Come Pour the Wine

by Cynthia Freeman

  So as not to awaken the sleeping directress of the Farm, she tiptoed to the closet, opened the door carefully and took a bottle of cognac. Holding it close to her, she tiptoed out, just as quietly, closing the door behind her and hurried back to her room. Once there, she poured herself a stiff slug of cognac, settled herself in the large chair and sipped herself into oblivion.

  The next morning, she awoke with a dreadful hangover. She called Mrs. Van Muir on the phone (who was just as cheerful as a squirrel gathering nuts). “Mrs. Van Muir,” Catherine said, barely able to speak above a whisper, “this is Mrs. Rossi.”

  “Yes, my dear, what may I help you with?” she answered almost lyrically.

  How could she sound like Little Mary Sunshine after being bombed last night? Catherine felt irritated when she had such a headache. “I’m not feeling well this morning and I don’t want any breakfast … in fact, I’m not sure about lunch and don’t bother to have the room straightened … I want to be left strictly alone.”

  “Oh, my dear, you really don’t sound well. Isn’t there anything I can do?”

  “Yes, on second thought, bring me some aspirin … oh … and a pitcher of tomato juice … and … and a large pot of black coffee.”

  “Oh, my poor dear, Mrs. Rossi, you’re really not feeling at all well…” She was about to say more, but Catherine couldn’t even stand the sweet chirping of birds this morning, much less the sound of a human voice saying, my poor darling. She was sick to death of everything, including the solicitude of dear Mrs. Van Muir.

  Abruptly, she interrupted, “Look, just bring up what I asked for … I have to go to the bathroom,” and hung up, doing just that, where she upchucked last night’s cognac as well as her dinner, she was sure. Then feebly, found her way to bed where she lay weak from the ordeal, perspiring. God, she felt simply awful. But it wasn’t just the liquor, it was her nerves and the accumulation of a lot of things she had harbored for a very long time.

  When Catherine heard Mrs. Van Muir turn the knob on the door, she shut her eyes and pretended to be asleep. Quietly, Mrs. Van Muir placed the tray down, turned around, then paused for a moment in total disbelief when she saw her bottle of cognac sitting half-empty on the table. Wouldn’t a mother recognize her own child? You bet she would and she knew that was her bottle. Well, I’ll be damned. How and when did she get that. Quickly, she realized that dear Mrs. Rossi must have come to her office while she was sleeping in a state of inebriation last night and merely heisted it. Quite disgruntled, she decided from now on, she would be sure and lock her door when day was done. After all, she needed a little privacy too and this was the first time any of the old biddies had done anything like that. With those thoughts, Mrs. Van Muir left, happy that her cognac had not lain too lightly on Mrs. Rossi’s delicate stomach. The moment she made her departure, Catherine left her bed, barely able to get out, and poured some tomato juice into a glass, unscrewed the top of the aspirin bottle, then popped two into her mouth and washed them down with the juice. Weakly, she sat in the large chair and drank some hot coffee, as her hand trembled slightly, then just sat breathing and sighing deeply. So far, this little escapade hadn’t been nearly as exciting as the ones Mata Hari had had. But it was only her second day … things would look up, but no more cognac … well, maybe, but not in that quantity.

  When she gathered enough strength, Catherine went to the bathroom, turned on the water taps, added a packet of blue fragrant crystals, and watched as they turned into thousands of tiny iridescent bubbles. How beautiful they were, how delicious. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if life could only be like that. One great big beautiful bubble … oh, to hell with it. As she brushed her teeth and looked at herself in the mirror, she was shocked … My God, she thought, I look like a witch this morning with all the eyeliner and mascara running under my eyes and how ludicrous, with one eyelash off. It must be in bed. Putting her hands up to her cheeks, she stretched up gently. What a difference when she let go. My God, the crevices were really deep. There was no more jaw line, it had all gone slack, just jowls that really sagged and bags that were really bulging and dark under the lower lids … and the uppers were all crisscrossed lines that fell into folds as did her throat. She winced painfully, observing herself with yesterday’s stale makeup. The lipstick was all smeared. That was something she hadn’t done in a long time … forgotten to remove her makeup; she looked like a clown. Catherine started to cry uncontrollably. Oh my, how much she had aged in the last few years and nothing could prevent that from happening, not man, not money and God certainly wasn’t going to intervene with mother nature (the bitch) to knock it off on behalf of poor little Catherine Rossi. Nothing could prevent the process of erosion, not even plastic surgery. That was only temporary. Good Lord, what was going to happen to her in a few years from now. She cringed when she looked at her hands. Suddenly, she became infuriated at the thought that this was Dominic’s fault, all his fault. She was young and beautiful until he had gotten into those goddamned politics and her anger became heightened when she thought that he looked so young for his age. He had a skin like a baby’s behind, not a wrinkle in sight. God damn it … he should’ve looked ten years older according to the pace and race he was in. But no, not him, why he didn’t even had a gray hair, son of a bitch, and here she’d been bleaching hers for fifteen years because graying prematurely was a family trait. She needed something to soothe her nerves. Going back to the bedroom, she poured a stiff belt of cognac into the tomato juice, sat down sobbing and sipped as the tears ran down her cheeks into her mouth, unaware she was swallowing them along with the drink. When the acute emotion had subsided, she picked herself up unsteadily and went back to the bathroom where the water had almost reached the rim of the tub and was ready to overflow.

