by Curtis Bunn
“Well, I also had been sick—stomach problems—and when I was growing up there was no such thing as hot mint ginger tea. My mom gave us a laxative. So that’s what I took to feel better.”
“Uh-oh,” Brenda said. “I see where this is going.”
No one else did. “So, he’s over my apartment,” Madeline went on. “We’re talking and having a good time and it’s about two or three in the morning and we’re both asleep on the couch. When I woke up, I couldn’t ask him to go home.
“So I tell him to come on, ‘Let’s go to bed.’ He perks right up and I guess thinks we’re gonna do something. Anyway, I change into a gown and he’s in bed in his boxers. And we’re hugging and kissing and I’m so tired that as soon as we stop, I fall asleep. The sleeping pills took over.
“I guess after a while your dad fell asleep, too. Around six in the morning, I wake up. The pills were so strong that I’m a little bit disoriented. I see him resting there peacefully. The sun is peeping through the blinds. Just a perfect little morning.
“Then I start to smell something. I start sniffing him, seeing if it’s coming from him. I sit up in the bed and I’m looking around the room, and the scent is getting stronger and stronger. Now it’s plain old stinky. So I move the sheets back and the funk bursts into my face. Again, I thought he had passed gas. But the reality was crazy.”
Madeline leaned in even closer so that she could lower her voice and they could still hear her. “It turned out that it wasn’t him,” she said. “I looked between my legs and there was a small pile of shit in the bed, all runny and wet. I had shit on myself in my sleep.”
The group burst into laughter so loud that almost everyone on the patio turned to see what was happening. Paul got up from his seat and leaned over the white picket fence, laughing uncontrollably.
It took them a few minutes to get themselves together.
“Mother,” Ginger said when it calmed down. “Are you serious?”
“The moral of this story?” Madeline asked. “Don’t take a sleeping pill and a laxative at the same time.”
And the laughter started again. It took them a few minutes to calm down.
“I tell you what,” Brenda said. “If he married you anyway, he really loved you.”
“Wait,” Paul said, “how did you explain to him what happened?”
“Oh, well, that was funny, too,” Madeline said. “So, I was, as you might guess, panicked when I realized what happened. So I tried to cover up the pile with the sheets to mute the funk and then ease out of the bed without waking him. But all the movement woke him up. So, I tried to hurry to the bathroom, but it was on his side of the bed, so I had to walk right past him.
“Remember that nightgown I said I put on? Well, it was white and the back of it looked like I sat in a giant pile of dark chocolate. It was crazy. I tried to hide it but there was too much mess.”
Laughing, Ginger asked, “What did Daddy say?”
He said, “You OK?”
“I hope you said, ‘No,’ ” Brenda said.
“I did. I told him to not move; I didn’t want him to—God forbid—roll over onto that mess or pull the cover off of it. So, he just lay there. I cleaned myself up and told him to get out of the bed as I pulled the sheets off.
“He never said a word. He just looked at me. And I never said anything about it. It was so stinky and nasty. But that’s the kind of man he was: He didn’t want me to be any more embarrassed than I already was.”
“No offense, but he still married you?” Paul said. “Now that’s love.”
“So if that were me, you wouldn’t have asked me to marry you?” Ginger said.
“Gin, you can do-do right here and I’d clean it up and keep it moving,” Paul said. Everyone laughed, and the tension of the parents’ double date the next day was gone.
“I have never told anyone that story; I actually tried to forget it,” Madeline said.
“When you really think of it, it’s romantic,” Ginger said. “You showed yourself at a vulnerable position and Daddy still wanted you. It didn’t matter to him. He did not care. He loved you.”
Paul poured everyone more wine. “See, this is what I’m talking about,” he said. “A beautiful day, good food, good wine, lots of laughs and family.”
“How you feeling, Mother?” Ginger said. “Your stomach.”
“I feel like I’m back to normal,” Madeline said. “Bring on the wine tasting.”
