Читать книгу Billy Don't - William OSB Baker - Страница 8

Lyon Avenue was nearly level in front of the Blair's house, but from there it began an ever-increasing downward slope becoming quite steep in its final plunge to meet High Street. Billy piled the gunnysacks in the bottom of his wagon, making a place to rest his left knee. Then, pushing with his right foot and steering the wagon with his left hand, he started down the street. As his speed increased he sat in the wagon, riding it down the hill to the top of the steep descent to High Street. There he stuck out his right foot, and by dragging his toe he brought the wagon to a stop and got out. From there to the bottom of Lyon Avenue he held the handle and let the wagon lead the way down the hill. At the bottom and on High Street, he pedaled the wagon to the High Street Market on the corner of Congress Avenue.

"Wat’cha you step, Billy," cautioned Mr. Prezzolinni. "I no finish yet."

Billy stepped carefully across the smooth finished concrete floor made slippery by its covering of discarded lettuce leaves, and trimmings from the early morning delivery of fresh produce. It was Monday, the day nearby stores on High Street threw out their spoiled produce and restocked with fresh vegetables and fruits.

"You come-a early today, eh, Piazanno." Mr. Prezzolinni stripped the outer leaves from a head of lettuce, let them fall to the pile at his feet, and then tossed the head into the partially filled crate of trimmed lettuce heads ready for the stacking on the display racks.

"Yeah. I'm going to the show tonight with my Dad."

"That's-a...nice, but you no say, 'yeah.' You say,'Yes, Mr. Prezzolinni.'''

"Yes, Mr. Prezzolinni."

"That's-a better. I got lots'a nice greens for ya chickens." He stripped away the outer leaves of another head, continuing," and I put da spoiled stuff in that there crate for ya." He gestured to where the crate of discarded lettuce heads and spoiled vegetables sat.

"Gee, that's good. I won't have to go to Safeway, too." One of Billy's weekly chores was to take his wagon to the local markets to collect greens for the chickens. Usually it took stops at both the High Street Market and the Safeway, three blocks further east at the corner of High Street and Brookdale, to get a wagon full. Today, he'd save the trip to Safeway and the time he needed to meet his Dad.

"I'll pull my wagon up here." Billy returned with the wagon, stopping on the dock outside the produce preparation area. There he turned around, pushing the wagon by its handle while imitating the noise of a make-believe truck backing into a spot against the wall out of the way of Mr. Prezzolinni.

"You gon’na be a truck driver, Billy. A good truck driver." He put his hand on top of Billy's head giving him an affectionate rub.

."Maybe I can drive one of Mr. Caravacci's garbage trucks." Billy responded, proud of Mr. Prezzolinni's praise. The Caravacci family lived across the street from the Blair’s and owned the Caravacci Garbage Company which serviced the local markets. It was through Mr. Caravacci that Mrs. Blair had made the arrangements for the two local stores to set aside their fresh produce trimmings and spoiled produce for Billy to pick up.

"You no wan’na be garbageman. You got’ta be Italiano to be garbageman. You-a-be doctor or lawyer. You-a make-a-da big money." The sternness of Mr. Prezzolinni's voice and the rejection of Billy's suggestion altered his mood.

He removed a gunnysack from the wagon and began filling it with the lettuce leaves Mr. Prezzolinni had pushed into a pile. The leaves were cool and damp. They felt good, and the scent of the fresh vegetables and fruit was pleasing to Billy's senses. He liked this part of the chore. He remained silent as he went about filling the gunnysacks with the trimmings Mr. Prezzolinni was now tossing in his direction. When the sack became full Billy leaned it against the wall, stood on a crate and stepped into the sack, crushing the leaves to make room for more. Mr. Prezzolinni tossed the last head of lettuce into the crate waiting to be carried inside the store. "Terminado." announced Mr. Prezzolinni, wiping his hands on the long green apron covering his front. He pointed toward the wooden crate heaped with discarded fruits and vegetables of the previous week, "You no forget-a tat." Then he bent down, picked up the crate of of new fresh lettuce heads and disappeared into the store.

