Chapter 9 A Nobody Wants to Be Somebody #2
Several times in the last two years he’d wanted to go by and talk to the man, to ask if he might study under him.
Paul Murphy was a great winemaker, but Otis wanted to expand his knowledge.
Every time he thought he’d found the courage to go introduce himself, though, that courage would die a fast death.
Once he’d even gotten close to the legend’s house before turning around.
He couldn’t follow through, terrified of the rumors he’d heard, terrified that he wasn’t worthy of even breathing the same air as such a great man.
From what he’d heard from Lloyd and Paul and other natives of the area, Carmine Coraggio didn’t like people—especially after losing his wife—and wasn’t fond of visitors. He had no phone. No tasting room. Signs warning off visitors supposedly hung on the gates.
Desperation could either kill you or break down barriers.
Today, it broke down barriers. Otis didn’t turn back and wound his way through the hills of Glen Ellen with unwavering determination.
The drive was stunning, despite the season.
Though many of the trees were bare and the flora had paused its growth till the spring, this land projected poetic majesty.
The sun shot through the canopy of the forest, splashing light through the lingering mist. A deer raised his head from the grass and then shot off into the distance.
On occasion, a farmer’s tiny vineyard revealed itself.
Otis could already see why Carmine’s wines were special.
If it weren’t for the lack of signs, the severely eroded gravel roads, and its overall remote nature, this part of Sonoma would have been inundated with wineries, but the business-minded winery owners knew that tourists spent their time and money on the Sonoma Highway, so that was where they planted their grapes.
Rounding one last bend, Otis knew he’d arrived.
Over a wooden fence coiled with barbwire stood a farm beyond description, a winter oasis bursting with vibrant energy.
Twisty ancient vines wrapped gnarly canes around their trellises.
Random oak trees poked out of the earth.
Black sheep like Otis had never seen wandered the rows with their heads in the grass.
Birds cut through the sky in search of prey.
A small wooden house hid at the end of a long drive.
A plume of smoke rose from the brick chimney.
Another building, presumably a winery, stood next to it and called to Otis as if with open arms.
After he’d parked, a steady whisper filled the air, a constant note as if God were holding down a low key on an organ with his left hand.
This buzz crept into Otis and caused a stillness within him.
He’d been chasing around the idea of how wine was art, that it was the ultimate expression of man working with nature, but only now did he truly grasp the spiritual element of wine, how a true farmer didn’t only work with nature; he broke bread with it, sharing communion, cracking into the utter core of what mattered.
“Hello,” he called out.
The black sheep lifted their heads to view the intruder. A dog barked. Off in the distance, compost piles gave off steam.
Otis found the latch on the gate, deciding that this would be an okay way to die if Carmine came rushing out with a gun. He locked the gate behind him and started down the gravel drive with his eyes on the vines, soaking up more in this moment than he had in all the years leading up to it.
A gruff voice shot across the farm. “Can I help you?” A man marched his way.
Otis put up his hands in surrender. “Mr. Coraggio?”
Carmine looked like the pictures in the articles Otis had read, a former navy man who’d seen his share of battle .
.. or a Hells Angel who had grown weary of the road.
His scars reinforced that idea. He was scrawny in places but muscular in others.
Big biceps, a disheveled beard. His long gray hair hung in two braids.
It looked like he’d lived in the woods for years, uncontacted by the outside world.
“Who’s asking?” he asked with an Italian accent, plucking a cigarette from his mouth. Parts of his beard stained yellow from tobacco.
A nobody, Otis thought. No one that deserves to speak to you.
“Don’t worry, I’m not selling anything. I just came to ...” This could be the most important moment of his life. Here he stood in the presence of greatness, a man who’d flipped San Francisco upside down with his wines. A man who made wine like Picasso painted.
“Sir, I’m a fan. Not that I’ve had tons of your wine—I can’t afford them—but I’ve been blessed with a few sips.”
Carmine looked at Otis like he was about to shoot him.
Otis had nothing left to lose. “I’ve been working with wine for almost three years and have been reading and studying, doing everything I can, but I need guidance.
