Full of Life Read Online Free PDF Page A

through the hissing leaves, now and then stopping to take thoughtful gulps of claret.
    “Send it to all of them. Write it plain. Put it down just like I tell you. Don’t change a word.”
    She would dip the pen, her knees against the barrel, as she sat uncomfortably on an apple box.
Dear Sons:
    Your mother is fine. I’m fine too. We don’t need you boys any more. So have a good time, laugh and play, and forget all about your father. But not your mother. Don’t worry about your father. It’s your mother. Your father worked hard to buy you shoes and put you through school. He don’t regret nothing. He don’t need anything. So have a good time, boys, laugh and play, but think about your mother some time. Write her a letter. Don’t write to your father because he don’t need it, but your mother’s getting old now, boys. You know how they get when they get old. So have a good time while you’re young. Laugh and play and think about your mother some time. Makes no difference about your father. He never did need your help. But your mother gets lonesome. Have a good time. Laugh and play.
    Yours truly,
    Nick Fante
    And when Mama was finished, he would sip from the jug, smack his lips, and add: “Send it air mail.”
    I reached San Juan at noon, flying up from Burbank and taking the bus out of Sacramento. The folks lived at the edge of town, where the city pavement ended and the last street light was a hundred feet away. Walking down the road past the old board fence, I could see Papa under the fig tree. His drawing board was spread over the barrel; on it were pencils, rulers, a T square. The cats slept in the swing, piled in hot furry confusion.
    Hearing the whine of the gate, Papa turned, his phlegmatic eyes squinting for range through waves of gossamer heat. It was my first visit in six months. Except for his vision, he was superb. He had thick bricky hands and a sun-baked neck, handsome as sewer pipe. I was within fifty feet of him before he recognized me. I dropped my overnight bag and put out my hand.
    “Hello, Papa.”
    He had the hands of Beelzebub, horny and calloused, the gnarled oft-broken fingers of a bricklayer. He looked down at the grip.
    “What you got in there?”
    “Shirts and things.”
    He inspected me carefully.
    “New suit?”
    “Fairly new.”
    “How much?”
    I told him.
    “Too much.”
    Emotion was piling up inside him. He was very glad I had come home, but he tried not to show it, his chin trembling.
    “Smell the peppers? Mama’s frying peppers.”
    From the back porch it came, a river of ambrosial redolence, fresh green peppers sizzling in golden olive oil, charmed with the fragrance of garlic and the balm of rosemary, all of it mingled with the scent of magnolias and the deep green richness of vineyards in the back country.
    “Smells good. How you feel, Papa?”
    He was shrinking. Every year he receded a little, or so it seemed. Neither of us were tall men, but now in his late years he gave me the sense of being taller than he was. The yard was smaller too, and I was surprised at the fig tree. It was not nearly as big as I imagined.
    “The baby. How’s the little bambino?”
    “Six weeks more or less.”
    “And Miss Joyce?” He worshipped her. He could not bring himself to call her simply by her name.
    “She’s fine.”
    “She carry him high?” He touched the chest. “Or low?” His hand dropped to his stomach.
    “High. Way up, Papa.”
    “Good. Little boy, that means.”
    “I don’t know.”
    “How you mean, don’t know?”
    “You can’t be sure of these things.”
    “You can, if you do the right thing.”
    He frowned, looked straight into my eyes.
    “You been eating plenty eggs, like I told you?”
    “I don’t like eggs, Papa.”
    He sighed and shook his head.
    “Remember what I told you? Eat plenty eggs. Three, four, every day. Otherwise, it’s a girl.” He made a face as he added: ‘You want a girl?”
    “I’d like a boy, Papa. But you have to take what