The Truth is in the Wine (2 page)

Ginger reached for her glass of homemade tea and knocked it over, spilling its contents across the table and onto the hardwood floor. She was frozen there, unable to move until her emotions switched from confusion to anger. It was not April Fool's Day and Paul was not a joking kind of man. He, in fact, had become so serious, that Ginger and Helena privately called him “Heart Attack,” as in “Serious as a heart attack.”

Her anger allowed her to rise from the table and storm her way to the kitchen, where Paul was uncorking a second bottle of Malbec from the vast collection of wines he coveted like rare coins. He did not share the first bottle with his wife.

Ginger was five-foot-six, but appeared smaller when side-by-side with Paul, who was eight inches taller.

Looking up at him, she demanded: “What are you talking about, Paul?”

Ginger raised her voice when her husband did not answer. “Paul, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Don't act like this is some surprise,” he said, finally. There was an edge to his voice—and a coldness, too. “This has been building for a while now. I'm fifty years old. You're only forty-seven. And—”

“Are you drunk? I'm forty-three,” Ginger interrupted.

“No, I'm not drunk. And, okay, you're forty-three,” Paul went on. “Anyway, we have some time to live still. Face it: We're not good together anymore.”

“And this is the result?” Ginger asked. “You making a decision for both of us? No discussion about it? No counseling? Nothing? And what about our daughter, Paul? What about her?”

“Helena is a smart girl and she's strong,” he said. “She will adjust. She'll be fine.”

Ginger was not so sure about that. She and her daughter were close, but she was a daddy's girl. This news would rock her.

“Well, you tell her why you're breaking up this family,” Ginger said. “You tell her that she and I are not good enough for you.”

“This is not about Helena,” Paul said, and a chill ran through Ginger's body despite how heated she was.

“So, it's about me? You don't want
me
anymore?” she asked. It was a rhetorical question because she knew the answer. But Paul answered anyway.

“I'm simply not sure about this marriage anymore,” he said. He sipped his wine. “I'm sorry. I really am. I can't make you happy. And you don't try to make me happy. We've had sex one time in the last nine months. One time, a few weeks ago. And that was because we both were drunk.

“So why should we stay in a marriage for appearance sake? Or even for Helena? It wouldn't be teaching her the right thing.”

“And it's teaching her the right thing by breaking up her family?” Ginger asked. She wanted to continue, but it suddenly hit her that going back and forth with Paul would give him the impression she was trying to convince him to stay, which she did not want to do. No doubt, she was devastated and hurt; she had built her life around her family. But she was prideful, too, and somewhere in their back-and-forth she decided, “Fuck him.”

“I only ask that you do two things for me,” she said. “Pick up your daughter from school and explain this to her.”

“I will talk to Helena,” Paul said. “But not tonight.”

“You bastard,” Ginger fired back. “You had it all planned out, huh? So who's your woman? Who's your side chick?”

Paul studied his wife, scanned her from head-to-toe and back again. There was a time looking at her smooth skin and full, pouty lips and dark eyes would mesmerize him. Not anymore. He held animus toward her that he did not bother to explain.

“Believe it or not,” he said as calmly as one would give driving directions, “it's not about being with someone else. It's about being away from you.”

And as tranquil as Paul was, Ginger turned equally irate. “I have done nothing but love you and be here for you and provide a nice home for you,” she said. “You're such an egomaniac to try to belittle me. That's very hateful of you. But it shows you don't
deserve me. You have been depressed since losing your job and I have been supportive and encouraging. Since we're being honest about everything, let me tell you this: You're a selfish pig. All you've ever thought about was yourself. You never considered how hard this whole thing has been for me. And that makes you a selfish pig.

“I'm woman enough to admit that I'm hurt by all of this. But the more I talk the more strength I get. I don't mean to call you names, but you're a loser. And whatever God has in store for you, well, good luck with that because He does not reward selfish pigs.”