  Catherine had one remarkable quality and that was to make emotional transitions rapidly. One moment she could be in utter despair and the next totally elated. In an effort to restore the self-esteem that had been so devastating to her a few moments ago, she threw back her shoulders, walked across the enormous bathroom and sat down at the mirrored dressing table. She deliberately looked at herself, almost as though defying the fates, and aloud she said to her image in the looking glass, “You haven’t lost your glamor nor your looks, not by a damn sight, so don’t fret … just need a little body work, that’s all, and a good face job and no one will ever guess the mileage we have on us … will they?” Resolutely, taking the bottle of cleansing emulsion, she unscrewed the cap and poured the thick creamy liquid into the palm of her hand. With very gentle, upward strokes, she massaged her face. Already her spirits were lifted. She tissued off the grime, washed her face with a very, very special soap, then rinsed it off in tepid water, dried it and applied gobs and gobs of moisture lotion. She looked and felt a hell of a lot better than she had a few minutes ago. That’s what every woman needs … a little tender love and care … saying out loud to herself as she stepped down into the sunken tub. Lying back, her head resting on a rubber bath pillow, she simply relaxed and let the beautiful blue bubbles take over.

  In spite of the way it had started out, the day did not progress too badly. By one, Catherine found she was hungry after all. Calling Mrs. Van Muir, she asked if lunch could be served to her immediately … why, of course, what was Mrs. Rossi’s desire? Oh, let’s see … a chicken salad with avocado, asparagus … the large white tips, hot rolls and butter, coffee and a napoleon … ha, still no napoleon. Oh, well, whatever.

  After lunch, she felt drowsy and fell asleep. Awaking at four, she sat up in bed, drenched in perspiration. The room had become stifling with the Arizona sun beating down on her windows. She got out of bed, opened them wider and stood looking down at her fellow inmates sitting around the pool, dressed in bathing suits, chatting as they applied sun lotion to their chubby extremities. Suddenly, the inner composure she had fostered earlier diminished as she became lonely for some companionship. Whereas Catherine had never been a woman who had ever encouraged the friendship of other women
, still, she envied the ones below who seemed so casually to be enjoying each other’s company. Come to think of it, Catherine had never been able to sustain a meaningful relationship with a friend. In fact, she had never had a really close girl friend in whom she could confide. Strange, when she thought about it … people always thought of her as very outgoing and gregarious, as indeed she was. Being born southern somehow gave a girl a special advantage. She was taught how to smile broadly and say ‘How ya all, darlin’, but with a built-in charm that was warm and captivating … Catherine was no exception. She could charm the pants off anyone if it suited her purpose. But the impression she projected was far from what she was really like. The truth was, the moment she felt a friendship becoming too close, she backed away. Why? … she’d never been able to analyze completely and she wasn’t trying to do so now. Still, maybe it had something to do with the fact that when she looked backward at her childhood in New Orleans, rich as the Posata’s were, socially they’d never been accepted into that part of old upper-class society where position and one’s past heritage counted, not money. And for Catherine, it was important, terribly important, to be accepted, almost to the point of obsession. Now, that’s the truth isn’t it, Catherine thought. You bet your sweet ass. No use trying to pretend it wasn’t as you used to do. Italians living in the deep south, no matter how many generations, were looked down upon. Wops … plain old dagos, that’s what they were considered. And how many suitable, wealthy families were there at the time she was growing up to choose from? Thirty, maybe, but all in the same social boat, and just maybe it had left Catherine with a feeling of immense inferiority. Somewhere down deep she knew the feeling of discrimination which had never left her. It made her suspect everyone. Who could you trust? How could you be sure that in someone’s mind they weren’t sayin’ wop … wop … Catherine recalled only too well never being invited to the cotillion or the important parties even though she had attended the best girls’ school in New Orleans, which Daddy paid for through the nose by adding a new wing to the library. The tears long past, still stung when she recalled how hard her father had tried to see to it that Catherine made her coming out He donated to the right causes, contacted people whom he felt could bring their influence to bear. But when the time came for her to be sponsored, Angelo Posata was discreetly and tactfully told they were so, so terribly sorry, but not this year. Sooo … Catherine cried a lot and abandoned the idea of ever being presented in that beautiful white dress with all the tulle draped so demurely around her shoulders, carrying the long-stemmed red roses and having her picture appear in the society column as one of the most exciting young debutantes of the year. Oh dear, the tragedies and memories of youth. She remembered wanting to die … but she survived. Angrily, she stood, shaking her head. Well, New Orleans would regret what they had done to her … yes, she, Catherine Posata Rossi was going to be the next senator from California. No … not the senator … the senator’s wife. Hold on a minute, Catherine … just one cotton pickin’ minute, a small voice within her whispered, yesterday you said you’d beat him at the polls … now that’s the truth, isn’t it? Yes, she screamed, but that was yesterday … today, I’ve decided I want him to win. However, he’s goin’ to shape up and I’m goin’ to be the power behind the throne … if I have to wait this out till next Fourth of July.

