The John Fante Reader Page 5

  I tossed one more snowball, watched it splatter, and then trudged through the snow and across the icy pavement. Now I could see her plainly. Her jaws quivered from the twilight cold. She stood with folded arms, tapping her toes to keep them warm.

  “Whaddya want?” I said.

  “It’s cold,” she said. “Come inside and I’ll tell you.”

  “What is it, Ma? I’m in a hurry.”

  “I want you to go to the store.”

  “The store? No. I’m not going. I know why you want me to go—because you’re afraid on account of the bill. Well, I ain’t going.”

  “Please go’” she said. “You’re big enough to understand. You know how Mr. Craik is.”

  I did know. I hated him. He was always asking me if my father was drunk or sober, and what the hell did my father do with his money, and how do you wops live without a cent, and how does it happen your old man never stays home at night? I knew Mr. Craik, and hated him.

  “Why can’t August go?” I said. “Heck sakes, I do all the work around here.”

  “But August is too young. He wouldn’t know what to buy.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’m not going.”

  I turned and tramped back to the boys. The snowball fight resumed. She called. I didn’t answer. She called again. I shouted that her voice might be drowned out. Now it was darkness, and Mr. Craik’s windows bloomed in the night. My mother stood looking at the store door.

  The grocer was whacking a bone with a cleaver on the chopping-block when she entered. As the door squealed he looked up and saw her—a small, insignificant figure in an old black coat with a high fur collar, most of the fur having been shed so that white hide-spots appeared in the dark mass. One of her stockings, always the left, hung loose and wrinkled at the ankle. You knew a safety pin supported a garter of worn elastic. The faded gloss from her rayon hose made them a yellowish tan, accentuating the small bones and white skin under them and making her old shoes seem even more damp and ancient. She walked like a woman in a cathedral, fearfully on tiptoe, to that familiar place from which she invariably made her purchases, where the counter met the wall. She smiled, as though at herself for being what she was: a mother, a prolific mother, and not a society lady.

  In earlier years she used to greet him with a “howdydo.” But now she felt that perhaps he wouldn’t like such familiarity, and she stood quietly in her corner, waiting until he was ready to wait on her.

  Seeing who it was, he paid no attention, and she tried to be an interested and smiling spectator while he swung his cleaver. He was of middle-height, partly bald, wearing celluloid glasses—a man of forty-five. A thick pencil rested behind one ear and a cigarette behind the other. His white apron hung to his shoe tops, a blue string wound many times around his waist. He was hacking a bone inside a red and juicy rump.

  “My!” she said. “It looks good, doesn’t it?”

  He flipped the steak up and over, swished a square of paper from the roll, spread it over the scales, and tossed the steak upon it. His quick, soft fingers wrapped it expertly. She estimated that it was close to ninety cents, and she wondered who had purchased it.

  Mr. Craik heaved the rest of the rump upon his shoulder and disappeared inside the icebox, closing the door behind him. She wondered why butchers always closed icebox doors behind them; and she guessed that, assuming you locked yourself in and couldn’t get out, you wouldn’t starve to death at least-you could always eat the wieners. It seemed he stayed a long time in the icebox. Then he emerged, clearing his throat, clicked the icebox door shut, padlocked it for the night, and disappeared into the back room.

  She supposed he was going to the washroom to wash his hands and that made her wonder if she was out of Gold Dust Cleanser; and then, all at once, she realized she was out of everything.

  He appeared with a broom and began to sweep the sawdust around the chopping-block. She lifted her eyes to the clock. Ten minutes to six. Poor Mr. Craik! He looked so tired. He was like all men, probably starved for a hot meal, and she thought how nice to be the wife of a grocer; but even if she were a grocer’s wife she wouldn’t allow anything but homemade bread on her table. That made her think again of how much money you could make if you had a little store downtown and sold good homemade bread, the big loaves like the ones she herself baked. She was sure she could handle such a business, and she couldn’t help thinking how mad her husband would be if she went out and earned her living like so many of these women were doing nowadays. She could see herself in that little bakery store, with cakes and cookies and loaves of bread in the window, herself behind the counter in a white apron, society ladies from University Hill coming in and saying, “Oh, Mrs. Bandini! You bake such wonderful things!” And of course she would have a delivery route, too, and Frederick and August and Arturo would be the delivery boys, and later their brothers would follow; she wondered how much she would pay them as a start; and since Arturo was the oldest and needed most coaxing she would pay him six dollars a week, and August three, and little Frederick one. They would put their money in a savings bank and after that first store was a success she would …

  Mr. Craik finished his sweeping and paused to light a cigarette.

