“Go on! Sit your donkey down,” she commanded slightly irritated.
Sally reluctantly made her way over to the old beat up sofa, giving Allison a roll of the eyes, and a facial gesture which communicated her displeasure at Vicky for being told to sit. She perched on the opposite end of the sofa from Allison.
“This is a beautiful piece of furniture you’ve got here,” Sally chirped, her fingertips roaming lightly across the surface of the hope chest. “You say it belonged to your grandma?”
“Yeah,” Vicky called back from the kitchen in a wistful voice.
“What’s inside?”
“I don’t know. Granny never told me and I ain’t ever looked.”
“You’ve never looked inside?” Sally was incredulous.
“I don’t feel quite right about it.”
“But she left it to you. Didn’t she?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but I just can’t bear to open it.” Vicky called back from the kitchen. “When granny died, it about tore me up to go through all her belongings. Whatever’s in there, it’s precious to her. I just ain’t ready to look yet. I ain’t over her passing yet. You get what I mean?”
Vicky emerged from the kitchen with the slices of bread and cheese neatly lined on a small meat platter. In the other hand she held three small plates. Allison recognized the china pattern at once. It was Blue Willow, the very old Blue Willow pattern. One could tell by the chips on the rims that the plates had a long life of use. Under her arm was a roll of paper towels.
“Your grandma’s china?” Allison asked.
“Yeah.” Vicky’s hazel brown eyes faintly glistened with a grief still not entirely spent. “Granny was poor. She just had a few nice things. This little ol’ set of china. The hope chest. A few odds and ends.”
“Excuse the fancy napkins,” Vicky said, tearing off a piece of paper towel for each woman. “Now this here’s real butter. I just can’t stand that artificial margarine shit. You won’t find any diet pops or artificial sweeteners around here either. Nothing but real sugar. I’m telling you that artificial shit causes cancer. I’m fuckin’ convinced. And no light beers or decaf coffee either,” she said with her characteristic plop into her rocking chair. “If it ain’t real, you won’t find it here. Course I have to serve my customers light beer when they want it, but I warn them. You need that extra alcohol to kill off the germs.
“I’d say about five more minutes on that wine,” Vicky said leaning forward. Allison automatically looked at her watch. Vicky didn’t wear one. She was aware of time and how one moment slips into the other without needing a watch. “Go on, dig in. Have some bread and cheese. But just nibble. Don’t fill up. You don’t want your palate and gut all tuckered out before we taste that wine.”
Allison observed how carefully Vicky watched the two women eat. She wiped her mouth in just the same fashion that Allison had done. She caught herself slouching for just a moment, but quickly corrected this. She scooted to the edge of the rocking chair, her posture perfect, her back as straight as a yardstick. It was Vicky’s contradictions again, her commanding, take charge presence conflicting with her insecurities about who she was and where she came from.
“That wine should be about ready,” she said rising to her feet and doing a short jog into the kitchen. Back out again Vicky came, as quickly as she had left, this time with three wine glasses in one hand, a corkscrew, and the bottle of wine in the other. She set the bottle, the corkscrew, and the glasses down for a moment; then grabbed a stack of cork coasters, which she placed quickly, with a flick of her wrist as if she was dealing cards, on her grandmother’s hope chest.
“All right ladies, here we go.” Vicky opened the bottle of wine with the speed and skill possessed only by one who does it frequently. She set the corkscrew, with the cork still on it, back on the table.
“Don’t we get to sniff the cork?” Sally asked.
“Hell no! That’s nothing but a bunch of Hollywood bullshit. Sniffing the cork ain’t gonna tell you jack shit about the quality of the wine. What you need to sniff is the wine itself,” Vicky said while pouring the deep red liquid into each glass. “Now you ladies know to always use a glass with a wider bowl for red wine. Keeps the bouquet from escaping all at once. And only fill the glass about a third the way full. Gotta leave room for swirling.
