Eight Hundred Grapes

by Laura Dave

  “Thanks, Dan,” Margaret said, taking a long sip. “This wine is really delicious. What are we drinking?”

  “Concerto,” my father said.

  “Soon to be Wine Spectator magazine’s ‘Pinot Noir of the Year,’ ” my mother said.

  “One of Wine Spectator magazine’s ‘Pinot Noirs of the Year,’ ” my father corrected. “And I had very little to do with it. Lots of strong, warm weather. The fruit just presented itself.”

  “To you,” my mother said proudly, my mother, who was pre-gaming with us, her real meal a few hours away. La Gare. 10 PM.

  I must have been giving her a look, because she turned toward me. “What?”

  Ben tapped on his wineglass with a spoon, all eyes turning toward him.

  “Would it be okay if I said a few words?” he said, holding up his glass and directing the question to my father. “We are just so happy to be here.”

  “Who’s we?” Bobby whispered.

  Then the door swung open, a woman’s loud laugh making its way into the barrel room before she did.

  “Is Finn bringing someone?” my mother said.

  Which was when they entered, the loud-laughing woman and Finn.

  The woman wore an outfit that matched her laugh. She had on a wildly short dress, her ample boobs falling out, the dress emphasizing her long blond hair, her longer legs. A real-life Barbie.

  The twins and Maddie stared at her, mesmerized.

  Finn held her hand, unsteady on his feet, slurring a little.

  “Hey! I’m sorry I’m late. Bill didn’t show up for his shift.” Finn put his arm tightly around his guest’s waist, brushed those boobs. “I’ve brought my friend Alexis to make it up to you. Alexis, this is my family. Family, this is Alexis.”

  She waved, leaning in closer to Finn. “Hi there,” she said.

  My mother smiled, jumping out of her seat. “Hi, Alexis,” my mother said. “I’ll set a place for you next to Finn.”

  My mother grabbed a woven placemat, plates for pot roast and pie, as Finn introduced Alexis around the room, finishing his introductions with the people he wanted to meet Alexis most.

  “Alexis,” Finn said. “That is my brother, Bobby, and his wife, Margaret.”

  He was rubbing her ass the entire time.

  Bobby kept his eyes ahead of him, Margaret too.

  Ben met my eyes, questioning what was happening. “You okay?” he mouthed.

  I shrugged, at a loss as to what to do, watching Finn snuggling into his friend.

  “Why don’t you two help yourself to the roast?” my mother said.

  Alexis shrugged. “I don’t eat anything with a face. Except for shellfish.”

  I stared at Alexis, ready to slap her, not for her statement but for being here at all. As though it were her fault.

  “Alexis is actually a vegetarian,” Finn said.

  Bobby laughed, but it was a mean laugh. Angry.

  “Thanks for translating,” he said.

  Finn looked at him, confused, uncertain why Bobby would be upset with him. He was oblivious that Bobby had found out about him and Margaret, too focused on his own asinine agenda: to move on from Margaret. Alexis was here for Margaret’s benefit. Bobby wasn’t supposed to know.

  “Ben,” my father said. “You were saying?”

  “What?” Ben said.

  Ben’s eyes were still on Alexis and Finn, confused.

  My mother touched his arm. “You were giving a toast, Ben,” she said.

  “Right . . .” Ben raised his glass, trying to remember. “I was just going to say, I’m happy to be here. And I want to raise a glass to Dan and Jen for always making me feel like a part of your family, even when I haven’t deserved it.”

  Finn laughed. “When was that?”

  I pressed hard into his thigh.

  “Ow,” Finn said. Then he raised his hand in mock surrender. “Just checking where we were on the honesty meter.”

  Bobby shook his head. “Is that what you were checking?” he said.

  “Eat,” my father said loudly, everyone looking at him. “Let’s eat.”

