter took our order. He had lanky limbs, black hair, and deep-set eyes—common features in this area—features not unlike my own.

  “I’ll have tête de veau,” I said.

  Jacqueline’s eyes went wide and she looked at me with respect. “Tu es un brave Amêricain.”

  “Wait, what?”

  She smiled. “You enjoy cow brains?”

  I looked at the waiter. “Changed my mind—croque monsieur, s’il-vous-plaît.” Aunt Clara used to make me the French ham and cheese sandwich, and it was my favorite.

  Jacqueline ordered and became serious. “Are you going to live here now that you own the vineyard? Or do you plan to return to your corn?”

  Was I a long-term or short-term candidate? Is that what she was asking? I hoped so. My answer had to be money. “I’m weighing my options.” I looked around. People held hands and ate their lunch slowly. Others sat alone, reading a book or paper, sipping coffee. Nobody appeared in a hurry to be anywhere other than here. “I certainly could see myself living in France, but I have to be honest. I’m no farmer. What I’d really like to do is sell the vineyard and buy a house or flat somewhere.” I opened my hand toward her. “Perhaps Paris.”

  She smiled her biggest smile yet, a Pyrenees-sized grin, and her eyes sparkled. “Paris is wonderful—the food, the art …”

  “Good brats?”

  “Certainly, no, but there is excellent food, and wine, and if you like music, there is always jazz.”

  “Jazz? I love jazz!”

  Jacqueline’s face lit up. “Do you like John Coltrane?”

  “Yes! Thelonious Monk?”

  “Of course! But my all time favorite …”

  “Louis Armstrong!” We both said together and then laughed.

  We stared at each other a moment and smiled. I was in heaven. I couldn’t believe what I did next, but I started singing in my best Louis Armstrong voice. “When you’re smilin’ keep on smilin’ the whole world smiles with you.”

  Jacqueline laughed and looked around. “Stop it. You can’t sing here.” Her eyes and smile said something different, though. She might have been embarrassed, but I felt that part of her thought my singing in public was fun.

  I had started, so—true to my nature—I couldn’t stop. I sang louder with more enthusiasm. “And when you’re laughin’ oh when you’re laughin’ the sun comes shinin’ through.” I started to trail off, feeling embarrassed. What was I doing? And then, to my utter amazement Jacqueline joined in and sang with me. “But when you’re crying you bring on the rain. So stop your sighing baby and be happy again. Yes and keep on smiling, keep on smiling. And the whole world smiles with you!”

  We stopped singing and burst into laughter. A few patrons clapped. The lanky waiter walked by and patted my head. Jacqueline couldn’t stop smiling at me. Oh my, she was a dork just like me. At that moment, I fell in love. I reached out my hand and clasped her fingers.

  She squeezed my fingers back. “How do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Use foul language against nuns. Sing in cafés. You do what you want, ignore the unspoken rules, and get away with it. You really know how to live life, don’t you, Jason?”

  Wait, what? Wow! Most people just thought I was a trouble-making jerk. Jacqueline actually appreciated my talents. “Sure enough,” I said.

  I thought it was a good time to order more wine, and I looked around for the waiter, but Jacqueline’s phone buzzed. She removed her fingers from my gentle hold and read a text. She looked to the sky, and sighed. “I envy your freedom. I must leave for Paris.”

  “No problem.” I took a bite of my croque monsieur and half the ham fell out onto the table in a cheesy glob. Jacqueline sat back, a hint of concern twinged in her eyes. Perhaps I was too uncouth for her. She stood up to leave, and luckily her smile returned. “I’ve never had a singing lunch before. Perhaps we could see each other again?”

  “For absolutely!” I tried to think of an idea for a date, but Jacqueline was ahead of me.

  “Why not here?” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Same time five days?”

  “Same time five days,” I said.

  I went back to the vineyard elated, calculating the minutes until I would see Jacqueline again. I breathed in and tried to remember her smell. I tried to picture her face but it would move fleetingly in and out of my mind. I had been like a rock since my divorce and I had planned on staying that way. Damn. This woman had gotten to me. I mummed up around Stumpy, though. I didn’t want him to know. It was weird. It was like I was embarrassed to fall in love again, and I was mad that I had broken my own oath not to. And I didn’t want to see Stumpy gloating about how he had predicted I’d find someone some day.

  Instead, I tried to talk to Stumpy about our plan to annoy the sisters.

  “I like the sisters. I like this place,” he said.

  “I like the sisters, too, but in twenty-one days I’m heading to the slammer. We came for the cash, remember?”

  “I don’t want to anger them on purpose. They’re doing God’s work, Jason.”

  “They’re making wine.”

  “But the profits go to good causes.”

