Free Full of Life by John Fante Page B

kit and pulled it open.
    “Half-inch pipe. Foot long.”
    I burrowed at the bottom of the kit and found several pieces of pipe. He paced back and forth studying the floor. I gave him what he wanted. But he only glanced at it and did not take it.
    “Wrong pipe.”
    “That’s what you asked for.”
    “Half-inch pipe. Foot long.”
    I dug into the kit and found another. It seemed right. I held it out.
    “Wrong pipe.”
    I flung it back, dug out all the short pieces of pipein the kit, and held them out. Quickly he took the one he wanted.
    “Level.”
    I handed him the level.
    He put it on the floor, got down on his knees, and studied the air bubble inside the measuring area.
    “Tape measure.”
    I gave it to him, and he measured from the door to the first step of the staircase.
    “Twelve foot.”
    He placed the pipe on the floor at the door, holding it with his foot. “Floor sags two inches. Pipe’s gonna roll clear to the stairs. Whole house sags in the middle.”
    He took his foot off the pipe and it began to move, slowly at first, but quickly gaining speed as it clattered along; yea, even as it thumped against the stair I knew my Papa was the wrong man for the job; I knew that he hated the house, that he was prejudiced against it, that he would show it no mercy. We watched the pipe rocking back and forth and finally come to a stop. Joyce was stunned.
    “For heaven’s sake.”
    Papa picked up the length of pipe and handed it to me.
    “Tool kit.”
    I threw the pipe into the kit.
    “Lock.”
    I locked it.
    “Straps.”
    I buckled the two straps.
    “Termites,” he said.
    Joyce led him into the kitchen. I started up the stairs.
    “Where you going?” he asked.
    “Bath.”
    I went up and had my bath. For an hour I lay in warm soothing water, dozing but not sleeping. For me a bath was not so much the cleansing of the body as the refreshing of the mind. My thinking became like a summer sky, gladsome images crossing it like white clouds: the sailboats at Newport Beach, the haunting beauty of Valli, the third fairway at Fox Hills Golf Club, the prose of Willa Cather. All the delicious things, the winsome splendid gentle things, came with my bath.
    But now something strange was added, a new and startling imagery, a pool of stagnant water, mossy and cool. Deep forest shadows shrouded the pool, and there were creatures just below the surface of the water, popping their heads out and disappearing again, and, each time they sank, something white and terrible trailed in the water after them. Gradually I recognized the creatures. They were Papa, and Joe Muto, and Mr. Randolph, and the man in tweeds. The white stringy things they dragged after them were umbilical cords. The creatures were so frightening I jumped out of the tub and quickly dressed.

FOUR
    J OYCE WAS IN the living room reading, surrounded with books. I could see Papa in the back yard. He sat under a wide lawn umbrella, a wine jug on the steel table beside him, a cigar in his mouth as he stretched his legs and took his ease, studying the house.
    “What did he say about the hole in the kitchen?”
    “He wants to consider it,” Joyce said.
    “There’s nothing to consider. Just fix the hole.”
    She closed the book. “Let him think about it. He’s full of ideas.”
    “No matter what he thinks, the hole has to be fixed. It was a mistake to bring him down here. He’s old and set in his ways. I predict trouble.”
    “That’s not a very nice way to feel about your own father.”
    “I can’t help it. He’s turned into an eccentric.”
    “You should have thought of that before you asked him. The Fourth Commandment, you know.”
    “The Fourth Commandment?”
    “Honor thy father and thy mother.”
    I gave her a quick look. She was a picture of enormous placidity, her great tummy sitting proudly on her laplike another person. It gave you the feeling you talked to two people. Behind her reading glasses the gray eyes were clear and beautiful. She sat with a