The Fortunate Pilgrim by Mario Puzo Page B

past weeks he had lived with a feeling of rage, humiliation, and guilt. His image of himself had been shattered. He had actually struck his mother and shamed her before strangers. And all for the sake of people who had used him and then sent him away. A child sent to do errands, then brought to heel; an object of ridicule. In his mind he had become a villain, an angel fallen from his own heaven. Sometimes he could not believe he had acted in such a fashion and thought of it as an accident—that his mother had tripped and stumbled, that he had put his hand out to steady her and been clumsy. But behind this thought came a quick flush of shame. Now, not knowing he was seeking redemption, he grabbed Gino away from the Bull and felt, as if it were a physical touch, his watching mother’s eye upon him.
    Gino was crying, though not tears of pain or fear. Up to the last moment he had been sure he would escape. He had even dared to leap from the top of the railroad car to the hard gravel, and he had escaped injury. His tears were the tears of a little boy’s baffled rage and lost pride on being made small and helpless and trapped.
    Larry knew one of the Bulls, Charlie, but the other was a stranger. Larry had spent many a winter night in the shanty swapping stories with Charlie about the local girls, laughing at the bowlegged man’s conceit. But now he said coldly to both of them, “What the hell you guys doing to my kid brother?” He had meant to be conciliating; he knew it was a time for friendliness and charm. But the words came out in a rough challenge.
    The tall Bull, the stranger, said to Charlie Chaplin, “Who the hell is this guy?” and reached over to grab Gino. Larry pushed Gino behind him and said, “Go on home.” Gino didn’t move.
    Charlie Chaplin said to his partner, “He’s the dummy boy on the night shift.” Then, “Listen, Larry, this kid brother of yours stole ice all summer. One time he throws rocks at me and tells me go fuck myself. A kid like that. Your brother or not, I’m gonna make his ass black and blue. Now step aside, kid, or get hurt. And out of a job in the bargain. You work for the railroad, too, don’t forget. And
you are wrong, Jack.
”
    One of the watching laborers said in Italian, “They gave your brother a few pretty slaps already.”
    Larry stepped backward until he felt pavement instead of gravel. They were out of the yard. He said, “We’re off railroad property now. You guys got no jurisdiction.” Larry decided to reason; he didn’t want to lose his job. “But I’m surprised at you, Charlie. Since when you been a company man? Every kid on Tenth Avenue steals ice from the yards. Even your girl’s kid brother. What the hell, you’re not talking to a greenhorn. O.K., you hit my brother because he hit you with a rock. You’re even.” He saw out the corner of his eye, first the crowd, then Gino, dry-eyed and somber, his small boy’s face wearing a look of thirsty vengeance that was comical. Larry said affectionately to his half brother, “You go in this yard again and I’ll give you a beating. Now, come on.”
    It was well done. Everyone had saved face, he hadn’t been too tough and made enemies, and he hadn’t backed down. Larry was proud of his good judgment. But the tall, strange Bull spoiled everything. He said to Charlie Chaplin, “So you made me come all the way over here for nothing?” Charlie shrugged. The tall Bull reached out and gave Gino a backhanded slap in the face and said toughly, “Just let
me
see you in here.” Larry hit him so hard that the black visored cap went flying through the crowd. The circle widened, and everyone waited for the bloody-mouthed Bull to get up. Without his cap he looked much older, and less menacing in his almost complete baldness. The Bull got up and faced Larry.
    They stared at each other. The Bull took off his gun belt and gave it to Charlie along with his black jacket. He was long-chested in his tan shirt. He said