  We all began eating, Finn keeping his hand over Alexis’s shoulder, groping her. Then he did the worst thing. He started to turn toward Margaret; Margaret, who was focused on her roast, shaking. Shaking in the face of Finn’s cruelty, of Bobby’s anger.

  “Son of a bitch,” Bobby said.

  Bobby dove for Finn, knocking him off his chair, the two of them landing on the floor, legs hitting chairs. Finn’s elbow knocking into the wall, crushing it.

  Everyone was up from the table at once. My father moved toward Finn and Bobby, Ben moving to help my father. My mother and Margaret ushering the twins and Maddie away.

  My father pulled Finn off of Bobby just long enough for Bobby to punch Finn in the face. Hard. The force of it pushed Finn back, leveling him, blood dripping down his face, through his cracked skin.

  Finn held his jaw, shocked. His shock turned to anger, fueling him forward.

  “Are you crazy?” Finn said.

  “Screw you, Finn.”

  The two of them were on top of each other again. Finn was on the offense now as much as the defense. He pushed Bobby through the front door, tumbling toward the lawn.

  Finn tackled Bobby on the grass, the vineyard steps away, Bobby rolling over on top of him, ready to take another swing.

  But Ben grabbed on to Bobby’s shoulders before he could, holding Bobby back and away, my father reaching down and pulling Finn up to standing. All of them stuck together.

  Finn pulled away, straightening his shirt.

  “What the fuck, Bobby?” Finn said.

  Bobby, almost breaking loose of Ben, lunged at Finn again. But Ben grabbed him back. “What the fuck? You’re asking me what the fuck?” he said. “What about Margaret?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What about Margaret?” Bobby said.

  With that question, Finn got quiet, aware that Bobby knew. He knew about him and Margaret. His eyes locked with mine, where I stood with my mother, two feet away.

  “Don’t look at her,” Bobby said. “She has nothing to do with this. Look at me.”

  Finn turned back to Bobby as Margaret ran outside, the twins and Maddie safely ensconced elsewhere. My mother put an arm around her protectively, not sure what else to do.

  Bobby gave Finn a look, disgusted.

  “You’re my brother,” Bobby said.

  “Nothing happened, man,” Finn said.

  “Oh, nothing happened? Okay,” Bobby said. “You’ve always fucking wanted her.”

  Finn shook his head, laughing angrily. “Whatever, Bobby . . .”

  “This isn’t even about her,” Bobby said. “It’s about me, you wanting my life.”

  My father and Ben stood between them, holding them back. But they weren’t watching carefully. They were too mad, and I could picture it. One of them swinging, hitting Ben or my father in the head. Or both.

  I moved toward both of them. “Why don’t you guys calm down and take this up tomorrow?”

  “Why don’t you worry about yourself, there?” Bobby said, his voice harsh.

  Ben immediately got protective, defensive. “Leave her out of it, Bobby,” he said. “She has nothing to do with this.”

  Finn laughed and turned away from Bobby for the first time. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding. Now you’re in the business of protecting our sister, Ben? That’s impressive.”

  Bobby turned toward Ben, confused. “What is he talking about?”

  The vein was throbbing in Ben’s forehead. “Finn, now is not the time.”

  Finn shook his head. “Exactly. What are you doing bringing your kid here?”

  “Your kid?” Bobby said. “That little girl is your kid?”

&
nbsp; Bobby was connecting the dots, and for a minute it seemed like he might turn all his Finn-anger at Ben. Bobby moved to tackle Ben, Finn joining in. The three of them locked together.

  “Hey!” my father said.

  He jumped in between his sons and his future son-in-law, separating everyone out. He pushed Finn first, his eyes holding tight on Bobby, warning him, warning them both.

  “That is enough,” he said.

  His voice was serious and steady, enough to stop them in their tracks. Finally.

  Everyone stared at him, no one used to seeing him that angry. The anger, alone, stopped everyone in place.

  “Bobby, you’re going to go talk to your wife.” He pointed toward the house. “And Finn, you’re going anywhere else.”