“I feel a little sluggish, but I’m ready to go, too,” Brenda said.
“Speaking of going, it’s your time to go,” Paul said. “What’s your embarrassing story?”
“I haven’t had enough wine yet to tell it,” she said. “Let’s keep drinking and go to a tasting and then let me tell my story.”
No one argued with Brenda. They had laughed so hard at Madeline that they needed a break anyway. So they enjoyed the mid-sixties November temperatures and absorbed being in Napa Valley.
“I said it already, but I could live out here,” Paul said. “There’s a feel of peace and calm out here that I never had before.”
“Yes, but I’m sure it’s the idea that there is wine all around you that makes it even more appealing,” his mother said. “Look out there. Vineyards everywhere.”
Ginger wanted to talk about something else. “I probably didn’t handle it well on the bridge, but can I ask you something, Mother—and you, too, Miss Wall?” she asked.
The ladies nodded their heads.
“It hasn’t even been a year ago since Daddy died and I haven’t gotten over it,” she began. “I still dream about him being here and I wake up so devastated and even angry when I realize that it was a dream. I can admit—I was a daddy’s girl and I haven’t moved on. I want my father here. So, how do you do it? How do you move on?”
Madeline took the defensive at first. She didn’t want her daughter to think she loved her father any more than she loved him as her husband. But she surprised herself by her ability to eschew her personal feelings and, instead, seek to give Ginger some clarity.
Madeline sipped her wine and motioned for Paul to pour her more. He did and she took a sip of it and reached across the table and held her daughter’s hand.
“I guess we’re one big happy family here, so I can share this right here, right now,” Madeline started. “I miss your father more than anyone could possibly know. You don’t love him or miss him any more than me, I can promise you that. I can hardly remember my life before him. His love is infused in my body, in my heart. No one could ever replace who he was to me, who he remains to me, even in death. I learned how to love through your father. Everything good in me came from my parents and your dad.
“I am so glad to hear how much you love and miss him. It’s only right because you were the crown jewel of his life. He loved me, sure. He coveted you, Ginger. You know what he said one time? He said, ‘Maddy, I can die a proud man knowing I helped bring my daughter into the world.’ That’s how much you meant to him—everything.
“So I guess you thinking I must be crazy to not still be totally devastated by his death. But you’re wrong, honey. Do you have any idea how upside down my life has been since he died? Do you have any inkling what it is like to have one of your arms cut off? That’s what it is like for me.
“So, my answer is, I don’t know how to tell you to move on. I’m living my life, but I haven’t moved on. This man lives in me every day and always will. I knew him better than anyone on the planet. He shared so much with me, and me with him. And because I know him, I know he hardly wants me sitting around playing the victim and not living my life. That’s the man he was.
“I never dishonored my husband in life and I damn sure won’t in death. And he would want me to live my life. I have to, Ginger. If I don’t, what happens to me? I don’t have my husband anymore and you can rest assured I’m not OK about that. I have the same dreams you have about him being here, only to wake up in tears. We got sick last night and while I was in bed, I thoug
ht about how he would have reacted to me throwing up in the hallway of a hotel. And you know what? He would have made sure I was all right, cleaned up the mess and once I started feeling better, laughed his ass off at me. He would have made me laugh at myself.
“Think about it: He never ran stuff into the ground. He was always about moving on to the next thing. He was positive, Ginger. And so I’m not going to be the widow so devastated that she sits in the house with the shades drawn. And you know why? That’s not what my husband would want me to do. And so I am honoring him by living my life. And that’s what you have to tell yourself and believe it. Your father wants you to live your life.”
With that, Madeline wiped the tears that streamed down her face. Ginger did, too. And so did Brenda. Paul practically popped an eye muscle he worked so hard to prevent crying.
In a very real way, one he never articulated, this was the kind of thing Paul wanted to happen on their trip. The more he thought of their parents going with him and Ginger, the more he thought it was an ideal way to bring the families together for more than holidays, graduations or funerals.
