Chapter 12 （Interlude） Chasing Rabbits
Chasing Rabbits
Red Mountain, Washington State
I so desperately wanted to break through the invisible wall that separated us and wring Otis’s neck for smoking that darn pipe.
Earlier I’d watched him drag it out from a box in his office, then shove it full of fresh tobacco.
Now he was out in the backyard overlooking the sheep while Amigo stumbled around on his three good legs in the grass.
At least Otis was outside in the sun and laughing at his new furry friend, who could draw a laugh out of anyone.
Of course, I wasn’t the one who had injured Amigo and set him in the vineyard at just the right time.
To that end, I’d love to know whether there was some design to it.
Was there a man upstairs? Or a woman? I’d never been a believer in something so specific, but I’d long been in touch with what I call Spirit.
Anyway, this smoking of the pipe is not allowed.
I attempt to blow it out, but my breath won’t break through the dimensional wall with enough force. Only a soft wind passes by, flaming the tobacco to a brighter red and blowing up the gray hairs on Otis’s arms. He doesn’t notice, as he’s talking to himself between puffs.
“It wouldn’t be the first harvest I’ve skipped, Amigo.” He grins. He actually grins.
Through an exhalation of smoke, Otis says, “You’re a young pup, but I’m at the end of my rope and looking back and wondering where it all went wrong. Don’t make the same mistakes as me.”
Amigo stumbled toward him and sat down.
Otis reached down and petted his face. “We had some grand times, and it often blazed right by me. Even when we finally got our land, that perfect spot on the globe, even when we started to make some decent money, fear got the best of me. Fear that it would be taken away. Should you find your family again, and I think you will, then don’t take them for granted.
Don’t go chasing rabbits and forget what matters. ”
I may no longer be on the same plane as Otis, but my heart could still break. The good memories were worth their weight in Red Mountain fruit. Why won’t he latch on to those?
Once we bought our land, we hit cruise control, living a glorious existence where the world peeled open like an orange for us.
I couldn’t believe it, but my father jumped in to help with our new farm, likely because what little competitive streak he had kicked in once he’d figured out that Otis’s dad had loaned us his retirement.
My dad did some of the best work of his life rebuilding our house.
I was reminded of the man who raised me, before things started falling apart.
With his help and the help of a few others, we brought the forgotten winery back to life.
Otis spent most of his time on the farm.
First thing we did was erect a series of fences for deer protection and to prepare the farm for animals.
We’d inherited several blocks of zinfandel-heavy field blends, a medium Otis knew well.
To plant additional vines, we hired a team of Vietnam vets with explosive expertise to blast through the giant boulders that poked out of the hillsides like the tips of icebergs.
Utilizing a terracing technique, we planted more zinfandel and a few other test varieties, including syrah, which Otis had taken a recent liking to.
As Carmine said when he came to visit us, “You don’t choose the grapes, the land does.
” So we made our best guesses and then would see what thrived.
Otis followed Carmine’s methods, avoiding chemicals, composting, and employing various treatments to fight leafhoppers and blue-green sharpshooters. He refused to drive tractors down, or even till, the rows. Those vines were his babies.
Jed’s condition wore on me. As far back as I can remember, he showed signs of depression, but such things weren’t talked about back then.
We didn’t have a name for it. Even in the nineties, when Michael began to face similar issues, depression wasn’t something we considered a mental health issue.
Mental health was only talked about when someone was on their way to a psychiatric hospital.
Jed would often lock himself in his room.
He cried a lot. Other boys in the neighborhood would ask him to play, but he’d rarely accept.
Chunks of time would pass when he barely smiled, let alone laughed.
That being said, he did have a wicked sense of humor—not unlike Otis’s—that he seemed to reserve only for me, and I cherished those times in our youth when he’d let loose.
He was my big brother, after all. He’d sometimes sneak into my room late at night, and we’d lie next to each other in bed talking and giggling for hours.
