The Underside of Joy

by Seré Prince Halverson

  Chapter Ten

  ‘“Life’s a Picnic”? Isn’t that a bit ironic, considering the circumstances?’ Lucy stood at my kitchen counter, pouring a glass of wine each for David and me, a smooth pinot noir from her vineyard in Sebastopol. The label now had a black Scotty terrier catching a red Frisbee against a white background. I loved the label. Wineries were getting so creative all of a sudden. So why shouldn’t grocery stores too?

  David said, ‘Another lemonade-out-of-lemons story?’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Only we’ve got sandwiches to go with that lemonade, and salads and spreads . . . all made from local organic vegetables, of course, and gorgeous picnic baskets and maps and blankets.’ I sounded like an overly zealous radio announcer, but I needed both of them to think it could work. And I needed David to help me make it work.

  Lucy and David were my closest friends. Long before I met them, they’d attempted to sleep together. They were in high school, back when David was still trying to convince himself he was straight. He told me all his doubts had been erased that night; if Lucy couldn’t do it for him, with her long black lashes, alabaster skin, and downright amazing breasts, no woman could. Lucy, on the other hand, told me she planned to stay single until George Clooney proposed to her.

  Lucy sat on the couch and said, ‘Before I forget, you both have to come see the vineyard again. It’s magical right now. Absolutely . . . Okay, Ella, you were saying? Lemons?’

  David swirled the pinot noir in his glass and raised it to the light. ‘A crisp, vibrant mouthfeel. Blackberries and rhubarb lingering in a long finish. Yes. The vanilla and spices add lovely complexity. Exceptional, really, Lucy.’

  ‘Oh God,’ I said. He could be such a lovable snob.

  ‘I feel more comfortable if you just call me David.’ He spread his fingers, examining his nails. ‘I can almost see this . . . picnics in the orchards, the vineyards, the redwoods, by the river, along the coast, we have it all. We team up with other businesses, inviting weekenders to come up and stay at the Elbow Inn, have a family-style dinner at Pascal’s or Scalini’s, and have an incredible picnic in the natural setting of your choice. It’s not just about going wine tasting anymore . . . But it’s a long shot, El. And it sounds expensive.’

  I had called them, spilling over with ideas to transform Capozzi’s Market into a store that catered mostly to tourists, a place they could stop and get all the fixings for an incredible picnic. We’d carry things you couldn’t get at the box stores. Local artisan organic everything. Heavy on the Italian, but not locked into it; I could also see California cuisine and Pacific Asian influences. We’d have an olive bar and some of Marcella’s stuffed sandwiches and salads – from baby beet with orange zest and dandelion greens to old-fashioned potato – that were perfect for picnicking. Bread from the bakery in Freestone, of course. A kick-ass wine selection, with a weekly featured winery hosting tastings on the store premises on Saturdays and Sundays. Lucy’s would be the first. I hoped David might be interested in taking on the role of full-time chef. And we’d have detailed, beautifully illustrated maps to the best local picnic spots, by our local recluse artist, Clem Silver, which might take some doing, but I was willing to try.

  Yes, the store would be called Life’s a Picnic – perhaps a bit tongue in cheek, perhaps a sort of middle finger to fate. Widowhood be damned. Lacking life insurance policy be damned. Collection notices be damned. I was going to figure out a way to do this. Plus, I was afraid to go off to a job when Paige was lurking around every corner. I needed to be able to work and have the kids close. Saving the store felt necessary in so many ways, some of which I was afraid to articulate to myself, let alone to Lucy and David.

  He stared at his empty wineglass. As I reached for the bottle to pour him more, he said, ‘I get it. Earthy sophistication. What this area’s known for. Fine wine. Hemp picnic blankets. Caviar and alfalfa sprouts. But I don’t know . . . I’m not really big into starvation. Do you think it would actually make, you know, money?’ he asked. ‘Oops.’

  I followed his gaze out of the window to see a mouse dashing across the porch railing. In broad daylight.

  ‘You need a kitty cat.’

  ‘David. I do not need a cat right now. It’s one little mouse.’