There was a divide between the families stemming from unfounded perspectives. Brenda perceived Madeline’s self-assuredness as arrogance and snobbishness and Madeline interpreted Brenda’s unfiltered tongue to a lack of sophistication. Their discord was as transparent as glass, and so the families hardly spent time truly getting to know each other because Brenda and Madeline spread misleading rumors and sometimes all-out lies about their child spouse’s family.
It was pathetic, yes, but it was their way. Paul saw this cross-country venture as an opportunity to end the madness, to bring together the families and form a bond. It was a truly noble idea, especially with women in their sixties who were stuck in their ways, however warped.
But it was working. Something about being away from home opened them up, batted down their guards and they allowed the other to see her for who she really was. Madeline’s explanation to Ginger silenced the table, except for the tears.
Paul looked at his mother and he knew she had a new respect, a new appreciation for Madeline.
“Let’s have a toast to your husband,” Paul said, as the women wiped away tears.
Ginger rose from the table and came over to the other side and hugged her mother. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’m sorry,” she said softly.
Madeline, crying again, nodded her head. Brenda reached across the table and handed her a napkin. Paul and Ginger’s eyes met, and she resumed crying.
It was a heart-tugging moment, a moment that was awkward on the patio of a crowded restaurant. Most people went about their business. A few people noticed the outpouring of emotion.
“OK,” Paul said. “Let’s have this toast before people start thinking we’re weird or something.”
Ginger let her mom go and went back to her seat. But Brenda came over and hugged her. “It’s OK to love your daddy and to be emotional about him,” Brenda said into her ear. “Trust me, he feels good about it.”
“Here we go,” Paul said, raising his glass. He was not being disrespectful; he was trying to move beyond it because Madeline got more and more emotional. He recalled attending his grand-mother’s funeral and the pastor inciting emotions instead of offering comfort. His posturing seemed contrived. Brenda and Ginger were sincere.
“To Richard Price,” Paul said, “a man who remains loved by many and never forgotten.”
They tapped glasses and took a sip of the wine. To loosen things, Paul offered an evaluation.
“Next time, I want you to taste it with all your senses,” he said. “I want you to put your nose in there good and smell it. Then I want you to twirl it around in your glass to let it oxidize or breathe. Red wine needs to breathe so all its flavors and aromas can come out. Then I want you to lean your glass over and let the wine reach the rim of the glass and then turn it back upright and watch the ‘legs,’ which is how the residue of the wine goes back to the bottom of the glass. If it’s really fast, then the wine is pretty young. But if it flows back slowly, then it’s older.
“Then, before you sip it, smell it again—you will notice a difference. It’ll be more flagrant. That’s what twirling it around does—it brings out the aromas… Now sip it.”
The ladies followed his instructions.
“Wow, it does taste better,” Madeline said. “It’s like all that stuff woke it up.”
“That’s actually a good way to put it,” Paul said.
“It tastes sort of peppery but fruity,” Ginger said.
“I can taste the spiciness, too,” Brenda said. “Very interesting. I’ve never paid this much attention to tasting wine before. I sucked it down. If it wasn’t bitter, it was OK with me.”
“I don’t know how or why I was never that way,” Paul said. “I, somehow, always appreciated wine.”
“I can see a few days with you and Ginger and I’m gonna be a wine snob,” Brenda said.
“Well, that’s not a bad thing,” Paul offered.
They laughed and conversed about the wine, the weather, life and family. Paul excused himself and went to the bathroom. When he returned, he stopped about twenty feet from the table and admired the women—his women—laughing and getting along over a glass of wine. And he felt at peace.
CHAPTER 12
THE FAMILY BUSINESS
Peace can be fleeting, especially among a group of strong-minded people who have strong opinions and are strong debaters whose senses have been heightened by an overconsumption of wine.