Billy eyed the crate of discarded produce, and the swarm of gnats feeding on the spoiling vegetables. He bent over, partially raised the crate and judged it to be too heavy and too large for his small wagon. He rejected the pungent stench of the rotting produce. Mentally he rebelled against the swarming gnats which he knew would infiltrate his ears and find their way into his mouth. He considered leaving the crate of spoiled produce behind as he had done once before. On that occasion Mr. Prezzolinni had scolded him profusely on his return trip, explaining that if Billy wanted the fresh trimmings he was obligated to take the spoiled produce as well. "You no take-a da bad, you no-a-get do bueno." Billy recalled the words. All the gunnysacks were full. Billy carried them to where he had parked the wagon and tied their tops closed with pieces of twine he found lying on the floor. He then entered the store to determine the whereabouts of Mr. Prezzolinni and, if the situation was to his advantage, to take a candy bar.

Mr. Prezzolinni was holding the crate between himself and the vegetable display bin where he was stacking the lettuce, totally involved in his work. Billy moved quickly behind the first aisle separating himself from the man, a friend who Billy now saw as his adversary. The candy section was straight ahead on the opposite side of the aisle. The aisle was empty of shoppers. Billy moved silently, looking ahead for the exact location of the Mr. Big Bars, his favorite choice. The checkout counter at the end of the aisle was empty. Everything was working to Billy's advantage. He reached for a Mr. Big Bar.

"I'll buy that for you, Billy." The unexpected voice coming from behind him shot a bolt of fear through his body. He jerked erect, dropped the candy bar, instinctively picked it up and returned it to the bin. Slowly, he turned to face the female voice. It was his Aunt Rae.

"Hello, Billy. I thought that was you. I didn't scare you did I? You certainly jumped. What are you doing here?" She bent down, kissing him on the cheek.

"Uh, getting greens for the chickens." He blurted out the words. Had she suspected anything? He waited for her next move. She reached into the bin and selected a Mr. Big Bar.

"Is this the kind of candy you like?" Billy nodded his head and muttered, "Yes, ma'am."

"Well, come along." A checker had arrived at the empty counter. "I'll pay for this and you can get on with collecting your greens." Billy followed her to the check stand where the candy bar was paid for and handed to him.

"Does Mrs. Blair make you come after greens for the chickens?" She continued, "You are too small to be made to .....

" Billy interrupted. "It's okay. Anyway, I like doing it." He shot a glance to where Mr. Prezzolinni was standing, hoping he had not heard her comment. Mr. Prezzolinni often praised Billy for coming after the greens, telling him it was a man's job, and Billy didn't want him thinking it was something he had to do or that it was a chore. Mr. Prezzolinni continued to stack the lettuce heads giving no indication that he heard either comment.

His Aunt Rae, sensing the aborted embarrassment, remarked, "Well, I am sure it is hard work." Remembering that Billy's father was to visit his three children this afternoon and take Beth and Billy to the show, she said, "Your Dad is on his way to our house. He should be there by the time I get back from the store. I'll tell him I saw you. You will be ready when he comes for you, won't you? You know he doesn't like Mrs. Blair and he would rather avoid seeing her at all."

"Yes, Ma'am. I'll be ready."

"Well, you better get to mov'in. It's getting late. Bye."

"Bye, Aunt Rae. Thank you for the candy bar."

"You're welcome. It's always best to pay for things, you know."

She knows, thought Billy, unhappy with his luck and feeling guilty. Billy shoved the candy bar into his trouser pocket, then stepped over to where Mr. Prezzolinni was arranging fruit. "Mr. Prezzolinni," Billy spoke in a pleading voice intended to gain the sympathy of the listener, "do I have to take the spoiled stuff? It won't fit in my wagon." "You got’ta take it. It no stay here'n git rotten stinkn'." He wiped his hands on the front of his long bibbed apron, casting a disapproving downward glance at Billy, and walked to the rear of the store. Billy followed, biting his lower lip and regretting that he had been less than manly in his approach.

"Bring-a you wagon 'ere. I fix it fer ya." Billy pulled the wagon already loaded with the filled gunnysacks to where Mr. Prezzolinni stood waiting. Mr. Prezzolinni lifted out the gunnysacks, set them beside the wagon, then lifted the crate into the wagon and set the bulging gunnysacks on top. "Look-a there," he gestured toward a large open gunnysack, "ya find-a ball o'twine. Bring it ere." Following his directions Billy returned with the twine. Together they tied the top-heavy load onto the small wagon.

