As a Thief in the Night (29 page)

His grandfather made little of Ezra's accident. The old man spoke to him sternly and rudely about the reasons behind the things he told him to do. His daughters hadn't listened to him either, and look how things had turned out for them. If Ezra intended to go on that way, he could get back on the boat and go home. Ruiz and the other vineyard workers mostly made fun of him.
"I tell you now, you were lying there looking as dead as Lazarus when I found you. And there was no getting up for a laugh at Ruiz this time, Cabra," Ruiz told him. Apparently, Ruiz had gone to his window and called up to him when he hadn't shown up at the living quarters. Not finding him in his room he had asked the other workers and one of them said he had seen him going into the barn (the Mexicans called it the barn because that's what it looked like to them).  Ruiz had gone to check it out, and seeing the lights on in the cellar, had gone downstairs to look for him. "And what do I see? I climb the ladder and see you lying like one dead at the bottom of the vat in a big puddle of dirty mop water."

Early in the morning, before breakfast and work, he went out to run. Within him a fire began to burn. He was bold and named the flames 'redemption' and 'return'. Because when he returned home, to football and to school, he would not lie down for them again. He had spent enough time in silence and was not a small fatherless boy any longer. It was time to leave those things behind.

As he ran he imagined all the things he would do on the football field. He saw himself breaking tackles and making acrobatic catches, and even laid down a mental soundtrack to his fantasy. As he ran he allowed his awareness to move through his inner body and into his nerves and muscles, and his faith in it grew.

In the evenings he went down to the cellar to lift weights. At first he went by himself, but before long either Ruiz or Nectario were there to spot him. Sometimes Nectario worked out with him. Ezra liked it best when Nectario came, because Ruiz joked around too much. One day he would do chest and triceps, the next back and bicep exercises, and the next legs. On leg days he did sets of squats, sometimes as many as eight or nine, until he felt like he was about to pass out. Some evenings, after Ruiz or Nectario had gone back to the living quarters, he ended his workouts sitting against the wall, shaking and dizzy with exhaustion, the sweat dripping off his face. Alone in the cellar and completely exhausted, he felt his mind come to a complete stop. He was awake and alert, yes, but it was also as if some great gust of wind had come along and swept all his thoughts away. So he would sit there, eyes open but staring at nothing in particular, and simply feel the emptiness. He remained there until he felt his body had recovered enough for him to walk home.

He still went to drink and dance with the Mexicans at night. He knew them all by name now. Nectario taught him small bits on the Spanish guitar, and another of the workers, a very plain man named Joe Dark (a very strange name for a Mexican) showed him how to throw knives. Ezra enjoyed getting drunk and dancing with Maria. She flirted with him but it never went further than that. He got the feeling that Ruiz had warned her off.

The suspicion the workers had originally held him in was gone and, for the most part at least, they treated him as one of their own.  But then there were other times when he felt like they would suddenly hold him at arm's length again.  Oddly, this was most pronounced in Ruiz.  There were times when he would suddenly ask Ezra to leave a conversation, and others when, as soon as Ezra approached, the conversation would stop suddenly in an effort to keep whatever was being said from him.  Though he noticed it, none of this concerned Ezra very much.

On nights when he was tired and did not go to drink with the Mexicans he read Demian.
  But he did not continue as he had that first night, reading large amounts in one sitting. On some nights he would read only two or three pages. Often, however, what he had read in those two or three pages would be on his mind for most of the next day as he worked in the vineyard.

Most nights when he wanted to work out he would wait for his grandfather and Nectario to finish boxing. He kept time while they fought, and sometimes, when his grandfather's mood seemed agreeable, asked questions. Though he would never have admitted it, Nectario almost always seemed to get the better of the old man, so Harold's humor depended not on whether he'd won, but on how many solid punches he had been able to land. Sometimes Ezra would borrow Nectario's gloves when they were done and hit the heavy bag as a warm up before he lifted weights. The gloves were new and black and slick. He liked the feeling of wearing the gloves and hitting the bag and the way the bag gave a bit in the place where he hit it.

One evening his grandfather was doing particularly well after the first few rounds. The old man was breathing heavy when he took his chair.

"Ezra," he said between ragged breaths, "do me a favor. Go and fill up my water bottle in Edward's office."

"Is it open?"

"Fish my keys out of my bag. The water cooler is in the corner."

"Okay."

"Make sure you lock up," Harold called after him.

Ezra opened the door and felt along the inside of the wall for the light switch. He had never been inside the winemaker's office before. The overhead light revealed a meticulously kept room and laboratory. He walked to the back of the room, stopping briefly to look at some of the beakers and chemicals that Edward stored on the shelves. On the wall behind the cooler was a picture of Harold Mignon and his wife as a young couple. They were surrounded by their daughters and what looked to be the group of migrant workers from a vintage long past. The picture was so old that Ruiz wasn't even in it. All of them were standing in front of the house together with Sarah, Elsie, Olyvia, and his mother, the girls kneeling in the front and looking very happy to have been included with the grown-ups. Ezra searched the faces of the people in his family, looking for some trace of the violence and discord that he knew went on between husband and wife, father and daughter, but found none. Would his grandfather have been a different man if he'd had a son?

Ezra filled the water bottle with cool water, shut off the light, locked the door, and walked quickly down the corridor to the back of the cellar again. Harold was still sitting, rubbing and rotating his left shoulder.

"This arm's gone out on me again," he groaned.

"You okay, Grandpa?" Ezra asked.

"I hurt it badly when I was a boy, and it's never worked properly since."

"How did you hurt it?"

"Oh, that's not a very pleasant story."

"Alright, Gallo," Nectario broke in, "that's good for tonight. Best not to push your luck."

"You see, Ezra? Take note now, these Mexicans are always looking for an easy win, or an easy buck."

