Free Full of Life by John Fante Page A

grip. Unflinchingly he bore the hardships of that desperate trek, calling out words of encouragement to the younger man who wanted to quit before every drugstore that wafted its aroma of ice-cold cola and chocolate soda. But a penny saved was a penny earned. I was in this thing to the bitter end. I was a goddamned fool and I knew it.
    At last we reached the house. Papa was fresh as a bull. I threw myself on the lawn. From the window Joyce saw us and rushed out. One look at her, the lush roundness of her waist, and Papa dropped his luggage and began to cry. He held out his arms.
    “Ah, Miss Joyce! The baby, he’s beautiful.”
    “Papa Fante!”
    She ran to meet him, her arms out, looped around his neck, the soft pressure of the bulge against his waist, so that he backed away discreetly, but she clung to him and he was embarrassed and awed by the wonderful balloon.
    “We’re so glad you came,” she smiled. “We need you very much.”
    He laughed and patted her clumsily, adoring her and the voluptuous roundness that contained a part of him too. You could see him tremble before it, giddy with joy, this extension of himself, the projection of his life far beyond the limits of his years upon the earth. Sitting on the grass and watching him, I knew suddenly that even the birth of his own children had not held the romance and excitement of this child’s coming. Over his shoulder Joyce looked down at me with startled eyes. I just sat there, glad to be home, too tired to speak.
    “John…what happened?”
    “We walked.”
    I got up and we kissed.
    “Why didn’t you take a cab?”
    “We did that too.”
    I did not wish to discuss the matter further. I wanted a bath, some clean clothes and a chance to go on living, to forget that black passage. Papa was kicking the lawn with the thick toe of his shoe.
    “Devil grass. All devil grass. No good, this country.”
    His gaze followed two lanes of tall palms marching down both sides of the avenue, their sleek trunks soaring, their fronds like feather dusters on long handles.
    “No good, them trees. No shade, no fruit, no nothing.”
    We gathered the luggage and carried it into the house, piling it in the hall before the staircase. To the left of the hall, and one step down, was the living room, with wide French windows and cool green walls, a large pleasant room with a beige carpet and carefully selected white oak pieces. Standing there, I felt again that it was a good house in spite of the hole in the kitchen floor; yes, a fine house, a happy house, and it made me proud to be the owner, and I put my arm around Joyce.
    “Here she is, Papa. My house.”
    He turned his head here and there as he bit off the end of a fresh cigar, struck a match against his thigh, and lit up.
    “Floor ain’t plumb.”
    “Oak floor, Papa. Very good floor.”
    “Ain’t plumb.”
    We looked down at the floor. It seemed flawless.
    “Tool kit,” he said again.
    His kit was piled with the other things.
    “Tool kit,” he said again.
    “It’s right here.”
    “Tool kit,” he repeated.
    It was several moments before I realized what he meant—that I should open his tool kit. Even as I became aware of this, I knew that the man had taken over, that our relationship had suddenly changed, that he was the boss of the job. I remembered it from a long time ago when I lived under his roof with my brothers and worked as his helper on building jobs. It was the worst part of working for this man, and we never liked it, my brothers and I. In those days he would say, “Pencil,” and it meant: give me a pencil. Or he would say: “Two-by-four, three feet long.” It was a part of the mystery of working for him, because he never explained why he wanted the thing. He never explained anything, and we used to walk off the job in a fury of frustration and anger, because he treated us like slaves. And here it was again, after sixteen years, this man standing in my house and saying, “Tool kit.”
    I unbuckled the