And so it was with Paul, Brenda, Madeline and Ginger. They took their lunch love fest to Beringer Winery, where they were impressed with the mere mass of the facility and the quality of the wines. Paul had looked down on Beringer because it was a “common folk” wine, available in grocery stores.
He was delighted to learn it had excellent, high-quality wines far out of grocery store price points. They sipped on the 2009 Modern Heritage Chardonnay Carneros, the 2010 Modern Heritage Riesling and 2010 Modern Heritage 3 Acre Red Knights Valley.
They then went on to three more wines from the Beringer Private Reserve Cabernet Sauvignons 1996, 2003 and 2006. After tasting a half-dozen wines, the ladies were good and tipsy. Paul felt the effects, too, but he was more himself than the others.
“How we going to another tasting?” Brenda said. “I don’t think I can drink anything else right now.”
“As much as I’d like to have some more, maybe we should sit down for a while,” Madeline said. “After last night, I definitely don’t want to push it.”
Paul was a little disappointed; he was ready to move on to the next spot, St. Supery Winery. He had a glass of its 2009 Chardonnay at The Lamb’s Club during a bus trip to New York the previous summer and loved it so much he tracked it down on winenthusiast.com and located it at Savi market in Atlanta.
He told the ladies they could remain in the tasting room as he went to the Beringer store to order a case to have shipped home. Ginger said, “I want to go.” She approached Paul, who whispered to her: “They’re buzzing right now. We might not want to leave them alone.”
Ginger agreed and went back to sit with the parents. Paul made his way and ordered a case of a combination of the Beringer Reserve wines that totaled more than twelve hundred dollars. That’s why he did not want Ginger with him in the wine store—she would have serious questions and demanded answers about him ordering wine that expensive.
He shopped around the expansive store, looking at wine accessories and finally decided he would rejoin the ladies and take them into downtown Napa to shop and see the landscape. But as he approached, he saw expressions on their faces that were not pleasant.
Paul picked up his pace. “How’s it going?” he said in a cheerful way when he arrived at the table. But no one else was cheery. “What’s going on?”
“We’re fine,” Ginger said, but they weren’t.
“What’s going on?” Paul asked again.
“Helena,” Ginger said.
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“What? What about her?” Paul asked with concern in his voice.
“Your daughter is fine,” Brenda said. “But we were arguing—no, discussing—whether you should tell her that she is adopted.”
Paul sat down. That was a major point of contention between him and Ginger. He did not want to tell her. Ginger did. Their child was eighteen and totally unaware that her parents were not her biological parents.
“How did you all get on this subject?” Paul said.
“She texted me a photo of her and her friend and I showed them the photo,” Ginger said.
“Yeah, she texted me the same photo,” Paul said. “And…”
“And I said it’s remarkable that she looks like Ginger even though she’s not her mother,” Brenda said.
“Ma, what do you mean?” Paul said, his nose flaring open.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Ginger said.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Brenda said.
“Ginger is the only mother Helena will ever know, so for you to say that is so insulting,” Madeline said.
Their happy family had deteriorated in the time it took Paul to purchase a case of wine.
“Ginger, I am sorry; I really didn’t mean it that way,” Brenda said. “You’re that child’s mother and you’ve been a great mother, too. That’s why she’s such a fine young lady, because of you and Paul. I’m sorry. I was not trying to disrespect you. Why would I?”
“Well, thank you for saying that, Miss Wall. I am very sensitive around this subject. That girl feels like she came out of my stomach,” Ginger said.
“And that’s why we don’t have to tell her about her biological parents,” Paul said. “She’s as much a part of you as if she came out of you.”
“But that’s not right,” Madeline said. “She should know where she comes from. She should understand her history.”
“That’s right, Mother,” Ginger contributed.
“But even if that history is not going to make her feel good?” Brenda said.
“It’s not a pretty history,” Paul said, “and I don’t want my baby thinking anything less of herself because of the sperm donors’ horrible lives.”
