The Truth is in the Wine

by Curtis Bunn

  “Oh, my God,” Paul said. “You might not understand it, but that was an unselfish act I was trying to make that night. I was basically saying you deserve better than me. I wasn’t being the man I needed to be for you. I was at a low point and I didn’t see any way to come out of it. The way I lost my job, which you didn’t even know about. The terrible job market. Doing the odd jobs to keep food on the table. I felt like I was dissolving into nothing. You deserved more.”

  His voice drifted off. Ginger wiped her face and reached over to hold Paul’s hand. He pulled it away.

  “But you took the one thing away from me that could have changed my life,” he said, the anger in his voice distinctive. “You knew how much a child would have meant to me. We talked about it for years. Helena brought us the best joy we could have received. But she also was a blessing because we loved her so much we stopped talking about not being able to have a child. And now, you somehow get pregnant—a miracle—and you kill the baby? How could you do that?”

  “Paul, that’s a very mean thing to say, way to put it,” she said. “I didn’t know what to do. I was confused. I—”

  “That’s when you talk to your husband, dammit,” Paul said. “You don’t go off and get rid of a baby without talking to your husband. I don’t care what I said to you that night. What you did was bigger than what I said.”

  Ginger’s emotions ran high, but she remained poised. “You’ve got to know that was not an easy decision for me,” she said. “But I had to do what I thought was right. I have beaten myself up about it every day since then. But I’m not going to let you beat me up, too. If you had been more of a man and faced your challenges instead of giving in to them, we wouldn’t even be here. That’s the hard truth and I’m sorry I am saying it to you like this. But it’s the truth. So, you can blame me all you want—and I understand why you would—but you know the truth.”

  “Oh, so it’s my fault that you went out and did what you did?” Paul said.

  “It’s my body and my life,” Ginger said, getting angry. “I’m not going to let you make me feel more upset about it than I have already been. But until the last several weeks, I didn’t feel that badly. I felt like I did the right thing. You weren’t fit to be a father to a baby. You were acting like a baby yourself.”

  “Kiss my ass, Ginger,” Paul said, rising from the table. He turned to walk away, but turned back to pick up his glass of wine off the table and stormed off, leaving his wife there with her thoughts.

  She was so angry she could not even cry. He made her question her decision, but she believed she did the right thing at the time. Still, his words could not be ignored. Maybe her decision was hasty. Maybe she should have thought about how the news of her pregnancy would positively influence Paul. Maybe she should have taken her friend Serena’s advice, which was to consult with Paul. But she did not want him to want the marriage for a baby; she wanted him to want her. But her struggle with the decision from that moment on was an indicator of knowing she was not happy with her decision.

  Ginger decided she would find Paul and let him know how she felt. But when she got to the room, he was not there. She called him on his cell phone, but it rang in their room; he left it there. She was frustrated, and went to the parking lot to see if the rental car was still there. It wasn’t.

  Paul had taken his drink and his anger and his pain to the car. He started driving with no destination in mind. He needed to get away, to clear his head, to figure out his feelings. The disappointment in Ginger did not diminish his feelings for her. But it did upset him in a way he could not articulate or even identify. His mind took him to several dark places—Ginger going under the knife to have the abortion; what the child would have looked like; and even his role in her decision. Paul was a mental wreck.

  He ended up on in the northern block of Napa’s downtown district at 1313 Main, a swanky wine bar that had a warm and inviting feel. That was exactly what he needed.

  Paul was lucky to get a small corner table on the lovely patio that was fenced in by lush greenery. After nearly fifteen minutes of contemplation, he ordered a bottle of Caymus 2008 Cabernet Sauvignon. It cost $163. He did not care. He wanted to lose himself in the wine.

  He did not bother to ask his server about the wine. He wanted to test his senses. He looked around at the mass of people smiling and enjoying each other and it saddened him. He learned something about his wife that he thought it was best he did not know: That she had the capacity to deceive him.