Nectario smiled and shook his head at the old man.

"Come on. Gallo. Today the victory is yours."

"Not so fast! Ezra will do the last four rounds with you."

Ezra looked over at his grandfather in shock. "I don't know what I'm doing...and I don't have gloves."

"Mine will do. They're old but they're a fine pair of gloves. A little big for you, maybe."

Ezra looked over at Nectario. "Are you up for it, Ez?"

"Come on now," Harold scolded as he unlaced his gloves. "Young guy like you. If not now, then when?"

His grandfather's boxing gloves on, Ezra stood across the floor from Nectario. He raised his hands up doubtfully. Nectario moved around him slowly and threw his jab out at a speed that allowed Ezra to see it coming.

"The first thing to understand," Harold said from close behind him, "is that you have to keep your hands active." He moved Ezra to the side and took his place for a moment. "Boxing is a thinking man's sport, like chess. Look now, every time I stand across from him with dead hands I'm not forcing him to think or worry about what I'm going to do, so he sees that as an opportunity. Step back in front now and keep your jab hand active, even if you're not moving it to hit." Ezra took his place again and did as his grandfather had told him. He threw his jab out and Nectario knocked it away. "Good, now keep it going. You see, now you're giving him something to deal with. Keep your elbow down and punch straight; don't be worried about power. That's it! Now throw your cross in there too."

Nectario moved easily and allowed Ezra to feel out what he was doing. Every now and then he would step in quickly and tap Ezra on the face. Harold laughed when this happened and Ezra realized that it was the first time he'd heard the old man laugh all summer.

After Ezra was accustomed to the routine, Nectario picked up the pace a little. When he came over between rounds to get a drink, Harold would stand in front of him and give him advice about how to continue. Boxing was much more tiring than Ezra had imagined, and he had a hard time focusing on what his grandfather was saying. What he did notice, though, was that the old man spoke with a level of animation that Ezra had not seen in him before.

By the last two rounds he realized that he had to do a better job of pacing himself for the entire three minutes, as opposed to getting in there and swinging for the fences during the first minute, and then dying for the last two. A couple of times he lunged in hard and tagged Nectario, but that ended very quickly. The young athlete and scholar saw that Ezra was over-committing himself and started counterpunching either by slipping Ezra's lead and coming up with a hook, or parrying, side-stepping, and hitting him with his cross. By the end of the final round he was exhausted. Nectario smiled at him and tapped his gloves.

"I think he has some of the old master in him," Nectario said to Harold.

"The old master, eh?"

"I mean you, of course, Gallo."

"I know what you mean, smart ass."

"Come on, Gallo; don't be so cranky. Rest your arm and we'll go again on Sunday."

"I don't know; maybe it's best I left it to you young people."

"You see, Ezra! Your grandfather says we Mexicans are sneaky, and now he is using psychological warfare on me."

Nectario and Harold left the cellar and disappeared up the steps at the end of the long hallway. Ezra went over to the weights and started his workout, but his thoughts kept returning to the boxing he had just done. Between his sets of dumbbell shoulder presses he stood as he had, with his hands up, when he had been fighting with Nectario. A complex, engaging problem had been placed before him. It seemed as if Nectario had done everything effortlessly, while for him it had been a struggle. It didn't make sense. He was in better shape than Nectario, and four or five inches taller. Moving slowly, his arms now extended, now drawn back in his guard, Ezra tried to solve the riddle.

And that was how the remaining four weeks of the summer were spent; running harder and harder along the road lined with vines, a moving collage of his fall hopes playing out in his mind, lifting weights and boxing four or five rounds with Nectario while his grandfather coached him; and two or three nights a week drinking to intoxication with the Mexicans, and speaking lines or ideas from
Demian
to himself as he stumbled through the vineyard toward the porch light at the house. During the days he worked hard in the fields, trimming back the canvas, checking grapes, doing rough chores, and preparing for the approaching vintage. Harvest time was coming soon.

The year before, the one he had spent as a destroyer of idols and a thief of tithes, a liar and a shadow, still haunted him, but his body and his book gathered strength against it and gave him a sense of courage. Then, one evening toward the end of August, as he was finishing work and the sun sat low in the sky, the giants came.

Most of the vineyards in Canada are equipped with windmills. They are tall and white and equipped with a wide, single blade. Early spring and late fall have nights that bring a frost that kills grapes. As the frost comes the windmills are turned on to push the warmer air down and lift the colder air above the vines. In this way they are protectors. But on this late August evening, Ezra did not experience protection under their wide arms, he came under attack.

It had been a hot, sunny day but, as was usually the case, a cool breeze could be felt coming off of Lake Erie. He had been drunk the night before and Maria had kissed him. During the day his head had hurt and he felt tired as he worked. The sun was well into its descent and Ezra was using a pair of shears to trim back the canvas. He was daydreaming and humming to himself. A flock of Canadian Geese flew overhead, and their moving shadow, appearing like a quick dark river on the ground, drew his eyes upward. Across the wide field of vines, where there had once been windmills, now stood a mismatched family of giants.

Across the fields they stared at him. They were of different sizes and wore clothes that belonged to the end of the sixteenth century. Ezra looked toward his grandfather's house expecting that the entire landscape had undergone a similar metamorphoses. It had not; everything stood as it had.

He scanned the tops of the vines, preparing to yell to the Mexicans and warn them of the menace that now loomed over them all. None of them were there though, and he looked around to see where they had gone.
  Then he heard the Spanish guitars coming from inside the living quarters. He saw the walls lit from within, heard the voices calling out merrily to one another, and felt the stir of dance and drink inside as if it had been the moon, and not the sun, that was circling overhead. Around all of it there was a sense of impending danger, of threat, of hungry destruction, under the fist and foot of the giants.