When Papa brought Fred to the house she would greet him in Italian. She’d say, “Good evening, Dog Dung.” Or, “Look at what came out of some woman’s stomach.”
Fred Bestoli was a melancholy, taciturn Italian, but my grandmother always brought out considerable fight in him. He would answer, “Kiss my buttocks, old woman,” and Papa would encourage him.
“That’s right, Federico. Tell the old slut to mind her own business.”
Raging, Grandma would turn on Papa and say it would have been better if her womb had produced a pig rather than himself. Papa would answer that, since she was his mother, he was surprised that he had not been born a pig. This violent obscene language never meant anything one way or another. They just talked like that.
Every fall my father made wine and stored it in the cellar. He never had much luck with the wine. It was either too sweet or too sour. He had no patience, and if the vintage had possibilities he downed it before it had a chance to age. Thus he was always going down the street to Fred Bestoli’s house, where the bootlegger lived alone in chaotic squalor. On these trips Papa carried his bricklayer’s toolkit, a heavy canvas satchel. But he fooled nobody. The neighbors watering their lawns along the street looked at him brazenly, assuring him they knew what was in the bag.
We kids were fascinated by movie criminals, but Fred Bestoli was hardly the fascinating type. He neither killed nor robbed. He carried no firearms, nor was he hunted by the police. He was in and out of the Boulder County jail so much that we too despised him.
He always came to our house by way of the alley. Standing behind the coal shed, he whistled for Papa. If we were having supper, Papa would go outside and tell Fred to wait. This created bad feeling at the table, Grandma grumbling and slamming things, cursing America, saying she should have drowned Papa the day he was born. Mama would stop eating, her body freezing in resentment, her eyes fixed on Papa, who started slamming things too, saying he wished he had never married, had never come to America, had never been born to a jackal like his mother or wedded to a fool like his wife. If any of us kids so much as breathed heavily during this spell of fury, Papa would snatch a knife and threaten to slit our throats, and though this frightful warning was shouted three or four times a week throughout our boyhood, the nearest he came to carrying it out was the night he flung a meatball at my brother Dino.
Dinner finished, the kitchen would be cleared and Mama would order us into the dining room and lock the door, and Grandma would go to her room. But Grandma was always full of fight. She made it a point to encounter Fred Bestoli, if only to spit at his feet or insult him in some way. He returned spit for spit, insult for insult, until my father shouted for peace. Then she would retreat, whimpering, to her room, beseeching God to burn down the house and everyone in it.
One evening while we were having supper there was a knock on the front door. Papa answered. Who should be there, his arms loaded with packages, but Fred Bestoli?
“Hallo,” he said, frightened as he glanced at Mama and Grandma. There was something new and shining about him, and it wasn’t the new suit and green necktie. It was in his face, an eagerness to please, a friendliness. He even nodded to us kids. Grandma spoke up.
“What do you want, jackass?”
He tried to smile.
“Throw him back in the gutter,” Grandma said.
He turned piteous brave eyes on Papa, who moved closer to listen to some whispering. Papa kept nodding and smiling. Finally Papa slapped him on the back.
“Good,” he said. “Good boy, Fred.”
As he would a bashful child, Papa led Fred into the dining room. He stood before us at the table, his teeth clenched, his arms around the packages.
“For you,” he said, pushing a long gift box toward Grandma.
She withdrew as if he held a snake.
“Take it!” Papa commanded.
Grandma scowled and snatched the box.
Fred searched his packages and found one for Mama. She hesitated, but Papa tore the box from Fred’s hands and shoved it into Mama’s arms. There were three other packages. They were identical and Fred handed one to each of us boys. The thin boxes looked suspiciously like neckties. Carlo tore his fingernails into the paper, but Papa told him to wait. With clean, shining black eyes Fred Bestoli looked to my father, who cleared his throat as if he was about to make a speech.
“Fred Bestoli has been my friend for thirty-five years,” Papa said. “He was born ten miles from my hometown. He came to America when I did. He worked hard in this country. Hod carrier. Coal miner. Dug ditches. Hard work. No money. He’s got no trade. So what does he do? He sells a little whiskey. A few bottles of wine. Is that bad? I say, no! But the law says yes. So he goes to jail, three, four times.”