  ‘Honey, they multiply.’ He stared at me, but I didn’t respond. He sighed. ‘The knowledge of which seems to do nothing beneficial for us today but provides the perfect segue: We’ll need to talk numbers.’ David and Lucy were both good with numbers. Lucy had just bought a vineyard with a boutique winery. David had been a media buyer for an ad agency in San Francisco. But Gil had sold his dot-com company, happily retired, and now volunteered at the animal shelter. They’d bought a beautiful house up the river. David quickly grew tired of the two-hour commute, quit his job, and was looking for something local, but it wasn’t like the area was teeming with ad agencies.

  Everyone knew he needed something to do. At Easter, Gil had pulled me aside and said, ‘I’ve gained nine pounds this month. He’s cooking three gourmet meals followed by dessert – yes, dessert even after breakfast – every fucking day. The man needs a job.’ Now I had just the job for the man. If I could convince him it was a good idea.

  I smiled, trying to exude confidence. ‘Yes, we can make money. You’ve got connections. You could have us in every wine and foodie rag on the West Coast.’

  He nodded. Swirled his glass. ‘You know Joe. He was such a purist about that store. He hated anything touristy.’

  ‘I know. But that attitude was making us pure broke.’

  Lucy said, ‘She’s got a point.’

  ‘And this would be classy, David, not tacky – but not uppity, either. The food would be local and from scratch. With a big nod to what Grandpa Sergio started. Joe would like that.’

  Lucy stood. ‘Unfortunately, I’m tapped out money-wise right now with the vineyard. But I think this idea is spot-on. And I want to help every other way I can.’ She came over and hugged me.

  David finished off his last sip of wine. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Aw, come on, David,’ I teased. ‘Didn’t you always want the store when you were kids? Wasn’t there a bit of sibling rivalry going on there? You know, Davy’s Market?’

  David’s face took on the colour of the pomegranates I’d set in a bowl on the counter. ‘What, when I was, like, five? I outgrew that obsession around the same time I quit wearing my Winnie-the-Pooh undies because Joe called them my Poo Pants.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll think about it. And I’ll need to see the financial information in black-and-white.’

  You mean red? I almost asked, but didn’t.

  The rest of the week, while I wrote fourteen measly checks accompanied by notes that promised I’d send more as soon as possible, I tried to think of ways to convince David that the picnic store was a good idea. Sure, it was a little touristy for Joe’s taste, but he’d mentioned how he wished he could somehow regain the original charm of Grandpa Sergio’s store. And Joe would appreciate the ode to our picnics.

  I had to convince David that this was a way to pay homage to that history, keep the store running, and make it profitable too. I needed David. I could cook up a storm for my family, but he could take it to a whole other level, and I obviously had some things to learn about the money side of a business. I felt desperate, and I still hadn’t mentioned the life insurance problem, not to anyone.

  I would definitely need the family to get on board. And that meant disclosing to everyone just how bad things were financially. I knew I should have already come clean, but it seemed like a betrayal. I needed to talk to Joe.

  One night I picked up the phone and dialled the number at the store. I had done it before, many times, just to hear his voice, to hear him say, ‘Thanks for calling Capozzi’s Market. We’re tied up with customers right now. Leave a message and we’ll get back to you.’

  But this was different. This time, I actually called to talk to him. Some part of me, my arm and fingers at least, momentarily forgot tha
t Joe was dead, and picked up the phone and dialled his number so I could say, Honey, what should I do? Come home, have dinner – I made lentil soup – and we’ll figure this mess out. Oh, and can you bring some coffee?

  When the answering machine picked up, his voice knocked me into the present. I hung up the phone, then checked it. The dial tone, flat and lifeless, droned through my ear, through my head, my throat, my heart. Changing the store would mean changing the answering-machine recording, something I hadn’t been able to bring myself to do.

  The next week David, Lucy and I were out touring her vineyard, walking up the hill between the rows, the vines like outstretched arms greeting us in the late afternoon sun. Lucy was in love with this spot of earth and excited to share it in all its phases. She wore work boots and a broad-brimmed hat, tenderly touching the grapes and vines as she talked.

