Full of Life (6 page)

He took out a coin purse with many compartments. In one of these lay a clove of garlic. My brother-in-law saw it too.

“That don’t work,” Steve said. “Stella and I tried it—twice.”

I
T WAS MY
first train ride with Papa, and it proved to be a nightmare. From the moment we said good-by to Steve and entered the depot, there were difficulties. We had five pieces of luggage: Papa’s tool kit, his two crummy suitcases, the roped carton of home preserves, and my overnight bag. The tool kit alone weighed fifty pounds, for it was loaded with chisels, hammers and other hunks of steel used in the trade. Three redcaps saw us struggling under this gear and rushed forward with generous hands. I produced our tickets and one of them began writing out claim checks. Papa was astonished.

“What’s going on? What they want?”

“He’ll take this stuff to our car.”

“You have to pay? How much?”

Fifty cents seemed reasonable.

“You crazy? I’ll do it myself, for nothing.”

“Look, Papa. This is the way it’s done. It’s miles to the train.”

He wouldn’t have it. He ordered the redcap to move on. “I got two jugs of wine in that black one. He might break it.”

“Ill be very careful, sir,” the redcap said.

“Nothing doing.”

“Please, Papa. At least let him haul that tool kit.”

“I got a trowel in there, she’s forty years old. Them tools cost me two hundred dollars.”

“Whatever you say, Mister,” the redcap smiled.

I thanked him. “We’ll manage,” I said. “Here.”

I flipped him a quarter. He snatched it out of the air, grinned and backed off. Papa blinked, unbelieving.

“You give him money? What for?”

“He’s got to eat too.”

He went running after the redcap, yelling at him to come back, come back here, you. The redcap returned, startled and smiling. Papa pointed to the grips.

“Carry them—all but this.” He shook one of the roped suitcases, heard the low glub-glub laughter of bottled wine, and seemed satisfied. The redcap wrote out claim checks for the other pieces and loaded them into the baggage wagon. Papa supervised the operation.

“Don’t lose them tools. I got a level in there cost me twenty dollars.”

“I’ll be very careful, sir.”

It left Papa dubious. “I had trouble with them fellows when I come out from New York.”

We went down into the passenger subway and drifted along with a river of travelers flowing toward the trains. It was a leisurely walk, with ten minutes remaining before our West Coaster departed. Suddenly half a dozen sailors came pounding down the subway, running hard to catch the San Francisco Limited. Their agitation was contagious and many who walked now began running too. One of these was Papa. Suitcase swinging, he went pattering down the runway, calling me to come on, hurry up. I picked
up the pace, but it was not fast enough for him. In the distance I saw him reach our train and try to get aboard at the first open door. A brakeman detained him. They were in a fierce argument when I came up, the brakeman insisting that he knew our car number and Papa equally emphatic that it didn’t make any difference. Ours was Car 21, far to the rear. All the way back Papa kept mumbling about the stupidity of train operations, how things had changed since his New York trip, changed for the worse.

“Car Twenty-one. Car Eighty-one. What’s the difference? There’s only one train, and the whole thing goes to Los Angeles.”

I tried to explain, but he cut me short.

“Son, I rode trains before you was born. Before I even
met
your mother. Are you gonna tell me about trains?”

We climbed aboard Car 21. The redcap arrived at the same time, sweat oozing from his brown face as he wrestled with the tool kit. Papa sat down and lit a cigar. Immediately the porter for Car 21 came over and told him there was no smoking except in the men’s washroom. With a scowl, Papa heeled out his cigar.

“What kind of a train
is
this, anyhow?”

“Men’s washroom at the end of the car,” the porter said. He was in his late sixties, with white hair and much wrinkling about the eyes. Now the redcap was back with the rest of the luggage. He wiped the sweat from his face, and his tongue hung out.

“You need a drink,” Papa said.

“Never turn down a drink,” the redcap laughed.

Quickly Papa unroped the black suitcase and flung it open. There were two gallon jugs of claret wrapped in towels. There was a third sack, bulging with stuff. I looked
inside. It held two loaves of round homemade bread and a goat’s cheese the size of a football. At the bottom of the sack was a foot-long salami and a quantity of apples and oranges.

“What’s this for?”

“You got to eat,” he answered sharply.

The redcap roared with laughter.

“That’s right. Man’s got to eat on the train.”