“Now before you do any sniffing there, Sally, you got to look at the wine and give it a little time to breathe.” She tore off a block of paper towel and picked up her wine glass. “Careful to hold the glass by the stem. You don’t want to get that wine too warm.” She lifted the glass and held the block of paper towel behind it. “It helps if you got a white background.” She studied the glass, not with an academic sort of intensity, but with more of a tender longing–the way a lover takes in the face of her beloved right before a kiss. “Beautiful shade of red, ain’t it? Almost a ruby red.” Sally and Allison lifted their glasses, picked up their blocks of paper towel, and “oohed” and “aahed” in agreement over the beautiful shade of red.
“What exactly does the color tell you about the wine?” asked Allison.
“The intensity of flavor. The age. The quality of the grapes for those that really know their stuff, but I ain’t there yet. With a red wine the darker the color, the more mature the wine. You can really tell age by looking at the rim. Hmmm,” Vicky said tilting the glass slightly and donning her most carefully studied look as she examined the wine.”
“So can you tell how old it is?” asked Sally.
“I know exactly how old it is,” Vicky replied. “Two years,” she said turning her gaze from the wine to the ladies, while giving them her crooked but confident little smile.
“You can tell just by looking at the wine?” asked Sally.
“No. I read the date on the bottle.”
“You kill me!” Sally let out a loud guffaw.
“Okay, so what next?” asked Sally.
“The next step is swirling.” Vicky swirled her glass of wine first, then Sally and Allison followed.
“So why do we swirl?” asked Sally.
“We swirl for two reasons. It releases the bouquet and it allows you to check out the legs.”
“Legs! Wine has legs?” Sally asked.
“Yes. Wine has legs,” Vicky said studying the glass intently as she skillfully swirled the contents. “It’s them little streams that run down the sides of the glass,” she said peering inside. “See?”
“No,” said Sally, furiously swirling with one hand and lifting her large glasses off her nose with the other, while straining to see the elusive legs.
“Hmm. I guess this is for the trained eye only,” said Allison, also straining to see.
“You gotta give it a few seconds. The legs tell you how full bodied the wine is. This one here’s got nice legs, “Vicky said, her mouth slowly forming a crooked and sensual smile.
“I see them,” said Allison excitedly, watching the little drops run down the side of her glass.
“I give up,” said Sally, big glasses perched on top of big hair. “So do I get to drink it now?”
“No!” said Vicky emphatically. “You don’t just drink wine. You make love to it. So consider all this foreplay.”
“Excuse me?” said Sally.
“Wine is like the grand lady of alcoholic beverages. So it ain’t just slam, bam, thank you ma’am. Not when you’re dealing with wine. You got to get to know your wine first. The next step is to smell it. Swirl it a little to release that bouquet then take in one deep whiff.”
“Then do I get to drink it?” asked Sally.
“No, not yet.”
“What, more foreplay?”
“You gotta kick back, close your eyes, and concentrate on the aroma. Alright ladies, ready? Close your eyes and take in one deep whiff.” Holding their wine glasses over their noses, the three women inhaled deeply. “Okay, now sit back in your chair and tell me what you smell.”
“Wine,” said Sally.
“Ah, c’mon
Sally! You can do better than that. I thought you had a creative side,” said Allison.
“What’s it smell like to you?” Sally asked.
“Fruit.”
“Oh that’s real creative! It’s made from grapes. What do you expect?” quipped Sally.
“It’s just my initial impression,” Allison said, her eyes still closed, wondering if Vicky and Sally’s eyes were open.
“Now ladies, don’t go getting into a scrap.” Allison opened her eyes after Vicky’s remark. Sally’s eyes were open but Vicky’s were still closed. “Allison’s right. You need time to accurately label the aroma. It takes practice. Wait a few more seconds and take another whiff if you need to.”
Allison took another whiff, closed her eyes again, and thought about the wine. It was difficult to pin a label on the smell. She was too distracted by the memories it conjured up. It reminded her of Paris. It was a smell she might have smelled on the street while passing a sidewalk café. It made her happy. “I can’t tell you exactly what it smells like, only how it makes me feel.”