  They both stared at him.

  “And I really don’t care what you both have to do to act like grown men until then, but at five A.M. tomorrow morning, I expect you both in the vineyard, for my final day.”

  Then my father walked back into the barrel room, everyone separating. My mother followed my father inside. Bobby moved toward the twins, Ben toward Maddie, Finn walking the other way. Finn walked out into the vineyard. Past the gardens and the winemaker’s cottage. Getting lost among the high vines, the evening wind swallowing him.

  Until I was left alone, or mostly alone.

  Alexis appeared in the doorway. “I think I’m going to go,” she said.

  Exile on Main Street

  My father had a theory that what was of equal importance to the wine you presented in your vintage was the wine you left out of the vintage. In winemaking, this was known as declassification. Declassification: a fancy word for what wines you were willing to throw out. The decision was made as early as when the grapes were picked. It was made as late as after investing months fermenting the wine.

  I always thought that was what made my father such a great winemaker. There were some winemakers who wouldn’t declassify anything that came from their vineyard—the factory winemakers, the big producers. They didn’t care about quality control to begin with and they didn’t care about it at the end. They wanted high yields, regardless of weather, regardless of rot. Give it a shiny name and sell it for five dollars. Someone would be glad to drink it.

  My father believed in low yields, working from the best grapes, balanced pruning. The year of the second awful harvest, after sweeping fires, my father declassified more wine than he bottled, even though it meant he risked going broke in the process. Even though it meant that he risked everything.

  “I shouldn’t have brought her to the house,” Finn said.

  We drove toward The Brothers’ Tavern, Finn slipping around in the passenger seat even though he swore he was fine to drive: a full-on fistfight with his brother over his sister-in-law apparently sobering him up.

  “I’ll apologize tomorrow,” Finn said. “First, to Ben. Then I’ll apologize to Dad.”

  “Great, sounds like a start.”

  He looked over at me, trying to read my tone. His lip was bleeding, his eye starting to swell—the package of frozen peas my mother had grabbed for him useless on the dashboard. “Thank you for giving me a ride,” he said.

  “I didn’t have a choice. Dad made me.”

  He looked out the window. “He shouldn’t have. I’m a better driver drunk than you are sober.”

  He reached for his peas, holding them to his face.

  I checked the clock. I promised Ben that we’d talk after I took Finn to work. Ben didn’t quite understand why I had to go into town with Finn, even though he wasn’t mad at Finn.

  Ben was mad at me that I hadn’t kept my family out of our relationship. Ben had been the one who screwed things up—and, arguably, it had been a mistake to bring Maddie with him. But I hadn’t protected him from my family. Wasn’t that the job? It was about the two of you. And you told the rest of the world that you had it figured out or that you would. That was love, after all. Loyalty in the face of despair.

  Finn ran his tongue over his busted lip. “I’ve been trying to keep my space. To do the right thing.”

  “I know that you have.”

  He tossed the peas back on the dashboard. “She kissed me. I was the one that walked out.”

  “You just need to explain what happened to Bobby. I can explain it to him. You can talk to Margaret and just tell her it was a mistake.”

  “A mistake?” He shook his head, laughing. His bloody lip was splitting open against the pressure. “Bobby isn’t going to see this as a mistake.”

  “Finn, if I explain to . . .”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  He shook his head. “’Cause you can’t fix this. I know you try to fix everything, but you can’t fix this.”

  “I just want to help.”

  “Start by helping yourself.”

  His tone was dismissive, and it stopped me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. You’re just acting like you know the right thing for everyone when you don’t even know the right thing for yourself.”

  “That isn’t true.”

  “Really? Then why are you still thinking about marrying someone you don’t love?”

  I gripped the steering wheel, my heart starting to race. “I love Ben.”

  “Georgia, he has a kid you didn’t even know about.”

  “So? You’re saying if I loved him I should have known?”

  He shook his head. “I’m saying if you love him, why’d you run?”