  She said, “Cold weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

  But he coughed, and she supposed he hadn’t heard, for he disappeared into the back room and returned with a dustpan and a paper box. Bending down, he swept the sawdust into the pan and threw it into the box.

  “I don’t like cold weather at all,” she said.

  He coughed again, and before she knew it he was carrying the box back to the rear. She heard the splash of running water. He returned, drying his hands on his apron, that nice white apron. She smiled sympathetically, but he wasn’t looking in her direction. At the cash register, very loudly he rang up NO SALE. She changed her position, moving her weight from one foot to the other. The big clock ticked away. Now it was exactly six o’clock.

  Mr. Craik scooped the coins from the cashbox and laid them on the counter. He tore a slip of paper from the roll and reached for his pencil. Then he leaned over and counted the day’s receipts. She coughed. Was it possible he didn’t know she was in the store? He wet the pencil on the end of his pink tongue and began to add figures. Patting her hair, she raised her eyebrows and strolled to the front window to look at the fruits and vegetables.

  “Strawberries!” she said. “And in the winter too! Are they California strawberries, Mr. Craik?”

  He swept the coins into a bank sack and went to the safe, where he squatted and fingered the combination lock. The big clock ticked like the beat of a small hammer. It was ten minutes after six when he closed the safe.

  She was no longer facing him. Her feet had tired, and with hands clasped in her lap she sat on a box and stared at the frosted front windows. Mr. Craik took off his apron and threw it over the chopping-block. He threw his cigarette on the floor, stepped on it, and went after his coat in the back room. As he straightened his collar, he spoke to her for the first time.

  “Come on, Mrs. Bandini. Make up your mind. I can’t hang around here all night long.”

  At the sound of his voice she lost her balance and nearly fell off the box. She smiled to conceal her embarrassment, but her face was very red and her eyes lowered. Her hands fluttered at her throat like disturbed leaves

  “Oh!” she said. “And here I was, waiting for you! I’m awfully sorry. I never thought …”

  “What’ll it be, Mrs. Bandini—shoulder steak?”

  She stood at the counter, her lips pursed.

  “How much is shoulder steak today?”

  “Same price. Same price.”

  “That’s nice. I’ll take fifty cents’ worth.”

  He tossed his head grimly.

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?” he said. “Here I went and put all that meat in the icebox.”

  “Oh. I’m awfully sorry. Let it go then.”

  “No,” he said. “I’ll get it this time. B
ut after this, come early. I got to get home some time tonight.”

  He brought out a cut of shoulder and stood sharpening his knife.

  “Say,” he said. “What’s Svevo doing these days?”

  In twelve years the two men had rarely spoken to one another, but the grocer always referred to her husband by his first name. She always felt that Mr. Craik was afraid of him. It was a belief that secretly made her very proud. Now they talked of Svevo, and she told again the monotonous tale of a bricklayer’s misfortunes in the wintertime. She was anxious to get away; it was so painful to give Mr. Craik the same report day after day, year after year.

  “Oh, yes!” she said, gathering her packages. “I almost forgot! I want some fruit, too—a dozen apples.”

  It was a bombshell. Mr. Craik swore under his breath as he whipped a sack open and dropped apples into it.

  “Good God!” he said. “This charging business has got to stop, Mrs. Bandini. I tell you it can’t go on like this.”

  “I’ll tell him,” she said hurriedly. “I’ll tell him, Mr. Craik.”

  “Ach. A lot of good that does. I’m not running a charity.”

  She gathered her packages and fled for the door.

  “I’ll tell him, Mr. Craik. I’ll tell him. Good night, Mr. Craik. Good night, sir!”

  Such a relief to step into the street! How tired she was! Every cell in her body ached. But once more, and for another day, the problem of food was solved. She smiled as she breathed the cold night air, and she hugged her packages lovingly, as though they were life itself.

