Vintner's Daughter

by Kristen Harnisch

  Sara just stared.

  “Now, let’s set about finding you some work. Seamstress, are you?”

  Sara’s brow furrowed with frustration. Molly pantomimed sewing with a needle and thread.

  “Ah—non.”

  “Waitress?” Sara didn’t have a clue what that meant.

  “Non.”

  Molly threw her palms out. “What kind of work do you do?”

  Sara thought carefully. “I. Grow. Grapes. Vin?”

  “Oh.” The woman seemed genuinely disappointed by Sara’s response, but she was trying to be kind. It occurred to Sara to have a little fun to keep Molly’s interest.

  “And I dance burlesque.” Sara had lost nearly everything, but not her sense of humor.

  Molly let out a gasp, her lips pursed, her eyes bulging. Her face turned crimson. Sara thought the woman might faint dead away from the shock.

  Sara’s carefully arranged face crumpled with laughter. “Non, non!” She waved her hands. Sara could have sworn she heard a giggle erupt from the other side of the store, somewhere behind a shelf of canned goods.

  Molly’s face returned to its usual color, but her breathing was still heavy. She eyed Sara cautiously and grinned nervously, not yet convinced that Sara had been joking. After she regained her composure, Molly shook her head and looked down at the tent on the floor between them. “The Chinese and Italians do the pickin’ and prunin’ around here.”

  As Molly began to turn away, she offered one last piece of advice. “What you need is to pitch your tent down by the river. The Chinese will show you where the work is.” With a quick bob of the head, Molly turned to search the store for her next victim.

  After a restless night and an unsatisfying breakfast of stale bread and canned peaches she’d purchased at the grocery store, Sara packed up her satchel, figured out how to carry the heavy cloth tent she’d purchased, and set out with Luc to find work. She followed the west bank of the Napa River south. After a mile or so, she detected the faint odor of smoke. She walked a few more yards and caught sight of a clearing with a fire at its centre. Narrow ribbons of smoke circled upwards through the dense shadow of oaks before evaporating into the veil of morning fog draped over the trees.

  Sara walked toward the fire quietly. She heard laughter and the low talk of women and children in an unfamiliar tongue, which she guessed must be a Chinese dialect. When she entered the small clearing, the women halted their conversation and stared at her, their faces cool and suspicious. Their attire was like nothing Sara had ever seen: ankle-length, wide-sleeved robes, almost like dressing gowns, tied at the waist. Their hair was slicked back into a tight knot at the crown of their heads. The children hovered near their mothers, dressed in similar garments with brightly colored wool caps. There were no men or teenage children in sight. Sara presumed they had already started their work for the day in the vineyards.

  The women looked Sara up and down, nodding, then returned to their cooking and weaving, unconcerned. Sara would have lost her nerve then and there if a slight woman had not gestured toward her with delicate fingers and then pointed to the fire. She said something Sara could not understand, but her tone was friendly, and Sara nodded and smiled. She cleared a space for Sara and Luc next to her and offered them a wooden bowl of what looked to Sara like hot water with roots floating in it. Sara didn’t know what it was, but, not wanting to be rude, she ventured a spoonful. It really didn’t taste much like anything. Regardless, the simple broth warmed her to the core and she was grateful for it. She even managed to spoon some into Luc’s mouth.

  The same woman offered Luc something runny and brown from her own bowl. She must have sensed Sara’s hesitancy, because she answered her unspoken question.

  “Wice.”

  Sara repeated the strange word. “Oh, rice!”

  The woman nodded. She had warm eyes, the color of coal.

  Luc lapped it up eagerly, the overflow from the spoon dribbling down his chin. When he had finished and belched contentedly, Sara’s new friend picked up Sara’s tent and suitcase and motioned for her to follow.

  They walked to the end of a long line of small houses, which looked as though they’d been built with mismatched planks of wood and rusted nails, perhaps salvaged from building sites in town. Beyond the simple buildings was a smattering of canvas tents of varying sizes, staked to the ground with twine, each entrance held open by a tall tree branch or pole.

