The Truth is in the Wine

by Curtis Bunn

  Her questions stumped them. They wanted to remember, but couldn’t. The wine had them going. They looked at each other and laughed.

  “You don’t remember?” Brenda asked.

  “Well, I think… Weren’t we talking about… Didn’t you say…” Madeline said, unable to complete a thought.

  “Oh, I remember one thing,” Brenda said. “You said your husband died and I said I wished mine had died.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Madeline said, laughing.

  “Paul, pour us some more wine,” Brenda told her son.

  “Ma, you said you wish Dad was dead?” Paul asked. He was serious. He maintained a close relationship with his father, who retired to Palm Beach, Florida. He had planned to remarry in the next year.

  “He is dead to me,” Brenda said. She reached for the bottle, but it was empty. The server was standing there to alert them the food would arrive shortly.

  “Bring us another bottle of this,” Brenda to the server.

  “He’s dead to you is different from wishing he were dead,” Paul said.

  “I don’t wish no harm on the man,” she said. “Not anymore.”

  Which led Paul to ask the question he not dare ask sober.

  “So, Ma, why did you really get a divorce?” he said. “I mean, thirty-something, forty years, whatever it was. What could be that bad? Did he cheat on you? I asked him that and he said he didn’t? Did you cheat on him? He said you didn’t. So what was it?”

  Brenda Wall wanted to tell her son the truth but had not. The wine made it easier for the truth to flow out of her mouth.

  “I didn’t love him,” she said. “I had stopped loving your dad probably ten, twelve years ago.”

  “What?” Ginger said. She was feeling bold, too, and jumped into the conversation. “How can that be? How can you stay married to someone that long and not love him? I don’t understand.”

  “Some things aren’t meant for you to understand,” Brenda said. “I hope you don’t ever understand. If you do, then that would mean you don’t love my son, because the only way to really understand is to be in a situation like I was. That’s the only way.”

  “Ma, I was around you guys all my life,” Paul said. “I didn’t see anything that made me feel like you all didn’t love each other.”

  “We did love each other,” Brenda explained. “But we were not in love. That ended a long time ago. It faded away, like smoke, into the air. Gone. And I believe it hit both of us around the same time. There was no spark, no magic.”

  The second bottle of wine came and Paul refilled the glasses. Brenda went on.

  “We stayed together for one reason: loyalty. We were best friends at one time and we saw each other through some serious issues that brought us closer together.”

  “Like what, Ma?” Paul said. “This is blowing my mind and I’m trying to understand.”

  Brenda Wall sipped her wine and closed her eyes. The room was rotating and she was trying to stop it—and her tongue. It didn’t work.

  She sat back in her chair and took a deep breath. “When you were a baby, too young to even understand what was happening,” Brenda explained, “I was very sick. Doctors didn’t know what was wrong with me, but I couldn’t keep any food down and I lost weight like crazy and was tired all the time.

  “Finally, I went to the hospital; stayed there for eleven days. They ran all kinds of tests, but couldn’t find anything. They thought it might be lupus at one point. They tried all the experimental drugs on me.

  “Your father was right there with me, in the hospital, taking care of you. He was totally positive; he kept my head up. If he hadn’t, I think I would have died. Seriously. Altogether, I was sick for about three weeks. I mean, really sick. When they sent me home, your father carried me from the bed to the bathroom. He cleaned up after me. He did everything. And he never complained.

  “The doctors finally put me on some kind of steroids, and I finally started feeling better. Do you know what it’s like to feel like you’re going to die? To feel like you’re fading away? Here I was with a precious little boy and I was dying. That’s what I believed. And I cried my eyes out every night. And your father held me in his arms every night—until, finally, the steroids, did something to right the ship.”

  “He did that out of love, Ms. Wall,” Ginger said. “That’s beautiful.”

  “It was beautiful,” Brenda said. “But over time, it all faded. Why? How? Because, really, being totally honest, he wasn’t the man for me.”

  “What do you mean, Ma?”

