Sweeter Than Wine (48 page)

"I just bought you a few things I thought you'd need, baby girl." Florence
smiled broadly, seating herself on the bed. "You said you needed clothes. I hope
you like these."

Alice couldn't help herself. She opened package after package: soft silk
blouses with intricate lace; dresses with hobble-skirts in crepe-de-chine and
messaline; sturdy corduroy skirts and hard-working middies; nightgowns,
stockings, shoes and the frilliest underthings she'd seen outside her mother's
house. "Mama!" she protested, laughing.

"Can't fault a girl for hoping, can you?" Florence grinned back. "I heard you
two praying," she said, seriously, touching the lacy hem of a camisole. "This is my
prayer, for you."

"Oh, Mama." Alice set the lingerie down. "I don't even know if he's going to--
"

"You never know," Florence said.

Alice swept a heap of clothes from a chair and lowered herself into it. "Was it
like this for you when Da was sick?"

Florence shook her head. "No. Well, he was pretty bad off. He didn't want you
to know--" she said, interrupting Alice's attempt to speak. "He wanted you to enjoy
your honeymoon, and be successful in your marriage. He spoke about you, every
day. He was very happy for you, honey."

"You were...with him--at the end?"

Florence drew a gold-plated cigarette case and lighter from her purse and
started to smoke, taking nervous puffs, and making a show of searching the
bedside table for something that could serve as an ashtray.

"I guess I never thought of you getting back together."

"We weren't 'together.' But we never divorced, either, even though Patrick
could never forgive me for what I had to do for us to survive."

"Survive? What happened to you?" Alice had always assumed that her mother
was morally weak.

Florence tilted back her head, closed her eyes, breathed out a stream of
smoke. The scent recalled all the days of her childhood to Alice.

"Your father was a very proud young man with big dreams when he came to
work for my Pa's carting business in Wichita. Lord, Patrick could turn heads, with
his hair afire and his eyes laughin'. Well, my Pa caught us, er, together, and stood
over Patrick with a shotgun till he said 'I do.' We went to live in San Francisco, but
there wasn't any work for him then, him bein' Irish, with no family to call on. We
just got hungrier and hungrier, and by then you were on the way..."

Alice listened, fascinated.

"I...had to do some hard things, then," Florence continued, her voice growing
husky. "There wasn't any work for decent women at decent wages. But for
indecent women--oh, honey. I made enough as a 'seamstress' to feed us and to
set Patrick up in his own business as a wine-broker. He wasn't too proud to take
my money, but he couldn't stand to think how I had earned it."

"But you continued working," Alice observed, reproachfully.

Florence sighed. "Do you know how much a
real
seamstress makes?
Or an office girl? When Patrick left me, I didn't want you living in a rat-infested
tenement somewhere. You always had new clothes, and you never went hungry.
But listen to me go on!"

"I'm listening, Mama," Alice said, openly showing her happiness to be doing
so. "But your house is a restaurant now?"

"It's hard times for Sin these days." Florence chuckled. "And it's all the
Government's fault, too--like this silly Prohibition, taking away
your
livelihood. First they made it illegal for foreign girls to work, then in '13 the Coast--
the Barbary Coast! went dry. It was either give up girls or liquor, and guess which
went? Then the state passed the Red Light Abatement Act, trying to close all the
parlor houses, and in '17 Reverend Paul Smith went on a Crusade to clean up the
City. He was a pious fool, but he had 'Right' on his side."

Florence took another long puff. "I heard Reggie Gamble--a very good
businesswoman--give a speech back to him in his own Central Methodist church. I
remember what she said, too, 'You can't trust in God when shoes are $10.00 a
pair and wages are $6.00 a week.'" She stubbed out the cigarette. "Most of us in
the life shut our doors. I couldn't just do that. I owned that property, and Shih Wing
didn't want to stop cooking, so..."

"So now you run a restaurant."

"My band plays a little jazz, and a lot of boys home from the war come to eat,
dance, and have a good time. It pays a little less--" Alice saw the contentment that
pervaded her mother's face. "But I have as much money as I need, I suppose. Or I
did, until I went shopping for you!" Florence laughed at the expression on Alice's
face. "It's a joke, honey."

