Wait Until Spring Bandini by John Fante Read Free Book Online Page B

lips contorted as he stood over the stove, warming his hands. August’s mouth was gorged with bread as he spoke.
    ‘I got the wood, Arturo. You got to get the coal.’
    ‘Where’s Mamma?’
    ‘In bed,’ Federico said. ‘Grandma Donna’s coming.’
    ‘Papa drunk yet?’
    ‘He ain’t home.’
    ‘Why does Grandma keep coming?’ Federico said. ‘Papa always gets drunk.’
    ‘Ah, the old bitch!’ Arturo said.

    Federico loved swear words. He laughed. ‘The old bitchy bitch,’ he said.
    ‘That’s a sin,’ August said. ‘It’s two sins.’
    Arturo sneered. ‘Whaddya mean, two sins?’
    ‘One for using a bad word, the other for not honoring thy father and mother.’
    ‘Grandma Donna’s no mother of mine.’
    ‘She’s your grandmother.’
    ‘Screw her.’
    ‘That’s a sin too.’
    ‘Aw, shut your trap.’
    When his hands tingled, he seized the big bucket and the little bucket behind the stove and kicked open the back door. Swinging the buckets gingerly, he walked down the accurately cut path to the coal shed. The supply of coal was running low. It meant his mother would catch hell from Bandini, who never understood why so much coal was burned. The Big 4 Coal Company had, he knew, refused his father any more credit. He filled the buckets and marveled at his father’s ingenuity at getting things without money. No wonder his father got drunk. He would get drunk too if he had to keep buying things without money.
    The sound of coal striking the tin buckets roused Maria’s hens in the coop across the path. They staggered sleepily into the moon-sodden yard and gaped hungrily at the boy as he stooped in the doorway of the shed. They clucked their greeting, their absurd heads pushed through the holes in the chicken wire. He heard them, and standing up he watched them hatefully.
    ‘Eggs,’ he said. ‘Eggs for breakfast, eggs for dinner, eggs for supper.’

    He found a lump of coal the size of his fist, stood back and measured his distance. The old brown hen nearest him got the blow in the neck as the whizzing lump all but tore her head loose and caromed off the chicken shed. She staggered, fell, rose weakly and fell again as the others screamed their fear and disappeared into the shed. The old brown hen was on her feet again, dancing giddily into the snow-covered section of the yard, a zig-zag of brilliant red painting weird patterns in the snow. She died slowly, dragging her bleeding head after her in a drift of snow that ascended toward the top of the fence. He watched the bird suffer with cold satisfaction. When it shuddered for the last time, he grunted and carried the buckets of coal to the kitchen. A moment later he returned and picked up the dead hen.
    ‘What’d you do that for?’ August said. ‘It’s a sin.’
    ‘Aw, shut your mouth,’ he said, raising his fist.

Chapter Three
    Maria was sick. Federico and August tiptoed into the dark bedroom where she lay, so cold with winter, so warm with the fragrance of things on the dresser, the thin odor of Mamma’s hair coming through, the strong odor of Bandini, of his clothes somewhere in the room. Maria opened her eyes. Federico was about to sob. August looked annoyed.
    ‘We’re hungry,’ he said. ‘Where does it hurt?’
    ‘I’ll get up,’ she said.
    They heard the crack of her joints, saw the blood seep back into the white side of her face, sensed the staleness of her lips and the misery of her being. August hated it. Suddenly his own breath had that stale taste.
    ‘Where does it hurt, Mamma?’
    Federico said: ‘Why the heck does Grandma Donna have to come to our house?’
    She sat up, nausea crawling over her. She clinched her teeth to check a sudden retch. She had always been ill, but hers was ever sickness without symptom, pain without blood or bruise. The room reeled with her dismay. Together the brothers felt a desire to flee into the kitchen, where it was bright and warm. They left guiltily.
    Arturo sat with his feet in the oven,