It pleased Papa. Redcap wasn’t such a bad fellow, after all. He grinned, his face purpling as he tried to unscrew the cap on the wine jug. “I seen you some place before,” he said. “You ever carry a hod around Denver, Colorado, in 1922, ‘23?”

Redcap was delighted.

“Not me—no sir! Rassling baggage is all I’m good for.”

Papa got the cap off the jug. As he handed it to Redcap the towel fell away, and the jug suddenly loomed up, dark red and shocking, like a bomb. Redcap was startled.

“Maybe we better go back to the smoker.”

Papa followed him to the end of the car, the jug like a baby in his arms, and they darted inside the men’s room. Car 21 was rapidly filling. People in the aisle turned frowning faces on the open suitcase, the roped carton, the tool kit smeared with mortar. No doubt about it: all that gear took a lot of glamour out of Car 21 and there was good reason for the disapproval of the others. Back in the men’s room I could hear Redcap howling with laughter. I closed the suitcase and decided to go back too.

Redcap was introducing Papa to our porter.

“You gentlemen gonna see lots of one another. Mr. Randolph, allow me to present my good friend, Mr. Fante.”

Papa shook hands.

“Randolph?” he said. “Randolph? You ever carry a hod, Mr. Randolph? Up in Boulder, Colorado, 1916, 1917?”

“Nineteen-sixteen? No, sir. Had a cousin, though. And
he
carried a hod. Down in Montgomery, Alabama. Long time ago.”

“That’s the fellow,” Papa said. “I thought so.”

Redcap was howling with laughter again. Mr. Randolph drank long and expertly from the jug, tilting it from his raised elbow. He smacked his lips and handed it to Papa, who pulled at it lovingly. Then he passed it to Redcap.

“Mr. Randolph,” Papa began. “The trouble with the white people in this country…”

But he got no further, for I had suddenly had enough of his antics. There was no harm in having a drink with your fellow man, but there was a time and place for everything, and the spectacle of this old man in overalls gallivanting up and down a railway car with a gallon of wine and feting the hired hands seemed to be carrying things too far. Besides, he didn’t
have
to wear overalls.

I pulled him back to our section as the train began to move out of Sacramento. He was humiliated and taciturn. He put one jug back in the grip, but he kept the other in readiness under the seat. By now everyone in the car, well-dressed men and women, were aware of the red jug that bobbed into view each time he took a drink.

“Children—bah,” he muttered.

“Hate their father…”

“Ashamed of their own flesh and blood…”

“Better to die. Bury you. Forget you…”

“Worked hard all my life. My own flesh and blood abuse me…”

“Ready to go any time. Done my duty…”

“When you’re old, they throw you out…”

His voice carried. He had it pitched high enough to reach most ears. All around me I felt the smouldering of the others, the heads turning, the shocked stares at me, the pity for my old man. Mr. Randolph didn’t help matters. With touching solicitude he brought Papa a pillow, smiled tenderly, asked how Papa was getting along.

“You take it easy now, Mr. Fante. Have a nice trip. Anything you want, just ring the bell. You got friends on this train. Lots of friends.”

Tears stung Papa’s eyes.

“I try to get along, Mr. Randolph. I don’t want to make no trouble for anybody. Lots of nice people on the train. Fine ladies and gentlemen. I do my best.”

I chewed my fingernails and kept still. A waiter came through the car sounding dinner chimes. It brightened the moment. I slapped Papa on the shoulder.

“Come on, Papa. Let’s have a nice dinner.”

“I’m all right, son. You go. I don’t want to cause you no more trouble. I got my own dinner right here. Try to save you a little money, son.”

One thing was certain: I didn’t want salami, goat’s cheese, bread and wine for dinner. Earlier my thought had been a couple of dry Martinis, a steak and a good salad. Now I only wanted a cup of black coffee and the chance to get away for a while. A dozen pairs of cold eyes watched me grope down the aisle toward the diner, four cars away.

The distance was magic. My appetite returned. I had two Manhattans and a small steak. By the time the train pulled out of Stockton I felt fine again, lingering for a second cup of coffee. Darkness had come. One by one the
little San Joaquin Valley towns flew past, each like the other bejeweled in city lights. The manager of the diner brought my check. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a soft white object among the coins. It was another garlic clove. It had a savage pungency, clean and caustic. I dropped it into a glass of water.

