by John Fante
At the hardware store Ken told his father that he needed the truck to move some gym equipment for coach, and Mr. Parrish gave him the keys to the pick-up. We drove up Arapahoe and turned into our alley, making fresh tire furrows in the flawless snow. We reached the shed behind our house, and I jumped out and opened the tin doors. The square, corrugated iron building was piled with planks, mortar boards, sacks of cement and stacks of brick. It was fifty feet from the house, the path to the back porch buried under two feet of snow, a solitary place in winter, scarcely noticed, never visited.
I signalled directions to Kenny as he backed the truck into the shed, a few inches from the concrete mixer. He cut the engine and looked around nervously.
“What if your old man shows up?” he whispered.
“He never comes back here. Nobody does.”
To prove it, I picked up a piece of pipe and banged it against the mixer, a thundering clatter that shook the building.
Frantic, he gasped, “Good God, don’t!”
He rushed to the only window in the building, curtained with cobwebs, giving a murky view of the back yard. “Let’s get this evil thing over with,” he said.
We examined the mixer. It was a real antique, maybe fifteen years old, on two large iron wheels, with a tongue and hitch. We secured the tongue to a hitch on the rear bumper of the truck, chaining it firmly. Then I opened the engine housing and peeled off the certificate of ownership pasted inside the door. Lifting the Parker pen from Ken’s sweater, I signed my father’s name on the transfer-of-ownership line.
Ken caught his breath.
“God, that’s a cold-blooded forgery!”
“Forgery, hell. Isn’t my name Molise? I’m just changing my first name.”
Sweat glistened on his forehead and he was breathing hard, his eyes flashing toward the small window.
“You’re not even human,” he said. “You’re an animal. I ought to call the cops.”
“The end justifies the means.”
“Bullshit, you thief.”
“Let’s go,” I said. “Quick.”
He was reluctant, wanting to quit right there, but I slapped my hands energetically. “All set!” I said.
He climbed into the truck and started the engine. I stood aside, watching the hitch as the wheels turned and the truck moved out into the alley, the mixer clattering after it. Closing the shed doors, I got in beside him. Jaws clamped, he stared straight ahead.
He was about to shift gears when a small, dark, wrinkled face shrouded in a black shawl peered above our back gate. It was Grandma Bettina. For a quick moment I thought I was in Torricella Peligna. I could see the town behind her, the cobbled streets, the crumbling stone houses, the church, with old black crones making their way up the stairs.
“Oh, my God!” Kenny said.
“Move!”
He couldn’t. He was frozen with shame, his breathing stopped, his eyes bulging, his knuckles iced up on the steering wheel. The gate creaked as Grandma pushed it open and stepped into the alley. In dreadful fascination Kenny watched her through the side mirror as she circled the mixer, examining the way it was secured to the truck.
“How awful,” he moaned. “How fucking awful!” He closed his eyes and methodically banged his forehead against the steering wheel. But it wasn’t awful. It was preposterous. It was farcical, insane. I started to laugh. The last, the remotest eventuality, and there she was, my old Grandma, nodding her head in full awareness of what was going on.
Through snow above her knees, she waded to the front of the truck and looked up at Kenny. There was no surprise in her manner. She seemed to accept what she saw, resigned to it as she spoke in Italian.
“So this is the American way,” she said. “To kill the soul of a man, and then chop off his hands. What will my son do without this machine? Do you expect him to mix mortar with a hoe?”
Ken couldn’t look at her. “What’s that?” he asked. “Tell me what she said.”
“She says it’s a pile of junk, and she’s glad we’re hauling it away.”
“You’re a liar.”
There was no hiding it. The evil of the deed was pinned to that moment of the day, to the angle of the sun in the sky, to the crystal brilliance of the melting snow, the drift of clouds beyond the mountains, the shadow cast by the shed, the bleak resignation in Grandma’s eyes.