Alice went over to her, knelt on the floor, and laid her head in her mother's lap.
Comforting hands stroked her hair. "Oh, Mama, what am I going to do if he doesn't
get better?"

"Hush, baby. I know. You'll do whatever you have to."

Sonoma, Saturday, October 11

Alice wanted to see Siegfried first thing in the morning, but Florence wouldn't
let her leave the hotel room while her hair looked like a dust-mop.

"It's not important, Mama," Alice insisted.

"It is if you're to be seen with me, Alice-blue. I have my standards!"

Alice impatiently submitted to her mother's expert touch with the scissors, but
as she put on one of the fashionable cloche hats Florence had purchased
yesterday, she quirked her eyebrow. "So why did it matter? Nobody can see my
hair, now anyway."

"It never hurts to look your best. And you will have some breakfast, young
lady!"

"Yes, Mama." It felt so good to be taken care of.

* * *

Doctor Stillman wasn't very hopeful when they arrived at eight-thirty. "There's
been no change for the better. His breathing has eased somewhat, but we haven't
been able to get him to eat or drink anything. I must tell you, Mrs. Rodernwiller,
this is not a good sign. Perhaps Mrs. Roye is right; he should be moved to a fully-
equipped hospital."

Alice glanced swiftly at her mother, but she had no advice. "I--he's all right for
now? I have to check on my property this morning, but I'll be back after lunch. We
can make that decision then, can't we?"

The doctor agreed.

Alice spent a difficult half hour with Siegfried, holding his unresponsive hand,
praying to an uncommunicative God. She had so many things to say to her
husband. She wanted to quarrel, to yell and rip at him for leaving her, for
endangering himself, for lying, for believing her own stupid lie: that she wanted him
to go away.

Before she left, she kissed his cool forehead and said, "Get better, Siegfried.
I'll be back in a little while."

He never moved, except to take another racking breath.

* * *

Siegfried wrestled with a demon in the aisle of the motionless train. It was
winning, barring him from searching the rest of the cars for Alice. He was
convinced she was here, somewhere. She had to be nearby. He felt her presence,
smelled her lemon cologne.

"You're a puny shadow of a man, a lying coward," whispered the demon.
"You don't deserve to be loved. Your father knew that. Give up!" The demon
leered. "You'll have to surrender--eventually."

Siegfried had no strength to fight. He was being smothered. He couldn't
breathe.

He didn't want to fight. It was too much effort.

Alice didn't want him.

* * *

Florence interrogated Alice during the entire muddy drive out to Montclair,
discovering the exact details of the estate's financial condition, and offering
practical advice to which Alice was too anxious to pay much attention.

She didn't have the heart to appreciate the beauties of the morning, either.
The rain yesterday had dampened the dust so the air sparkled now. The hills and
the vast stretches of uncultivated land bore the remnants of gray-brown grass, but
the first promise of winter's burst of green life had been given.

When they arrived at the gates, Alice opened and closed them, and Florence
drove straight up the driveway with nary a cough nor sputter from the Buick's
engine. Alice craned her neck--there were picking crews busy at work in the
Cabernet section of the vineyard! And the level grounds around the blackened
stone shell of the winery looked like a fairground, with tarpaulins of all sizes
shading stacks of grape-filled crates. "What...?" she whispered.

"Looks like a harvest to me, honey," Florence said, winking. "This a self-
running grape farm?"

Alice shook her head, dazed. "It must be. Or--"

Herculio caught sight of them as Florence negotiated through the stacks,
parking next to the remains of the house. He waved and came trotting over.

"Mrs. R.!" Herculio called. "You'll never believe how much we've been offered
for the grapes. Sixty-five dollars a ton! Mrs. Verdacchia has contracts for you to
sign!"

"How much?!" Alice shrieked. Florence patted her knee.

Herculio leaned against the side of the car, laughing and nodding gleefully.
"It's true! I swear to God on my father's grave!"

At that price, she could pay her debts and doctor's bills, make the payroll,
defend Hugh, and rebuild--even refurbish--the house, all without having to care
whether the insurance settlement arrived or not.