"Darn," thought Billy "I'll never get this home. It's too heavy." He was consciously aware of time rapidly passing and his joyous eagerness to see his Dad. Mr. Prezzolinni reached down raising the wagon handle and placing it in Billy's hand. "you-a take it easy and you get-a home hokay. Hokay?"

"Yes, Mr. Prezzolinni. Thank you and I'll see ya next week."

"Yah, and you hav-a goud time with yer Pappa."

"I will. Bye." Billy pulled the wagon out of the delivery door and onto the dock. Mr. Prezzolinni slid the heavy delivery door closed. Billy sat down, his feet hanging over the edge of the dock, and ate his candy bar. Finished with the candy he eased the overloaded wagon down the dock ramp and onto the sidewalk. The load was heavy and it wanted to tip over as he turned the corner to retrace his route up High Street to Lyon Avenue.

Billy's Dad was now living in the Sierra Nevada Mountains above Groveland and not far from Yosemite National Park. In fact, the mountain cabin in which his Dad was living was the original entrance to the park by way of the Big Oak Flat Road. Billy had not yet visited his father in the mountains, but had been promised by his Uncle Bud, Aunt Rae's husband, that he would take him soon. Billy looked forward to the visit and was wondering how soon "soon" would be when his daydream was shattered with the tipping over of the wagon.

"Damn it." His temper flared. He kicked the nearest gunnysack. His anger swelled into tears. "Shit." Billy had no shortage for vulgar words in his vocabulary, and when alone he used them all. He righted the wagon while swearing a profuse string of vulgarity and started off again. Once more the wagon flipped over. "Damn it." He shouted the words. He again righted the wagon, trying to adjust the load. He stammered to himself, "I'm going to be late." He began crying. He wiped away the tears, angry with Mr. Prezzolinni that he had overloaded the wagon. He concentrated on the route he was going to take home. If he had more time he would take his alternate route by way of Brookdale to 38th Avenue, then across Neville to the opposite end of Lyon Avenue where the climb was more gradual and a lot easier. But time was running out, and he wanted to be home when his Dad arrived. His only other choice was up the steep hill the way he had come. "I can't pull this up that hill," he thought aloud. His frustration again brought tears of self-pity to his eyes. He thought about the story his Dad told of the little train and the heavy load it pulled over the hill. "I think I can, I think I can; I thought I could." He wished the little train were there now to help him over the hill. Again the wagon tipped over. This time the twine snapped, spilling the sacks into the gutter and the spoiled vegetables onto the sidewalk. "Damn it. Shit."

Tears streamed down his face. His chest swelled with pent-up emotion, and he cried out with hateful anger at his helplessness. Explosively, he grabbed the handle of the now empty wagon and vengefully flipped it onto its wheels. He tried lifting the crate. It was too heavy. He tipped up the crate, which was lying on its side, and allowed some of the spoiled produce to roll out to make the crate less heavy. Several times he unsuccessfully tried to lift the crate. Each time he spilled out more of its spoiled contents. Finally, he was able to lift the crate into the wagon. The spilled contents lay on the sidewalk: squashed tomatoes, rotting apples, slimy celery stalks ... a .stinking mess of spoiling produce. The disturbed gnats swarmed above the scattered contents. Billy wanted to rebel. He stared hatefully at the spoiled vegetation, tasting the repulsive stench in his nostrils. Angrily he swung at the persisting gnats. His stomach rolled with the thought of having to touch the rotting waste. His anger rose, his jaws clamped shut, his hands closed into tight fists. His hatred for all which surrounded him shattered his composure. He kicked the stinking mess. Again, again and again he kicked at it, spreading the spilled contents in all directions.

"Hey, hey. What's going on here?" The booming voice pierced his mood. Billy stopped, turned and saw the long blue coat with a silver tar on it....a policeman. Billy stood still, his head bowed in shame, not knowing what to expect.

"Having yourself a good fit, are ya? Well now, I'm going to stand here while you clean up that mess." The policeman stood tall, holding his nightstick across the front of his legs, rocking to and fro on the heels of his large shoes. Billy was quiet; he said nothing. The sudden appearance of the policeman had broken his spell of anger and self-pity. He dropped to his knees, turning his head to wipe his eyes and runny nose on the shoulder of his shirt, and began picking up the spoiled produce and place it in the crate.