  “I mean…” Brenda said, taking a deep breath, “when I was pregnant with you, I wasn’t sure your father was your father.”

  “What? What do you mean?” Paul said.

  “I mean that I was dating someone else, in love with someone else, when I got pregnant by your dad,” Brenda said. Suddenly, she became almost sullen. She sipped more wine and spewed more truths, truths she never thought she would share with her son.

  “The man I was in love with was special to me,” she explained. “We were young and in love and used to talk all the time about the life we would have. But he got drafted into the Army and before I knew it, he was gone.

  “He wrote me and I wrote him, but he wasn’t sure when he was going to come back home. Finally, he did come back home, and nothing changed. He was fun and exciting and he loved me. We had fun for about a week before he had to go back.

  “He was stationed in North Carolina but was going overseas somewhere, Germany, I think. We were barely twenty years old. I was mad that he left and, at a most vulnerable point, I met your father. He was the friend of a coworker. He was outside our building when we got off work, waiting for his friend, who I was walking with.

  “He invited me to go out with them, and I did. And it grew from there.

  “A little while later—about a month or two—I realized I didn’t have my regular cycle. And that’s where the confusion came in. But when the doctors told me how long I had been pregnant, I knew it was James’ baby.”

  “Why is it I never heard this before?” Paul asked.

  “I don’t know,” his mother said. “It’s not a good story, really. When he came back home, I was eight months pregnant and it broke his heart when I told him he wasn’t the father. And it broke my heart, too. I should have waited on him, but I really didn’t think I would see him again. My friends were telling me, ‘Brenda, he’s going to travel the world and you think he’s coming back to you?’ And after hearing it enough, I started to believe it.”

  “Where is he now?” Madeline asked.

  “I don’t know,” Brenda said. “After I told him I was pregnant, he still wanted to marry me. That’s the kind of man he was. But I had already made plans to marry James and I thought it wouldn’t be fair to you, Paul, to not have your father in your life. My friend understood, but he had tears in his eyes when he left me. And I cried.”

  Brenda actually developed tears in her eyes as she told the story. And Paul noticed.

  “You still love him, don’t you, Ma?” he asked.

  She wiped her face. “I guess I still love the idea of him and what we could have had together,” Brenda said. “But your father and I got married before you were born—yes, I went down that aisle with a big ole stomach—and went on and had a good life together for a long time.”

  “But it wasn’t what you planned for yourself?” Paul asked.

  “It wasn’t; but you have to walk in your life. It is already planned for us,” his mom said. “James was a good man; is a good man. I was joking about wanting him dead. That would devastate me. But he wasn’t the man for me. And over time, it just got to be that I had to breathe again. I couldn’t breathe being in a marriage that really didn’t do anything for me.

  “We had our greatest gift—you—and some really good times, times I will never forget. But you were long gone and I was left dealing with the man in front of me. And that wasn’t enough—for either of us.”

  “Don’t you feel lo
nely, though?” Madeline asked. “I know I do.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Brenda admitted. “At times it’s very lonely. But the peace I have within myself balances it out.”

  The burgers came and they ate mostly in silence—except for an occasional outburst by Paul about the football game. They enjoyed the meal and the wine and watched the Redskins defeat the Cowboys, giving mother and son some needed feel-good after Brenda’s revelations.

  On the way back to the car, Paul walked with Ginger and Brenda with Madeline, and the drama seemed to fade away…for a while, anyway.

  CHAPTER 7

  IN THE LAND OF GRAPES

  Paul settled into the car and headed toward Napa. His GPS gave him directions across the Bay Bridge, but he wanted to cross the Golden Gate Bridge.

  And, surprisingly, no one argued with him.

  After some wayward turns in the city, though, Ginger asked: “Can I ask someone how we get to the Golden Gate? We’re wasting time.”

  “My instincts tell me we’re close,” Paul said.

  “Boy, you have the sense of direction of a blind donkey,” his mother said. “Ask somebody so we can stop riding around this city.”

