Awinding We Did Go

I

IT all began with the exhibition of auto trailers which, one fateful day, my parents and I attended in company with my father’s paesano and boon companion, Gianpaolo Maccalucci.

Looking back on it now, with the more trustworthy judgment which reflection brings, it is easy to see what at the time we failed to see — that is to say, how craftily, and with what artful cunning, the exhibition was designed to play upon the susceptibilities of innocent folks. In one corner, for example, of the great barnlike room, a bandstand had been erected — a bandstand festooned with garlands of artificial flowers and occupied by a Hawaiian string orchestra playing ‘Aloha Oe,’ ‘South Sea Island Magic,’‘Song of the Islands,’and the like, melodies which seemed to hold forth the promise of sylvan groves, the moaning surf at sunset, brooks and fields and the starry heavens. . . . And as if this, indeed, were not enough, great cardboard panels lined the walls, upon which had been painted, in tasty colors, scenes similar to those just mentioned — scenes whose counterpart, so ran the imagination, one could easily discover in a trailer.

As for the trailers themselves, these had been arranged in decorative positions all about the hall — sleek, shiny affairs in most part, with such impressive titles as ‘The Cross Country Clipper,’‘The Airflight Torpedo,’‘The Chromium Cloud.’ Surely nothing could have been more efficient than the inner arrangements, with their compact beds, tables, stoves, pantries, and so on, all fitted neatly together with knobs and sliding gadgets, like modernistic apartments in miniature. And not only that, but (if we may believe the catalogue) each of the more up-to-date trailers was constructed according to ‘the airplane principle known as monocoque, giving a lower centre gravity, a higher road clearance, and the absolute elimination of side sway, bobble, weaving, and tail wag’; the couplings possessed ‘zerk fittings for greasing’; the locks were ‘ pick and crow bar proof‘; and — to top it all off—each was equipped with a ‘jack-action-bogie-wheel.’

Yes: no stone had been left unturned (or rather, more appropriately, no blueprint had been left unexplored) to make these floating palaces the ultimate achievement in perambulatory delight. Except for one detail, they had all the comforts of home.

My mother, naturally, was from the very first firmly opposed to the idea of my father buying a trailer. What sensible reason, she demanded, could he advance for putting out the money, when we had only to sit in our own home to enjoy comforts and conveniences which not even the most elaborate trailer could boast of?

‘If that isn’t a woman for you!’ cried my father, with exasperated derision. ‘Can you move the house out to the country and look at the scenery? Can you take it to the mountains or the seashore? All you think of,’he added reproachfully, ‘is to sit home and save your money. What did we work so hard for, if not to enjoy our old age?’

Like my father, our paesano had also been utterly bewitched by the displays at the exhibition — for days, in fact, he had talked of little else; but it was not until one ill-fated afternoon some two weeks or so following our attendance of the exhibition that things came, so to speak, to a head. This day will long remain in our memories, for it was on this day that Gianpaolo, in a perfect frenzy of excitement, came bursting into our house with momentous news. He had run across a chance to pick up a second-hand trailer dirt cheap!

‘Joosta one hundred and feefty dollars cash!’ he shouted to my father. ‘Theenk, paesano! Joosta one hundred feefty dollars cash!’

‘You don’t tell me!’ said my father, his eyes gleaming with interest; but before he could continue —

’Ma chè!‘ grunted my mother. ‘ There must be something wrong with it, you can bet your life on that. You can’t tell me —’

‘But no, cara signora!‘ cried Gianpaolo, turning his big nose to her and blinking his solemnly furtive eyes aggrievedly. ‘Nothing wrong, nothing wrong . . .‘

It was, he went on to say, the opportunity of a lifetime — and it was only by a stroke of sheer luck that he had happened to run across it. The niece of his wife’s brother-in-law’s cousin, one Angelina Madotti, had just arrived in the city from the East Coast with her husband and eight children, having made the entire journey in a trailer which, since they now had no further use for it, and since the trip had eaten up all their ready cash, they were willing to dispose of for the paltry sum he had mentioned.