Fred coughed. A fat, silvery tear rolled from his eye, slid down his cheek and went crashing toward the floor. His emotion touched Grandma. She made a bouquet out of the corner of her apron and put her nose in it. Papa was pleased with his effectiveness. He raised his voice, lifted his hands and eyes to the ceiling.
“Up there,” he said, meaning heaven, “is where they judge what’s right and what’s wrong—and up there Fred Bestoli’s got friends—even if he’s got none down here.”
Mama, Fred and Grandma were all crying now, and Papa was so moved that he sobbed. My brother Victor snickered in embarrassment. This brought such a twisted silent snarl to Papa’s lips that Victor lowered his face and stared at the floor.
“But Fred Bestoli’s a different man tonight,” Papa shouted. “He’s reformed. He’s all through with bootlegging. He wants to be friends, like before.”
Grandma jumped up and tossed her fat little arms around Fred. “Thank God!” she said. “Ah, thank our heavenly Father.”
Laughing through his tears, Fred smacked a loud kiss into Grandma’s grey hair.
“My Federico,” Grandma said. “My son. Better, so much better, indeed, than my own flesh and blood.”
“Can we open the packages now?” Victor asked.
Papa nodded, and we pulled the paper away. Neckties they were. It was extremely difficult to feel gratitude, but Mama forced us to thank the man. Grandma’s package contained a black shawl. She was overwhelmed as she put it around her shoulders.
“Thank you, figlio mio,” she said, the tears bursting from her eyes. “A thousand thanks.” Then she glanced at Papa. “Ah, that God had made you my son instead of him. Forty-five years, and he has never given me so much as a chamber pot.”
Fred’s gift to Mama was a grey coat-sweater. We watched her put it on. She buttoned it up, pleased, and rubbed her hands over it.
“How about some dinner for our friend?” Papa said.
The question brought a flurry of activity as Grandma and Mama made a place at the table for Fred. Mama got a plate from the good china, and Grandma went to her room and returned with a linen napkin. Papa disappeared into the cellar for a pitcher of new wine.
Through the front door Carlo saw something in the street.
“Look!” he gasped.
Parked in front of our house was a brand new Packard sedan. It was a big black job, so new it loomed like a shining animal. It was Fred Bestoli’s car. He had bought it that day, only a few hours ago. We rushed outside and examined it closely, opening doors, pushing buttons, honking the horn. None of us had ever ridden in such a new car.
“Let’s ask him,” Victor said.
In the house Fred was seated before a stuffed pepper and a glass of wine. Mama and Grandma hovered over him and Papa sat across the table. We asked for a ride in the new car.
“No,” Papa said.
“We didn’t ask you,” Carlo said.
“I’m telling you.”
But Fred was expansive. “Sure. I give you a little ride.”
“They’ll ruin your car,” Papa said.
Fred shrugged. “How?”
“I don’t know. They’ll find a way.”
But he gave in finally, and said we could go. There was a c
ondition, however. We had to “get ready.” This meant we had to change clothes, put on our Sunday stuff, with a necktie.
“What for?” Victor demanded.
“You don’t ride in a new car looking like that,” Papa said.
We looked at one another. We were in corduroys, our school clothes. It was silly. But there was no arguing with him. Either we got ready, or we got no ride.
The long hateful preparations began. We had to bathe, the three of us in the tub, Grandma supervising. She used a washcloth the way a carpenter used sandpaper, tearing away the flesh back of our ears. She could get a corkscrew effect by twisting the corner of the cloth, stuffing it into an eardrum, and twisting it. She removed scalp dirt by ripping it out with her fingernails. When the ordeal was over we went into the bedroom where Mama had arranged our clothes—fresh underwear, clean shirts, clean socks. That night, as a tribute to Fred Bestoli, we were trussed up in the new neckties. Starched and strangling, we were ready in half an hour. We trooped out of the bedroom and into the dining room. There sat Papa and Fred. Twice in that time they had emptied the wine pitcher. Their faces and voices showed it.