  Never mind that he kept the truth from her about why he lost his job. That did not come into his mind. He could only see what was in front of him, and that was that he had a chance to father a child and Ginger took it from him.

  When the wine came, he had to shake himself of his thoughts. The Caymus was a lush wine, rich in color and flavor. He inhaled it deeply to let the aroma rise through his nostrils. He closed his eyes to appreciate it.

  He then set it on the table and placed the stem of the glass between his index and third fingers and began slowly swirling it around, to help the wine breathe and to release all of its flavors. After a minute or so of that action, he smelled it again, and this time the aromas seemed to burst into the air, causing a small smile to crease his face.

  He was having the best time—and he hadn’t even tasted the wine yet.

  He swirled it some more and finally, deliberately moved the glass toward his mouth. It was a delicate and careful maneuver, as if he were placing one of Ginger’s breasts in his mouth. When he finally creased his lips to place the rim of the glass between them, he took in another deep smell of the wine, and he was almost mesmerized by it.

  The wine funneled into his mouth and he let it wade there so his tongue could consume it all. He detected a complex mix of dark fruit, blackberry and plum with a hint of licorice and spices. It was a full-bodied wine, one that had a strong finish but no aftertaste.

  Paul was in love.

  It was the best wine he had ever consumed, and he treated it as such, pampering it and seducing it as he ingested it. It was so good and fulfilling that for a time, he did not even think about Ginger and the mess he considered his life to be.

  By the fourth glass, he was officially on buzz—and the reality of his life came back to him. He wished Ginger had kept that secret to herself. Knowing it confused him. Part of him despised that she made such a major decision without his input; another part of him admired her honesty. Those conflicting emotions and the wine clashed to make his head spin.

  One moment he thought of calling her to talk it out, but it was then that he realized he left his cell phone in the room. The next moment he actually pondered getting a hotel room and staying away for the night as a way of clearing his head. The truth was that it would be a way of punishing her, and, as mad and disappointed as he was, he couldn’t bring himself to torture his wife.

  As he finished the last glass, he wondered what Ginger was doing, how she was feeling about him not being accessible. He was always in reach of her. To be as disconnected as he was at this time with the issue hanging over them had to be driving her crazy, he thought. And he did gain a little pleasure out of that, but not so much that he would allow it to linger much longer.

  He enjoyed the last sip, paid for the bottle with his debit card and headed to the car to go back to the hotel and face the issue that was impossible to ignore and likely would take quite a while to overcome. Before leaving, his server asked if he would like a glass of water; he could sense Paul’s equilibrium was off.

  “I can’t put water on top of a wine like that,” Paul said. “Thank you, though.”

  And he made his way to the rental car and started back to the hotel, well enough, considering his thoughts were all over the place and that he was drunk. He did not know if he could ever forgive Ginger for aborting his child, and that scared him because he loved her. He was anxious to talk it out with her to see if he could arrive at a different emotion.

  However, when he reached the second light
on Main Street, he stopped in the middle of the intersection. He was not sure why. He thought the light turned red and that he actually stopped at the proper place. He also thought he heard sirens, so he stopped in adherence of the emergency vehicle.

  But he was certain there were police lights behind his car a few seconds after he stopped. He looked into his rearview mirror and said, “Damn.”

  “Pull your vehicle out of the intersection,” the officer said through his loudspeaker.

  Paul did as instructed, but he knew a bottle of wine—not to mention what he consumed at the hotel—probably took him over the legal limit for alcohol consumption while driving. He did not want a DUI. Worse, he did not want to go to jail.

  So, before the officer reached the car, Paul closed his eyes to gather his balance. “You can do this,” he said.

  The officer approached and tapped on the driver’s side window.

  “Sir, are you all right?” the officer said, looking as much into the car as he was at Paul.

  It was dark out now, around eight o’clock and the cop shined his flashlight into Paul’s face.

