Sweeter Than Wine (33 page)

"Well, if you're sure. But I don't want to see your name in the paper like Mrs.
Johnson if you cut yourself!"

Alice laughed. "I won't." She found it endlessly amusing that the
Sonoma
Index-Tribune
reported minor injuries, out-of-town visitors, vacation plans, and
detailed accounts of weddings and even engagement parties, like Dorothy
Breitenbach's.

She reached for the next plum with grim determination, and managed to finish
the contents of the basket in front of her. But it was a struggle. The air had
become a thick blurred syrup, and she could hardly keep moving. She
yawned.

Maria shook a wooden cooking spoon at her. "Now, Mrs. R, you take a nap.
That's an order!"

"I can't--" Alice interrupted herself with another yawn, and Maria gave her a
wry look.

"All right," Alice said. "But just for an hour. I don't know what's wrong with me--
"

Maria's mouth twitched.

Moving very slowly, Alice put down her knife, untied her apron and hung it
from one of the pegs on the wall near the door.

As she walked out, Maria said in a strained voice, massaging the small of her
back with her knuckles: "You take care of yourself, Mrs. R."

Alice forced her reluctant body to move slowly forward with the promise of cool
sheets and soft mattress awaiting her upstairs. "There's just...so much...to
do."

* * *

Almost three weeks later, Alice was still exhausted. She woke up tired before
she could crawl out of bed. Even this morning's clear beauty couldn't inspire her as
it usually did.

She dragged herself down to breakfast, late, and picked over the remnants.
Siegfried and Peter were already hard at work, Maria's cheerfulness jarred, and
nothing looked appetizing.

The single welcome prospect for the day was shopping. On the first Monday of
each month, Alice opened her purse to buy necessities for Montclair. She never
bought fripperies, but she let herself enjoy purchasing the things she needed to
buy. And when they got paid for this year's harvest, she might be able to indulge in
a new hat, and more of her favorite cologne.

Today the thought of driving into town seemed too much work. She felt leaden
and wandered listlessly through the kitchen and pantry with her notebook, making
a list of most-needed items.

"Boraxo soap," Maria said. "Shoelaces and bootblack. Sugar and flour."

Alice paused a moment, then went on with her list.

Molasses, lard, pectin, and another bag of coffee. Siegfried drank so much of
it! Alice wondered briefly if she should mention how expensive it was, but then she
remembered how his face softened when he drank it. He finished each sip with
such smacking enjoyment that it would be cruel to deprive him of it.

She plodded through the house, searching out other items. Toothpowder.
Bluing for the laundry. Shaving soap for Siegfried--
not
the same brand as
Bill's, thank goodness.

When she was finished with the household list, she forced herself outdoors to
find Peter and ask him what he needed.

Today was blessedly cooler than it had been, the sky bright blue and
cloudless. A freshening breeze blew in from the ocean, riffling the rows of vividly
green vines.

It was too beautiful to have such trouble putting one foot in front of another.
The dry dirt seemed to suck at her feet like sticky mud.

When she reached the border of the Pinot Noir section, she paused, panting,
holding on to one of the rooting stakes. "You're not sick, Alice Mary! You can't
afford to be sick!" But she felt so weary that, if there had been a place to lie down,
she would have done it.

But there wasn't, so she trudged on after Peter and his crew. She stopped at
the peak of the ridge, and surveyed her domain while she caught her breath and
wiped sweat from her brow. To the southeast she could barely see the red and
plaid shirts of Peter and his crew, dusting the vines blue with Bordeaux
mixture.

The rising range of hills running northwest shifted as her vision blurred; each
ridge now stood out sharp as etched glass. Her connection with her feet was as
tenuous as dawn mist. A meadowlark gave voice to the glory of the morning, but
she could barely hear it over the thunder in her ears.

"I can't be sick," she repeated to herself. "There's too much work to do."

She bent over, hoping that blood would rush to her head, and her heart would
stop pounding.

It took another half hour to walk to Peter's dusting acre, and for nothing. He
had all the supplies he needed.

