Come Pour the Wine

by Cynthia Freeman

  Catherine drank the last drop in the wineglass, sighed deeply. Weary, and a little light-headed, she roused herself as though out of a dream and looked at the television. The only thing on the screen was the big white silent blob staring back at her. Quickly, she got up and turned it off. She was so tired of thinking. Once again, she returned to bed, and this time, fell into a deep sleep which took her far into the third day of her self-imposed exile. When she awoke, it was one in the afternoon.

  The day seemed endless, although she tried to busy herself with unimportant things. After lunch she manicured her nails, then applied coat after coat of pink polish which seemed never to dry. She flipped on the television, turned the knob from station to station, but everything bored her. Shaking her head she thought, wasn’t total isolation dreadful. Never before had she known anything like it in her life. Funny—at one time, she would’ve given anything for a little quiet and peace—what with raising those seven rowdy, and at times, unmanageable children. But, oh my, how she and Dom had loved them. Taking the box of chocolates, Catherine carefully observed the contents. Reaching for a cream, she popped one in her mouth. Nothing like Barriccini’s, but not bad for plain old store-bought. With the box of chocolates she lay across the bed and selected a nougat this time. Eating was such a sensuous delight; in fact, it could be downright comforting, with nothing else to do. Wait a minute, there was the radio. She turned it on, then lay back, popped another chocolate in her mouth, stared up at the ceiling and listened to the soft music play … wasn’t that pretty …

  My dear, sweet Jesus, only you know how I needed a friend that first year of my marriage. Now wouldn’t you expect my own husband would understand the difficulty I had adjustin’ into his new world? He had everythin’, this was the place he’d been born, he had a brand-new bride and a baby on the way. But what about me, I’d left everythin’ behind, all my loved ones, my traditions, the familiarities, the customs I’d known all my life, the place of my birth and my birthright. I missed the long, lovely, hot summers, sittin’ out on the tree-sheltered piazza, just whilin’ away a lazy afternoon with Mama and Rosa Ann, gossipin’ and drinkin’ cold lemonade. How wonderful it was when my relatives would drop in for casual visits on Sundays and stay for supper … the fun we had. Lawd, the food Mama would serve. That marvelous southern food … well, you can’t leave all that behind and not have a few pangs of nostalgia. Goodness, how I missed and adored New Orleans at Mardi Gras … especially at Mardi Gras, with all the excitement of make-believe. It wasn’t easy cuttin’ myself off … everythin’ was so different, so changed. The weather, so damp and cold in San Francisco, it burrowed right into the marrow of my bones, and I thought those damned foghorns would drive me crazy at first. But when I think back to the beginnin’, Dominic never took time out to try and understand how lonely I really was. He used to get … oh, so upset when I’d tell him I didn’t have anyone or anybody to talk to. He’d always give me the same kind of argument over and over. “You could, if you wanted to. There’s nothing wrong with my family, they’d be only too happy to befriend you, but no, you keep your distance with them, I don’t know what the hell’s wrong, I really don’t.” “I’ve told you, Dominic, time and time again, I just don’t feel comfortable with them. We’re simply not the same kind of people.” “Well, what the hell kind of people do you think they are?” “You’re not tryin’ to understand what I’m sayin’, Dominic.” “Alright tell me … what are you saying?” “I’ve told you before … we just don’t have anythin’ in common.” “Now, what the hell is that suppose to mean?” “I mean we’re just from two different worlds.” “Two different worlds? Really, is that a fact? Well, let me tell you something … in the seven months we’ve been married, not once did you make an effort to have my family here and don’t think for one minute they don’t understand.” Then I’d get mad, really mad and ask, “What are they supposed to understand?” “That you have some sort of an inflated opinion about yourself … that you think you’re too good for them.” “Is that what they think?” I’d scream. “Yes,” he’d scream back. But that wasn’t the truth … it was unfair for him to say things like that to me, “Alright, if you must know, I do resent them, wantin’ to hang on to you so tight, to smother you, to keep you tied to them. That’s what I resent.” “Is that so, is it really … well, let me tell you something, my family are fine, simple, down-to-earth people, and if you gave them half a chance, they’d embrace you like one of their own.” “See, there you go … always takin’ sides against me … defendin’ them against me.” I’d cry, as though my little heart would break. “You love them more than you love me … I just want to die … and I don’t have anyone here … no one … not even you.” With that, I’d run into the bedroom and lay down sobbing. Dominic would wait, holding down his temper I suppose, then come to my side, take me in his arms and hold me close. Finally, he’d say softly. “There’s no one in this world I love more than you, don’t you know that, Catherine … but you mustn’t be jealous of them. They’re no threat to you as far as I’m concerned.” “I’m not jealous, really, I’m not,” I’d answer, the tears streamin’ down my cheeks, “I only want us to belong to each other, that’s all, Dominic.” “We do, darling, we do, please believe that.” Then he’d dry my tears and I’d feel better, much better, knowin’ I had Dominic seein’ things my way.

