Full of Life by John Fante Read Free Book Online Page B

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 thehouse. 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 honeymoonjaunt 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