“Yeah, that's really mature, Ginger,” Paul said. “You wishing bad on me. I won't stoop that low.”

“You'd have to cut off your legs to get any lower than you are,” Ginger said.

“I could say something, but I'm not,” Paul responded. “But I will say this: You call being a nasty, mean, cold person supportive of me? That's all you have been. And that's not supportive.”

Paul looked at Ginger with a strange expression. “I'm going to pick up Helena,” he said. “I'll explain everything to her, but not now. She's happy. I will, though, in due time.”

“Yeah, right,” Ginger said. “You'll explain what you want to explain—not the truth, I'm sure.”

Paul finished his wine, corked the bottle and placed it in its proper place among the alphabetized collection. He looked at his wife, who could not detect the pain that engulfed him. He hid it well, but inside he cried. Finally, before tears seeped from his eyes, he turned and walked away.

Ginger was left standing there to struggle with an influx of emotions that came crashing down. She waited until she heard the garage close, indicating Paul had gone.

It was then that she was overcome with a confluence of pain,
shock, hurt, disappointment and failure. She cried. She laughed. She perspired—all over a three- or four-minute span. Ginger thought she was having a breakdown. “I'm OK,” she said aloud. “I'm OK.”

But she wasn't.

A
s Ginger sat in the garage that evening, fearful that she was dying, Paul stood in the house, perhaps fifty feet away, feeling as alive as ever, as if he were starting a new life. His hands shook, but not from some kind of breakdown. It was from the possibilities, from relief, from joy, from amazement. While his wife fretted coming into the loveless house she shared with a man who wanted out, Paul held in his unsteady possession a lottery ticket that represented $8 million.

A whole new world was now his, one that suddenly had boundless possibilities.

Processing it all jolted him. He played the Georgia State Lottery because it seemed the thing to do. “You have to play to win,” its slogan said. And yet he never expected to actually have the prized numbers.

In one sense, it was liberating: financial concerns, concerns that overwhelmed him and robbed him of his dignity, no longer existed. In another sense, there was trepidation: What to do? Where to begin? And in still another way there was a true dilemma: What to do about his wife?

He had $4 million or so coming to him after taxes, but it was not enough to bring him total joy. The reality was that he still loved Ginger. Yes, he told her he wanted out of the marriage, but
he did not mean it. Not really. He was frustrated, almost depressed and did not see any other way to spare
her
life.

He wanted her love,
needed
her love. Before he lost his job, Paul was devoted and loving. He was not the most light-hearted guy, but Ginger could rely on him to love her and be there for her and their daughter. Losing his job changed him. He became distant and evil. His self-esteem evaporated. He felt no sense of self-worth. His changed disposition led to a troubled marriage.

Winning the money instantly turned Paul into the Paul of old. He felt totally rejuvenated. But he needed Ginger's love. Other than Diana, his high-school girlfriend, Ginger was the only woman he loved. And he wanted her love back. But he wanted her back on genuine terms; not because he became a millionaire.

After his outburst a few weeks earlier, when he told her he wanted a divorce, their “marriage” really leveled off. They spoke pleasantly enough to each other around their daughter, but that was it. Ginger gathered herself and displayed a lack of interest in Paul, a disregard for their marriage and a disinterest in trying to save it.

Paul was troubled. He had no idea he would get a financial windfall. When he did, still feeling like his life was incomplete told him something significant: He needed Ginger. Buying back her love was akin to prostitution, and Paul viewed prostitution as an act against God.

Rather, he wanted to earn his wife's love and admiration, something he once possessed. The early years of their eighteen-year marriage were idyllic. It was a union that was nearly storybook in their joy and commitment to each other. When they learned they could not conceive a child, they adopted Helena, who was eight days old at the time. He was thirty-three and she was twenty-six, and having their daughter brought Paul and
Ginger even closer, as they threw their love into making the child feel loved. And she did.