“Steal if you must,” a sob in her voice. “From banker, from the light company, from the tax collector, but spare the unhappy fruit of my womb.”
“What’s that?” Ken asked. “What’d she say?”
I told him it was hard to translate. “A kind of Italian saying.”
He leaped to the ground.
“I’m through! I’ve had it! When you’re finished, bring the truck back to the store.” He crossed to Grandma, his hands imploring her. “Look, Grandma. I’m clean. I’ve got nothing to do with this, capeach? You savvy?” He touched his chest. “Me no guilty. Me good man.” Pointing at me, “Him bad man. Me no steal. Me, friend. Him, crook.”
He hurried away down the alley, his feet retracing the grooves of the truck tires in the snow. I climbed into the truck. I could feel my skull cracking as the old eyes drilled it. Looking straight ahead, I heard her speak of first and last things, of birth and death, of crime and damnation, of Judas and the fall of honor among sons. The roar of the engine drowned out her words as I shifted gears and drove away. Through the rear view mirror I saw her black, lonely figure in the alley, her hands fluttering to the sky.
The quickest route to Longmont was past the fair grounds and through the cemetery to the main highway, which avoided traffic through town. Everybody knew my father’s mixer, so I kept off the main traveled streets and stayed in alleys until I reached the fair grounds, the mixer clattering along like a load of tin cans.
Entering the cemetery, my troubles began, for the only road wound past the grave of my grandfather, Giovanni Molise. It troubled me even before I drove into the graveyard, thinking of it and boiling up courage to confront it.
Then I saw the granite cross on the stone pedestal marking the grave. It was tall as a man and very slender, cloaked with snow, as if it wore a white shawl. The monument was my father’s pride and joy. Off and on for two years he had worked on it in our shed, reducing a huge chunk of marble into the graceful cross, chipping and polishing the stone until it was as smooth as human skin.
The noise was responsible, the clatter and banging of the mixer shattering the graveyard quiet. The thought of driving past the cross filled me with dread. Fifty feet away, I stopped the truck and considered other ways to avoid the passage. But I was in a forest of monuments, and the only way around was by driving over the graves of a hundred other poor souls at peace there.
Not that I expected any trouble from my grandfather, for he was dead seven years, but the memory of him was still above the ground. Had he stood there alive, I could have defied him as easily as I had his wife in our alley. But he was dead, terribly dead, and I was afraid of his helplessness. I remembered how he used to be when he was on the earth, with fish lures in his crumpled canvas hat, a lover of walnuts and sunflower seeds, how beautifully he sharpened knives, the way he walked railroad tracks from town to town with the heavy whetstone wheel strapped to his back. I remembered how he always sat on his haunches and poked the ground with a stick, not a learned man but a scholar who smiled all the time, pleased to be just a human being in the world.
How could I pass? How low had I sunk? The lure of fame and fortune had turned me into a madman. Was this to be Grandpa’s reward for coming all the way from Abruzzi, so that his grandson should blight his grave with stolen goods?
I eased the truck forward a few feet so that I could look at the inscription chiseled on the pedestal.
GIOVANNI MOLISE
1853 - 1926
REQUIESCAT IN PACE
Go back, The Arm said, turn this thing around, you fool, before I drop off; turn around and go back and forget Catalina, lay brick with
your father, dig ditches, be a bum if you must, but turn away from this wickedness.
I swung the truck around and started for home.
Driving into our alley, I saw my father standing beside the shed. He did not seem angry, simply staring as I pulled up.
“Hi,” I said.
He stared a moment longer, then opened the shed doors. I backed the mixer into the shed and he stared some more. He stared as I turned off the engine and jumped to the ground.
“I’ll explain everything,” I said.
He stared as I went back to the hitch and removed the chain. “I was thinking about buying you a new mixer,” I told him. “I wanted to find out what kind of a trade-in they’d make on this pile of junk.”
As he removed his overcoat and hung it on a nail, I went on: “Since we’re going to be partners this summer, I thought now was a good time to get us some new equipment. No sense in bucking competition with obsolete machinery.”
