Carmella Commands
punished her for that. He was still father of the family. By God, yes!
But this—this insult—the venom of her voice as she called him a “wop”—this new world venom that he did not understand—was ever there before an Italian child who had called a parent by that hated name?—he could not punish for that. To punish would admit his own defeat. Dimly he felt that the father should be bigger than the child in heart and mind, as well as in strength.
No punishment for the child. But punishment still came surely. Punishment came to those who were of the old régime.
The clock on the mantel struck twelve. Tommaso rose heavily, looked toward his bedroom, shook his head, and walked toward the victrola. Through the records he looked, until he finally found a song from Il Trovatore. He put it in the machine, and found a new needle for the arm. Heavily he wound the machine, and put the needle a third of the way into the record. The beginning of the song he did not like. Then he moved the regulator to “loud” and started the mechanism.
He sat in his Morris chair and smoked and listened, fiercely.
Presently Maria came to the door of their bedroom, off the sitting room.
“Turn off the machine, for God’s sake, and for the children’s,” she pleaded.
[130]