  “I’ll be doing better if you didn’t have that light in my face,” he said.

  “Why did you stop in the center of the intersection?” the officer said, the light still in Paul’s face.

  “I got confused, officer,” Paul said. He got the words out, but did not enunciate as clearly as normal. “I’m visiting here for a few days and I was looking around at the town and looked up and it seemed like the light turned red and I lost where I was. I thought for that second I was behind the crosswalk.”

  “I see,” he said. “Can I see your rental car contract and license?”

  Paul looked in the car’s glove compartment, but the contract was not there. He feared Ginger took it with her, as she was holding it some of the ride to Napa from the airport. Then he checked the center console, found it and handed it over to the officer.

  “Sir, have you been drinking?” the police officer asked.

  “Yes, I just left the wine lounge, 1313, a few blocks away,” Paul said. He figured lying was not going to work, so he surmised that giving him something would be the better strategy. “I had the best glass of wine in my life. A 2008 Caymer: amazing wine, especially considering it was so young.”

  “Where are you staying?” the policeman said.

  “Not too far away, at the Marriott,” Paul said.

  “Can you turn off the engine and step out of the car?” he told Paul.

  “Is this really necessary? I got confused about the light and where the crosswalk was,” Paul said.

  “Yes, it’s necessary,” the officer said, his tone much more aggressive. “The fact that you couldn’t determine where to stop is a problem. You admitted you were drinking and you smell like more than one glass of expensive wine. And your eyes are glassy.”

  “I’m just sleepy,” Paul said as he exited the car. “I’ve traveled all the way from Atlanta. Still trying to adjust my body to the three-hour time change. If I were at home, it’d be going on eleven-thirty and I would already be in bed.”

  The officer was not having it. He directed Paul to the side of the street away from traffic. People walking around and driving by in the quaint town could not help but notice Paul going through a field sobriety test.

  He was not happy. He was embarrassed. And he felt the pressure of proving that he was not inebriated. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Too much drinking impaired his center, so he could hardly walk a straight line in the awkward fashion cops demand: one foot literally in front—heel-to-toe—then turn around and do it again. Stand on one leg with arms stretched out, extend right hand away from body but touch the tip of the nose. Then do it with the left hand.

  “This test is not a fair test,” Paul told the policeman. “How can you test me on something I have never done before?”

  “Sir, that is the law and nothing I can do about it,” he answered. “Furthermore, turn around please and place your hands behind your back.”

  The officer placed the handcuffs on Paul and walked him to the police car when he did what people see on television all the time when someone gets arrested: He put his hand over Paul’s head and held it down as he folded into the back seat. He even said, “Watch your head.”

  Paul sat in the scrunched-up seat totally uncomfortable and completely humiliated. His high was gone. He was going to jail, and that fact ripped away all the feel-good of the wine he experienced a few minutes before.

  Worse, he started to feel nauseous and lightheaded. It was warm in the car and he began to sweat. The officer stood outside the car speaking on a wireless device about having the rental car towed. Paul began breathing out of his mouth to get more air, trying to prevent a panic attack. For someone who had a fear of flying, being confined in cuffs in a cramped space was tantamount to torture.

  He felt caged, trapped…like a prisoner. The officer finally came back to the car.

  “I don’t feel good; it’s hot,” Paul said. “Can I get some air, please?”

  The cop turned around and looked at Paul and saw the distress on his face, the sweat on his brow. He nodded his head and blasted the air.

  “We have to wait here another ten minutes or so for the tow service to get here,” he said. “Meanwhile, I’m going to do some paperwork to make this whole process quicker.”

  “Can I get a phone call? I’m not trying to spend the night in jail,” he said.

  “Well, you’re likely going to do that,” he said. “By the time you get a bail bondsman and he gets it over to the jail, it’ll be several hours. Unfortunately, it’s not a quick process.”

  “What’s the charge?” Paul said.

  “Suspicion of driving under the influence of alcohol,” he said.

