But I’m already there, kissing up every trace of my little prank, until I cover her laughing mouth with my own. Her hands dive into my hair, holding me to her, and I feel sohappy.
A van plastered with angel wings and the Franklin Second Baptist Church of God logo rolls up, and Ms. Betty appears from the driver’s side door, followed by her entourage of church biddies.
“Hey there, Ms. Betty,” I say, genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know the prayer circle was helping out today.”
“We’re here on a mission from God,” she replies serenely. “It don’t involve wine.” She lifts a finger. “That’s for later.”
“Ms. Betty lost her partial plate during Hannah’s reception,” an old lady with thick trifocals offers from the back. “The Lord will lead us to it.”
“Oh.” My eyebrows raise of their own accord. “Do y’all need help?”
But the biddies are already on their way, disappearing into the fields like very old Children of the Corn.
Laine and I grab gloves and shears and join our friends in the vines. The morning passes in a blur of laughter and the sticky-sweet smell of ripe grapes. There’s something so special and intimate about sharing the vineyard’s work with her. This place that brought my parents together, this land we’ve lovingly cared for ever since, this life’s work that’s clutched me so tightly, I haven’t always been able to breathe. Laine helps me bear my family’s dreams, keeps me company in what’s always felt like such a lonely endeavor. It’s not a trap when I choose to be here.
The good vibes flow all morning, as does the wine. People are getting so sloppy I call the food truck to come an hour early, but I can’t argue with their productivity. Drunk people are happy people, and happy people work hard. We’ve already made our way through the Seyval Blanc and Chardonnay, and we’re a good way into the Traminette, too.
“I’m hungry!” Darryl moans, then dangles a cluster of grapes over his mouth and takes a bite like he’s Bacchus and the hot lady feeding him, all at once. “Ugh.Why do these grapes taste so bad!”
“They’re not wine yet, you drunkard!” Trish says, our sober granny once again. “Go sit in the shade and drink two bottles of water, or I’m divorcing your ass.”
“The taco truck’ll be here soon, I promise!” I keep checking my watch. It’s almost noon, and Darryl’s not the only one munching on grapes, no matter how many times we announce wine grapes aren’t for eating.
Someone screams. “THERE’S BEEN A MURDER!”
“Good lord.” I run toward the newest disaster, Laine and others quick on my tail.
“I HAVE FOUND HU-MAN RE-MAINS!” It’s Booch screeching this time, perhaps the drunkest of all. When we reach him, he’s hunched to the side, his hands braced against his knees, looking like he’s seen a ghost and decided to vomit about it. He points a shaky finger at a deep burrow where something white and shiny shimmers within. I get on my knees and peer down into the darkness, starting a little when I see human teeth grinning ominously up at me.
“Someone tell Ms. Betty we found her teeth!” I call out. I slip on a glove and lean down to fish them out.
“You sure you should be doing that?” Booch asks, a tremor in his voice.
“They’re dentures, Booch. Not like they’re attached to someone.” I laugh a little as I reach inside, looking up at the sky as I grasp around, trying to find the teeth. Suddenly, pain lights up my entire arm.
“AHHH! SON OF ABITCH!”
I yank my arm wildly from the burrow, but it doesn’t budge. “I’m STUCK!” I scream as zapping bolts of agony shoot up my arm and into my shoulder. No less than four drunk people tackle me from different angles, yanking my remaining appendages like a good old-fashioned quartering.
It doesn’t work.
“Get off her!” Laine barrels through the unhelpful drunks pawing at my body. She slams down to her knees, wraps her strong arms around my waist, and pulls. My arm pops out, and I go spilling backward. A miniature black cloud rises from the burrow.
“BEES!” Maeve screams, but those aren’t bees. They’re wasps, yellow jackets to be precise, and their stings hurt worse than anything because their venom’s made from the black blood of Satan himself. I should know since my right arm belongs to them now.
What happens next reminds me of a nature documentary featuring a stampede of large, bumbling, inelegant creatures, elephants or bison perhaps, racing away from a pack of predators. Only this time it’s eight drunk people trying to get away from mean-ass yellow jackets hell-bent on revenge. Laine drags me up to standing, my bad arm dangling by my side, and hauls me out of there, which I’m grateful for because all I can comprehend right now ispain.
When we’re safely away, Laine lays me down on a picnic blanket, panic etched across her face.
“Trish! We need you over here!”
I whimper, tears coursing down my cheeks. It still feels like they’re crawling all over me, phantom stings piercing my skin again and again. I keep checking, but all that’s there is the rapidly swelling cuff of angry red arm exposed between my glove and shirtsleeve.
“You’re not allergic, are you?” Laine’s hands fly over my body, checking for more stings brushing my hair back off my face, eyes searching for more danger. She pries the teeth out of my clenched fist and throws them over her shoulder, like it’s their fault I got mobbed by nature’s henchmen. Somebody yelps and swears as the sound of fake teeth collides with a head, and I sob out a laugh.
“N-no,” I manage, right before Trish shows up with the first aid kit and ice packs. I’m incredibly grateful to have a retired nurse on the premises.
“Okay, let me at her.” Trish kneels on my other side. She examines my bad arm gingerly as she gently swabs the stings out with peroxide, relief hitting as soon as she encases the welted flesh in ice packs. “Ten-some-odd stings in all. You’re a lucky lady, Zoe.”