Beneath his overcoat was an unmatched suit coat which he also peeled off. “Then I thought maybe I should consult you first. After all, you’re the head man in this operation.”
He stepped over to the truck and rapped the fender lightly with his knuckle. “You steal this too?” he asked.
I explained that Kenny had borrowed the truck from his father.
“What’s this?” he said, reaching out and snatching the pink owner’s certificate protruding from my sweater pocket. He unfolded the document and studied it, more white showing in his eyes.
“You don’t even know how to steal good,” he said with a shake of his head. “You forged my name on the wrong line.”
I smiled. “You’re all wrong. Would I be here, if I tried to forge your name? Did I steal anything? What did I steal? The mixer? It’s right here, where it always is. I resent these wild charges.”
He was staring again. With the shed doors open I thought of making a run for the alley. He would chase me a block or two, but he would never catch me. Suddenly his right hand shot out and slapped me across the face, and he was dancing like a fighter, his fists poised, a cloud of coal dust boiling up around his churning feet.
“Defend yourself!” he ordered, bobbing about on his toes, feinting and jabbing and circling. I just stood there, surprised, not fighting back. I could never fight him, never. I backed away, avoiding the jabs.
“God damn it, fight!” he snarled.
“What for?”
“If you can steal from me, you can fight me. Come on, hit me!”
A sudden jab caught me at the side of the nose. Pain, like glass shattering, quick and blinding. The taste of blood. I covered my nose and felt the warm ooze of blood through my fingers. He gasped in dismay, struck himself on the cheek.
“Mama mia!”
He rushed into the alley and plunged his hands into the snow and hurried back with two dripping handsful, holding them toward my face. I pressed my nose into the mound of snow and in moments the bleeding was over, my face wet and cold. He pulled out a blue handkerchief with white dots and I used it to wipe my face. He was pale, his hand trembling as he carefully traced a finger along the bridge of my nose.
“I’m okay,” I told him.
“Why?” he implored. “You’re no thief—why?”
Maybe the bloody nose was responsible, but for once we stopped being father and son and became friends, and I was able to tell him of my hopes and despairs, the boredom of poverty, the chance to leave home and try my hand at pro ball. He lit a cigar and walked to the door, his back to me, and I spilled out my dream as clouds of smoke filled the shed.
When he turned to face me there was no anger or disappointment in his face, but a softness, a desire to understand and sympathize.
“Wait a year,” he said quietly. “Finish high school, then go.”
“I want to go now!”
“You won’t listen. You want it your way and nothing else. It shows how young you are.”
“I want to help you, Papa. Send money home. You can throw away that overcoat, buy some new clothes.”
He studied me, frowning, wheels turning in his head. “How do you know you’re good enough?”
“Because I’m a natural born pitcher.”
He pulled and squeezed his face, trying to extract a decision. “I don’t know. I want to do the right thing. I’ll talk to somebody.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. How much do you need?”
“Fifty.”
He whistled, shook his head bleakly. “It’s no good. It’s a trap I’m in. I’m wrong if I do, I’m wrong if I don’t.”
I didn’t care where he got the money. Let it come from Edna Pruitt, for all I cared. He’d get it back, I’d see to that. When the Cubs offered me a contract, I’d insist on a bonus to cover such details. Maybe an extra thousand.
We drove uptown in the pickup. He liked the truck. For years he had wanted one of his own. Whenever there was a new job he had to hire Chet’s Hauling to move his materials.
“Nice car,” he said, studying the cab.
“In a couple of months you’ll have one just like it,” I told him. “Only it’ll be brand new, with your name on the side: Molise Construction Company.”
“Cut it out, kid. What do you know about the world?”
“Who needs the world? Just give me baseball.”
He sighed, depressed, his face full of pain. I pulled up in front of the Onyx and he got out.
“You won’t fail me, Papa. Of all the people in the world, you’re the one I depend on.”