Though it was difficult for him to step outside of his own problems, he always found ways to show that he loved me, from covering for me or even taking the blame for something I did to listening, truly listening, when I needed comforting.
As he grew older, he’d do anything he could to avoid school, often getting in trouble for skipping. His grades were terrible, and he fell into a rough crowd that led him to partying hard and causing all sorts of trouble.
My father had zero patience for Jed’s behavior.
How many times did he tell Jed to “toughen up” or “get your shit together.” They quarreled constantly, and it only drove Jed further into his shell.
My mom would sometimes try to stand up for him, but that duty mostly fell on me, the younger sister, the only one who knew how amazing he could be.
I was still doing it, still trying to come to his aid.
I’d often go by my parents’ house and find him in various states of intoxication.
One time Otis, Cam, and I pulled up for a visit and found him passed out in the front yard, drool falling from his mouth, his chair folded over on top of him.
An epic fight that included my parents, Jed, Otis, and me ensued, and as we left, Otis told me that he was done, that neither he nor Cam would come back to visit anytime soon.
Jed wore thin my patience a thousand times, but I kept trying to sympathize, because he was a good person who hadn’t had a fair shake.
No one but me had ever stuck up for him; no one but me could see past his dark veil.
And yes, Otis was right. I did blame myself for Jed running off to Vietnam and losing his legs, so I was incredibly invested in helping him find his way.
Sometimes I’d go over early in the morning and catch him sober, and I’d push him through the streets of our neighborhood, and we’d catch up and rediscover our connection, and I’d be reminded of who he really was and leave desperate for him to find his way to happiness.
I suggested on more than one of those sibling strolls that he should learn about computers. I even bought him a copy of a magazine called Computerworld , saying, “Jed, there are ways to change the world without your legs.”
He stuffed the magazine into the saddlebag of his wheelchair. “You’ve been watching too much Star Trek , sis.”
“I don’t know, I think computers could be the future.” I actually said that, all the way back in 1975. I should have gone in that direction myself. Can you imagine? We could have bought half of Napa.
Despite my familial troubles, we found a lot of joy in the coming years.
Stevie Wonder’s Songs in the Key of Life came out during harvest in 1976, and it captured our lives perfectly.
We were running around like crazy, but the smiles were abundant.
I’d dedicate all my energy to Cam, then put him down for a nap and race into my office to work out finances.
Having known far too intimately what it was like to go hungry, I became hell-bent on our success.
Aside from our arguments about me giving too much to my family—or, as Otis would put it, me letting my family push me around—most of the disagreements Otis and I had back then had to do with him wanting to spend more money than we had.
I’d have to shut him down when he wanted to buy new equipment, hire a label designer, upgrade to nicer bottles, or make another run to Beltramo’s in the city to stock our cellar.
I’d always tell him we had to hold off. Had he been in charge, he would have run us into the ground.
That being said, whatever magic he was making had struck a chord.
We had zero trouble selling our production.
We’d get calls out of the blue from restaurants in the area—and even in the city—asking for another case or two.
Soon distributors in the big cities were begging for cases.
Otis was a grump and the worst salesman in the world, but people loved that about him, and people whispered about his wines.
A lightness came over us, as the breeze of good fortune carried us away.
Of course this success stoked my continued belief in manifestation, and I constantly managed my thoughts and words and worked hard to see our dream in my mind.
Before Cam woke, I’d go for long walks and find a place to sit and meditate.
As the sun warmed the morning dew, and the birdsong played counterpoint to the baas of the sheep, I’d shed my worries about my loved ones and connect with the place where worry didn’t exist. Where faith was enough.
We even got a dog! She was a runt named Bubbles who loved to lick Cam’s face and lived for scraps from our meals.
I’d honed my skills in the kitchen, often with Camden right beside me, and I discovered tremendous joy in hosting family and friends.
I learned to bake and could make baguettes that would draw tears.
