The Wine of Youth (11 page)

“Funny blood,” Clara said. “Looks kinda pink.”

Below Papa's collar was the imprint of pressed lipstick, forming a woman's mouth. They didn't know it, Mike and Tony and Clara, but Mamma did, and so did I. We looked at each other, and I had to turn away from the gray fury of Mamma's eyes. Without a word she got up and walked into the bedroom. She threw herself upon the bed and lay rigid and silent.

“Somebody bit him,” Tony said.

Papa came awake long enough to grin, look around, and ask the time. We told him, and Tony said: “Papa, are you dead or not?” He shook his head serenely and closed his eyes once more. “‘
La donna è mobile
,'” he tried to sing, but his tongue was so heavy he laughed at himself and was content to hum it feebly as he drifted back to sleep, his thick work-scarred fists holding Tony's small hand with the same tenderness he might have shown a chick.

“Papa,” Mike said, “kin I have a dime?”

“Sure. You can have anything you want. You just come to Papa when you want something, and you'll be sure to get it. 'Cause your papa loves you lots more than your mamma loves you.”

“Gimme,” Mike said.

Papa fumbled at his pants, searching for the pockets. Tony was glad to assist him, taking Papa's limp hand and pushing it into the pocket. There it remained, for Papa fell asleep at once, a slumber from which he could not be roused though we shook him violently; and Mike cupped his hands at Papa's ear and shouted: “Hey, Papa! What about the dime?”

It was in vain. He slumbered with a wide grin across his face, and after a moment he snored loudly. The hand could not be moved. We thought of throwing water in his face, but we were afraid that would make him so sober he would get his razor strop. We were pushing him this way and that across the floor, Hugo gnawing his shoes, when Mamma came back to the room. She had been crying. Carefully she removed his hand from the pocket and drew out a few coins. She gave each of us a dime, and went back to bed.

In a while she called me. I got up and it was bright morning, cold. She had undressed him, pushed blankets under him, a pillow under his head, and covered him there on the floor. His clothes were folded on the rocking chair, all but his shirt, which lay in a heap where she had rolled it up and thrown it into the corner.

“You saw what it was?” she asked.

“I know,” I said. “But I won't tell.”

“Good boy.” Though she spoke calmly, the tears seeped from her eyes. “It's that woman,” she said. “I know it's that woman.”

“It ain't nothing serious.”

“Maybe not,” she said. “A kiss. No—that's nothing. But this is serious, this, what he does to me here,” and she pressed her heart. Papa awakened, groaned, and rolled himself, blankets and all, across the floor.

“What's going on around here?” he said. “What's all these women doing in my bed?”

It made me laugh. I felt sorry for Mamma, but I went back to bed laughing at what Papa had said.

At seven o'clock we got up to go to school. Papa wasn't on the floor. We looked in the bedroom, but he wasn't there either. We had breakfast in the kitchen. There was Mamma, polishing the stove. She worked in a fury, the sweat clinging like mist across the lines of her forehead. The stove was very hot, in some places it was red-hot, and the kitchen had the pungent smell of stove-black and burning rags. We sat down and crammed ourselves with eggs and toast.

“Where's Papa?” Clara said.

“He's gone,” Mamma panted. “He went to work.”

Mike held his nose.

“Pheeeeeew! Something stinks!”

We looked at the rag in Mamma's hand. Mike and Tony and Clara didn't notice it, but I could tell by what remained of the buttons that it was Papa's shirt of the night before. I glanced at Mamma's face. It shone with vengeance. It made the toast clog my throat like sand. It frightened me, and I looked away.

 

At school we had choir practice, and I didn't get home until six o'clock. On the front porch was Papa, sound asleep in the rocking chair, his eyelids raw and sickly, his mouth wide open, his lunch pail beside him on the floor. The smears of mortar on his hands and arms showed how hard he had worked that day. From under his hat a curl of hair was pasted against his forehead, sweat-dried and pathetic.

He hurt me, Papa did, he hurt me, the way he looked there, his bones aching, his knotty hands deformed yet so brave, outraged by years of toil. Oh, he hurt me deeply in my chest, a cry there, a wail I wanted to send floating into the warm twilight. And all of a sudden I hated Mamma.