‘Well, then,’ said my mother, ‘why don’t you buy it, if it’s such a bargain ? ’

At this our paesano shifted his eyes; he fumbled with his hat; he stood first on one foot and then the other.

‘Well,’ he said hesitantly, ‘I’m a leetla beeta short, right now.’ (‘Right now!’ cried my mother afterwards. ‘And when, God save us, was he ever anything else?’) ‘I was theenking,’ said he (finding, it would seem, a sudden fascination in the design of the rug), ‘maybe eefa you could spare the money —’

‘Oh no!’ said my mother decisively, before he could get any farther. A hundred and fifty dollars? Oh no — we could not afford it — it was out of the question —

At this Gianpaolo’s features assumed an expression of wounded dignity; and, lapsing into Italian, ‘I only thought,’ said he, ‘to do you a little favor. . . . When I saw the magnificent conveyance,’ he continued, still speaking Italian, and with a furtive sidelong glance at my father, ‘ I thought to myself— But of course, if it’s out of the question, it’s out of the question,’ he said, breaking off abruptly. Clapping his battered felt hat back on his head, he made as though to leave.

‘Wait!’ cried my father, placing a restraining hand on Gianpaolo’s arm; and as Gianpaolo, his features still wearing the expression of wounded dignity, turned expectantly, ‘Don’t pay any attention to her,’said my father mollifyingly; ‘you know how she is when it comes to spending money.‘

‘Now, Luigi!’ commenced my mother warningly; but before she could continue, ‘Statte zitta! (Keep quiet!)’ he grunted. ‘It will do no harm to take a look at it, will it? Come,’he added to his friend, throwing a fraternal arm about Gianpaolo’s shoulders. ‘Let us be on our way.‘

‘Luigi!’ said my mother furiously. ‘If you come home dragging a trailer after you, I swear to you I ’ll —’

‘Quiet, quiet!’ he retorted with a complacent chuckle; and, planting a kiss on her startled mouth through his moustache, he followed Gianpaolo out of the house.

‘Quick, Robert!’ said my mother, turning to me imploringly. ‘Go with them — and in Heaven’s name see that he does n’t do anything rash!’

II

It took us only a few minutes, piloted by Gianpaolo in the Maccalucci Ford, to reach the house, a ramshackle frame structure standing behind a sagging picket fence the other side of the railroad tracks. Gianpaolo opened the gate, and we followed him across the weed-ridden front yard, up two creaking steps, and so into the house. He did not bother to knock; he simply threw open the screen, and bellowing ‘Angelina! Angelina!’ proceeded nimbly down the hall on his squat bandy legs.

Angelina appeared, in a doorway at the back which led, presumably, to the kitchen — a Junoesque, swarthvvisaged woman, with a great mass of coal-black hair, bright black eyes, and rosy cheeks.

‘Yes, Gianpaolo, what is it?’ she said, wiping her arms with her apron; then suddenly espying my father and me, where we still stood, in mannerly attitudes, just inside the front door, she turned a curious glance in our direction. Gianpaolo motioned to me and my father to come forward.

‘Oh, you want to see the trailer,’ she said, when Gianpaolo had introduced us and explained our mission. ‘It’s in the back yard. If you’ll follow me—’ She turned and started back through the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, ‘You must excuse me — I was just making some conserva.’

We did not at first see the trailer, for it was hidden from our gaze by an outjutting corner of the house. We followed Mrs. Madotti down the back stoop and around this corner.

‘Well, there it is,’ she said, gesturing perfunctorily toward a huge, boxlike affair that stood, like an old-fashioned outhouse, amidst a litter of tin cans and refuse in one corner of the back yard.

‘You see?’ chortled Gianpaolo gleefully in Italian. ‘What did I tell you? Is it not a beauty?’

My father gazed at the strangelooking contraption doubtfully.

