The Truth is in the Wine (7 page)

Paul was right. By the time they picked up the luggage and
started up the 101 Freeway toward San Francisco, it started to change.

“It's about ninety minutes to get to Napa,” Brenda said. “We should stop in San Francisco and find someplace to watch the game.”

“The game?” Madeline asked. “What game?”

“The Redskins are playing the Cowboys,” Brenda answered. “We are Redskins fans in my house.”

“That's not a bad idea, Ma,” Paul said. “And we can get something to eat, too.”

“Aren't we having Thanksgiving dinner at the hotel?” Madeline said.

“Yes, but it's only two o'clock now,” Brenda said. “Dinner is at eight-thirty.”

“At eight-thirty?” Madeline said. “That's eleven-thirty East Coast time. That's too late.”

“So you want to have Thanksgiving dinner now?” Brenda asked.

And back and forth they went for another two minutes, the dialogue increasing in contention as they went on. Paul glanced over at Ginger, who closed her eyes and shook her head.

“Mother,” Ginger chimed in, “what's wrong with stopping in San Francisco and having lunch? You have never been to San Francisco. I haven't either. It'll be a shame to drive past it without at least stopping for a short time.”

“Look,” Madeline said, pointing to the dramatic skyline of San Francisco off in the distance. “There. You've seen it. Let's get to where we came out here to visit.”

“Don't worry,” Brenda said, “I'm sure there is alcohol in San Francisco, too.”

And it went from contentious to ugly in warp speed.

All the chumminess developed on the end of the flight was
crushed. Madeline was irate. It didn't help that she still had a slight buzz from the drinking. It heightened her emotions.

“You have some nerve, Brenda,” Madeline said. “You sat there and drank most of my stash and had two—wait—three other drinks. That's just like an alcoholic to try to point attention at someone else.”

“Alcoholic? I was only drinking so you wouldn't drink that whole thing by yourself and get crazy behind it,” Brenda said. “And I didn't drink most of that cheap liquor you had. Tasted like spoiled Witch Hazel.”

Madeline was ready to go “ham,” as the kids say, when Ginger jumped in. “OK, OK,” she said. “Not in front of the children.”

Paul burst into laughter, hoping his action would charge the parents to calm down, at least a little. It worked. Well, sort of. They stopped bickering but stopped talking altogether.

They moved away from each other, up against the back doors of the rented Monte Carlo.

“Mrs. Price, I hope you don't mind if we do stop in the city,” Paul said. “I'd like to see the game and I'm hungry. Aren't you? It's Thanksgiving afternoon, but we should be able to find someplace where we can eat and watch the game.”

“I think we're all probably a little irritable because we're hungry,” Ginger chimed in. “And I don't particularly care to watch the game. But I'd like to see San Francisco. Let's go down to Union Square. I read about it. We should be able to find a place to eat with some TVs, too.”

The parents in the backseat did not say a word. They looked out of their respective windows, seething.

Paul and Ginger were disappointed that the harmony did not last an hour. Ginger turned on the radio and searched for songs that would promote a good mood.

They hit near-standstill traffic about five miles from down-town—surprising for Thanksgiving afternoon. “Can you believe this?” Paul asked, looking over his shoulder at the in-laws. Neither responded.

It was then that Ginger, ironically enough, found a song on the radio that fit the occasion: “We Are Family” by Sister Sledge.

She turned up the volume on the song and started to sing along with it. So did Paul.

The parents looked at their kids with disdain.

When the song ended, Paul decided to give the seniors a speech for them to consider.

“That song came on at the right time,” he said. “We are supposed to be reminded that we are a family. Like it or not, that's what we are. And we're doing something most families don't get a chance to do.

“We're taking a trip together as a family. In the end, that's all we have. We are the people we should be able to rely on. And we shouldn't be at each other's throats. Especially today. How can we, on Thanksgiving, sit up here and listen to our parents go at it like enemies? That's not right.”