I ran into the kitchen and threw my books down. I smelled fish, which meant Friday, baked fish. Mamma stood over the stove, her face as sullen as it was that morning.

“Why do you do it?” I said. “Why do you leave him out there by himself? He's lonesome. Why don't you talk to him?”

She didn't answer.

“You're wicked. You're mean to him. He didn't do anything serious. Look how hard he works every day.”

She lifted a pot of boiling potatoes from the stove and carried it to the colander in the sink, steam from the pot hiding her face. “Please stay out of my way,” she said. While she mashed the potatoes I sat at the table, watching the set face, the changeless line of her lips. I couldn't understand it: day after day the same even flow of anger, the constant blaze in her eyes. It was all right to get mad once in a while and stay that way for a while, but why stay mad all the time? After all, what did
we
have to do with it, Mike and Tony and I? We had to live there too.

She drew the baked fish from the oven and tested it with a fork. It was ready. She went to the back porch and called Mike
and Tony and Clara, who were pitching horseshoes in the back yard. They marched in and and sat at the dining-room table without washing their hands and faces, and their hands were the color of dust. Mamma didn't care. Mike and Tony began to pick at the fish with their hands, tossing chunks to Hugo under the table. She didn't say a word. I kicked Hugo out and tried to make them wash their hands and faces, but they thumbed their noses at me and said I wasn't anybody important. It made me so mad I didn't wash, either. We sat in a circle, every place taken but Papa's.

“What about him?” I said.

“Call him,” Mamma said. “That is, if you really want him.”

I went out to the porch and shook Papa awake. He staggered inside, his muscles aching. At the kitchen sink he bent over and washed his face, gasping from the cold water. Then he combed his hair before the little wall mirror and came into the dining room and sat down. The sight of him made Mamma pale. She pushed back her plate and went into the bedroom, locking the door behind her. We ate in silence. The fish was burned, the mashed potatoes were watery; there weren't any napkins, and every few minutes one of us got up to get something that should have been there.

As soon as dinner was finished, Papa walked into the bedroom. Immediately Mamma walked out of the bedroom and went into the kitchen. We could hear Papa dressing in the bedroom. He felt better now, he was whistling, and we could hear him moving around with more quickness.

He was whistling “
La Donna è mobile
” when he left, wearing his new suit and whistling for all the world like a man without troubles. It made Mamma so furious that she took the large fish platter and sent it crashing over the floor. Hugo howled in fright and came dashing out of the kitchen, to hide himself under the bed. Mamma kicked the pieces aside and rushed back to the bedroom. Hugo crawled from under the bed and went back and ate the fish on the floor. After a while Mamma returned to the kitchen, swept up the broken pieces, and finished the supper dishes.

We sat around the dining-room table, playing casino. Mamma
went back to the bedroom and locked the door. After an hour she called me. I went in and stood at the bedside in the darkness. I could smell her grief and tears in the room, filling the room.

“Go down to Dino's,” she said. “Tell Dino to come here right away.”

“What for?”

“Do what I tell you.”

I pulled on my sweater and started out. Dino's barber shop was next to the alley on Osage Street, a block from the Platte River Bridge. You could hear and smell the river from Dino's. It was a one-chair shop, not much bigger than our dining room. Next to the shop was the North Pole Recreation Club, where Papa played a card game called
pangini
and sometimes got drunk. Dino's shop was closed, a dim blue light burning over the opened cash register. Dino lived in a bedroom and kitchen behind the shop. Many years ago this place had been a blacksmith shop, and when you were inside you could still smell horsehide and burned horses' hoofs.

I went around the alley to the back door. Lights shone from the two kitchen windows. I climbed the fence. From inside came laughter, the rich deep laughter of Coletta and the sharp brash laughter of my father. I crept to the window and looked inside. They sat at a small table in the middle of Dino's white, immaculate kitchen, a bottle of wine between them: Coletta, Dino, and Papa. Dino sat as though by himself, a little apart from Coletta and Papa, who were close together, their chairs touching. That other time she had worn black. Tonight she was in white, but color made no difference—she still looked beautifully naked. I swallowed slowly. Holy cow! What a honey!