“Go for it,” said Vicky.
“It makes me think of Paris. Everything was new to me there. New and exciting. I felt like I could move and breathe there. I felt alive.” Allison opened her eyes for a brief moment. Both Vicky and Sally’s eyes were closed, their heads leaning back in their chairs. She closed her eyes again.
“Did you miss home?” Sally asked after a long pause.
“Just a little at first. Perhaps if I’d been there longer I would have missed it more.”
“It’s funny. The smell makes you think of Paris, but it makes me think of my home down in Western Kentucky. I smell these little white and yellow flowers. I can’t remember the name of them, but they’re edible. Bobby and I used to eat them when we were kids.”
“Alright I think I have an impression now,” said Sally. “It smells like tea. Some type of herbal tea.”
“Good. Very good,” said Vicky, her voice softer, less harsh than usual. The spell was broken by the sound of Vicky’s voice. Everyone opened their eyes.
“Now we get to taste the wine. But you gotta remember a few things first. You don’t just drink and swallow. You got to savor it on your tongue for about sixty seconds. That very first taste is gonna be a shock to your taste buds, so give it about fifteen seconds or so just to sit on the tongue. Then you gotta slosh it around your mouth a little, and be sure to breathe in some air at the same time. Your sense of smell is very important when it comes to taste. Then you gotta ask yourself some questions. Like, does the fruit overpower the alcohol? Does the alcohol overpower the fruit, or is it a nice balance. Is it too bitter, too sweet, too dry, or just right? After you swallow, then you gotta determine the aftertaste. If it’s a high quality wine, it’ll leave a real nice, long aftertaste – one that’ll kinda prepare you for the next taste.”
“Before we taste, I’d like to propose a toast,” Allison said, and they all raised their glasses in unison. “To our new neighbor, Vicky. May you live long and prosper. And if that doesn’t work out, may you at least know love.”
“Hear. Hear,” said Sally.
Vicky’s broad crooked smile let them know she was pleased. The three women clinked glasses then took their first taste. Allison and Vicky took an appropriately small sip, but Sally took a larger gulp. The swishing around in the mouth appeared to be something of an agony for Sally. To Allison’s surprise, she thought she tasted a hint of chocolate. She closed her eyes, swallowed and, for the first time ever as a wine drinker, basked in the aftertaste. The spell was broken by the sound of Sally coughing and Vicky slapping her on the back.
“You okay?” Allison asked.
“Fine,” Sally said as she strained to get the word out between a cough and a clear of the throat.
“What did you expect? You’re only supposed to take a little sip,” said Vicky.
“I thought I was at the dentist’s for a moment there. I was waiting for someone to tell me to spit.”
“Here’s the situation with you, girl,” Vicky said to Sally. “You really are a wine drinker, unlike Allison here who only likes them foo foo fruity drinks. You like wine because you got a problem with nervousness and wine makes you mellow. No other alcohol takes the edge off quite like wine.”
“How did you know that?”
“She knows. Believe me, she knows,” said Allison.
“The problem is you drink it too fast ‘cause you’re looking for that quick buzz. Now don’t get me wrong. I can appreciate that. But you don’t guzzle wine. Guzzling is for beer and whiskey, not wine. It ain’t proper. You gotta learn to slow down. Take a small sip this time and breathe in through your nose,” said Vicky.
“My overall impression,” said Allison.
“Yes?” said Vicky.
“Elegant yet unpretentious,” said Allison holding her glass up.
“Wait a minute. Let me write that word down,” said Vicky hopping up and heading back to the kitchen to fetch her notebook.
“Unpre… What was that again?” Vicky said looking up from her pencil.
“Unpretentious,” Allison repeated.
“U-N-P-R-E,” Vicky looked to Allison for help with the spelling.
“T-E-N-T-I-O-U-S. She writes down words she doesn’t know. Then looks them up later,” Allison explained to Sally who was taking in a fresh sip of wine and concentrating very hard on going slowly lest Vicky scold her again.