She faced the long, wearisome walk back to the house with as much fortitude
as she could muster.

It wasn't much.

* * *

Mrs. Duhring filled her order with supplies and gossip in equal measure.

Within ten minutes, Alice had learned that the Freschis were starting to rebuild
their house and that Betty Sullivan's mother had come to visit. Walter Bundschu
had just signed a contract to sell his entire crop of grapes to Inglenook over in the
Napa Valley, and at a good price, too. His brother Carl, the winemaker and
general manager at Inglenook, was telling everyone that he was going to write a
letter of protest to President Wilson regarding Wartime Prohibition.

Alice nodded politely throughout the monologue, signed the account book
when Mrs. Duhring had totaled up her purchases, and thanked Mr. Duhring as he
loaded the truck for her.

"Don't mention it, Mrs. Rodernwiller," he said. "My wife says you're looking a
mite peaked. Have to take good care of yourself, you know, being a newlywed and
all. Thank you for your business!" He waved her on, and turned to his next
customer.

She drove back to Montclair, seething at his implication. The nerve of some
people!

But it wasn't until she was putting away the most embarrassing of necessities,
the cheesecloth and cotton for her sanitary supplies, that she saw that last month's
supply had not been touched.
Oh, no.

She slammed the cabinet door shut.

"You're just sick," she told herself. "You've been working too hard."

* * *

It was past time to leave for Mass, and Maria still hadn't shown up. Alice
walked over to the foreman's cottage to fetch her. Perhaps she, too, had overslept.
They'd been canning something from the garden every single week for the past
month and a half, along with all their regular chores. It was no wonder they were
both exhausted.

But Peter, unshaven and haggard, answered the door with a curt explanation:
"She's not feeling well."

Alice commiserated with him, and drove to Mass alone. Her friends there no
longer asked when Siegfried would join them. They were too busy offering help to
her and Maria, should there be a need. Alice was grateful for their generosity. She
was feeling pretty low herself, and the Mass's lesson, "A man will surely reap
whatever he sows. If he sows in the field of flesh, he will reap from it a harvest of
corruption," lowered her spirits even more.

She'd missed another monthly, and she had the sensation of doors in her
future closing against her.
So what if you can't claim an annulment?
She
tried to jolly herself.
You might get Siegfried to do
that
to you
again.

She tried to quell a sinful anticipation, but her flesh was very weak.

* * *

When Alice returned, Siegfried was just finishing his breakfast. The smell of
scorched bacon hung heavily in the air, and he felt a twinge of protective pity and
embarrassment when she grimaced at it. She was so drawn and pale.

"Please, sit down." He rose to pull out a chair for her, fighting the impulse to
take her in his arms.

She looked surprised, as she always did at his little courtesies. The faint scent
of her eau-de-cologne tormented him, as did the memory of her soft hair and
softer skin. His fingers curled around the back of her chair with helpless
longing.

He swallowed heavily, and said, "I will pour you some coffee. I have cooked:
would you care for bacon and eggs?"

Alice shuddered. "No thank you. Just coffee, please. And a little toast."

As he had hoped, the kitchen provided a refuge while he made toast and
waited for his lust to subside. He filled a mug from the enamel coffeepot warming
on the stove, then added a generous dash of cream as he knew she liked.

In the two months since their lovemaking, Alice had been unfailingly pleasant,
but distant. She performed many small kindnesses for him without ever meeting
his eyes, made polite conversation that touched on nothing personal, and let him
know him in a hundred subtle ways how much he had gambled and lost that June
night.

And yet, certain intimacies had been established. Alice always read aloud from
the weekly paper when she returned from Mass. Siegfried suspected that she did
this to fill the silence over breakfast without actually having to converse with him,
but he had grown to treasure these quiet Sunday mornings alone with her.

Alice smiled and thanked him as he placed the mug and plate of toast in front
of her. As he seated himself and handed her the pot of strawberry preserves, she
asked, "Did you hear that Carl Bundschu wrote the President a letter?"

