The Brotherhood of the Grape by John Fante Read Free Book Online Page B

sorry, Papa. I said there were some things I would not ask him to do, and there were other things he should not ask me to do. I said I was not against carrying a hod or laying stone. I said masonry was an honorable profession, the best record of the nobility and aspiration of mankind. I spoke gratefully of the Acropolis, the Pyramids, of Roman aqueducts and the Aztec ruins. Then I began to be annoyed by this irascible, stubborn old man, and my impatience spilled over and the Molise rashness swept through me, the truculence, the bad temper, the frenzy.
    “Frankly, old man,” I said, “I hate the building profession. I’ve hated it from the time I was a little kid and you used to come home with mortar splattered all over your shoes and face. I think painters and bricklayers are drunks, and I think plumbers are thieves. I think carpenters are crooks and I think electricians are highway robbers. I don’t like flagstone or marble or granite or brick or tile or sand or cement. I don’t care if I ever see another stone fireplace or stone wall or stone steps or just plain stones lying on a field, and if you want the truth stripped clean I don’t give a shit about stonemasons either.” I took a deep breath. “Something else I don’t like is mountains and forests and owls and mountain air and coyotes and bears. I never saw a smokehouse in my life and, God willing, I shall never see one, or build one.”
    The more I shouted and pounded the table the more he drank, and the more he drank the more the tears busted from his eyes. He pulled a polka-dot kerchief from his pocket, blew his nose, and had another gulp of wine. He was pitiful, wretched, embarrassing, revolting, shameless, stupid, gross, ugly and drunk—the worst father a man ever had, so loathesome I spat my beer in the spittoon and got up to leave.
    From the back of the saloon came the bellow of a voice, the roar of a bull speaking like a man.
    “Just a minute, wise guy. Just who the hell you think you’re talking to?”
    I turned. The patrons of the Café Roma were glaring at me with cold amorphous eyes, their faces repelled by the presence of an outsider in their midst. Zarlingo got to his feet. The many pens and pencils in his bib were like battle decorations on a colonel.
    “That man’s your father,” Zarlingo declared, pointing at Papa. “And he’s my friend. You show some respect, understand?”
    “It’s none of your business.”
    Cavallaro stood up threateningly, pushing back his chair. “You want some help, Nick? You want me to take care of this punk?”
    “I’m okay,” Papa faltered, his voice trembling. “I’m just fine, boys. Tired, that’s all. Very tired. Alone in the world. Trying to do the right thing. You do your best for your family. You feed them, buy them clothes, send them to school, and then they turn around and throw you out. I don’t know what happened…what I done wrong. Maybe “cause I was too good. I don’t know. God help me. I tried. I tried hard…”
    I said “Oh, balls!” and walked out.

7
     
    H ALF A BLOCK from my parents’ house on Pleasant Street I breathed the aroma of Mama’s cooking. The ugly scene at the Café Roma vanished in the ambrosial waft of sweet basil, oregano, rosemary and thyme.
    Suddenly a figure burst from the front door of the house, dashed down the porch steps, and raced to a pickup at the curb.
    “Mario!” I shouted. “Mario, wait!”
    He either heard me or he didn’t hear me as he started the engine and gunned the noisy truck away without looking at me. I crossed the yard to the porch. My mother stood behind the screen door, her silver hair in a neat pile, her apron fresh and white, her face warmed by happiness and a hot stove. By now Mario’s truck was two blocks away and still farting on five cylinders.
    “What’s he running from?”
    “He ate and ran. Ascared of your father.”
    “He still eats here?”
    “When he can. His wife don’t cook Italian.” She glanced down Pleasant