  It was here that Sara pitched her tent and established a new life. Three days after her arrival in Napa, on Christmas Eve morning, she gathered the courage to leave the circle of women around the fire and ask about working with the men in the vineyards. She strapped Luc to her back and approached the tall Chinese man who organized the vineyard workers. Like all the men, he wore his hair cropped short, with a long braid hanging down his back. Sara pointed to herself, then to the wagon. He was surprised, and glanced at his wife, who was heating broth over the fire, watching them intently. His wife nodded. Without a word, he signaled to Sara to climb aboard. She couldn’t have imagined a better Christmas gift.

  Sara and Luc established a routine. Luc would wake at five o’clock and drink his milk contentedly, and Sara would dress and gather a satchel of foodstuffs for the day. Luckily, she needed only canned milk and rice for Luc, for all the workers were fed a midday meal with wine. In the evenings, she ate heartily by the fire and heated bricks, which she’d wrap in flannel and place against their feet to keep them warm in the biting night air.

  As the vines slept for the winter, Sara and the Chinese workers clipped the old growth back to the spurs that would grow into next year’s crop. After pruning, they chopped up the piles of canes lying between the rows and disked them into the ground. Every week or two, they would move to another vineyard to work for a different white foreman. Worried she would draw attention as a pale-skinned female traveling with a band of Chinese men, Sara kept her head down, worked as quickly as the men and hummed to keep Luc calm. The Chinese paid her no mind, which suited Sara fine. The one time a vineyard foreman did question her about her experience, her fellow workers huddled around her. Sara was startled, but grateful for their protection.

  During her stay in New York, Sara had grown accustomed to the cadence of the harsh-sounding American English, but Chinese was altogether different: shrill and choppy to Sara’s ears. She yearned to hear the beautiful lilt of her beloved French. The only time she spoke it anymore was when she sang Luc to sleep at night, her voice competing with the incomprehensible chatter around the evening fires.

  One early March evening, right after the vine buds broke, Sara went for the first time to tend the frost fires in one of the largest vineyards she’d ever seen. Although her neighbors by the river had offered to care for Luc, she didn’t want to let him out of her sight. She hadn’t been able to keep her sister alive, but she would do everything in her power to protect Luc.

  She trudged into the vineyard at twilight with ten other workers. The foreman, an unfriendly hulk, pointed Sara in the direction of the closest fire, near the vineyard house, and directed the others to the central and outlying fires. They would all keep vigil over the vines to make sure the frost, or heaven forbid, the fire, did not overtake them during the winter night. The fire looked as though it had just been ignited, and its flames climbed waist-high. The vineyard at night was a beautiful sight—otherworldly, Sara thought. The diagonal vines formed a labyrinth up the hills, stretching toward the outermost edges of the farm. The smaller pyres, spaced twenty or so rows apart, glowed like brilliant candles on a holiday tree.

  Sara laid her blanket down on the cold earth and covered Luc with two wool blankets and his brown wool cap, and then tucked him face out into the front of her jacket, taking care that if she did fall asleep unexpectedly, she would not smother him. The heat two yards from the fire warmed Sara’s cheeks. She relished being alone outside with just the baby, instead of huddled inside their too-small tent surrounded by a noisy throng of people.

 
; Now six months old, Luc was robust and fattening up, his arms and legs like chubby tree trunks. Sara gave him his bottle and rocked him, as usual, while singing “Au Claire de la Lune,” her father’s favorite lullaby. When his long lashes fluttered closed, she stroked his head until it fell gently to one side in slumber. Sara herself could hardly stay awake after a day of pruning and cutting weeds. It was Sunday, and after attending early Mass, she had joined the workers in the vineyard. Now, spasms of pain rippled through her back. She removed her gloves to examine the small red cuts that stung her fingertips, the inevitable result of pruning in near-freezing temperatures.

  Sara’s fatigue finally prevailed, and she curled up on her side with Luc nestled contentedly against her belly. Though she tried to fight sleep, she drifted off before long. She might have been asleep for five hours or five minutes. Sara bolted upright at the crack of a gunshot not ten feet away from her. A small creature howled in pain. Luc followed suit, erupting into high-pitched sobs. Sara staggered to her feet, clutching Luc to her chest. Her heart was in her throat as she turned around, frantically searching in the dark for the cause of the ruckus.