  Refreshed, she dressed, put on a pair of dark sunglasses, a bandanna and left the room that seemed to be closing in on her, went down the hall to the elevator, made her departure from the building, got into her rented Mercedes and drove to the liquor store.

  It had been a long, emotional, tedious day and by eleven o’clock that evening she felt drained. Going to the bathroom, she prepared for bed, lubricated her face and hands after brushing her teeth, then her shoulder-length hair. She put her fingers up to her head and parted the blonde strands; there was about a half-inch of dark outgrowth. Funny, the things one simply forgets in times of anger. She had a standing appointment every ten days for a touch-up and this was what … Tuesday? Oh, dear, Thursday was her day to be beautified. Well, no matter, she’d manage somehow. She’d managed things more difficult than this in her life … you bet, why, she could write a book. Turning, she went back to the bedroom and wearily climbed into bed, switched off the light, shut her eyes and there she lay waiting, praying for sleep to overtake her. But try as she might, tired as she was, she twisted and turned from one side to the next. It was impossible to get comfortable. Catherine punched the pillow hard. The room was oppressively hot, and the perspiration ran down her forehead. In desperation, she got out of bed, sat on the edge with her arms stretched out at her sides as her fingers clutched the mattress. She’d gotten dizzy for a few moments. Maybe it was the wine she had for dinner … maybe it was her nerves … maybe it was Dominic waiting for her in San Diego. She would have given anything to know his reaction when he found she was not present today or this evening. Was he angry … did he huff and puff and say, I’ll blow your house down? To hell with you, Mr. Senator. Catherine walked quickly back into the bathroom and showered (bathing three to four times a day had been a compulsion of hers since childhood, as was her frantic aversion to disorder, especially when she was upset). Vigorously, she wiped herself dry. Nude, she returned to the bedroom, took the bottle from the ice hamper and poured herself a large glass, then sat down after turning on the Johnny Carson show, just in time for Ed McMahon to say, “and here’s … Johnny” … Applause … Applause … And that’s the last attention Catherine paid as she sipped her wine. The more she sipped, the greater her emotional fever rose until she cried out: What really happened to us, Dominic, we were happy, weren’t we? In the beginnin’, when you brought me as a bride to San Francisco? We were happy … God, I loved you so. She sobbed … then a sip … another sip and another and another … as she sat nude with the flicker of the television picture reflecting its color upon her body in the dark room. But her thoughts were now drifting … drifting. I was young and carryin’ Dominic’s first child. Oh, my, the joys that went into the conception of that child. Delirious, overwhelming, wild joy of being one. Catherine could look back and see it all so clearly, that first two-bedroom flat they had taken. How much was it? $85.00 … $95.00 a month … something like that. She laughed, but not happily at this moment, with the tears streaming down her face. Dominic really couldn’t afford it. Not just startin’ out in private practice, the way he did. Sure, he could’ve gone to his father. In fact, his father said it was foolish to struggle when there was no need … hadn’t he struggled enough in his life for all his children? But Dominic wouldn’t accept a dime, not a dime. Not because he was too proud to take … he didn’t have to be proud, not with his papa, but he wanted to prove that he could also struggle … that a little of the old Sicilian dust had rubbed off on him. Dominic … Dominic, so handsome, so brilliant … so … so virile. No wonder his family resented me. They were jealous … just plain jealous that he’d married an outsider. And you, Dominic, loved them so, with such devotion, you made me feel like an outsider, too. No, that’s not fair … I mean about you, it was them, them that always interfered between us, tryin’ to pull us apart, tryin’ to make me feel as though I were different … Oh, I don’t know, but ’course, I was. I was a lady with a proper