“Go wait in the car,” Papa said.
We waited an hour. We were glutted with waiting, our bodies aching. The night had come. The street was in darkness. Through the front door we looked hatefully at Fred and Papa as they leaned heavily on the dining room table. The new wine had mowed them down, and they had succumbed uproariously. Though only four feet apart, they shouted at one another and banged the table with their hands. They were beasts, ugly beasts.
“Look at them,” I said. “They make me sick.”
“What a father,” Carlo said. “Nuts to him.”
“I’m leaving here some day,” Victor said. “I’ve had about all I can stand. Wait’ll I’m twelve—you’ll see. I’ll be gone. Then they’ll be sorry.”
Finally Mama intervened. We couldn’t hear what she said, but her gestures indicated an appeal for us.
“Let ’em wait,” Papa yelled.
It brought a shriek from Carlo, a long wild eerie howl of pent-up exasperation that turned his face blue as the cords of his neck tightened and the frightening wail penetrated the night. It was so terrifying that Fred and Papa stopped shouting and gaped at one another, sobered a moment. Papa arose on rubbery legs and Fred lurched out of his chair. They came through the house and down the porch stairs like men dying of thirst, groping at shadows for support. They almost fell on their faces as they reached the sidewalk, but as they approached the car a touch of dignity stiffened them and they pretended to be sober.
Papa pushed his head through the rear door and smiled disgustingly at us, his eyeballs floating.
“All set?” he drooled.
We didn’t answer. Fred Bestoli had staggered around the car to the driver’s side, but an odd impulse had made him keep going. Across the street he wandered aimlessly, talking to himself. After a fashion, Papa went to his rescue. We could hear them yelling under the apple tree in front of the Whitley yard. Fred had forgotten that he owned a car. As they shouted, the lights on the Whitley front porch went on. It chastened Papa, bringing out a last remaining spark of human decency as he quieted down and laboriously helped Fred back to the car. We could hear the two men gasping and reeling, their feet tangling as they stumbled toward us.
We weren’t interested in a ride anymore. Fearing for our lives, we tried to get out of the car. But Papa wouldn’t let us. A ride we wanted, a ride we would get.
“But he’s too drunk to drive,” I said.
“I’ll drive,” Papa said.
We groaned. My father had never driven a car in his life. Papa got Fred into the car just as Mama and Grandma came down the porch stairs. Fred was asleep, with Papa trying to get the car keys out of his pocket. We opened the rear door and jumped out. Mama appealed to Papa not to drive. He ignored her, searching for the keys, pushing Fred about like a sack of onions. We were clear of the car by the time he found the keys and as he groped the dashboard for the ignition Grandma stepped forward with a broom. She pushed it through the door and beat the keys out of Papa’s hand. They fell to the floor. As he searched for them Grandma banged him on the head with the broom. The incessant whacking infuriated him. He seized the broom, twisted it from Grandma, staggered out of the car, and charged her. But she held her ground, her arms folded defiantly, her lips spitting epithets. Toe to toe they stood, battering one another with insults. Mama reached in the car and put the keys in her sweater pocket.
By now nearly every porch light in the block was turned on. Neighbors stood in doorways and watched. Papa and Grandma suddenly stopped insulting one another. With Mama’s help, they pulled Fred out of the front seat and led him into the house. Mama pulled down the blinds and turned off the lights in the front part of the house. One by one the porch lights along the street went out, and doors were closed and bolted. The night was quiet once more.
They stretched Fred Bestoli out on the sofa. He snored with his mouth open. Papa went into the bedroom. His shoes thumped the floor as he kicked them off. Soon he was asleep too, his snores as loud as Fred’s.
Disconsolate we sat in the kitchen, Carlo and Victor and I. Grandma came in. She smiled as she opened her coin purse. She handed each of us a dime.
“Go to the movie pitch,” she said.
The movies! We swarmed over her, kissing and hugging her. She pushed us away and we pulled off our neckties and hurried from the house. It was the best house we ever had.
A Bad Woman
WE WERE HAVING DINNER when Uncle Clito arrived through the snowstorm. He pulled off his overshoes, breathed into his cold hands, and came into the dining room.