  She saw the dead animal first, a dog, or maybe—yes, a fox, she guessed by the red-brown coat and long bushy tail. It had fallen on its side. Its tongue lolled listlessly and blood trickled from the hole in the side of its skull to the dirt below.

  “Come on then.” Sara jumped. The voice was directly behind her and speaking fluent French. Sara whirled around to see a short, busty woman, rifle in hand, gas lamp at her feet, wearing a plain white cotton nightdress. Her fiery red hair was braided, and cloth ties wrapped around disheveled curls in the front.

  “What—how?” Sara stammered. She blinked several times to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. She could smell the smoke from the waning fire; she could hear the embers popping. Her hands were trembling. It wasn’t a dream.

  The woman, who Sara guessed was about forty years of age, shook her head disapprovingly. “This is no place for a baby. Either he’d die of frostbite when the fires fade, or that fox would have made a meal out of him. You’d best come inside, the two of you.” She turned and started walking toward the large white house. Sara, assuming she was to follow, scrambled to gather her satchel and blankets and called after the woman.

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m sorry, I must have fallen asleep. Thank you for—well, for shooting the fox. We’ll go home now.” Sara faltered with embarrassment.

  The woman didn’t break her stride and didn’t bother to turn around as she answered. “Home? Isn’t ‘home’ a tent down in Chinatown? No place for a baby, either.” She shook her head again and glanced over her shoulder at Sara. “Yes, I know all about you. Saw you in the store—heard about you from Molly Reynolds. Not much gets by us locals, especially if you’re new to town,” she chortled.

  “No, I suppose it doesn’t,” Sara muttered to herself.

  Luc had finally drifted back off to sleep once they reached the house, which was about a hundred paces from where Sara had been stationed. The front door creaked softly, and the woman held it wide open for Sara as she stepped into the kitchen.

  “I’m Aurora Thierry. And you are … ?” She smiled warmly, her eyes dancing with secret amusement. Sara took in the woman’s pleasant features: face like an apple, kind expression, straight white teeth.

  “Sara … Landry. And this is my son, Luc,” Sara said softly.

  “How old?”

  “Six months.”

  Madame Thierry showed Sara to a bedroom. “You’ll sleep here tonight.” She held out the lamp, and Sara took it, overcome with gratitude. Madame Thierry looked Sara over and then nodded in approval. “We’ll get acquainted in the morning.”

  Sara awoke to the sun streaming through the unshuttered windows. Her body was still racked with fatigue, and her head was heavy. The room was still and quiet: something wasn’t right. She jumped up and searched the room for the baby. She had laid him last night on the floor, tucked into her new overcoat. He had purred and drifted off to sleep contentedly sucking his fingers. But now Luc was gone. She disentangled herself from the blankets and listened. She heard a gentle cooing coming from outside the bedroom door and the low humming of a vaguely familiar melody.

  Her heart rate began to slow when she heard Luc giggling in the background. Madame Thierry had taken him to the kitchen. Under normal circumstances, Sara would not want Luc to be held by a stranger. But these were not normal circumstances, and Sara was so grateful to have been able to sleep deeply and awaken to find him safe and sound. She was truly a mother to Luc now, she realized. Sara rubbed her eyes, which were still lazy with sleep. She was trying to piece together the events of the previous evening when she was hit with the smell of fried eggs and ham, maybe even buttered potatoes. Her stomach gurgled violently.

  Sara quickly combed her fingers through her hair, removing pins and rearranging runaway tendrils. She wanted to appear presentable. She inspected herself in a small looking glass that hung on the wall over a low four-drawer pine dresser. On top were a basin and pitcher of fresh, albeit nearly frozen, water. Sara poured a bit of the water into the bowl and doused her face. She cupped some water in her hand and swished it around the inside of her mouth before spitting it out. Freezing, but refreshing. She might have looked worse after the night she’d had.