  Well, the next two months were a joy … growin’ bigger and bigger with Dominic’s child inside me. Soon I’d have somethin’ of my own … my very own, my baby … then I wouldn’t be so lonesome anymore. And Dominic couldn’t have been more devoted. He’d call me three … four times a day … hard as he was workin’, tryin’ to get started. Like yesterday, I can remember that morning when my water broke. I had gone to the bathroom and suddenly, like all hell broke loose, I stood there with my legs apart watchin’ what looked to me like Niagara Falls. Nervously, I called to Dominic, who rushed into the bathroom. He was breathin’ hard and tremblin’. “Oh, my God, it’s happened … wait here till I get something,” he said … as though I were goin’ anywhere. With that, he ran from the room bumpin’ into the door and stubbin’ his toe. He swore under his breath, but came back limpin’ with a pail which I straddled, while he went to call the doctor, frantically. After the flow of water had subsided sufficiently, Dominic bundled me into a coat and away we went to the hospital. Three blocks from our flat, Dominic remembered he had forgotten my overnight case and was about to turn back when I said he could pick it up later. I happened to look down at his feet and noticed that he had put on a blue sock and a beige. Laughing, I said, “And Dominic, when you go back, change your socks.” I don’t think he paid any attention to what I’d said. When we arrived at the hospital, I was taken to my room immediately and prepared. Dominic never left my side … only for the times when Dr. Vincente said he had to examine me. Then Dominic was back, holdin’ my hand. I screamed and hollered I shamefully admit, more than was necessary in the beginnin’, but I felt he should know how much a woman went through in presentin’ her husband with his child. Well, the hours went on … by now, I had good reason for screamin’ and hollerin’ and I wasn’t thinkin’ about Dominic or anythin’, just gettin’ this child born. Finally, after six hours, I was taken to delivery, and greedily, I breathed in the gas anesthetic … one more hard push and there it was, that chubby little red baby boy, black-haired and dark-eyed. I swear, from the moment he saw the light of day, he looked just like my Daddy. What a baby … nine pounds, two-and-a-half ounces … he was so big, I thought he was gonna get off that table and walk right out of that room. I couldn’t believe, for all the world, that I could’ve been big enough to give birth to a baby that size, tiny as I was … or thought I was, but the doctor said, “You’re a born mother, you have the perfect build for it.” Then I was given somethin’ for sleep. When I awoke, Dominic was there, standin’ over me. He stroked my hair and held my hand. How touchin’ it all was, watchin’ that big man with tears in his eyes. “Are you happy, Dominic, darlin’?
” “Oh God, Catherine, you have no idea what I feel … to think of what you’ve given me.” I smiled weakly and said, “It’s been a pleasure doin’ business with you, Mr. Rossi.”