  ‘The pinot noir grapes are starting to change from green to purple. If you look closely enough, each grape displays a different intensity of colour. Aren’t they gorgeous?’ She told us the process was called verasion. This was also the time in the growing season for stripping away some of the leaves in order to control the canopy. ‘The more sun these lovelies get, the drier and more flavourful they’ll be. By fall they’ll be perfectly plump and ready for crush.’ She mentioned terroir, the big buzzword among vintners and winemakers that was constantly debated.

  ‘Terroir is that sense of place that you experience when you drink a glass of wine. This hillside has a history.’ Lucy held her hands out as if she were giving a blessing. ‘There is the climate, even the certain way the sunlight slants against this hill. And the geology – the layers upon layers of rock and volcanic ash from millions of years ago. The parent materials break down to make the soil what it is today, its mineralogy, the chemical balance.’

  ‘I have one of those,’ David said. ‘Oh, wait, mine is a chemical imbalance. My mistake, go on.’

  Lucy rolled her eyes. ‘As I was saying . . . terroir is the expression of the land the grapes come from. Others say terroir is about viticulture, the influence on the grape. It’s the way the vines are hand pruned, the type of barrels, the whole winemaking process as well. And some say it’s everything – from what occurred here throughout the ages to the moment the bottle is uncorked.’

  ‘I’ve always thought,’ I said, ‘this might sound strange – but Annie and Zach, this place, Elbow, permeates them. I always want to breathe them in. It must be their terroir.’

  Lucy said, ‘The terroir of people? I can hear all the debating they’ll get out of this one. Do go on.’

  ‘It’s . . . I can smell the land, this place, in their hair, in the creases of their necks, and on their fingertips. This wonderful loamy scent mixed with wood smoke, the tanoak and redwoods, the rosemary, the lavender. And okay, a little garlic from being at Marcella’s . . . I don’t know. It sounds funny when I try to explain it.’

  David patted my back. ‘Nothing a little bathing wouldn’t fix.’

  ‘Ha-ha. Very funny.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I actually get what you’re saying. And I could even take it a step further. I’ve been thinking about your idea for the store.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Grandpa Sergio died years ago, but that grocery store still smells like him when I walk in the door – it’s faint, but it’s always there. Especially up in the office. His cherry tobacco pipe smoke. And it’s mixed with Pop’s Old Spice.’

  ‘Nothing opening a window wouldn’t fix,’ Lucy said.

  ‘Touché.’ He shook his head. ‘But no, that wouldn’t get rid of it. Nothing will. Even changing the store, even remodelling it and turning it into a slightly different kind of store – it will still be Capozzi’s Market. You’ll still be able to feel the family history when you walk in. Maybe even more so with the big nod to the mother country, as Grandpa used to call it. That’s what’s important. If we don’t try Ella’s idea, we’re probably going to have to let the place go and lose everything my grandfather, my dad, and my brother worked for all these years.’

  I was afraid to say anything. Some kind of spell seemed to be on us there on that symmetrically furrowed hillside, surrounded by old gnarled vines and young grapes.

  ‘Change can be good. You know, I always told Joe to quit fighting the tourist thing. To celebrate it. But I was just the baby of the family, not anyone who’d ever run the store. Grandpa made that clear,’ David finally said. ‘I still want to talk numbers. But I think you might be onto something, Ella. Let’s talk about what you would need from me. I think I want a place at this picnic.’

  I grabbed the both of them and let out a victory holler. We ambled arm in arm down the hill to the small stone winery to celebrate. Despite the fact that now we had to talk numbers.

  Lucy poured wine. We toasted to terroir, to Life’s a Picnic. I told them about my life insurance problem. I also explained just how bad I thought the store’s financial situation was. I could see them both not gasping as if their lives depended on it. Lucy poured more wine. David drummed his fingers and made a ticking sound with his tongue – a habit of his whenever he was thinking something through. I usually only noticed it when we were on the phone, but at that point in the evening David’s tongue ticking was the only sound in the room.