“I cannot believe it, to be honest,” Ginger contributed. “Although we are adults, parents never stop teaching and being parents. This is a bad example. Helena will get married one day and I hope to God Paul and I do not behave with her in-laws as you are. It doesn't make any sense. We respect you so much. But this is disappointing.”

The women felt foolish, but did not respond.

Paul waited a few minutes before saying anything else. They had arrived in downtown San Francisco. They maneuvered up and down the hilly streets toward Union Square. Instead of piling it on, he decided his place was to leave it alone and show
his mother respect. Under any circumstance, he would honor his mom.

“Welcome to San Francisco,” he said. “I can't believe I am here. I heard so much about it, seen it on TV. To be here…”

“It's very nice,” Ginger added.

Paul decided to park in a lot right in Union Square, across from Macy's. A prodigious Christmas tree with big, colorful bulbs rested in the center of the square, adjacent to an ice-skating rink.

The mild weather—temperatures in the mid-sixties—promoted walking, and there were many people out on Thanksgiving afternoon milling about.

Paul walked from the underground lot with his arm around his mother's shoulder and Ginger locked arms with Madeline.

“Ma, we're in San Francisco,” Paul said. “How awesome is this?”

“It is beautiful,” she said. “I didn't tell you earlier, but I will say it now, son. I'm proud of you to get on that plane. I read all about people who have a fear of flying. Do you know most of them never conquer it? But you have. I'm proud of you.”

“Thanks, Ma,” Paul said. “It wasn't easy. I hated it, to be honest. But I did it.”

Behind them, Madeline said to her daughter: “See what I mean? She thinks she's better than us, trying to talk about my drinking when she probably had more than me.”

“Mother, it doesn't even matter,” Ginger said. “Like you told me, you are grown and can drink what you want. We don't need her approval. I simply don't want you to let something she—or anyone, for that matter—says influence your trip. This is supposed to be a great trip.”

“You're right, honey, and that's what it will be,” Madeline said. “People make me shake my head.”

They walked around the square and up the hill, past an Italian
restaurant, Scoma's, which was closed. The doorman at the small hotel suggested a diner on the corner, a small spot across the street or an Italian restaurant around the corner. But Ginger spotted a Marriott.

“They should have a bar and restaurant, right?” she said.

“Let's try it out,” her mother said.

Not only that, but they had the Redskins game on, too.

“Ma, this is perfect, right?” Paul said.

That comment annoyed Ginger. It was as if he was still seeking his mother's approval.

“Perfect,” his mom said. “Things have a way of working out.”

They took a table near the bar and the server distributed menus.

“Can I take the liberty and ordering something to drink for everyone?” Paul asked.

No one contested, so he ordered a bottle of St. Supery Chardonnay, 2009. “It's buttery and has a citrus taste, but not sweet,” Paul explained. “They have a winery in Napa. We have to check it out.”

“Sounds like it will go well with a burger,” his mom said.

“See, you're trying to be funny, but it actually does go well with beef,” Paul said. “Usually I'd go with a red wine with beef. But this chardonnay will work because for me, it's really—it's about what tastes good.”

“What do you think, Mother?” Ginger asked. “When is the last time you had a burger?”

“Probably when you were a baby,” she answered. “Maybe a burger would be good.”

“How about it?” Paul asked his mother.

“Fine,” Brenda said.

And so, they all ordered burgers. The wine came and Paul poured and then made a toast as everyone lifted a glass.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he started. “To love and family and happiness.”

“That's it?” Ginger asked.

“Isn't that enough?” he answered.

“You know what? You're right,” she said, and they all tapped glasses, even Madeline and Brenda.

Paul and Brenda were into the football game on the TV in front of their table like two buddies would be. The mother was as passionate about the Redskins as the son, making commentary with every play and hanging on to every action on the field.

When a commercial came, Paul noticed that it was still awkward with the in-laws not speaking to each other. At the same time, the more they sipped, the more the wine began to take a toll.

“Y'all need to keep some of that noise down,” Madeline finally said to Paul and Brenda.

