The Wine of Youth Read Online Free PDF Page B

that morning.
    But only my grandmother and I thought I wore a grand shirt. The Sister Superior screeched when she saw me standing in line with my partner. She ran to me. She seized my sleeve, long and dangling with unraveled thread. The cloth shrieked, ripping to my elbow.
    â€œFor heaven’s sake! Go home and put something on.”
    It was hard to understand. I thought it was a swell shirt, my father’s. The guys laughed and said things about tents and awnings and gunnysacks. Mass would start in five minutes.
    My mother would fix my shirt. But I had to hurry. Pretty soonthey would begin to operate. I knew of such things, for it had happened twice before in the same year.
    I ran across town—twenty blocks—to the hospital. I sprawled and crawled up the three flights of stairs to my mother’s room. I opened the door to see them lifting her from the bed on posts to the bed on wheels. I saw my mother. She was too white to sew. She looked as if her face was covered with talcum; like a girl, she had her hair in a braid.
    She saw me. She took my hand and smiled.
    â€œHe’s an angel,” my mother said to the nurse. “He went to Communion for me this morning. That’s why I’m not afraid.”
    I blurted: “I never went yet, Ma.”
    She didn’t hear. I half repeated it, but the nurse pasted a funny-smelling hand over my mouth. They pulled my mother away. I followed them down the rubbery, smelly corridor. The bed on wheels swung quietly into the operating room. My mother saw me in the hall. She asked the nurses to stop. She waved her fingers to me. I ran tiptoe to her side.
    â€œIsn’t that Papa’s shirt?” she asked.
    â€œYeah,” I said.
    â€œLet me fix it.”
    â€œYou can’t now,” the nurse said. “The doctor’s waiting.”
    â€œJust a safety pin,” my mother said.
    The nurse gave her one. She pinned it at the elbow of the torn sleeve, to prevent any further ripping.
    â€œTell Grandma to fix it,” my mother said. We kissed.
    They pushed her inside, and I went down the hospital steps. I was too late for my first Communion. I went home slowly. Soon I forgot all about Communion. I was proud of this swell shirt, my father’s. I pulled the collar down and let the breeze fill my waist. The shirt ballooned out.
    I tried to explain to my grandmother. She spoke little English and understood less.
    â€œNo Communion,” I said. “Shirt no good. Sister no like. Sleeve too long. Sister tear. Mamma say fix.”
    â€œYah, yah,” she said. “Me fix ’um.”
    She got the scissors and cut the sleeves off at the shoulders. Now the shirt drooped to my elbows.
    IV
    That evening my father sighed to see his tine shirt so amputated, and he made a noise with his teeth and tongue: Sssk, sssk, sssk.
    â€œThank God when your mother comes home,” he said.
    When he learned the why of it, he clattered the dishes with a wild fist. He was furious with the nun. I watched and listened with a great pride. He growled and pressed his temples.
    â€œBy Jesus Christ, tomorrow you go to Communion, and you wear a blue work shirt, understand? A work shirt. Not a white shirt, or a green shirt, but a blue shirt. A blue shirt. Blue! Blue! Blue! And I’m gonna take you out of the Catholic school. And I’ll put you in the public school. I’m tired paying taxes, anyway.”
    â€œShut up!” my grandmother said in Italian. “All the time you talk, talk, talk, and say nothing. All the time. Shut up!”
    â€œShut up yourself!” my father said. “Who’s running this house? Me or you?”
    â€œBlah!” my grandmother answered. “Pie-face!”
    The next morning there were many surprises on my bed. There was a new pairs of breeches. And a new pair of shoes. And three new white waists. And a new pair of stockings. And two new pairs of B.V.D.’s. And a new cap. And two new