Papa was swinging his arms as he talked, sometimes hugging her, talking all the time.

“Look at him there!” Papa said. “He ain't no man, Coletta. He's half a man, that's what.”

Dino smiled indifferently.

“Don't laugh,” Papa warned. “We know you, you impostor, you
ingannatore
. You just ain't got the guts to go out and get a woman. That's his trouble, ain't it, Coletta?”

Coletta dropped her eyes and wouldn't answer.

“Look, Dino. Let me show you.”

Papa's arm went around Coletta's shoulder, pulling her against him. “You see? You don't have to kiss a woman, Dino. All you have to do is show them who's the boss. And not a cockroach.”

Dino raised his wine glass, sipped, and blinked his eyes in amusement. Plainly Papa's advice was having no effect. This enraged him. He jumped out of his chair, rushed over to Dino, and, with arms outstretched and fingers trembling under Dino's nose, he pleaded in Italian.

“Dino Rossi, in the name of San Rocco, get some sense. I am your beloved friend, Dino. This is Guido Toscana talking to you, one who loves you more than life itself. I would give you my tongue, tear it out by the roots, if you asked. I am trying to help you, Dino. Awake, Dino!
Avanti!
Do not snout about the highways and byways looking for a mate. I have found her for you, Dino. She is here before you, a flower from the hills of Sorrento. Act, Dino. This is your friend talking to you, Guido Toscana who knew your stupid mother, your worthless father, and your idiotic brothers.”

This was too much for Coletta. She arose and demanded that Papa shut up. With lean cat-like strides she crossed the room and stood with her hands on her hips, her lips in an indignant pout. Papa was on his knees before Dino, and as she spoke he sat back on his heels to listen.

“I think I've got something to say about this,” she said. “I happen to be a decent woman, and not the kind to throw herself at the feet of any man who comes along.”

“You see what you've done, Dino?” Papa said. “Insulted her. Made a fool out of her.”

Dino reddened.

“But I—”

“But—nothing!” Papa said, “Friend or no friend, I ought to punch you in the nose.”

“Don't you dare!” Coletta said.

It made Papa speechless, confused.

“Please, dear lady,” Dino said, his hands out, “I ask you to forgive me. I am so worthless, so rude. I meant no offense. It is only that I do not wish to—”

“There he goes!” Papa said. “He's off again. He wants you to forgive him. That's all he knows: forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.” Papa chanted it sarcastically. It hurt Dino. He stared at the floor and chewed his lips.

“Forgive me! He's been saying that ever since he was born. Fifteen years ago he tried to marry my wife.” Papa laughed in scorn. “Him! Trying to take a woman away from me! He was saying the same thing: forgive me, forgive, forgive. I forgived him, all right! I took Maria right out from under his nose—
that's
how I forgived him!”

It was like a stiletto between Dino's ribs. He twisted in his chair, the cords in his neck standing out like ropes. Then I saw his eyes, and he was crying. Papa looked at Coletta in astonishment. She too was surprised. Dino sobbed and dropped his head to his chest, trembling out his misery.

“Poor Dino,” Coletta said. “You've hurt him.”

From behind she twined her long arms around him. “Poor Dino, poor, poor Dino.” She put her cheek against his, her throat at his neck. “Poor Dino, poor gentle Dino.” Papa studied them suspiciously. Coletta's finger went in and out of Dino's hair. Her voice crooned in his ear, and a long sigh came from Dino. He closed his eyes and relaxed in her arms.

“That's the boy, Dino!” Papa said. “That's the way to do it.”

At once Dino broke again, sobbing into his hands. Coletta tried to comfort him, but he wept without shame. Coletta shook her head, and Papa was full of impatience.

“What the hell's he crying for?”

It brought spasms and chokes from Dino. Through drowning eyes he looked at Papa bitterly. Coletta's handkerchief fluttered as she dabbed away his tears. He smiled and raised his face to her.

Coletta said: “You'd better go, Guido.”

Papa had already picked up his hat. Dino protested that Papa should stay, and while they got into a fierce argument about it I jumped the fence to the alley and ran down the street. I was home in five minutes. It was a warm night; there was a moon. I found Mamma sitting in the rocker on the front porch. She stood up when I turned into the yard.