“Are we loud?” Paul asked. He had not eaten in ten hours, so the wine went straight to his head. All of them, in fact, were buzzing.

“Yeah, you are, a little,” Ginger said.

“Well, when you watch a football game, you can't sit here all quiet,” Brenda said. “And there's hardly anyone in here. We're not bothering anybody.”

“Well, you're bothering me,” Madeline said.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Brenda said. “I didn't realize your ears were so sensitive.”

“Well, they are,” Madeline said.

“Perhaps you should go on the other side—there's no one over there,” Brenda said. “It's perfectly quiet. You won't be missed.”

“Wait,” Ginger said before her mom responded. “On the plane, you all were laughing and talking and getting along. What were you talking about? What was so funny?”

Her questions stumped them. They wanted to remember, but couldn't. The wine had them going. They looked at each other and laughed.

“You don't remember?” Brenda asked.

“Well, I think… Weren't we talking about… Didn't you say…” Madeline said, unable to complete a thought.

“Oh, I remember one thing,” Brenda said. “You said your husband died and I said I wished mine had died.”

“Oh, yeah,” Madeline said, laughing.

“Paul, pour us some more wine,” Brenda told her son.

“Ma, you said you wish Dad was dead?” Paul asked. He was serious. He maintained a close relationship with his father, who retired to Palm Beach, Florida. He had planned to remarry in the next year.

“He is dead to me,” Brenda said. She reached for the bottle, but it was empty. The server was standing there to alert them the food would arrive shortly.

“Bring us another bottle of this,” Brenda to the server.

“He's dead to you is different from wishing he were dead,” Paul said.

“I don't wish no harm on the man,” she said. “Not anymore.”

Which led Paul to ask the question he not dare ask sober.

“So, Ma, why did you really get a divorce?” he said. “I mean, thirty-something, forty years, whatever it was. What could be that bad? Did he cheat on you? I asked him that and he said he didn't? Did you cheat on him? He said you didn't. So what was it?”

Brenda Wall wanted to tell her son the truth but had not. The wine made it easier for the truth to flow out of her mouth.

“I didn't love him,” she said. “I had stopped loving your dad probably ten, twelve years ago.”

“What?” Ginger said. She was feeling bold, too, and jumped into
the conversation. “How can that be? How can you stay married to someone that long and not love him? I don't understand.”

“Some things aren't meant for you to understand,” Brenda said. “I hope you don't ever understand. If you do, then that would mean you don't love my son, because the only way to really understand is to be in a situation like I was. That's the only way.”

“Ma, I was around you guys all my life,” Paul said. “I didn't see anything that made me feel like you all didn't love each other.”

“We did love each other,” Brenda explained. “But we were not
in
love. That ended a long time ago. It faded away, like smoke, into the air. Gone. And I believe it hit both of us around the same time. There was no spark, no magic.”

The second bottle of wine came and Paul refilled the glasses. Brenda went on.

“We stayed together for one reason: loyalty. We were best friends at one time and we saw each other through some serious issues that brought us closer together.”

“Like what, Ma?” Paul said. “This is blowing my mind and I'm trying to understand.”

Brenda Wall sipped her wine and closed her eyes. The room was rotating and she was trying to stop it—and her tongue. It didn't work.

She sat back in her chair and took a deep breath. “When you were a baby, too young to even understand what was happening,” Brenda explained, “I was very sick. Doctors didn't know what was wrong with me, but I couldn't keep any food down and I lost weight like crazy and was tired all the time.

“Finally, I went to the hospital; stayed there for eleven days. They ran all kinds of tests, but couldn't find anything. They thought it might be lupus at one point. They tried all the experimental drugs on me.

“Your father was right there with me, in the hospital, taking care of you. He was totally positive; he kept my head up. If he hadn't, I think I would have died. Seriously. Altogether, I was sick for about three weeks. I mean, really sick. When they sent me home, your father carried me from the bed to the bathroom. He cleaned up after me. He did everything. And he never complained.