  “Really,” Madeline said. “I’m ready for a hot shower and…”

  “And what?” Brenda asked with a smile. “Go ahead, you can say it.”

  “A drink, dammit. Get a drink,” Madeline blurted out, and everyone laughed. Well, everyone except Ginger. She had some concern about her mother’s drinking, and it increased by the month. Based on what she saw on the plane and at lunch, Ginger was now worried.

  Her mother always had a healthy appetite for cocktails, but it grew exponentially after her husband died less than a year before.

  “Mother, maybe we should start fresh tomorrow when we visit the vineyards,” she said. It was as delicately as she could put it.

  “Excuse me?” Madeline said.

  “I’m just saying that we have a lot of sipping to do and I don’t want you to be sick tomorrow because you had so much today,” Ginger said.

  Madeline was already buzzing from the wine at lunch, and it showed. “I thought we already talked about this,” she said to her daughter. “I don’t need nobody monitoring how much I drink. You act like I’m gonna get sloppy drunk and embarrass you. Well, I won’t.

  “And if I did embarrass you it would be payback for all the times you embarrassed the hell out of me when you were a kid.”

  Paul found the Golden Gate Bridge, without anyone’s assistance, and made sure everyone knew it. “Who told you it was close?” he said, “Me. I have the instincts of an explorer.”

  He said that to turn the subject; he could sense it was getting heated between mother and daughter. Didn’t work.

  “So that’s your excuse, Mother?” Ginger said. The way she said it made Paul look at his wife. It was dark in the car, so he fumbled with the gadgets around the rearview mirror until he found the interior light switch.

  He wanted to see Ginger’s eyes; they told if she were intoxicated. If they were open and bright, she was OK. If they were barely open and glazed over…trouble. Some people get quiet when they get a buzz, some get loud, some get talkative, some get belligerent. Ginger was one of the belligerent ones.

  “You’re paying me back for what I did as a child?” she asked. “Really? Seriously? You’re joking, right? I can recall some things that you did to me when I was a child that I should be mad at you about, if you want to know the truth.”

  “The truth is that—look—we’re about to cross the Golden Gate Bridge,” Paul said, again trying to get their attention somewhere else. The women turned to look, but only briefly.

  “Look,” Brenda said, “you can walk across the bridge. We should do that—well not you, Paul. But I think I would do it.”

  “Yeah, I can do without that, Ma,” he said. “Oh, wow. Look over there.”

  He pointed to his far right, where across the San Francisco Bay you could see the beautiful skyline of San Francisco all lit up.

  “Now that’s beautiful,” Brenda said. “Do you ladies see this?”

  Ginger and Madeline turned and admired the spectacular view. Paul drove slowly so they could take in as much of it as possible.

  “The East Coast is not this pretty,” Madeline said. “The mountains, the water, the skyline—this is so gorgeous.”

  The banter about the beauty of the area continued across the bridge and along Interstate 80. Ginger was about to address her mother again when Paul said to her: “You’re up front, so you have to be my navigator. How long are we on this highway?”

  It was a nice try, but Ginger was looking for a confrontation. “Here,” she said to Paul, handing him her cell phone. “I programmed the hotel’s address in the GPS. That will get us there.”

  She then turned halfway around in her seat to address her mother.

  “I wasn’t the one as a five-year-old kid who was left at home alone,” she said. “I can recall many times when I wasn’t even in the first grade and Daddy was at work and you locked me in the house and went to do God knows what.”

  “Child, you couldn’t hardly remember that far back and that never happened anyway,” Madeline said. “Look who can’t handle her alcohol. You’re drunk—and delusional.”

  “Mother, I might be drunk and at times I might be delusional,” Ginger said. “This ain’t one of those times. I recall clearly being hungry and scared and wondering where you were. Daddy used to kiss me goodbye; he was working the third or fourth shift at night. I was at home with you and you would leave me, make me go to bed and I’d lay there and cry and you would leave anyway.”