  Finally he said, ‘Let me break the news gently to the folks, about the store and about the insurance. I know why Joe didn’t fess up to Dad.’ He seemed far away. ‘Because he was always trying to make him and Grandpa proud. We both were. Even me with my desperate lack of Italian machismo. My dad seems to still desperately need that . . . pride in the store, pride in his father, pride in us.’ His eyes filled and he stood up. ‘In his two sons.’

  Chapter Eleven

  The next morning while I washed dishes, I felt a tug on the leg of my jeans and looked down to see Zach staring up at me, sucking his thumb and holding Bubby, rubbing the turquoise satin of the bunny ears on his cheek.

  ‘What, honey?’

  He started swatting Bubby against the kitchen drawers. I turned off the water and knelt down. ‘What is it, Zachosaurus?’

  He sighed. ‘When is Daddy coming home?’

  ‘Oh, honey.’ I hugged him. ‘Daddy died. Remember? Daddy’s not coming home.’

  ‘I know. But when is he coming back?’

  ‘He’s not coming back.’

  ‘When I’m a big boy?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. Not when you’re a big boy.’

  ‘That mama lady came back.’

  ‘She did. But she didn’t die. She just lives somewhere else and came to visit. Do you understand the difference?’

  He nodded and sighed again. ‘Can I have a oatmeal bar? A whole one?’

  ‘Sure. But do you understand about Daddy?’

  He started flipping Bubby up and down and doing a silly dance, saying ‘Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh! And some milk. Pleeeeeeeze.’

  The now familiar uh-huh song, which had started shortly after Joe died, seemed to be Zach’s way of saying that he was done talking for the time being. He was three and having trouble understanding. Hell, I was thirty-five and still didn’t get it some days. But I wished I knew how to help him.

  Later that afternoon, Paige called and said something that shocked me, her words like big flashing signs emerging from the fog, finally telling me where we were headed if we continued down that road. She would often call to speak to Annie. I’d wanted to question Paige, but I could never get out the words; I always felt a physical barrier, as if something lay lodged in my throat, blocking any questions that carried the possibility of ruining our world. But that day when she called, I took a deep breath and squeezed out some words, asking her what her intentions were. I sounded like some grumpy father questioning a teenage boy about dating his daughter, which hadn’t been my intention, but my own anxiety clamouring out.

  ‘My intentions?’ Paige asked. ‘I beg your pardon? I’m Annie’s mother. And I would like to speak to my daughter.’


  I took another deep breath. ‘Yes, I understand that you gave birth to Annie. But you’ve been gone a long time, and Paige, I’m just worried about Annie getting hurt.’

  ‘Really? If you’re so worried about hurting Annie, perhaps you should be more careful when you drive so you don’t almost cause a car accident and then scream obscenities at my children.’

  I opened my mouth. No words would come out, but my heart beat so loudly, she could probably hear it echoing up through my throat.

  She continued. ‘Please put Annie on the line. Or do I need a court order?’

  A court order? Did she say a court order? ‘Paige, I just – Okay, I’ll get her.’

  What did she want? What did she want? Part of me understood that a relationship with Paige could be good for Annie. But part of me was scared of what that might mean for Annie and me and Zach. And what if, once they’d got used to her, Paige vanished into thin air again?

  Still, she was Annie and Zach’s mother – their birth mother, at least – and if knowing her did make them feel more secure in this world, and if she was serious about not disappearing again, that was far more important than any jealous, territorial feelings of mine. That’s what I kept telling myself, anyway, as it became difficult to take a deep enough breath, which had been happening more and more often. Especially around two in the morning. Breathe in.

  Paige. The kids. The bills. The store. Tomorrow. The next day.

  Breathe out.

  ‘Mommy?’ Annie said behind me. ‘Why are you blowing so much noise and letting out such big long breaths?’

  I turned to her. She was six, but she’d matured so much in the last few months. She’d had to. I didn’t want to ask her, but the words came out before I could clamp my mouth shut.

  ‘Banannie? Did you tell your mama about our trip to Great America?’

  She nodded, big nods so her ponytail flipped up and down.