Herculio gave her a gallant bow and opened the door when he judged she
wouldn't fall out of it. "You should thank Mrs. Verdacchia. She talked to Mr. Crewe,
the agent for Rosenberg Brothers, when he came around this morning. She sold
them your entire crop. Ah--" he hesitated. "I hope that was all right with you."

"Yes!" Alice could hardly believe that she was finally hearing some good news.
"Thank you! Oh, thank you!" She wasn't sure if she were thanking Herculio, or
God.

"Is that a good price?" Florence asked, as Herculio excused himself and went
to direct the next unloading of the Model T.

"It's wonderful," Alice said, heartfelt. "They were only offering twenty-five
dollars per ton at the beginning of summer."

Her joy at the news drained away a little as Alice slowly walked to stand next
to a fragment of porch railing. The site of the house was little more than ash and a
few unidentifiable melted lumps. A single beam stood, leaning precariously against
the blackened chimney, but otherwise, everything was gone.

"Going to be quite a job," Florence said quietly. "Are you planning to
rebuild?"

"I don't know," Alice said. She had loved Montclair, but would she be able to
stay here if Siegfried didn't recover?

Maria came running out of the foreman's cottage. "Mrs. R.! I'm so glad you're
all right!"

"Maria!" She ran to her friend, and swept her into a hug. "I'm okay. But how
are you? I was so sorry to hear about Peter."

Maria raised her hands as if to push Alice away. "No. Don't say that to me. I
have to tell you something terrible." Her face was strained, and traces of many
tears had left invisible, indelible marks.

Alice, confused, separated from Maria. They all went into the cottage, where
Maria's mother Giuseppa insisted on serving them coffee and cakes. Alice
introduced her mother--to Maria's brief amazement--and they found seats in the
sturdy chairs.

Maria refused to eat the little cakes her mother brought. "I don't know what to
do. The insurance man came yesterday, but he didn't ask me--nobody asked me
why Hugh killed Peter. How the fire started..." Disregarded tears fell from her red-
rimmed eyes.

Queasiness threatened Alice. "I know Hugh told me he didn't set the fire. And I
believed him. But if he didn't--who did?" Not Siegfried. Please, God, not S--

Maria said baldly, "It was Peter."

Alice gasped.

"Tell us what happened, Mrs. Verdacchia," Florence urged.

Maria wiped at her eyes. "Peter was so angry that night. He was drunk, and
yelling that Mr. R. had no right to fire him, to steal his grappa. I was scared--I had
never seen him like that before. And then he--he made me 'phone Mr. Roye..."
Maria sniffled, her olive complexion deeply suffused. "I'm sorry--"

"Go on when you can," said Alice.

"Peter said that he would kill me if I didn't make the call." She tugged at the
neck of her blouse revealing purplish-blue fingerprint bruises.

"Oh, Maria!"

"Peter made me tell Mr. Roye that I was running away. And--and--that if Hugh-
-wanted me," Maria's voice dropped to a humiliated thread, "he should come get
me."

Alice's eyes widened in sudden comprehension. So that's what Hugh was
doing. "The sheriff told me that Hugh refused to say anything at all about that
night. He must love you very much to try so hard to preserve your good
name."

"At the expense of his life!" Maria wailed. "I don't care about my good name! I
just want him to be safe! And if they convict him--" She blew her nose defiantly in
the handkerchief her mother handed her.

"What happened next?" asked Alice.

"Peter drank some more, then forced me to go over to the house with him. He-
-he gagged me, and tied me to the porch." She shuddered, but continued after a
moment. "While he was setting the fire in the kitchen, Hugh arrived. Peter rushed
out, and Hugh grabbed the shovel, and--and--hit him. It was self defense!"

My God! Alice felt pale with shock, comprehending the enormity of what
Siegfried had saved her from. "Peter meant to kill us all."

"But why?" Maria begged.

"He was a beneficiary on the insurance." If she had not sent Siegfried away,
they would all have perished in the fire. "Maria, we have to see the sheriff, right
away."

* * *

Alice's mother stayed outside in the car while Maria went in to give her
statement to the sheriff. "I...don't care for jails," Florence said with a self-conscious
smile.

A deputy led Alice to the cell where Hugh was being kept. As he unlocked the
door he said, "Let me know when you're finished in here, Mrs. Rodernwiller."