Slide - Kyle Beachy [72]
I saw the sign appear as I came onto a particularly straight section of whatever name this road went by out here, an inconspicuous sign of natural wood.
“Eye-ree-nee-ahhh.”
The van, gravid with as much weight as it had likely ever known, could only inch up the steep dirt driveway. And this seemed a much more appropriate rate of travel for a delivery of this size. How reckless I'd been on Highway 40, how inconsiderate of my cargo.
Standing at the lot's edge was a bald man wearing a pale-blue collared polo shirt tucked into khakis. He approached my van with a raised hand and something approximating a smile.
“You must be from Deborah. Welcome.”
I extended my hand through the window and we shook.
“Potter Mays,” I said.
“Mays. Glad you made it. We were starting to run low. Follow this path around to the back and the others will be out in a minute to give you a hand.”
I drove along the side of the winery's central building, a squat home that looked like an old plantation mansion squished down to just one floor. The gravel path ended in a small circular lot behind the building. Here, four white Econoline vans much like my own were parked facing outward, as if ready to flee if the need arose. I got out of the van and walked a few steps for a better view of the land. The grounds were beautiful, gentle hills and walls of forest, the better part of a valley cultivated with sparse rows of grape plants. I turned back to the building in time to see a door open from inside where I didn't think there was a door. Two men emerged, both dressed like the man out front, in khaki pants and light-blue collared shirt. I met them at the side of the van and we shook hands. They were both somewhere in their forties and had hair shaved to the skull, fingers blunted by years of work, and the quietly stunning musculature that can only come from true, purposeful labor. One was slightly taller, and the shorter was a bit bulkier in the shoulders.
“It's good you made it,” the shorter man said. “Any trouble finding us?”
“Not at all. I had directions.”
The taller man had his arms crossed and his gaze fixed on a spot somewhere above my head.
“Any problem getting up the hill? Guess it depends which engine you've got in there.”
“This is the V8,” I said.
Tall one cracked a smile.
“After ‘92, about all you find are the V8,” the other said. “Wondering if it was the 4.6 or 5.4, is all. Either way. Important thing is you made it. That's good. We're here to give you a hand with those bottles.”
“Mighty kind of you.”
“Pleasure's ours. Job to be done, so let's do what we can to get that job done.”
“Potter Mays.” I shook the shorter man's hand firmly and then reached to meet that of the taller man, which consumed my tiny rabbit paw inside a great limestone cave of a palm while his eyes locked onto mine as if that's where I kept my records of lies and cheating and mismanaged worth. My hand compressed inside his and I squinted, fighting the traditional battle of masculine will. When we released I slid open the door, revealing the wall of bottles stacked within.
They took two bottles each and waited as I unloaded two of my own. I had always carried the bottles one at a time, but to do so here seemed an insult to everyone involved. I followed through the unmarked door into an undecorated stairwell; we descended immediately and moved through a long, plain hallway The two men in blue moved with diligence that seemed a necessary part of who they were. I shuffled to keep pace, my hands burning. At the end of this hallway we descended another stairway into a slightly darker hallway lit by single lightbulbs at irregular intervals. The walls were unpainted cinder block, the floor smooth cement marked only by the occasional circular drain. I longed to stop and rest my hands. Sound of six shoes echoed in this hallway Until finally we arrived at a double door that opened into a cavernous storage room, where I followed the men to a dark corner and dropped my load next to theirs.
“Jesus,” I said. “Long way down.