On top of long tables covered with plaid tablecloths, I’d place baskets of bread, cutting boards of cheese purchased from neighboring farms, charcuterie from our favorite store, and dishes made with the various fruits and vegetables I’d grown. Each meal got better and better.
Otis was also coming into his own, finally showing some confidence as he found his stride out in the fields and in the new cellar.
I always knew he was in a good place when he’d get frisky with me.
Sometimes he was a terrible lover, but when his vines and wines were doing what he wanted them to do, and when he felt like he’d connected with his land, he could make me shiver into countless orgasms.
I suppose that’s how it happened.
Michael was born in the fall of 1977, a colicky baby who cried and cried and cried late into the night.
I spent so many nights holding him in the crook of my arm, both of us sobbing.
It was almost enough to dent our happy lives, but we kept our love strong and embraced Mike with all the patience in the world.
Only as the end of the decade drew near did things start to fall apart.
I simply couldn’t take Otis’s ego anymore.
Fueled by the growth of Lost Souls and the adulation he was receiving from the wine world, his newly found confidence had risen to the pitch of cockiness.
He’d begun traveling and was wined and dined around the country by distributors begging for his business.
On a trip to New York, he sold wine to Kevin Zraly at Windows on the World, the new restaurant on top of the World Trade Center.
Kevin told him that he was making the best wines in California.
Just like that, Otis felt he had made it.
If only he would have taken the time to enjoy his success, but he wasn’t satisfied.
“They could be better,” he always said of his wines.
He was an addict chasing the next high, and he became swept away by the notoriety, spending entirely too much time on the road.
I kept telling him that his family needed him, that his farm needed him, that it would soon detect his absence, but he didn’t listen.
Carmine reminded Otis that the best fertilizer is a farmer’s footsteps, but Otis had decided he knew everything and didn’t need anyone’s help.
Between his growing fame, our growing financial security, and the wear and tear he was putting on his body, he’d lost his way.
Otis still cared for the farm, but he’d spread himself so thin that he couldn’t give it the love it needed.
He’d work his tail off during harvest, barely sleeping, then take any consulting job he could, as people now offered him ridiculous money for his opinions, and then he’d race off to the airport to further the reach of our empire.
He was the Napoleon or Alexander the Great of wine, unwilling to be satisfied until his wine ran from the taps of every household in the world.
Though we paid off a few investors, there was still Lloyd.
Lloyd, Lloyd, Lloyd.
I never told Otis about all the blatant passes he made over the years.
Lloyd would corner me and say, “What do you see in Otis? What about giving us a chance?” I’d ignore him.
What else could I do? He owned nearly half our company, and he was not someone with whom we needed to go to war.
Otis would have lost his mind if he knew the specifics of Lloyd’s pursuit, so I hid it and kept deflecting.
I must say, however, there were times when I wanted to rub Lloyd’s interest in Otis’s face, tell my distracted husband that if he wouldn’t pay attention to me, then I knew someone else who would.
Finding my anger, I swung my arm through the air and made contact with my grieving husband’s pipe, knocking it to the ground by Amigo’s feet. The lit tobacco spilled out. Otis and Amigo both looked with golf ball eyes at it resting in the grass.
When he picked it back up, I smacked it out of his hand again. I was getting the hang of things.
Scrub, scrub, scrub . Amigo hated the bathtub, but he’d gotten into some sheep poop and needed a bath. Otis massaged the soap into him and dirt caked the porcelain.
The phone rang again, and Otis knew it was his assistant winemaker, Brooks. What was Otis to say? That he didn’t give a bloody shit if the vines were wilting, or if all the wineries were up in arms once again. Whatever the fate of Red Mountain, he had nothing left to give.
Once he had the coyote pup dried off, Otis poured himself a scotch and sat on the back deck, journal in hand. As if he’d fallen into a time portal, the falling sun took him right back to Sonoma and where he’d left off with his pen. He knew exactly what he’d write next.
There was one man who drove me even crazier than Lloyd, and that was Ledbetter the Bedwetter.