“Go on, girls. Go on. Don’t mind me,” Vicky said, somewhat embarrassed, as she put down her notebook and pen. “Very good, Sally. You did much better this time. So what did you taste?”
“Tea. I still say tea. This herbal tea I used to drink in college. A sorority sister of mine used to make it when we’d stay up late to study.”
“So maybe you’re tasting some type of herb growing in the soil near them grapes,” Vicky remarked.
“Believe it or not, I tasted chocolate,” said Allison.
“I believe you. That’s actually a common flavor that folks pick up in their wine. I, myself, have never tasted chocolate. I tasted soil. Tastes like the ground down around my home.”
“You’ve tasted soil?” Sally asked
“Not intentionally. But I have fallen down in the dirt enough to get an idea what it tastes like.” Allison smiled at the way Vicky said ‘intentionally’. It reminded her of a kid trying to impress a grown up.
“We’re drinking wine that tastes like Kentuckian dirt?”
“Sure as hell better than Hoosier dirt.”
“You know what’s funny?” said Allison taking another sip. “This wine reminds all of us of someplace other than here. Sally, it reminds you of your college days, drinking tea at Purdue. It reminds me of Paris. And Vicky, it reminds you of your home in Kentucky.” She took another sip. “I’d say this wine also has a nostalgic quality to it.”
“I know what ‘nostalgic’ means. It means homesick,” Vicky said and the church bells down the street began to chime.
Chapter 9
November 1983
It was a quiet night at Camelot and quiet nights were becoming more of a rarity at 3300 Lancelot Lane. The stereo wars between Frank’s classical and Vicky’s rock were becoming increasingly more of a nuisance and Allison was beginning to wish she and Kent could find a house soon so she could move out before their wedding in June.
She grabbed the remote control and turned the TV on then went into the kitchen. Screw the diet! Let them take a few more inches out of the wedding dress. I need something salty and crunchy! Allison said as she rifled through every cabinet. The closest thing she could find to what she was craving was a box of Saltine crackers. Two of the cellophane wrapped stacks had been ripped open and not tightly secured closed again, leaving the remaining crackers very stale. Allison didn’t care. She went back to the couch with her box of Saltines and went at it. And there on the screen in front of her eyes was Sally’s face, as big and bright and startling as ever:
Come to Buckner’s Dry Clea
ning.
Serving the Tri-State for over fifty years.
Bring your dirty laundry to us.
And then the jingle:
Buckner’s Buckner’s Cleaners –friendly service you can trust.
Buckner’s–bring your dirty laundry to us.
Allison had the Buckner’s Dry Cleaning account at work and she’d seen Sally’s gigantic face go up on billboards strategically located all around town. Even at work she couldn’t get away from her Camelot neighbors.
Allison zoned out in front of the TV, finished off one stack of stale Saltines then decided she needed something sweet. She brought the gallon of chocolate chocolate chip ice cream and a large spoon back to the couch and alternated between salty and sweet several times before making it easy on herself and just crumpling the remainder of the crackers into the gallon of ice cream and eating them together. She fell asleep on the couch with the TV on. She felt a little ill and her last thought before drifting off to sleep was that she must be sure to run an extra mile the next day.
Time passed as only it can in sleep. Just how much time, she wasn’t sure exactly, when suddenly she awoke with a start to the sound of breaking glass and male voices shouting obscenities outside her window. She took one disorienting scan around the darkened room with only the flashing of the television screen serving as a night light. The sound of motorcycles being revved up competed with the noise of the shouting men. The bass from Vicky’s stereo vibrated up through the walls and melded with the hum of white noise from Allison’s TV. She got up, flipped the light on, and opened the sliding glass door that led out to her balcony. A little fearful, Allison stuck her head out just enough to get a better listen. She heard Vicky call out from her downstairs apartment.
“You fuckheads! Take your argument somewhere else or I’m calling the cops!”
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