Chapter 18 （Interlude） The Mentee
The Mentee
Red Mountain, Washington State
I thought I’d lost him. The boys were old enough to think it too. How many more times could I keep answering their questions with “Your father’s grieving. He’ll be okay”?
Otis came back from Miami a new man, though.
As he sits at his desk now, almost three weeks after finding Amigo, a hint of a smile plays on his face.
Despite all the regret I know he feels, the same regret that ate at him in the years after coming back from the Super Bowl, I can detect the gratitude he feels for having climbed out from the darkness.
I didn’t know about the cocaine. Not till now, as I read the words over his shoulder. Of course I suspected that he’d experimented on the road, but I didn’t ask—didn’t want to know. What with Jed’s substance abuse issues, I might not have been able to handle it.
I suppose I’m reliving with him, and I feel no need to scold him. What I feel is unbridled joy. We went through the wringer, but we came out the other side. Not unscathed, mind you. No, not at all, but we did come out on the other side.
If I might say something about my sweet Otis, it’s that he was such a focused man, that balance was hard for him.
While he spent those first years in Sonoma breaking his back for his terroir, then the next few focused on growing our finances, he returned to Sonoma with an entirely different attitude.
As much as you don’t want your husband to overwork, you certainly don’t want him to underwork either.
I loved Otis and adored having him around, especially when he was in a good place, but there comes a point.
I didn’t need him telling me how to better organize our finances, or how to manage the starter for my bread.
I certainly didn’t need him involved in the laundry, because thanks to his efforts, he, Camden, and Mike were all running around with pink underwear.
Upon his return, I could tell something had broken inside.
Teary eyed and vulnerable, he had assured me that he’d finally realized how lost he’d been and that he was dedicated to change.
He started to tell me about his life on the road, but I’d shushed him.
“I don’t want to know, Otis. All that matters is what you do going forward. ”
I’m not surprised cocaine was part of the equation.
Though he’s had his bouts of drinking too much, he would always dry out, taking months off at a time after being on the road and spitting when he tasted.
Now I know there was something else at play.
It makes sense that Otis started being kinder to Jed, taking him out to lunch, inviting him over, teaching him how to drive the tractor.
I wonder what conversations they had, as Jed started to show a transformation then too.
It’s April. The winds have died down. The Red Mountain sun has begun to warm the dusty soil.
Days are longer. Otis still isn’t doing much.
He takes Amigo out to play in the yard. He checks in on the animals, though the vineyard guys do most of the work.
My husband still hasn’t gone up to the winery since Mike and I died.
If it weren’t for Brooks, those wines would be in trouble.
Otis picks up the pen, and I look forward to seeing where he goes from here, jumping into those happier times. Before ink meets the page, the front doorbell rings.
It’s Brooks. A lightness comes over me. There aren’t many better men in the world than him, and I know that he’s doing everything to bring Otis back. As hardheaded as Otis can be, it certainly takes a village.
At the sound of the bell, Otis whipped his head around. He was in no shape to see anyone. By God, he hadn’t looked in the mirror in days, but he could imagine what he’d encounter. Nevertheless, he scooped up Amigo and put him in his crate, then headed to the door.
Brooks stood there. Tattoos from his years as a runaway troublemaker branded his body.
He once had a sadness in his eyes, a lost sense about him, but in the five years since he’d been working with Otis, a glimmer of hope and even excitement had started to sparkle.
Otis considered the young man a third son; Brooks looked up to him as a father figure.
“You’re not answering my calls,” Brooks said.
“Yeah, my phone’s probably not charged.” His voice came out in an ugly croak.
“How’s Amigo?”
Otis turned back to the inside of his house. “He’s coming back to life. Gaining weight. Cast comes off in three weeks.”
“Then?”
Otis cleared his throat, tasting stale tobacco. “I guess I walk him up the mountain and see what happens. I hear his family out there, calling for him. Hopefully he’ll make it.” Amigo had been a steady companion, and the idea of not having him in the house was unsettling.
“He’s doing better than you, then,” Brooks said. It wasn’t a question.
Otis gave a weak laugh. “He’s far more on the mend.”
Brooks looked at him so long that Otis had to turn away. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Are you kidding? Look at you, Otis. Everyone’s worried about you.”
“No need to be. A man can grieve, can’t he?”
“Of course, but you need more sunlight. A shower. You need to let people visit with you. The whole mountain is worried. You’re the leader.”
Otis laughed. “If this mountain is counting on me right now, I don’t know what to say. You’re all in trouble. My time has passed.”
Concern rang in Brooks’s tone. “Would you let me say something like that? Do I need to remind you how you found me, the shape I was in? Now it’s my turn.
I understand a man must grieve, but there comes a time when you have to put one foot in front of the other.
Let’s start with the wines. You haven’t even asked about them. ”
“I haven’t agreed to forge ahead.”
“I won’t allow too many more days to go by. I’ll drag you out of here kicking and screaming if I have to.”
Otis mustered the courage to find Brooks’s eyes for a moment. “I don’t want to know about the wines. I ...” His heart slowed to a drip.
“It was your last vintage with her. You have to care.”
Otis tightened. “Do not tell me what I have to do.”
“Oh, I know I can’t do that, but you’ll one day regret it if these wines don’t sing. You’re going to want to remember what you and Bec did your last year together.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
Brooks’s silence won the argument.
“What’s it been, five years with me? You know as much as I do about wine.”
“Hardly.” Brooks took in a breath. “I need your help. The syrah, the cab. Even the merlot, they’re not coming to life. There’s a dullness to them. It’s almost like they know what’s going on ... like they’re waiting on you too.”
Otis chuckled. It’s going to be a long wait, he thought.
“I know it’s only been a couple of months, but you can’t keep hiding. We have work to do.”
“I have nothing left to give.”
Brooks crossed his arms defiantly. “Do you really believe that? You talk like you’re in your eighties. You’re not even sixty.”
Otis raised a hand. “While I appreciate the pep talk, I need the time I need. Right now I don’t want to taste the goddamn wines that mark the end of what I had left.”
“What would Bec say?”
Fury shot up Otis’s back. “Don’t bring her into it.”
Brooks nodded. “I apologize, but someone has to say it. She wouldn’t want this. It’s time you finished what you started. Get out there and show these people what you’re made of. Red Mountain’s not done with you, not by a long shot. This vintage in barrel now needs you. The vines need you.”
Otis studied his apprentice. “I don’t know what to tell you, Brooks.”
“Consider this notice then. Clean yourself up. I’m coming for you. The only way out is through.”
Oh, there was more than one way out, but he didn’t say that to Brooks. What he saw reflected in Brooks’s eyes was a man too ashamed to walk out that door and try to pretend the world would keep spinning.
Because no.
It would not.