‘Of course, eet needs a leetla paint,’ said Gianpaolo — lapsing, as was his wont when excited, into ‘ English.’ ‘ But that’sa nuttings! Joosta wait till you see her insides!’

Unlike the elaborate, up-to-date trailers we had seen at the exhibition — all of which had their doors at the side — this had a door at the rear. With Gianpaolo in the lead, we went up the steps and so into the interior. Mrs. Madotti remained outside, leaving entirely in Gianpaolo’s hands the task of guide — a task which he performed with gusto. ‘Looka the bed! And the stove! Ain’t she a jeem-dandy, by golly?’

To all of which, at first, my father lent a none too receptive ear. His mind, no doubt, was still filled with memories of the magnificent trailers we had seen at the exhibition, with their steel bodies, gleaming metal fixtures, and so on: he looked dubiously at the wooden walls, the rusted pipes of the sink, the frayed curtains on the windows, the sagging bed against the wall.

Oblivious, it would seem, of all this, Gianpaolo continued with his pæan of praise.

‘ Twenty-five dollars — maybe thirty — and she ’sa good as new! ’

My father looked about the trailer with growing approval. ‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘A little paint here and there — and maybe a new stove . . .‘

‘Don’t you think you’d better talk it over with Mamma first? ’ I suggested, remembering her parting admonition.

‘Quiet!’ he roared, fixing me with a scowling glance. ‘Since when,’ he shouted, his face growing blood-red at the mention of her name, ‘ do I have to ask her permission every time I want to blow my nose? That,’ he cried, ‘settles it!’

And, reaching for his checkbook, he started out of the trailer, calling for Mrs. Madotti.

For days after, my mother would not talk to my father: this time, she swore, she would teach him a lesson. My father, however, had long since become used to her tactics. Pretending that nothing had happened, he rose every morning with the sun and, assisted by Gianpaolo, set energetically about the task of cleaning the trailer. Gradually it became transformed: the dirty gray walls began to shine with the successive coats of bright red paint; the last crusts of rust had been removed from the bolts and pipes; the closets were spick-and-span; and even the bed had been hammered into a semblance of comfort.

But the great moment was when my father and Gianpaolo made a secretive trip downtown, to return with a shiny new oil-burning stove which, with a prodigious display of sundry groans, grunts, and wheezes, they fitted into the interior of the trailer, in the place formerly occupied by the rusty, greaseencrusted relic.

It was this stove which finally led to my mother’s capitulation. Thoroughly domestic as she was, she could not for long resist the temptation to see for herself how efficiently it worked; and so, though she had sworn to my father that she would never set foot inside the trailer, she finally allowed him to persuade her — ‘Just this once, mind you!’

Once he had succeeded in getting her inside, the rest proved less difficult than one might have expected. She looked with genuine interest at the various contrivances with which the interior was fitted.

‘You see?’ cried my father, pointing proudly at the pantry and the icebox. ‘What did I tell you? All the comforts of home! ’

My mother nodded her head; then, suddenly collecting herself, ‘ I still think it was a waste of money!’ she muttered, in order that he should realize, as usual, that he was not to have too easy a victory.

III

And now for the events which form the real substance of our tale. One bright summer’s day we set forth in the trailer in search of the ‘golden winding road’ whose praises had been sung so eloquently in the catalogues, and of which the displays at the exhibition had conjured up such tantalizing images.

We numbered ten all told — Mr. and Mrs. Maccalucci, their five children, my parents, and myself; and we were all in the most festive of spirits when we started out. For days we had pored over innumerable bright-colored prospectuses, and though there had been some dissension in the beginning we had finally agreed on a place, unknown to any of us, which bore the enchanting name of Camp Paradise Valley and which was some two hundred miles distant, high up in the mountains.