They did not have a lot of money but they had love and two salaries and they made it work—right up until around the time Paul was laid off his job. Over that nearly year of unemployment, his self-esteem plummeted like the economy and his weight increased by about fifteen unflattering pounds, all seemingly in his midsection and face.

Their marriage was not on the rocks; it was
under
the rocks. The getaway road trips to Miami and New Orleans ceased. The affection they showed each other—affection that at one time made other couples uncomfortable and envious at the same time—vanished like the rabbit in the magician's hat.

In the month after he told Ginger he wanted a divorce, they only seemed to tolerate each other while uttering nary a loving word between them. Paul was mum because he was depressed and she was displeased because her man no longer was the provider and comforter he had been. And he blamed her for his woes.

Her displeasure manifested itself in more and more time away with Helena and away from Paul—anything to not be around her husband whose manhood was assaulted with unemployment.

But Paul loved his wife and he believed she still loved him. At least, he wanted to believe that. Circumstances got in the way, he told himself. Looking down at that lottery ticket shaking in his hand, he believed he had the elixir to their toxic union.

The fix was not directly in how the money would influence his wife, however. It was in how it would impact
him
. The swagger, confidence, self-assuredness returned, and so he was immediately extracted from the doldrums. His renewed vim and vigor would be the keys to Ginger feeling better about him and, consequently, rescue their marriage. That was his hope.

However, to make sure she would return to the loving woman he admired for the right reasons, he almost immediately determined he could not tell her of his winnings. Surely she would at least act as if she were back on board knowing the new extent of his bank account. If she was coming back, he wanted it to be on his merits, not his luck.

As his wife, she was entitled to half of the jackpot. He was not trying to avoid giving it to her—$2 million surely would be enough to live a cherished life, he reasoned. But he really needed to see if he could repair the damage that wrecked their marriage and restore the love from Ginger he used as fuel.

His shaking stopped as he worked his brain to conjure up something he could tell her that would at least minimize the questions of his sudden fat pockets.

Paul could claim the money at any time, but decided he would wait a few weeks. He wanted the attention around the drawing to diminish before he contacted the lottery office. Paul liked to play the numbers, but Ginger berated him about doing so, saying, “That's an ignorant way to waste money.”

But Paul continued to play, only he did so in silence; Ginger had no idea. And neither she nor anyone knew about his winning numbers. He had no formula. There were no birthdays or license plate numbers or addresses. He selected random numbers that popped into his head for no particular reason.

Of all the things that could have been overwhelming his brain—where to travel, what to buy, how to celebrate, never having to work again—Paul's thoughts centered on saving his marriage. He considered Ginger his “wholemate,” saying “You make me whole” in reciting his vows at their wedding. Ginger was it for him, from the first time they met at the quaint bar at Aria restaurant in the Buckhead section of Atlanta.

Ginger was with friends celebrating a birthday. When she went to the bar to order a bottle of wine, Paul—after observing her alluring presence—volunteered his expertise.

“That bottle of wine you ordered will have the effect you want; it will get you drunk,” he said, smiling. “But if you want to have a great-tasting wine that also will get you where you want to get, I would recommend this.”

He pointed to a sixty-five-dollar bottle of Palmeri Riesling. Ginger took his advice and later came back to thank him for the suggestion. She loved it. Paul was happy she came back to the bar, where he sat alone, sipping wine.

“You should let me be your sommelier,” he said.

“Maybe I would if I knew what that was,” Ginger answered. “You might be trying to set me up.”

They laughed. “A sommelier is basically a wine steward, someone who knows and understands wines and can recommend the right one for the right meal, right occasion, right mood,” he said.

“OK, I get it,” she answered. “And you'll be my personal sommelier? How did I get so lucky?”

“You obviously are a lucky person,” he said with a no-nonsense look on his face. Then he smiled.

He had her then. Ginger was intrigued, soon in love and less than two years later they were married. And now Paul, in an instant, was an unlikely millionaire, married to a woman he loved despite having told her he wanted a divorce.