  When I look back on that first year, in spite of all the quarrels and the makin’ up and adjustin’ to married life, I’d say all in all it hadn’t been any different or more difficult than most young newly married people have. Sure I took things seriously and maybe overreacted at times and blamed Dominic for a lot of things because I wanted him to be what I wanted, and what I wanted was for Dominic to keep reassuring me I was his whole life. But I suppose for a man that’s not quite what he needs—to make a woman his whole existence. A woman is different, she needs that, because, for all her emancipation, or her so-called independence, she really just stepped out of the stone age. Bein’ pulled out of a cave by the hair wasn’t so long ago and to walk out of that into the Steinem age is kind of a hard thing to come face to face with. I’ve been readin’ a lot about this lady lib stuff lately, in search of myself. But that lady lib stuff didn’t have one little bit to do with me when I was a new wife and mother. Sure, I’d fight back to try and defend myself against Dominic. Because he could be very persuasive when he wanted to be, and had I allowed it, he could have submerged me and my personality. I had to fight him hard all the way to try and stay a woman in my own rights … not that I did a very good job of it in the beginnin’. I’m sure I never would’ve won any prizes from the lady libbers. The truth is, that here I was with money of my own to do with as I wanted, and Dominic with his male ego would fight me for spendin’ what was mine. However, I did as I damned well pleased, buyin’ some of the things I wanted anyway, but he never knew how guilty he made me feel—which is not exactly what Gloria is advocatin’ … but that’s the way I always felt … guilty, guilty, guilty. But then Gloria Steinem wasn’t in love or married to someone like Dominic Rossi … I was, and please forgive me, lady libbers of the world, I was never as happy or content as when I was pregnant. At these times I felt Dominic was mine, all mine, and lovin’ him as I did, I saw to it I was pregnant just about as often as I possibly could be. I never did get around to wearin’ my trousseau.

  Eighteen months after baby Dom, I gave Big Dom another son. Salvatore, whom we called Tory.

  Although Dominic’s practice began to gain some momentum, he still wasn’t makin’ just gobs of money and we needed a new house. When we looked, everythin’ I wanted was more than Dominic could afford. And as always, the problem of my money reared its ugly head. “Dominic, I’m just not goin’ to move into one of those ugly old houses just because you’re so damned stubborn.” “Goddamn it, Catherine, we go through this all the time. I’m giving you the best I can for the time being. For Christ’s sake, can’t you just wait?” “No, because it’s not the best I can afford and I’m not gonna raise my children like poor white trash.” Dominic answered, “I’d hardly call this living like poor white trash. Who the hell do you think you are, Catherine de Medici?” “No, I’m Catherine Antoinette Frances Posata Rossi and I’m gonna live in a style I’m accustomed to. I’ve had enough of livin’ in a place like that awful flat we’re gettin’ out of. Maybe that’s good enough for your family, but not for me.” Dominic went into a rage, “Well, goddamn it, you should’ve married a millionaire, not me … and leave my family out of this.” “Maybe I should’ve done just that,” I screamed back. For a week we didn’t talk, then finally, Dominic calmed down and by that time I was so utterly miserable, I guess I’d have moved into the city dump if it could’ve been with Dominic. So we compromised … we bought that five-bedroom Victorian on Scott Street … but I furnished it.

  In the meantime, Mama and Papa came out to see us. They hadn’t seen the children because poor Daddy couldn’t travel since he had had a severe heart attack and in the last year, he’d been doctorin’. It broke my heart that I couldn’t go back to New Orleans, but I couldn’t leave Dominic alone with little Dom and Tory and I was expectin’ … so those telephone calls flew between San Francisco and home. It set us back a pretty penny, I can tell ya. But when Mama saw the house, I thought she was goin’ to faint. Her Catherine … livin’ in a place like this? “Well, Mama,” I said, jokingly, of course, “you picked my husband for me … it’s really your fault marryin’ me off to some strugglin’ lawyer.” She smiled and answered, “I guess we have to be sensible … after all, Catherine, you’re not married to a house, you can always sell it. But Dominic’s a young man with a good future … and I truly believe, in my heart, he’s a man of destiny.” I’ve thought about that many times and wondered if Mama really realized how very profound she was or if she was just sayin’ that to make me feel better … but she really hit the nail on the head, didn’t she?