Papa asked him to have some pasta e fagioli, but he didn’t want any. Straddling a chair, his chin on the back-rest, his alert brown eyes studied the table. He noticed the wine, the amount Papa had drunk, the amount of butter spread on our bread, everything. Mama preened herself, pressed her hair into place. For you had to be very careful around Uncle Clito. He had a talent for discovering trouble. We kids hid our hands, lest he observe our unkempt fingernails.
Uncle Clito was a barber. He was Mama’s oldest brother, the only brother born in Italy. He spoke a broken English. His shop was the best in Denver’s Little Italy. Though he was a rich man, Uncle Clito’s excuse for not marrying was that he could not afford a wife.
Everybody was afraid of him. He could diagnose trouble out of the most trifling symptoms. When we went to his shop for haircuts Mama made us dress in Sunday clothes. That was because Uncle Clito once saw my worn shoes and deduced Papa was gambling again. He was correct. Mama’s brothers and sisters descended upon our house, demanding to know if Papa was neglecting us. Passing Uncle Clito’s shop on Osage Street, we made sure he saw us wave as he worked the first chair by the window. There was reason for this too. Once my Aunt Teresa passed without waving. She crossed the street and passed the shop with her head turned away. Immediately Uncle Clito phoned Uncle Julio, Teresa’s husband. Julio closed his butcher market and met Clito in front of the barber shop. Together they walked down Osage, peering into every bar and café. Sure enough, at Zucca’s they found Teresa in a booth with Tony Mongone, the bookmaker. Aunt Teresa was playing the horses again. Julio dragged his wife into the street, slapped her face, and sent her home in a taxi. Later Uncle Clito smiled with cunning and explained why he had suspected Teresa of gambling again. The way she had walked, he said, her nervousness, the fact that she had not waved at him.
So here was Uncle Clito at our house once more, coming through a snowstorm to tell us something.
“How’s business?” Papa asked.
Uncle Clito shrugged. Then he nodded at us kids, indicating that he wanted us to leave the room. We went away contemptuously. What did we care? All we ever got from that old skinflint on Christmas was long underwear, socks, and other useless junk. We trailed into the kitchen, Papa closing the door after us. Immediately we piled against it, our ears pressed against the do
or crack. Uncle Clito spoke.
“Anybody see Mingo, lasta few day?”
“He hasn’t been around,” Papa answered.
Mingo was our favorite uncle, Mama’s youngest brother, and the most famous person in the family, for he played piano in the Denver Symphony Orchestra. His Christmas presents to us included air rifles, electric trains, baseball bats, and sleds.
“Pretty soon Mingo get marry, for to have wife,” Clito said.
“Mingo?” Papa doubted it.
“You wait. You see.”
Through the keyhole I watched Uncle Clito’s mysterious smile. His face twinged with pleasure.
“Who’s he to marry?” Mama asked.
“Some puttana, no doubt,” he said in Italian, “Some harlot or other.”
“How do you know this?”
“I know lotsa thing.” He smiled. “Lotsa, lotsa thing.”
Mama and Papa were silent, afraid of his wisdom. I could hear wine clucking in Papa’s throat as he drank.
“I’m glad Mingo’s getting married,” Mama said. “He’s so lonely, living by himself in that terrible Roma Hotel.”
“Lonely?” Uncle Mingo grinned. “Live all by his self?” He shook his head. “Mingo not so all alone like you tink. The Roma Hotel, she’sa half block from my shop. I see things. I say nothing, but I see what’sa go on.”
“What do you see?”
“I see somebody, she’sa got red hair.”
Mama slapped the table.
“Clito, you make me so tired! You’re a tattletale.”
Clito pressed his heart with both hands. “Is it for tattletale I want my brother to marry a puttana? Is it for tattletale, she is same womans who run the Flamingo Rooms? Ah, no! It is for love of my little brother Mingo. I am barber. They come for haircut: four girl, one womans. I say nothing. I cut the hair, they give da money. But when this womans want to marry my little brother Mingo, is not for tattletale, I talk. I’ma protect Mingo.”