Billy placed the last bit of debris in the crate, stroked his hands back and forth across a gunnysack to remove the sticky juices, and asked, "Will you help me tie the gunnysacks on?"

"I guess I could do that. What is your name, and where do you live?" .

"My name is Billy. Well, really, William Munroe. I live up there." He pointed across the street to the Lyon Avenue hill.

"And where did you get this, and where are you going with it?"

Billy explained how he picked up greens for the chickens from the markets on Mondays and that he was on his way home.

"You don't expect to pull this load up that hill, do you, Billy?"

"I have to. I usually go round the other way to Brookdale, but I don't have the time today. My Dad is coming to see me." The officer listened with interest as Billy explained how he did not live with his father. When Billy finished, the officer made a motion toward a nearby driveway.

"Pull your wagon up to that driveway, and I'll help you get across the street."

Billy complied, being particularly careful not to let the wagon tip over. The policeman stood in the center of the street prepared to stop traffic as he motioned Billy across the street, and then followed him to the opposite curb, where he lifted the rear of the wagon as Billy pulled on the yoke, raising the wagon onto the sidewalk.

"Would you accept some help getting up the hill?" Billy was elated by the offer.

"Yeah, sure.... ah," embarrassingly, he corrected himself, "I mean, yes."

"Good." He took the handle from Billy's hand. "You push." Billy was all smiles, and the warm feeling he had known when the dead policeman pushed his wagon again filled his mood. Cautiously, Billy asked, "Did you know the policeman who was killed?"

"Yes, I did. He was a fine officer. He lived on your street. Did you know him?"

"Yes." Billy had replied with his head down between his extended arms as he pushed on the back of the loaded wagon. He straightened and told the story of how he had come to know the dead policeman. This time the telling was easy. It was now a set of facts ..... no emotion, no feeling. It was strange, thought Billy. It was as though the experience belonged to another person. With Billy again pushing, they reached the crest of the steepest part of the hill.

The Policeman placed the wagon handle up against the gunny sacks, “Think you can make it from here?”

"I think so. Thank you. Much obliged." Billy had often heard Mr. Blair use the phrase, "much obliged" and he used it now, thinking it sounded grown up.

"You're welcome. Next time take a smaller load and you won't have such a problem." He placed his hands in the small of his back, bending backwards to ease the tightened muscles. It had been a hard pull. "Have a good time with your Dad."

"I will. Bye." Billy took hold of the handle, leaned forward with both arms extended backwards, his hands holding tight to the handle. He pulled hard. It was heavy. He pulled harder. Then with the help of a starting push from the friendly policeman, the wagon slowly began to roll. The officer watched as Billy's progress gradually increased. Satisfied that he could pull the load, the officer turned to walk back down the hill to his beat. "Nice kid," he thought, "but what a temper. Probably gets him into a lot of trouble."

Step by step, Billy worked his way up the ever-decreasing slope with the pulling becoming easier as he approached the crown of Lyon Avenue.

"Hurry up, Billy. Daddy is here" It was his sister Beth running-in his direction.

"Gee, you sure got a big load." She went to the rear of the wagon to help push. "How did you get this up the hill?"

"A policeman helped me." Billy chose to keep the details to himself, and Beth didn't think anything unusual about a policeman helping Billy. "Daddy brought us some candy. He has some for you." Billy was still not certain his Aunt Rae had caught him stealing the candy bar, and he chose to not mention he had had a candy bar or that Aunt Rae had bought it for him. Billy's hand hurt from the sharp edge of the wagon handle digging into his palm. He was tired, his muscles burned with fatigue, and he was emotionally drained.

Passing the hedge in front of the Baxter's house he straightened up, released his grip on the handle and switched hands. He looked across the Blair's front yard, beyond the cactus plant, to where his Dad sat on the front porch stoop holding Randolph in his lap. Happiness raced into Billy's tired body. He forgot about the sore hands and the burning muscles. He increased his stride, hurrying to close the distance separating him from a joyous reunion with his Dad, the one he loved.