Free Vintage by David Baker Page B

was briefing him on Carmen’s classroom performance in preparation for the conference while he was distracted, wondering if he’d left the girls with all the ingredients they’d need to make pirozhki.
    â€œShe’s gotten three ‘whoops’ notes in recent weeks for talking during class.”
    â€œI wish they had ‘whoops’ notes back in my day.” Bruno chuckled, hitching his hips uncomfortably in his seat at the memory of the polished wooden paddle his middle school principal kept in the top drawer, holes drilled into the surface toreduce wind resistance and also to produce a terrifying whistling sound.
    â€œHer reading scores are a touch below grade level on the standardized tests,” Anna said through her teeth. Bruno refused to be alarmed. He was enjoying the clear evidence that his child was . . . well . . . an actual child rather than an animatronic pawn in the growing national pastime of competitive child-rearing.
    â€œWouldn’t worry about it,” Bruno said. “Did you see that stuff they want her to read on those practice tests? I couldn’t choke it down, either.”
    Anna sighed. Bruno knew his laissez-faire attitude frustrated her. But he also felt that life was far too short to start making it a contest in the third grade. Carmen was smart, funny, she had a few good friends and a healthy appetite, and that counted for a whole lot more than grades in Bruno’s mind.
    As he gazed out at the passing neighborhoods, his thoughts kept returning to the cork in his pocket. He had tasted a Trevallier only once in his life, and it had been aspiritual experience. He was working in France as a vineyard laborer, and was with a group of other workers at a small restaurant off the village place in Puligny Montrachet, a dingy little hole of a joint that served an excellent cassoulet. One of the men, trying to impress a girlfriend, demanded the best bottle of wine in the house, and the owner very proudly brought up a ’76 Trevallier and dusted it off. The normally raucous crew sipped the wine in reverent awe. Bruno held the glass under his nose and swirled as layer upon layer of aromas unfurled for him, and he recognized the full potential, depth and complexity of a single glass of wine for, perhaps, the first time.
    As they pulled into the parking lot and got out of the car, Anna reminded him to take off his cap before going inside.She frowned at the bandage on his forehead but didn’t ask. She reached up and straightened the collar of his lapel, biting her lower lip.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” he asked.
    â€œI’m just worried Carmen might have behavior issues.”
    Bruno wanted to dismiss her concerns with a laugh, but instead he swallowed his reply and took Anna’s shoulders, offered a reassuring squeeze. “She’s a feisty girl. Which will serve her well in life. But let’s see what Mrs. Jackson has to say first.” Anna drew a deep breath and they went inside.
    Mrs. Jackson had lots to say, all of it good. They sat across from the teacher at Carmen’s little worktable, Bruno engulfing the tiny chair. “Carmen’s a very social girl. We just need to make sure she focuses when she has to. But she’s a delightful student,” Mrs. Jackson said. Bruno felt Anna exhale with relief. They leafed through Carmen’s folder of work. One of the assignments had been to write a “how-to,” in which she had described the process of making a chilled English pea velouté, and Bruno blushed with pride. Anna didn’t. The last thing she needed was another gourmand in the family. The next essay was about the person Carmen most admired in the world, and it was, deservingly so, her mother. Anna brushed away a tear and Bruno touched her knee under the tiny table. Anna took his fingers and gave them a squeeze, the automatic, unthinking reaction of a longtime couple. Now Bruno wanted to