  I gripped the steering wheel tighter, hurt and angry. No one had said that to me, and his words—in a way I didn’t want to admit—penetrated.

  So I didn’t focus when I turned onto Main Street. I forgot about the curb. I forgot about how, when you turned onto Main Street, the curb jutted out five feet, making room for the fire hydrant.

  The fire hydrant that I hit. Muffler first. Jolting us, me into the steering wheel, Finn into the dashboard.

  The water shot upward, spraying the front of Finn’s pickup, soaking the empty street, Finn’s bag of peas exploding all around him.

  Finn held on to the dashboard, bracing himself. “Are you okay?” Finn said.

  I reached up, touching my forehead, feeling for blood and nodding that I was fine.

  Finn nodded, relieved that no one was hurt. Then, once he knew that, he wanted nothing more than to kill me himself.

  He gripped the dashboard, the water coating the windshield, like a rainstorm.

  A tornado.

  “You really shouldn’t be behind the wheel!”

  I shut the ignition and jumped out of the truck, stepping into the soaking spray of the fire hydrant, surveying the damage. Finn’s headlight was dented, his muffler tipped. I tried kicking it back into place, water in my eyes.

  Finn screamed at me. “What are you doing? And where are the keys?” he said.

  Then he slid into the driver’s seat, motioning for me to take the passenger side.

  “Get back in the car,” he said.

  I kept kicking but it was no use. The muffler wouldn’t go back into place, nothing would go back into place.

  The Brothers’ Tavern was still several blocks away, but its lights were visible in the distance. Finn could make it by himself. He was going to have to try. I started walking in the opposite direction.

  Finn called out the car window. “What are you doing?” he said.

  I turned around, still under the spray, getting drenched. “I’m leaving you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re an asshole, Finn. You weren’t talking about me and Ben. You were talking about Bobby and Margaret, at least the version of them you want to be true.”

  He laughed. “Really, then why are you running away from me?”

  “I’m walking.”

  “Semantics. You’r
e running. You’re just not very fast about it.”

  Finn called out after me as I walked fast down Main Street, soaking wet. My wallet was still in Finn’s truck, my phone too.

  “Come back!” Finn said.

  But I turned left onto Green Street.

  And I saw him standing there in front of the small French restaurant that my parents used to go to when I was growing up, the only restaurant in town that served after 10 P.M.

  Henry.

  He stood under the awning, backlit by the open sign, the streetlights. His hands were in his big pockets, his cashmere sweater hanging over his stomach. He was looking at the menu longingly, though he must have felt my gaze, because he turned toward me.

  I walked over to him, pulling my hair behind my ears, tugging on my drenched shirt.

  He smiled. “Hi there, Georgia.”

  He took his hands out of his pocket, like he was going to reach out to shake mine, or dry some wet streaks from my face, or both. Thankfully, he thought better of it.

  “You’re . . . wet,” he said.

  “I had a fight with a fire hydrant,” I said.

  He looked at me like that was the weirdest thing he’d ever heard. For that, at least, I didn’t blame him.

  “Are you looking for your mother?”

  “I’m actually looking for you.”

  This surprised him. He stepped back, looking uncomfortable. “Why’s that?”

  I tried to think of how to answer him. What was a good answer? Why had this little confrontation seemed like a good idea? Maybe because there was no one else that I was able to talk to. Not Ben, or my brothers, or my parents. I had no idea what I wanted to say to any of them, but I knew what I wanted to say to Henry. I wanted to tell him to stay away.

  “I thought we should talk.”

  “Okay . . .” he said.

  I wasn’t sure where to start. I looked at Henry, as if that would provide a clue as to why my mother loved him. He was so different from my father: city intellectual to my father’s outdoorsman, large to my father’s lean and lanky. Of course, that wasn’t the right question. The right question was why my mother was giving so much up for him—her family, her home, the farm around it that she had nurtured with her own hands.