  “Ah, man, come on now because of that sobriety field test?” Paul said. “That’s pretty unfair.”

  The officer did not respond at first. Finally, after an extended pause, he said: “You’ll be able to make a phone call when I get you to the station. You have someone here who can post bail for you?”

  He said, “Yes,” but it was not a call he wanted to make. He was fortunate that he even remembered Ginger’s number. Hers, his mom’s and Helena’s were the only phone numbers he committed to memory.

  His instinct was to call Ginger, but the pettiness in him moved him to call his mother. This would be a slap in Ginger’s face. Not on the same level as her getting an abortion without consulting him, but a slap in the face nonetheless.

  But that would have to wait. It was another fifteen minutes before the tow truck arrived. The officer filled out paperwork in silence and Paul listened to the calls from the dispatcher come in on the radio.

  There was an arrest at Lincoln and California of a man who ran a red light—on his bicycle. The bigger problem for the guy was that he was in possession of a meth pipe with meth in it. He was headed to the Napa County Department of Corrections/County Jail.

  Then there were officers and medical personnel called to the 700 block of Lincoln Avenue. A two-year-old male was suspected of taking medicine a two-year-old child was not supposed to take. He was transported to Queen of the Valley Medical Center for evaluation.

  And then there was a fifty-nine-year-old man who was caught walking out of the local Target on Soscol with a jacket and sweater he did not purchase. An employee made a citizen’s arrest, holding him until police arrived.

  Focusing on those crimes helped Paul to calm down and take his mind off the discomfort he felt. Finally, the officer began the short drive to the jail on First Street. Paul looked at the people on the streets going about their lives without the specter of being placed in a prison cell. It made him feel worse.

  They arrived and immediately Paul was struck by how the correction officers had either disdain for him or looked at him as if he were invisible, not even a person. He was lumped into the lot of criminals because he drank too much and got behind the wheel. He felt less than whom he was.

&n
bsp; The cuffs were finally taken off and he rubbed his wrists that were pained by them. He wiped the remaining sweat from his face and poised himself. The police turned him over to the correctional officers, who would “process” him.

  The place did not look horrible—it wasn’t Alcatraz. But there was an air of oppression about it, a feeling of troubled souls resonating the place.

  Shit got real for Paul when he was told to stand on the blue line and look at the camera, turn to his left and to his right—his mug shot. That didn’t feel good at all. Then he was taken to the finger-print area where a woman did the honors, one by one placing his fingers on a machine that resembled a copier that captured his prints.

  He was amazed at how routine the processing in process was. It sobered him up. He was as coherent and observant as he could be. He understood completely that he was an inmate.

  “Excuse me,” he said as an officer led him to a cell that was narrow and smelly, with aluminum benches on either side. Best of all, it was empty. The last thing he wanted was to have to deal with others. “Can I make a phone call?”

  The correctional officer led him to a phone that sat on the desk at the command center. On a pillar next to the phone was a list of local bail bondsmen. Under it was a sign that read: “5 Minute Limit on Phone Calls… No Exceptions.”

  Paul dialed his mother’s number. He was worried that she would not answer; she did not take calls from numbers she did not know. But Brenda was concerned about Paul after Ginger told her that he left in a huff and without his cell phone. She was hoping it was her son.

  “Vino?” she said into the phone with a sense of desperation, bypassing the traditional, “Hello.”

  “Ma. Hey,” Paul said. “I’m in—”

  “I know,” she interrupted. “Don’t even say it.”

  “Jail, Ma,” Paul said.

  “DUI?” she asked.

  “He said ‘suspicion of DUI,’ which makes it, to me, hard to prove,” Paul answered. “I didn’t take the breathalyzer. So he’s going by what he believed.”

  “It’s his judgment as an officer to determine if you’re a threat behind the wheel,” she said. “Why the hell did you leave us here at the hotel anyway? Ginger wouldn’t say.”