by John Fante
He saw me before him and cast the bottle aside in the weeds. Then he turned his head to the tree and wept in gusts of bitterness. I could not move toward him. Joe called from the car, asking if all was well. I waded through the weeds, back to the road.
“He’s all right. I’ll get him home okay.”
“You have fight with your old man?”
“You go ahead. No fight. Thanks.”
He drove away. I sat down at the side of the road to wait, lighting a cigarette. I was helpless. After about twenty minutes my father came plowing through the weeds. He knew I was there. He was not surprised to see me.
“Let’s go home,” he said.
He was sober, sighing heavily as his feet touched the road. In silence we walked side by side. The night was warm and sweet. To the north glowed the huge gold dome of the state capitol. It was set in a red haze rising out of the city lights.
“How you feel, Papa?”
“Me? I’m used to it. Some day you’ll be old, and you’ll have sons—thirty-five years from now, forty. You remember what your Papa said tonight: they hurt you every time.”
“It’s too bad.”
For a while he didn’t say any more. We neared the house. The light was on, showing the front porch. We could see Mama, a shawl around her shoulders, looking for us.
“What’s these termites doing in your house?” Papa said.
“You know—termites.”
“Didn’t you have the house inspected before you bought it?”
I told him about it. “Could you come down, Papa? You could help us. I got tickets for you on the plane.”
“No plane for me. No, sir.”
“Will you come, Papa? We’ll take the train.”
“Train, yes. Plane, no.”
“Fine, Papa. Wonderful.”
So he was coming to fix my house. I wanted Mama to come too, but she decreed that she should stay home and mind the cats and chickens. She was really glad, for trains filled her with dread. Only once in her life had she traveled by rail. That was in the summer of 1912, a thirty-five-mile honeymoon excursion from Denver to Colorado Springs. Our family didn’t reach California by train. We loaded all we could haul into Papa’s truck and rambled straight out Highway 40 until we got to San Juan.
My father, however, was an experienced railroad traveler. As far back as 1910 he had had train experience, coming out to Colorado from New York by rail, traversing the entire distance in a railroad coach. Nor was this the end of his rail travels. Three years later, alone, he boarded a narrow-gauge train from Denver to Boulder, a distance of thirty miles. Following this, he made the honeymoon jaunt to Colorado Springs with Mama. With such a background, he exhibited a fine fearlessness about trains. Frequently now—two or three times a year—he swung aboard a Sacramento local for trips to the state capital and back. Trains held no fear whatever for this man.
The Los Angeles train—the West Coaster—left Sacramento at six every evening. We decided at breakfast to take the next train. I borrowed my brother-in-law’s car and drove to Sacramento to make arrangements. I cancelled the plane reservations and got space on that evening’s West Coaster. The train was almost solidly booked, but I managed to get a section for us on the Pullman. I wanted the old man to be comfortable, and I made sure he had a lower berth.
An hour before train time I was back in San Juan. Stella was there with her children and Steve, her husband. Papa was dressed and ready to go. He wore an odd assortment of things: blue overalls with a bib, a black shirt topped by a white tie, and a double-breasted brown coat. I recognized the coat as part of a suit I had given him the year before. In fact, he had a large wardrobe of his sons’ suits and topcoats, for we were of the same measurements as he. Certainly he had four or five suits of clothes, any one of which would have been fine for travel.
“Why the overalls?” I asked.
He glanced at himself.
“What’s wrong with them?”
“Don’t you have the pants to that suit?”
“Don’t like ‘em.”
He sat at the kitchen table, his face shaved and powdered, his hair neatly parted. His bull neck under the black shirt looked puffy from the strain of the white tie. Yet he had that distinguished appearance of a man about to embark on a long journey.
Stella said, “He’s stubborn. He doesn’t want to look nice and clean.”
“I am clean. What I got on is clean and just washed.”
“But overalls! On the train.”
“I rode trains before you was born. So don’t tell your Papa about trains.”
“No use going around like an old bricklayer.”
“What’s wrong with laying brick?”
“How about that gray suit?” I suggested. “It might be cooler on the train.”
He got to his feet with a reddened angry face.
“You want me to come down? You want me to help you with the house?”
I certainly did.
“Then don’t tell me what to wear. You ain’t so smart, and don’t forget it. Buying a house with termites!”
That ended the matter. I didn’t want to lose him.
His luggage was piled near the door, two paint-scarred suitcases of imitation leather tied with clothesline, and a canvas mason’s kit. Meanwhile Mama kept out of the discussion, busying herself putting things into a grocer’s carton that once held canned milk. I went over to see what she was doing. She was packing this stuff for me to take back to Los Angeles. The box contained four quarts of home-canned tomato preserves and four quarts of fig jelly. There was also a head of goat’s cheese and a freshly baked chocolate cake.
‘They don’t have good cake in Los Angeles,” she said.
I could not imagine how she came upon this information, but I didn’t say anything. Now she showed me a small bouquet of sweet basil freshly cut from her herb garden, and tied with a red ribbon from which hung two lead medals of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
“It’s to make the baby born alive. Every night, hang it at the foot of your bed.”
I said I would do this.
Papa came forward with a coil of clothesline and began tying the carton. Mama drew me to the sink for a little confidential talk. She opened a drawer filled with spices and drew out a garlic clove. With her fingernail she peeled the clove naked and white. Then she kissed it and shoved it into the lapel pocket of my coat.
“Keep some in your pocket all the time, day and night. Never be without it.”
“I know. It makes boys.”
She smiled tolerantly, shrugging her hands.
“Me—I don’t care. Boy or girl, he’s my grandchild. I’ll love him just the same. But your Papa wants a boy. It’s to please him, the garlic.”
The fierce fumes of the garlic stabbed my nostrils, and I knew I would have to dump the bulb as soon as possible or it would pervade my clothes. Now it was time to leave. Steve and Papa carried the luggage to the car. I distinctly heard the glub-glub of wine bottles in one of the grips. Mama didn’t see me remove the garlic from my pocket and flip it into the grape hedge. She went down to the car with me. Because of the children, she and Stella weren’t going to the station with us.
Papa kissed the two little girls, and then Mama, and he cried a little, telling her not to forget to put a bit of parsley in the cat’s food during the hot weather. Mama was being brave and fighting off collapse as we embraced and kissed good-by. Steve turned the car around, honking the horn as we waved, and then Mama collapsed. She sank neatly to the road beside the fence as the car rolled away. Stella was there beside her, quite unperturbed, waving to us, and Mama looked thoroughly insensible, her head on her breast, her hand struggling bravely to wave at us, and finally floundering in the dust. We should have stopped to “revive” her, but time was short, and Papa was anxious to make contact with the train.
“Nothing wrong with her. Let’s go.”
We turned the corner and the tires hummed evenly on the fine highway toward Sacramento. I sighed wi
th relief and reached for a cigarette. My hand came upon something warm and sticky in my pocket. I pulled out a clove of garlic. It lay in my hand, naked and white and ferocious. I would have thrown it away but Papa was looking at it too.
“Good,” he said. “Now you’re talking. I got mine too.”
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.”
THREE
IT 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.”