  My scheme had lost Stumpy, but only in spirit. Regardless of his intentions, I knew I could count on his bumbling. Of course, I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, but I was sure, based on our history of being bad employees, that the sisters would come to abhor us as partners in a short time.

  The harvest approached. Whenever Sister Claudette’s taste buds signaled the grapes were sweet, the picking party would begin. In preparation for the great grape gathering fest, the sisters put out the call and imported some other good Sisters until the abbey swelled with farm laboring nuns ready to pick for Jesus.

  The next afternoon, after a lackadaisical stroll pruning and telling stories to the grapes, I rounded an outbuilding and saw Stumpy demonstrating to one of the new immigrant nuns how to put on a plastic backpack crate for when picking time came.

  “Oh, hey there, Jason.” Stumpy had a big grin. Stars were spark
ling in his eyes. “This is Sister Melanie.”

  Oh no. Sister Melanie had a dimpled smile and round face and was cute as a hummingbird. And, you guessed it, she was a good two inches shorter than Stumpy. “Nice to meet you, Sister Melanie.”

  “Nice to meet you.” She looked toward the abbey.

  “Get this. Melanie spent a year as an exchange student in Chicago. She’s even been to Kankakee!” Stumpy was beyond excited. “She can speak good American.”

  Sister Melanie smiled. “I have to be in the chapel in five minutes.” She flickered her fingers in a wave as she walked off.

  Stumpy waved. “See you later, Sister Melanie.”

  I grabbed Stumpy by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Get a hold of yourself, my boy. She’s a nun. There’s no way.”

  His eyes spun like firecracker pinwheels. “She’s cute and short and nice and—”

  “And a nun. What about Betsy the flight attendant? I thought you loved her?”

  Stumpy scrunched his face like he had sucked up a sour grape. “She doesn’t like me.”

  “You don’t know that for sure. She seemed interested when we were in Paris.”

  Stumpy had a faraway honeymoon look in his eye and had stopped listening to me.

  I slapped him. “Melanie’s a nun.”

  Stumpy shook his head and smiled. “She was flirting with me, I think. Did you think she was flirting with me?”

  Actually, I think she was. Innocent nun-like flirting if there is such a thing. That’s okay, right? No—probably not. And then it hit me. If Stumpy was let loose to harass this cute little nun, that surely would ruffle the old Morceau sisters’ ire. They’d see the evil in us then.

  I smiled and patted Stumpy on the shoulder.

  “Yeah, I think she was flirting with you.”

  “You think? For real?”

  “For real.”

  “But like you said, she’s a nun.”

  “Hmm, good point.” I rubbed my chin. “But God’s a big fan of true love, no? It’s not like it’s never happened.”

  “What’s never happened?”

  “A Sister leaving the convent for true love.”

  “It’s never happened?”

  “It happens all the time.”

  “For real?”

  “For real.”

  Stumpy looked out toward the convent, and I could see the moral struggle on his face, but I knew love would always win Stumpy over. I was confident the romantic ringleader within the poor sap would gain complete control of him, and for once, I couldn’t wait for the love circus to begin.

  Matthew and Mark went running by, barking and chasing birds away from the grapes. They had the run of the vineyard and were everywhere and nowhere at once.

  “But I could go to hell for seducing a nun.”

  He was really worried. “Nonsense. Where does it say that?”

  “I think it’s implied.”

  “Pshaw. Did you ever take a vow not to love a nun?”

  “No.”

  “What’s the first thing you learned in Sunday school?”

  Stumpy closed his eyes and pinched the skin on his forehead.

  “God is …” I motioned my hand for him to complete the sentence. “God is …”

  Stumpy spoke slowly. “God is. God is.” He paused. “God is love.” He smiled. “God is love.”

  I smiled and nodded reverently. “That’s right. God is love. If you and Sister Melanie end up loving each other then I don’t care what anyone or any book says, God wants you and Sister Melanie together.”

  Stumpy gave me a hug. “Yes, yes. Thank you, Jason.” He tumbled out of the room like a wayward wrecking ball and ran down the hill into the vines.

  The next day I meandered over to Stumpy’s shed, thinking about Jacqueline the whole way. I think she liked me, a little, at least. I’d see her again in three days. She liked my spontaneity—my singing! Should I sing again? How could I be spontaneous if I was trying to be? I’d have to concentrate really hard to mind my manners and be respectful—that was the only way. Still, I should have a song ready just in case. “What a Wonderful World” popped into my mind, probably because when I thought of Jacqueline I was starting to believe that was true. That song meant a lot to me. Aunt Clara used to sing it to me at bedtime when I was young and innocent enough for such nonsense.

  I stopped and looked over the sun-drenched vineyard and suddenly felt choked up. Aunt Clara had been here as a child. She had tended these vines, picked their grapes. Aw, man. Aunt Clara was mean, but suddenly she didn’t seem so. Damn it. I missed the old biddy. I pulled off a grape and rolled it through my fingers as I resumed my walk toward the shed.