Siegfried raised an eyebrow in surprise. "No. Did he?"

"Everyone at church was talking about it this morning. Apparently it was
printed in this week's paper." Alice took a sip of coffee and buttered her toast. "I'll
read it to you, if you like."

"Please." Siegfried inclined his head gravely as she took a bite of her
breakfast. A single crumb of toast clung to her upper lip, and he longed to lean
forward and brush it away with his forefinger.

As if unnerved by his thought, Alice fumbled her toast, dropping it on the table.
After scooping it quickly back onto her plate, she began to ruffle though the paper
energetically. "Oh, here it is:"

To the Honorable Woodrow Wilson, President of the United States

My dear Mr. President:

You must pardon me if I request a little of your valuable time, but this
matter is of such great importance to thousands of people in this State that I must
appeal to you personally for relief.

When the people of this State read your message to Congress, they
approved of your recommendation to refuse Wine and beer from the War
Prohibition measure and the vineyardists had good reason to believe that
Congress would take action, so that this year's crop, which is now hanging on the
vines would be saved and harvested.

Congress refused to act, and why? Politics is evidently more impirtant--

Alice broke off her reading to comment: "The linotypist must have been upset.
This is the third error I've seen so far."

Siegfried motioned her to continue.

--
important than the welfare of an industry which in this State represents an
investment of over $150,000,000. 'Political Congress' has refused to accept your
recommendation. Thousands of people who have their all invested in wine
grapes
--

"Like ourselves," Siegfried said. "Left to the mercy of this ludicrous
legislation."

"Not quite, since you made that deal with Mr. La Fontaine." Alice smiled
warmly, sending an acid shaft of guilt through Siegfried's stomach. He had not
received an answer to his second and third letters to Mr. La Fontaine, either.

--
which they planted under the encouragement and direct supervision of the
United States Department of Agriculture, and are now facing ruin. Should any
legitimate industry of the United States, no matter how small or large, suffer on
account of political differences? Is that justice?

You, Mr. President, now that Congress has refused to accept your
recommendation, are the only one that can help us and we appeal to you at this
time when we see a total loss to our crops.

Would it not be possible for you to give the vineyardists, the winemaker,
and the merchants who have invested their money in a legitimate business some
idea as to when the 'ban' will be lifted? The bill plainly states the 'date of which is
to be determined and proclaimed by the President of the United States.' We
therefore feel we are entitled to know so that we can adjust affairs and not
continue from day to day with an uncertainty which is breeding a dissatisfaction
and discontent among the people that at one time were the most loyal and patriotic
citizens of the United States.

I know I am voicing the sentiments of many of my fellowmen and trust that
we might receive some information from you as to what we may expect.

I remain, Yours very sincerely,

C. E. Bundschu.

"That's quite a letter. I hope it does some good," Alice finished.

"I don't know if I would have been as polite," Siegfried said. "Politicians are
worse than bankers."

"At least we have nothing to worry about," Alice gave him an unexpected
smile. "Thanks to your efforts."

"It is nothing," Siegfried mumbled, grabbing for his mug of coffee. He had lost
the habit of prayer in the trenches, or he would have been on his knees, begging
for a reply from La Fontaine.

* * *

After Alice finished washing dishes, she went behind the big house to the
cottage that Peter and Maria shared.

Maria didn't answer when Alice knocked, so she hesitantly pushed open the
front door, and went inside. The front room was much as Alice remembered it from
infrequent visits. Family photographs stood on a small, round table covered with a
fringed shawl and there were crocheted antimacassars over the backs of the
sturdy armchairs. But there was a poignant absence: no toys lay scattered about
the floor.

"Hello? Maria?" She heard a sound like a sob coming from the back of the
house, but no one replied. Feeling like an intruder, Alice walked slowly down the
short hall.

Through an open door she saw the bed was torn apart in the main bedroom,
blankets heaped to one side. The horsehair mattress was badly stained with
blood. Alice felt sick at the sight and hurried down the hallway toward the little
kitchen.