Page 57 of Before We Say Goodbye
Rebecca let her head fall.
Otis whipped out his wallet. “Ten bucks in your pocket if you go out there and say hello to her. Yeah, you heard me?”
Otis got out first. As Cam stood, he looked over to the three girls, who were now ordering. The push and pull of tween emotions showed in Cam’s eyes. He took a step forward, then stopped. “I can’t.”
“Bwaak, bwaak,” called Mike, giving a solid chicken impersonation.
Otis held up a hand. “Michael, give the young man time.” To Cam, he said, “Youcando it. Believe in yourself.”
After a few more long seconds, Cam’s bravado won out, and he started their way.
Otis stood proudly, his arms crossed. Mike climbed into the front seat to get a better look through the windshield. Otis heard a Brahms piano concerto in his head. This was the moment of truth, a man facing his greatest fear.
Cam walked with guarded hesitation, but as he drew near, he raised his hand into a subtle wave, said hello, and then started a conversation.
Otis quietly clapped his hands. He bent down to look at Mike. “You see that! That’s courage, Mikey.”
Cam gave a slight glance back to his family.
Otis couldn’t help it and raised his arms in the air. “My boy,” he said. Then he leaned down again and peered at Bec. “They have their father’s charm, don’t they?”
If only Bedwetter hadn’t gone after Otis, he might have been fine for the rest of ’83. He might have been okay returning to ramen noodles and hot dogs for a while, though he did miss the mushy peas of his childhood. He might have even started using ketchup. But something about Bedwetter and his writing jammed a screwdriver in Otis’s eye.
Of course it had to be over the phylloxera debacle. Bedwetter had done an entire article discussing how phylloxera had taken over California, and he’d zeroed in on Otis, mentioning his name for the first time.
Under the drawing of his face—the fellow was as ugly as a groundhog—his words read:
I’ve been watching the youngster known as Otis Till, a new face in the Sonoma wine scene. I’ve written about him before. He’s a part of Lloyd Bramhall’s growing portfolio and a disciple of Carmine Coraggio. Let me say: I don’t get it, and I might be the only one. I don’t remember a newcomer splashing onto the scene in such grand fashion, and yet ...
The harder they come, the harder they fall. I don’t know if it was Otis’s poor choice of plantings or his negligence in the field, perhaps even his bad luck, but the word is that he lost nearly everything. Once again, a climb tothe top knocked down by this wine world that eats its young.
Bedwetter went on like that for a while, and Otis read with fury rising. He folded the paper and slapped it down onto the breakfast table, jostling his mug of coffee and the glass of grapefruit juice.
“Bec, I have to go to New York and get this man off my back. As if I don’t already have enough to worry about. He’s confirmed that we’re the laughingstocks of this state. Of the whole flipping industry.”
Rebecca stood barefooted in cutoff jeans at the counter, making breakfast. Otis had hoped to smell bacon, but he had a sneaking suspicion she was making avocado toast again. She’d been threatening vegetarianism, which was worse than becoming a communist.
“Honey, half the state is dealing with phylloxera. Quit acting like you did something wrong. Also, I don’t think people spend as much time judging you as you might think.”
“Oh, deary, you have such an optimistic outlook on mankind.”
“If you think they’re out to get you,” she called over her shoulder, “then they will be. I choose to see the good in people.”
Otis rested his elbows on the table. “I choose, I choose, Ichoose. You and your careful wording.” She was still convinced that whatever one said or thought became reality. “Well,” he started, “I choose to take the next flight out of SFO, track down Bedwetter, and throw him off the top of the Empire State Building. That’safterI ram a phylloxera-ridden vine trunk up his arse.”
Bec turned from the counter, butcher knife in hand. “It’s extraordinary how you let some guy you’ve never met affect you so.” She pointed at him with the knife. “Put your focus on our young vines. Do what Carmine says, give everything you can to the wine, and then move on. Don’t worry about the reception.”
“That’s so easy for you to say.”
Bec stepped forward, gripping the knife like she was going to use it on him, his beautiful sandy-blond butcher wife. “We have enjoyed the great opportunity of replanting exactly how we want. A fresh start.”
“Are you going to kill me with that thing?”
She looked down at the knife. Her exhaustion with him dissipated, and a smile flashed on her face. “If you’re not careful.”
It was nice to share a laugh.
“I can’t wait to hear what my dad has to say.”