“We’ll see. I’ll talk to somebody.”
“Thanks for giving me this chance.”
He screamed at me: “Cut it out, you hear? Cut it out.”
He slammed the car door and hurried inside the Onyx. I drove the truck back to the hardware store and parked it in back. Mr. Parrish opened the back door as I stepped down. He walked around the truck, inspecting it carefully. His cold eyes settled on me.
“Don’t ever let me catch you driving this truck again, savvy?”
“I had Ken’s permission.”
“Drop dead,” he said.
I wasn’t worried about the money anymore. One way or another, my father would put his hands on it and in a matter of hours Ken and I would be on our way. Walking across town to Roper High, I had the clean, sweet feeling I would never walk those streets again. No more bitterness, no painful memories. It had been a good town, a fine place to launch a career. Nothing spectacular like New York or Chicago, just a nice solid little town that produced a great ballplayer.
I found Kenny in the drug store across the street from school. It was noon and the place swarmed with kids having lunch. We went outside in the sun. He was grim and not friendly until I told him what happened to the mixer.
“I didn’t sell it. I took it back.”
“It’s there now?” he asked, his face brightening. “Does Grandma know?”
“Sure, she does.”
“Thank God!” He almost went into a dance as he threw his arms around me. Then I told him the big news: that my father had okayed the trip to California and was now raising the money. With a grin he put both hands on my shoulders.
“Dom, you did a great thing, taking that mixer back. You’ve got real integrity.”
“It was quite a struggle,” I admitted. “A weaker man would have gone through with it.”
“It took a lot of guts.”
“Well
“I’m proud of you for saving our friendship. I was ready to brush you off.”
“Dorothy, too, I’ll bet.”
“No question about it. She hates weakness.”
The old flame rekindled, sparked up, and I said, “Ken, do me a favor.”
“Name it, Iron Man.”
“Tell her what I did. I think she’d like to hear it.”
“That’s a promise.”
To everybody’s surprise, Papa showed up for supper. Mama had fixed a casserole of lamb kidneys cooked in parsley and wine, and after my
father’s third helping she was ecstatic and dashed into the bedroom to put on a fresh apron and a piece of ribbon in her hair. She nervously began to gather the dishes, even though we hadn’t finished eating. Augie hung on to his plate.
“Oh, you’ve had enough,” she laughed, and took the plate away.
My father refused to look at me. After the table was cleared and the others had left, I sat across from him as he finished his wine. Still avoiding my eyes, he groped for something inside his shirt pocket and thrust his fist toward me.
“Here.”
I felt a roll of greenbacks in my palm and caught my breath. It seemed a fortune. I left the table and went out on the front porch to count the money.
They were greasy dollar bills, as if gathered a dollar here and a dollar there. I counted them with a sense of rising calamity, then counted them again. There were twenty-five. It had to be a mistake. They felt simply colossal. I was counting them a third time when my father stepped out on the porch.
“It’s the best I could do,” he said.
It wasn’t enough. The bus fare alone was twenty-four dollars to Los Angeles, but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. He had tried, had done his best. Looking at him, his tired face, his wet eyes, I knew he had been through a terrible ordeal.
I thanked him, but he guessed my thoughts.
“What about the Parrish boy?” he suggested. “He’s got the money. Maybe he’ll loan you, till you get started.”
“Maybe.”
He gazed at the silent street, the naked trees dripping in the warm night. “I went through hell for that money. Now use it. Go play ball. And send money home.”
I pushed the bills into my pocket.
“Don’t worry, Papa. You’ll never regret it.”
He turned and smiled, his horny paw circling my arm. “Make a muscle.”
“Wrong arm,” I said. ‘Try this one.” I turned the left arm toward him. “Get a good grip.”
His fingers took hold.
“Harder.”
His fingers dug deeply like bands of steel. Slowly I bent The Arm until a mighty bulge tore his grip asunder. He almost laughed.