As I rose to leave, the conductor came through the car, collecting tickets. He examined mine.

“Oh,” he said. “You’re the old man’s son.”

“He didn’t want any dinner,” I blurted. “I mean, he had his dinner with him.”

He was tight-lipped, noncommittal. He removed the stubs and handed the tickets back to me. His eyes were as cold as oysters.

“Honor thy father and thy mother,” he said.

“I don’t like goat’s cheese.”

His lips curled. He hated me.

Back in Car 21, Papa was breaking their hearts. I found him partaking of a simple repast of bread, cheese and salami, and washing it down with occasional sips of wine. He ate with mincing delicacy, a gentleman at table. His pocketknife lay open in his lap, and his food was spread across the opposite seat. Mr. Randolph had provided a napkin, and he hovered in the aisle, listening with gentle eyes as Papa spoke. He was talking about the hard bitter days of his youth back in Abruzzi; how he had gone to work at the age of ten, apprenticed to a cruel stonemason who cheated him of his wages of three cents a day; how his own mother used to come to the job and help him carry big stones up a ladder to the scaffolding on the estate of the Duke of Abruzzi. It was a tragic story, and a true story, for I had heard it many times before; had been raised on it, in fact;
a tale of peasant misery that turned one’s blood to tears, and those near him in Car 21 were deeply moved by the words of this simple old man who found contentment in a bit of bread and cheese and salami while his son gorged himself riotously on rich foods.

I sat down beside him, hunched my shoulders, and wished I’d worn a hat to hide my face. Papa’s humble voice, rich now with gratitude, went out to Mr. Randolph and everybody else.

“But God Almighty’s been good to me. I’m an American citizen. Been one for twenty-five years. I got four fine children. I raised them and sent them out into this great country of ours. She’s a wonderful place, this America. She’s been good to all of us. God bless the United States of America.”

A large man in tweeds across the aisle now leaned toward us and offered Papa a cigar. It was an expensive cigar, packed in a bullet-shaped humidor. With a simple dignity Papa accepted it, bowing from the waist.

“Thank you, Mister. I’ll save it for when my grandson’s born. She’s too good to smoke now.”

It was very touching. The man in tweeds looked to his big blond wife, whose bosom heaved, whose face was framed in tenderness. She whispered something, and the man in tweeds now produced a second cigar. Papa protested that this was too much, too much, but he let them force it upon him. Mr. Randolph urged him to go back to the men’s room and enjoy the gift, and Papa agreed. Carefully he put away his bread, wrapped his salami in a dishcloth, and tucked up his goat’s cheese in a sack. Not one crumb was wasted. He closed the suitcase and got to his feet. He was tight, but it took an experienced filial eye to notice it.
Mr. Randolph assisted him down the aisle. Heads turned to watch him go. He left a trail of love in his wake.

I leaned against the window and stared straight ahead. I was very lonely and friendless. Papa’s absence created an hiatus distinctly felt. The train pounded ahead. The man in tweeds and his wife rose to go to the diner. I was not worthy of his glance, but his wife looked down at me with flaring nostrils. Mr. Randolph returned.

“The old gentleman wishes his black suitcase.”

I handed Mr. Randolph two garlic-scorched dollars.

“See that he gets whatever he wants.”

“Don’t you worry about that.”

He sniffed the garlic and looked at me suspiciously.

A few minutes later he was back in the car, making up the berths. I went into the men’s room. Papa sat red-eyed at the window, mumbling to himself. The room was full of expensive cigar smoke.

“The berths are being made, Papa. You better go to bed.”

“Go on, son. Have a good time. Laugh and play, don’t worry about your father.”

“I think you ought to go to bed.”

“Not me. No train beds for Nick Fante. I’ll stay right here.”

And there he stayed. I went back to the club car and had a brandy. When I returned to Car 21 Mr. Randolph had made up all the berths. The men’s room was crowded, passengers washing their faces, scrubbing teeth, preparing to retire. Everybody called my father “Dad” and wished him good night. Nobody had a word for me. I gritted my teeth and brazened it out, smoking cigarettes and gasping for tomorrow morning, when the black journey would come to an end.

By eleven o’clock all the passengers in Car 21 were in bed except Papa and me. He slept by the window, snoring. I shook him awake.

“Come to bed.”

“No, sir.”

“You can’t sleep here. I got a nice bed for you.”

“No, sir.”