  Stumpy had taken over the job of plastic crate and backpack storage and repair technician. The backpack crate was exactly as its name suggested—a crate attached to shoulder straps to be carried like a backpack. During the harvest, the nuns would pick the grapes, set the clusters into the crates, and then carry them on their backs to a waiting trailer. I peeked through a dirty shed window and saw Sister Melanie and Stumpy standing innocently together.

  Stumpy talked.

  Sister Melanie talked.

  They both smiled and looked at each other lovey-dovey like. Sister Melanie left the shed. Stumpy stared after her, starry-eyed.

  I waited until Sister Melanie was halfway to the abbey. I scampered around the opposite way and into the shed. Stumpy looked deliriously happy.

  “What happened?”

  He looked past me like he was seeing Shangri-La. “She likes me, too.”

  We had been here a week. I had fallen for a girl, and Stumpy had now fallen for two—a flight attendant and a nun! Oh la la, the Stumpy love bomb had struck. “Sister Melanie likes you, too?”

  “Yes, but she has to think about it. I can’t explain everything right now, Jason, but it’s a big deal for her.”

  I shook his hand. “That’s great.” It was all coming together, a perfect scheme. We were indeed bad workers with bad attitudes, at least I was, but there was also about to be a scandal. I could feel it.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Take your pick. They all point back to me as Jason Barnes.” I plopped down my Illinois driver’s license, GameStop credit card, Park District pool ID, Larry’s Lawn Irrigation business card (old sales job), and AMC moviegoer card. I spread them out.

  I sat with Sister Claudette and Sister Lucia and a gentle-looking man in a lawyerly office. He ran his hands over a worn, but tasteful suit.

  “He says only a passport will do,” Sister Lucia explained.

  The man was Picard Aceau, avocat. He looked old-school and had a patient countenance about him.

  He spoke some English phrases I couldn’t understand. He had a rough accent and Sister Lucia had to translate his English into English for me.

  The French government had approved Aunt Clara’s will to pass St. Sebastian vineyard on to me. A long document detailed all the members of the Barnes family that had tilled the land since grapes began. Sister Claudette had tried to enlighten me with the oral history of my ancestors, but I found it hard to keep straight, and I cared little, anyhow. These ancestors had done me no good in the States and would do me no good after I cashed in.

  Aceau again asked something about verifying my identity.

  I shrugged. I had nothing else. I explained how I must have misplaced my passport between Paris and here.

  Aceau shook his head.

  The sisters vouched for me. They offered to bring in old photos and described how my behavior matched Aunt Clara’s description perfectly.

  Old Aceau didn’t care. An inheritance transferring to a non-French person required an official national-government-issued identification, i.e. only my passport would do.

  “Contact the American consulate in Bordeaux,” Aceau said. “They should be able to reissue a passport. Until then the property remains in the estate.”

  Seeing how my passport was with the Kankakee County Court, and I was officially su
pposed to be nearby, I anticipated some difficulty obtaining a reissued passport from the consulate.

  I needed a passport to inherit the land. I needed the land to cash in on a few million. I needed sixty grand to maintain my non-felon status and bail out my passport, and I had only eighteen days to do it. I needed to have passed algebra to figure it all out. If they convicted me, and Eustace snatched this vineyard, I’d suck down grapes until I fermented and they could bury me in an oak barrel.

  Sister Claudette and Sister Lucia sat outside with me at a casual restaurant off Duras’s town square.

  “Cheer up, Jason,” Sister Lucia said. “A new passport will arrive soon enough.”

  The greasy smell of frites drifted through the air. Pigeons fluttered in small flocks and raced between buildings in the cloudy sky.

  I cut my jambon and fromage crêpe into tiny pieces. I didn’t feel like eating. I cut the tiny pieces into tinier pieces.

  “What do you think of the vineyard, Jason?” Sister Claudette smiled with the friendliest face I had yet seen from her. “Have you enjoyed your property walks?”

  Old men in berets sauntered by, their hands folded behind their backs. Shopkeepers stood outside their doors, chatting with passersby.

  Click, click. I got it. Algebra be damned. “The profits,” I said. “The vineyard profits. How, when, and where will I get them?”

  Sister Claudette’s smile evaporated into the cold wind that overcame her. “Tsk, tsk. Money, money. Can you think of nothing else?”

  Plenty, I thought. But at that moment my brain jingled with Uncle Sam’s coins and how to keep my mug out of the jail yard. “I’m sorry, Sisters. I’ve been favoring my own charity for a long time and circumstances preclude me from switching allegiances at the moment.”

  “You’re in need of money, then?” Sister Lucia said with concern.

  “Right-ho, Sisters.” I smiled broadly at them.