upbringin’, proper and suited to be your wife … Oh, pooh, what do they mean, they never really mattered at all. It was just Dominic and me that first year as far as I was concerned. I don’t know, maybe I did make mistakes. God, I’d never let him know I was aware I made ’em. Not even now would I do that, but between me, myself and I, I did sorta start out wrong. I mean by buyin’ all those things, those elegant things for the house. I just couldn’t wait… no, not me … spoiled rotten, given everythin’ by my Mama and Daddy. But maybe I shouldn’t have done it to Dominic. It really offended him, sorta like takin’ his manhood away. I suppose that’s really what it came down to. I remember so clearly him sayin’ “Look Catherine, I really don’t want to deny you and I know this is going to be difficult for y
ou, but you knew when you married me you were going to live within my ability to support you in the best way I can.” “I know, Dom, but I want us to have all the pretty things now … Why, for heaven’s sake, I can afford ’em … you’d think I was doin’ somethin’ wrong. After all, I’m your wife, what’s mine is yours—don’t you know that, darlin’?” I remember how his eyes grew dark, not angry, mind you—good lawd, he was such a little boy, twenty-three after all. He took my small hand in his big paw and held it for a moment, then he said, “That’s very kind, Catherine, and generous, but don’t you see, I want to be able to give you all the things you want and are used to and I will, but just be patient for a little while. What I need now is more than money or beautiful things from you—I need your trust and belief in me; you’re going to have to wait for the things you want—and if you just trust in me, I’m going to give you everything … so instead of things, Catherine dear, give me time—time to build my practice. Help me, stand by me and I’ll buy you the moon—will you do that?” “Oh, yes, Dom, my darlin’, darlin’, Dom, I’d do anythin’ for you.” I still can feel that kiss that could always fire my passion. Oh dear, what a night of lovemakin’ that was. I was content for a little while and I meant to keep my promise to Dom, I really did, but—here I was stuck with all those gorgeous table linens, the Crown Derby china and that sterlin’ silver, to say nothin’ of the hundreds of gifts that Mama was send-in’ out west to me. I simply had to have the place and space to store them, didn’t I? So, I sashayed myself down to W. and J. Sloane’s and bought a little furniture … well, I can tell you, I was as nervous as a wet hen until it arrived. And just as I expected, Dom hit the ceilin’. It was our first fight… really big first fight, sayin’ all sorts of mean and nasty things—just so as we could hurt one another… and we did just that. My God, the things Dominic said positively shocked me. In fact, I get mad right now when I think about that night … over thirty years ago. Callin’ me a spoiled, possessive, uncontrolled, undisciplined bitch … and ’course I wasn’t about to take that kinda sass from him, not for one cotton pickin’ minute, so I called him every name in the book I could think of—and in Italian it sounded even better. I ended by sayin’ I hated him—and at that moment, I sure as hell did. But as though that wasn’t enough, I threatened to pack my bag and go home—and I meant that for damn sure. I think what hurt me worse than anythin’ was when Dom said he’d help me pack. Then I really got so damned mad, I threw somethin’ at him—let’s see, what was it? Oh, what difference does it make now, but I did hit him so hard, right in the stomach, he doubled over, then fell down on the floor, hittin’ his forehead on the corner of our new coffee table. My God, did my heart pound—why I thought I’d killed him. I can see it all so clear, me runnin’ over to him, takin’ his head in my arms and rockin’ him back and forth as the tears streamed down my face. “I’m so sorry, Dominic, darlin’, I’m so heartsick, I really don’t know why I do these things.” Finally, he recovered and I washed away the blood. Like all quarrels, the makin’ up was sweeter than ever—if that’s possible. But it was—why, we found things to say to one another durin’ our lovemakin’ we’d never said before … such sweet tender things—I really gave myself to Dom that night … and did I ever give myself to him!