  —The Big Hunger

  THE ODYSSEY OF A WOP

  III

  AS I GROW OLDER, I find out that Italians use Wop and Dago much more than Americans. My grandmother, whose vocabulary of English is confined to the commonest of nouns, always employs them in discussing contemporary Italians. The words never come forth quietly, unobtrusively. No; they bolt forth. There is a blatant intonation, and then the sense of someone being scathed, stunned.

  I enter the parochial school with an awful fear that I will be called Wop. As soon as I find out why people have such things as surnames, I match my own against such typically Italian cognomens as Bianchi, Borello, Pacelli—the names of other students. I am pleasantly relieved by the comparison. After all, I think, people will say I am French. Doesn’t my name sound French? Sure! So thereafter, when people ask me my nationality, I tell them I am French. A few boys begin calling me Frenchy. I like that. It feels fine.

  Thus I begin to loathe my heritage. I avoid Italian boys and girls who try to be friendly. I thank God for my light skin and hair, and I choose my companions by the Anglo-Saxon ring of their names. If a boy’s name is Whitney, Brown, or Smythe, then he’s my pal; but I’m always a little breathless when I am with him; he may find me out. At the lunch hour I huddle over my lunch pail, for my mother doesn’t wrap my sandwiches in wax paper, and she makes them too large, and the lettuce leaves protrude. Worse, the bread is homemade; not bakery bread, not “American” bread. I make a great fuss because I can’t have mayonnaise and other “American” things.

  The parish priest is a good friend of my father’s. He comes strolling through the school grounds, watching the children at play. He calls to me and asks about my father, and then he tells me I should be proud to be studying about my great countrymen, Columbus, Vespucci, John Cabot. He speaks in a loud, humorous voice. Students gather around us, listening, and I bite my lips and wish to Jesus he’d shut up and move on.

  Occasionally now I hear about a fellow named Dante. But when I find out that he was an Italian I hate him as if he were alive and walking through the classrooms, pointing a finger at me. One day I find his picture in a dictionary. I look at it and tell myself that never have I seen an uglier bastard.

  We students are at the blackboard one day, and a soft-eyed Italian girl whom I hate but who insists that I am her beau stands beside me. She twitches and shuffles about uneasily, half on tiptoe, smiling queerly at me. I sneer and turn my back, moving as far away from her as I can. The nun sees the wide space separating us and tells me to move nearer the girl. I do so, and the girl draws away, nearer the student on her other side.

  Then I look down at my feet, and there I stand in a wet, spreading spot. I look quickly at the girl, and she hangs her head and looks at me in a way that begs me to take the blame for her. We attract the attention of others, and the classroom becomes alive with titters. Here comes the nun. I think I am in for it again, but she embraces me and murmurs that I should have raised two fingers and of course I would have been allowed to leave the room. But, says she, there’s no need for that now; the thing for me to do is go out and get the mop. I do so, and amid the hysteria I nurse my conviction that only a Wop girl, right out of a Wop home, would ever do such a thing as this.

  Oh, you Wop! Oh, you Dago! You bother me even when I sleep. I dream of defending myself against tormentors. One day I learn from my mother that my father went to the Argentine in his youth, and lived in Buenos Aires for two years. My mother tells me of his experiences there, and all day I think about them, even to the time I go to sleep. That night I come awake with a jerk. In the darkness I grope my way to my mother’s room. My father sleeps at her side, and I awaken her gently, so that he won’t be aroused.

  I whisper: “Are you sure Papa wasn’t born in Argentina?”

  “No. Your father was born in Italy.”

  I go back to bed, disconsolate and disgusted.

  —The Wine of Youth

  IT WAS A BAD ONE, the Winter of 1933. Wading home that night through flames of snow, my toes burning, my ears on fire, the snow swirling around me like a flock of angry nuns, I stopped dead in my tracks. The time had come to take stock. Fair weather or foul, certain forces in the world were at work trying to destroy me.

  Dominic Molise, I said, hold it. Is everything going according to plan? Examine your condition with care, take an impartial survey of your situation. What goes on here, Dom?

