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 thelittle 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
“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 thelittle 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
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