Full of Life by John Fante

shaved and powdered, his hair neatly parted. His bull neck under the black shirt looked puffy from the strain of the white tie.Yet he had that distinguished appearance of a man about to embark on a long journey.
    Stella said, “He’s stubborn. He doesn’t want to look nice and clean.”
    “I am clean. What I got on is clean and just washed.”
    “But overalls! On the train.”
    “I rode trains before you was born. So don’t tell your Papa about trains.”
    “No use going around like an old bricklayer.”
    “What’s wrong with laying brick?”
    “How about that gray suit?” I suggested. “It might be cooler on the train.”
    He got to his feet with a reddened angry face.
    “You want me to come down? You want me to help you with the house?”
    I certainly did.
    “Then don’t tell me what to wear. You ain’t so smart, and don’t forget it. Buying a house with termites!”
    That ended the matter. I didn’t want to lose him.
    His luggage was piled near the door, two paint-scarred suitcases of imitation leather tied with clothesline, and a canvas mason’s kit. Meanwhile Mama kept out of the discussion, busying herself putting things into a grocer’s carton that once held canned milk. I went over to see what she was doing. She was packing this stuff for me to take back to Los Angeles. The box contained four quarts of home-canned tomato preserves and four quarts of fig jelly. There was also a head of goat’s cheese and a freshly baked chocolate cake.
    ‘They don’t have good cake in Los Angeles,” she said.
    I could not imagine how she came upon this information, but I didn’t say anything. Now she showed me asmall bouquet of sweet basil freshly cut from her herb garden, and tied with a red ribbon from which hung two lead medals of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
    “It’s to make the baby born alive. Every night, hang it at the foot of your bed.”
    I said I would do this.
    Papa came forward with a coil of clothesline and began tying the carton. Mama drew me to the sink for a little confidential talk. She opened a drawer filled with spices and drew out a garlic clove. With her fingernail she peeled the clove naked and white. Then she kissed it and shoved it into the lapel pocket of my coat.
    “Keep some in your pocket all the time, day and night. Never be without it.”
    “I know. It makes boys.”
    She smiled tolerantly, shrugging her hands.
    “Me—I don’t care. Boy or girl, he’s my grandchild. I’ll love him just the same. But your Papa wants a boy. It’s to please him, the garlic.”
    The fierce fumes of the garlic stabbed my nostrils, and I knew I would have to dump the bulb as soon as possible or it would pervade my clothes. Now it was time to leave. Steve and Papa carried the luggage to the car. I distinctly heard the glub-glub of wine bottles in one of the grips. Mama didn’t see me remove the garlic from my pocket and flip it into the grape hedge. She went down to the car with me. Because of the children, she and Stella weren’t going to the station with us.
    Papa kissed the two little girls, and then Mama, and he cried a little, telling her not to forget to put a bit of parsley in the cat’s food during the hot weather. Mama was being brave and fighting off collapse as we embraced and kissedgood-by. Steve turned the car around, honking the horn as we waved, and then Mama collapsed. She sank neatly to the road beside the fence as the car rolled away. Stella was there beside her, quite unperturbed, waving to us, and Mama looked thoroughly insensible, her head on her breast, her hand struggling bravely to wave at us, and finally floundering in the dust. We should have stopped to “revive” her, but time was short, and Papa was anxious to make contact with the train.
    “Nothing wrong with her. Let’s go.”
    We turned the corner and the tires hummed evenly on the fine highway toward Sacramento. I sighed with relief and reached for a cigarette. My hand came upon something warm and sticky in my