” Otis raised his head and met the man’s gaze.
There were songs in Carmine’s eyes, ballads of angst and sadness, a life imprisoned behind the twelve bars of the blues.
“I came by to see if I could study under you. If you might have some work for me.”
The old man’s head kicked back. “Ah.”
“I’ll work for whatever you pay. I just need to know what you know. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life than to make great wine. To make something that people won’t forget.”
Carmine laughed at that. “That’s not the goal in what we’re doing here.”
“What is it then?” A note of pleading lingered in the air.
“It’s not something I could even teach, ragazzo .
All I can say is keep trying, keep doing what you’re doing.
I’m not much of a teacher. There are better ones all over the valley.
” The evidence of Carmine’s Italian heritage became more obvious with each word he spoke.
In the last few decades, many Italians had immigrated to California and planted grapes.
“I don’t want other teachers. It’s your wines that speak to me.”
“I appreciate that, but it’s not something I do.”
“Surely you have a cellar rat or two.”
Carmine pinched his cigarette between thumb and forefinger and drew in a puff.
“I’m done teaching people. I’m wrapping up.
My career is over. My vineyards are folding in on themselves.
Go study at Davis. Learn the chemistry. Go get a job at Gallo.
Learn how to sell. ’Cause it don’t matter how good your wine is, selling’s the hard part. Good luck.”
Otis took a questionable step forward. “With all due respect, this is all I want. To be a winemaker and to put my name on something to be proud of.”
Carmine held his ground, and for a moment Otis thought he might come around. But then: “Good luck, ragazzo .”
“I’m dumping it.”
“Don’t be a ...” Not one to name call, Bec held back. “It might improve.”
“I’ve tried all the tricks. There’s no hope for it.”
They were at a Sonoma taco joint they frequented. The floors were greasy, the windows hazy, but the tacos were good enough to serve to the Queen Mum.
Otis felt a rumble in his belly as he fidgeted with the bottle of habanero hot sauce. “I don’t want anyone to ever know how much I messed up. I don’t want to ever be reminded.”
“Maybe that’s the point. Maybe this wine is the most important you’ll ever make because it marks your Neil Armstrong moment, your first big step.”
“You mean big stumble?”
“Oh, here we go again. You know I love a good ‘woe is me’ with my tacos.”
He pinged the hot sauce bottle down onto the table. “Is that being funny? Is this my wife cracking jokes? In my desperate hour of need.”
Were it anyone else, he’d be mad, but her face glowed with love and joy. How could she find life so agreeable? How was she not terrified? “This is your life, too, you know. You’ve put all your chips on me. On Otis Till. We very well could be picking up the pieces of a broken dream before too long.”
“You’re a fox when you’re passionate. A big sexy fox.”
He glared at her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, allowing some of her annoyance to shine through.
“Did you think you’d make a perfect wine right from the get-go?
Who gave you that impression? Making wine, growing it first, it’s not an easy thing.
You’ve been doing this, what? Three years?
How long has Carmine been at it? How many vintages has he screwed up?
No, you don’t pour that wine out. You catalog it and taste it every year to remind yourself of your hard work.
When you finally make a wine you’re proud of, you taste them next to each other and remind yourself for one damn minute that you’re capable of extraordinary things. You hear me?”
Her speech was almost enough to lift his spirits. “I still want to pour it out.”
Bec laughed at him.
“You’re kicking me while I’m down. And I’m down, Bec. I’m not some child who broke his toy in the tub.”
“No, Otis. I’m not laughing at you for that. I’m laughing because I’ve never seen someone with such a desperate want to create something wonderful. You’re a miracle.”
He was the one to laugh this time. “You really must stop doing all those drugs. I’m afraid you see something in me that’s not there.”
Bec reached across the table and took his hand. “One day, when you’re the most famous winemaker in this state, when people cry as they taste your wines, will you please tell me that I was right all along?”
“Ha. Sure. Someday, as I hoist myself onto my unicorn and hold up my bottle like Excalibur, I will tell you that I was always great and that you were always right.”
She sat back with satisfaction. “Good. Now that we have that settled, I have some news I want to share.”