  “Ginger, that just did not happen,” Madeline insisted. “I might have left you and went outside for a few minutes. But that’s it. If you were crying it wasn’t because of me. I was there for you.”

  Ginger took a deep breath. Her tone lowered, but her words were figuratively booming.

  “Were you there when Uncle Ambrose came into my room that night you left me and went to the card game next door?” Ginger asked.

  Whatever buzz Madeline had evaporated immediately. “What? What are you talking about, Ginger?”

  “You heard me,” her daughter responded.

  Paul was shocked and concerned, too. He had not heard this from his wife, and when they were right, they talked about everything. At least, that’s what he thought.

  “Ginger, please don’t tell me he did something to you,” Madeline said. She was almost crying. “Please don’t tell me that.”

  “It was a Friday night,” Ginger said.

  “Gin,” Paul said, the concern in his voice evident.

  “It’s OK,” she said. “I was in bed, waiting for you to come check on me, but you never did. So I finally fell asleep, but I woke up when I felt my bed move. I jumped up. I was so scared. It was Uncle Ambrose. He said, ‘Hey, baby. I didn’t mean to scare you. I came in here to tuck you in, make sure you’re all right.’

  “His voice sounded strange, like he was someone else. I was only five years old but right away I realized something was wrong. But I didn’t know what to say.

  “So, he slid closer to me; he was sitting at the foot of my bed at first. Then I knew something was really wrong because he pulled my covers back. I was confused. ‘If he’s trying to tuck me in, why is he taking the covers off me?’ My little five-year-old brain could process that something was wrong.

  “I could smell the alcohol on his breath; he was reeking. He put his hand on my shoulder. He said something like, ‘Kiss your Uncle Ambrose good night.’ Then he tapped his lips. ‘Here. Kiss your Uncle Ambrose good night right here.’

  “Now I was really scared. But before I could scream, Daddy came in the room. He grabbed Uncle Ambrose and threw him on the floor. He came over to me and asked me if I was OK. I couldn’t talk; I nodded my head. He leaned over and hugged me and kissed me on my face and pulled the covers back over top of me.

  “He said, ‘Go to sleep, baby. I will
be back to check on you later. Sweet dreams.’ Then he pulled Uncle Ambrose up off the floor and dragged him out of the room.…never saw Uncle Ambrose again.”

  Madeline had a look of shock on her face. For several seconds, she did not say anything. Paul and Brenda were riveted to Ginger’s words and did not know what to say. Finally, Madeline broke her silence.

  “It all makes sense now,” she said. “I know exactly the night you are speaking of, baby. That was the night your uncle was found not far from our house, beaten almost to death. No one ever knew what happened to him.

  “The last person to see him was one of our neighbors who said he swore he saw Ambrose go into our house that night. And he saw your father go into the house a little while later. But he never saw Ambrose come out. The police questioned us—everyone who was next door at the card game, the neighbors—and according to them, that was the last time he was seen in a healthy condition, walking into the front door of our house.”

  “What do you mean, it makes sense now, Momma?” Ginger asked.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “For what, Momma?”

  “I left you alone and my brother would have probably raped you if your father hadn’t come home when he did,” Madeline said. “Ambrose was sick; he wasn’t playing with a full deck. There were times when everyone was afraid of him. He was liable to do anything. But your father told me—and I’ll never forget his words— he said: ‘Maddy, if he puts a hand on you or Ginger I swear to you I will kill him.’

  “Your father had never spoken to me with such force and conviction about anything. I knew he meant it.”

  “What are you saying? That Daddy killed Uncle Ambrose?”

  Madeline looked away, toward the mountains that sandwiched Interstate 80.

  “Mother,” Ginger pleaded.

  “He didn’t technically kill him,” Madeline said, turning to her daughter. “When Ambrose was found, he was alive, but really in bad shape. He was in the hospital for several days and then one day had a heart attack and died. So, that’s what was on his death certificate. The doctors couldn’t tell if the beating he took played a role in his death.