  She opened the door gently, unnoticed by Madame Thierry or Luc. Madame Thierry was working at the stove, spatula in one hand, Luc comfortably hitched on her hip. She had tilted her head sideways toward him and was singing in a low voice and swaying her wide hips back and forth to the rhythm. Ham sizzled on the iron griddle.

  Sara was struck by how Luc’s eyes were riveted to Madame Thierry’s animated face. For the first time in many months, Sara ached for her own mother. She imagined Jacques was caring for Maman while she grieved for Lydia. Sara felt a twinge of guilt, for she had not written a second letter to her mother, nor had she given Jacques an address. She was terrified of being discovered. Even here, in this warm and safe Napa kitchen, she had to proceed carefully.

  She softly cleared her throat. “Good morning, you two.” She loved hearing her own language rolling off her tongue.

  “Ah, my dear, come—sit.” Madame Thierry waved at the table with her spatula. “Your beautiful baby boy is making his maman a full breakfast, California style: eggs, ham, hash browns.” She bounced Luc up and down on her hip and Luc cooed in return. “We need to fatten Maman up!” she said playfully.

  Sara’s cheeks reddened. Her growing hunger was not just the result of a long night. For weeks, she had eaten only watered-down rice soup. All the milk she could get her hands on, fresh and canned, went to Luc. She had noticed that her stomach, which usually stretched flat between her hipbones, actually curved inward now. She must look worse than she thought if a perfect stranger had noticed she was thinning. She would gratefully accept a hearty breakfast this morning.

  Madame Thierry served her and sat across from Sara with Luc contentedly on her lap, sucking on her apron string. She watched Sara’s face intently as she nibbled at her own food. Sara could not meet her eyes, for her need to eat overpowered all else. Only when she had scraped the last bit of egg from her plate with her fork did she finally look up. She let out a sigh and glanced happily at her new friend.

  “Madame, I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality. The meal was delicious.”

  “Aurora—call me Aurora. And you were ravenous. Help yourself to more.” She nodded toward the stove, where an ample helping of potatoes remained. “Your son already feasted on fresh goat’s milk this morning.” She shook her head in disbelief, scowling. “When’s the last time you had a proper meal?”

  Sara chuckled and stood to spoon more food onto her plate. “I honestly can’t remember. Maybe two months ago? On the train, before I arrived here. I’ve been living on the soup the Chinese women share with me.”

  “Good Lord in heaven! There’s a reason the Chinese are so small, even the men. You need
meat to fill out those bones, not rice meal. Well, that settles it. You’re staying here.”

  “I’m sorry …” Sara was flustered. “I couldn’t—we couldn’t trespass on your kindness any longer.”

  “Where else will you go? Back to your tent by the river? This is the coldest March we’ve had in years. I won’t have the death of your baby on my conscience, no ma’am. You will stay and help me out here for the next few weeks, in return for room and board, until you can find a suitable situation in town. You are on your own, correct? Not married?”

  “Widowed.” Sara looked down at the potatoes she’d just heaped on her plate. She was acutely aware of the fact that any details she gave Aurora about herself and Luc had to be carefully chosen to conceal the truth. And Aurora appeared to be all about the details.

  “And?”

  Sara hesitated. “And we were left with nothing, so we came to America to start a new life.” But this did not satisfy Aurora’s curiosity.

  “Mm-hmm. Why did you leave France? You must have had some family there who could help you?”

  “No, madame.” Sara speared the last potato.

  “No one?” Aurora sounded skeptical.

  Sara began her well-rehearsed lie. “Henri, my husband, was orphaned as a boy. He died of pneumonia, last winter.” She paused, lowering her head. “My parents, too, have passed, and neither of us have siblings.” Sara’s eyes welled with tears for her real, fragmented family.

  “You poor thing. So your husband never lived to meet his son?”

  Sara wiped her cheeks with her napkin. “No, madame.”

  Aurora exhaled deeply. “You seem a clever girl. Surely you could get work as a seamstress, or perhaps a housekeeper?” she ventured gently.