  There I was in Roper, Colorado, growing older by the minute. In six months I would be eighteen and graduated from high school. I was sixty-four inches tall and had not grown one centimeter in three years. I was bowlegged and pigeon-toed and my ears protruded like

  Pinocchio’s. My teeth were crooked, and my face was as freckled as a bird’s egg.

  I was the son of a bricklayer who had not worked in five months. I didn’t own an overcoat, I wore three sweaters, and my mother had already begun a series of novenas for the new suit I needed to graduate in June.

  Lord, I said, for in those days I was a believer who spoke frankly to his God: Lord, what gives? Is this what you want? Is this why you put me on the earth? I didn’t ask to be born. I had absolutely nothing to do with it, except that I’m here, asking fair questions, the reasons why, so tell me, give me a sign: is this my reward for trying to be a good Christian, for twelve years of Catholic doctrine and four years of Latin? Have I ever doubted the Transubstantiation, or the Holy Trinity, or the Resurrection? How many masses have I missed on Sundays and holy days of obligation? Lord, you can count them on your fingers.

  Are you playing a game with me? Have things gotten out of hand? Have you lost control? Is Lucifer back in power? Be honest with me, for I’m troubled all the time. Give me a clue. Is life worth while? Will everything turn out right?

  We lived on Arapahoe Street, at the foot of the first hills that rose to become the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains. They shot up like jagged skyscrapers, staring down at our town, a haze of blue and green in summer, sugar white in winter, with peaked turrets shrouded in the clouds. Every winter someone was lost up there, trapped in a canyon or buried in a snowslide. In spring the melting snows turned Roper Creek into a wild river that swept away fences and bridges and flooded the streets, piling mud along Pearl Street and inundating the courthouse basement. Cold country, bad-tempered ‘country, the earth’s crust a sheet of ice through April, snow on Easter Sunday, sometimes a sudden snowstorm in May: bad countr
y for a ballplayer, specially for a pitcher who hadn’t thrown a ball since October.

  But The Arm kept me going, that sweet left arm, the one nearest my heart. The snow couldn’t hurt it and the wind couldn’t pierce it because I kept it soaked with Sloan’s Liniment, a little bottle of it in my pocket at all times, I reeked with it, sometimes sent out of class to wash the pine tartness away, but I walked out proudly without shame, conscious of my destiny, steeled against the sneers of the boys and the tilted nostrils of the girls.

  I had a great stride in those days, the gait of a gunslinger, the looseness of the classic lefthander, the left shoulder drooping a little, The Arm dangling limp as a serpent—my arm, my blessed, holy arm that came from God, and if The Lord created me out of a poor bricklayer he hung me with jewels when he hinged that whizzer to my collarbone.

  Let it snow then! And let the winters be long and cold with spring a time to dream about, for this was not the end of Dominic Molise after all, only his beginning, and the warm summer sun would find him doing the work of God with his cunning left arm. This snow-swept Arapahoe Street was a place of distinction, a landmark where once he walked on despairing nights, his birthplace, to be so inscribed in the Hall of Fame. A plaque, if you please, a bronze plaque set in concrete on a monument at the corner of Ninth and Arapahoe Streets: Boyhood Neighborhood of Dominic Molise, World’s Greatest Southpaw.

  God had answered my questions, cleared my doubts, restored my faith, and the world was right again. The wind vanished and the snow drifted down like hushed confetti. Grandma Bettina used to say that snowflakes were the souls in heaven returning to Earth for brief visits. I knew this was not true but it was possible, and I believed it sometimes when the whim amused me.

  I held out my hand and many flakes fell upon it, alive and star-shaped for a few seconds, and who could say? Perhaps the soul of Grandpa Giovanni, dead seven years now, and Joe Hardt, our third baseman, killed last summer on his motorcycle, and all of my father’s people in the faraway mountains of Abruzzi, great-aunts and uncles I had never known, all vanished from the earth. And the others, the billions who lived a while and went away, the poor soldiers killed in battle, the sailors lost at sea, the victims of plague and earthquake, the rich and the poor, the dead from the beginning of time, none escaping except Jesus Christ, the only one in all the history of man who ever came back, but no one else, and did I believe that?