Otis suddenly remembered how much of a selfish arse he could be, always vomiting his issues onto her. It was time he listened, for once. “Forgive me,” he said. “Tell me what’s going on with you.”
“What’s going on with me?” Bec looked around, as though she were about to confess to robbing the bank next door. “You know. School. Learning numbers. Being Jed’s chauffeur. Waiting on you to make enough wine to hire me. Oh, and did I mention that I’m pregnant?”
The air was sucked out of the room.
In an instant, Otis forgot all about the terrible wine he’d made and the epic rejection he’d received from his hero. It felt like his insides had been removed, leaving him hollow, especially in his gut, where a hole had been blown into him.
“What kind of face is that?” she asked, her words echoing through the numbness.
He fruitlessly commanded his body to take a breath.
He told himself he better get it together, that Bec needed him to smile.
This was a big moment—the biggest. Using the same weak commands that he’d attempted to force himself to breathe, he told his mouth to bend.
His lips moved into a curve that carried with it no sign of elation.
“You’re turning blue,” she said. He heard: “You’re turning blue blue blue blue blue blue ...”
Finally, he was able to suck in air and gather himself. “I’m so happy,” he said lifelessly. At least he got it out. “Really, I’m thrilled. Just ... surprised.”
“Are you ... surprised?” She leaned forward and said in a whisper, “That’s typically what happens when you can’t stop chasing your wife around the house.”
He was relieved to see her smiling, despite his botched processing of the news. “I don’t think it was the chasing that did it.”
They both laughed, and he reached for her hands. Their gazes fell into place like a key twisting in a lock. “The whole biology thing really does work, doesn’t it? What a miracle.”
She smiled, the kind that could take away someone’s pain. “Only you, Otis.”
Here she was, the woman he’d spend the rest of his life with, the woman he’d raise children with. “It really is a marvel of science. I wonder if it’s a boy or a girl.”
“What do you want it to be?”
“A girl,” he said so quickly and forcefully that the light above them rattled. “Unquestionably, a girl. I can’t imagine bringing up a boy, dealing with all the things boys deal with.”
She let go of his hands, but in a teasing way. “So girls are easy and don’t deal with things?”
“Yeah, but their things are far more ... graceful.”
“Ah, I see.”
After sharing a smile with her, he asked, “And you? Boy or girl?” They’d had the conversation a few times, but now the question had the potential to drum up different answers.
Rebecca stared off into the middle distance for a while, then said, “I want whatever’s supposed to come. I’m just ...” She suddenly teared up.
“What?” Otis was coming back to life more by the second. It hurt to see his lover upset. He leaned in. “Tell me.”
A veil of earnestness fell over her face. “I want to do it right. I want our little person to grow up happy and safe, always knowing that we’ll love him no matter what. I don’t want our baby to grow up like I did.”
“She won’t.” Otis shook his head, reality settling in. “I swear we’ll give her our all.” He saw a little girl running into his arms and became determined to bring the joy back to this moment. “I’ll give her my all, and we’re going to live one big and bold and beautiful life.”
Long before anyone else had made it to the winery the next morning, Otis stood in the cellar, staring down at the tank that held the first wine he’d ever made.
He considered what Bec had said about bottling it as a reminder of how far he’d come.
A sparkly thought of one day sharing this wine with his child—daughter (please, God, let it be a daughter!)—gave him a lift.
Perhaps a day would come when they could all laugh about his failed inaugural effort.
It was a nice thought, but a far stronger force was at play.
If he bottled this wine, then he’d be gathering evidence against himself.
He would be bottling proof that he wasn’t capable of greatness.
He would be verifying that yes, in fact, his father was correct in warning him off dropping out of college.
Otis could imagine Addison’s horrid reaction if he ever tried this wine.
No, Otis had to get rid of it and move on as if it had never happened.
Before Bec’s words again played in his head, he knelt down and opened the bottom valve.
His reductive wine flowed out of the spout, splashing onto the concrete and then running like a river toward the drain.
He didn’t turn away until the tank was as empty as his heart.