For Camp Paradise Valley, then, we were bound — and, as I say, in festive spirits; even my mother, despite the objections she had put up in the beginning (Who was to take care of the house while she was gone?), had finally been persuaded that a little vacation might be good for her sciatica. As for my father, he, of course, was in a perfect ecstasy of anticipation.

For the first few hours nothing untoward happened. We had made an early start — it was not yet eight o’clock when we left the city limits; by noon we were well on our way, traveling across peaceful farm lands. Since my father had borne the expense of supplying the trailer which made possible our expedition, Gianpaolo had insisted that we use the Maccalucci Ford for tow car, in order that, as he put it, everything should be ‘feeftyfeefty’ (and also, I suspect, to get in the good graces of my mother). It being impossible for all of us to ride in the trailer at once with any semblance of comfort, we had agreed to take turns for this privilege: Carlo, the oldest of the Maccalucci sons, was driving, having for company his two brothers and Lena, the older of his two sisters. The rest of us — that is to say, Mr. and Mrs. Maccalucci, their youngest child, Mary (a long-legged girl of thirteen), my parents, and myself — were seated in the trailer, in various attitudes of repose, surveying, through the windows, the peaceful landscape outside.

Every so often, my father, who had placed himself next the largest window, would call our attention delightedly to various details of the pastoral scene outside; beside him, Gianpaolo (who had taken, ever since we started, authoritative charge of the expedition, though he was no more familiar with the country through which we were passing than any of us) would nod proudly, in a manner that suggested he was himself responsible for the multiple charms of the countryside. Meanwhile, my mother and Mrs. Maccalucci were seated next to each other on the bed, chatting amiably.

We had just left fiat country and, after ascending a winding road which led over a small hill, were starting on the down grade when suddenly, as the Ford attempted to negotiate a turn, there was a screeching and grinding of brakes. We in the trailer had only just time to hear this screeching and grinding — then the trailer, thrown off balance by the sudden stop, whirled sidewise, swinging and tottering. My mother and Mrs. Maccalucci uttered terror-stricken screams; my father and Gianpaolo, clutching at the swaying walls of the cabin for support, jumped to their feet, bellowing excitedly; little Mary was flung head foremost against the pantry door. The trailer, meanwhile, spun half round; there was a mighty snap as the coupling which fastened it to the Ford broke loose; then it started swiftly downhill, swaying wildly from side to side as it went.

Through the windows, as it sped, we could see the Ford, with the faces of the Maccaluccis staring at us in openmouthed amazement. Inside the trailer, all was pandemonium: the shrill screams of the women mingled with the excited bellows of the men; then boom! — we came to a sudden, bone-jolting stop as the trailer went off the road and into a ditch. The force of the impact sent all of us sprawling; the pantry door flung open and dishes shattered on to the floor; the stove (that wonderful bright new oil-burning stove!) was wrenched loose from its fastenings.

And then — as suddenly as it had happened — it was over.

Dazed, bruised, trembling from shock and fright, we commenced to pick ourselves up, staring at each other with that bewildered idiocy familiar to victims of sudden accidents. Almost at the same moment those from the Ford, shouting at the top of their voices, came running up the steps and into the trailer, stumbling over each other in their anxiety to reach us. This started the pandemonium all over again. Everyone began talking at once.

The Ford, it seemed, had almost run head-on into a large boulder that had slipped down the hillside and on to the road. It was to avoid hitting this that Carlo had stopped suddenly, with the results already described.

‘Boy, it’s lucky we weren’t all killed!’ he cried excitedly. ‘Another foot, and —‘

‘Donkey!’ shouted Gianpaolo in Italian, nearly tearing his son’s head off with a smashing cuff alongside the ear. ‘ Why did n’t you watch what you were doing?’

My mother, meanwhile, was still weeping and wailing hysterically; we led her out of the trailer and on to safe ground.

‘I’ll not go another foot in it! Not one foot!’ she wailed. ‘Povera me! I knew we should never have left home!’

‘ Come, come,’ said Mrs. Maccalucci, putting an arm around her soothingly. ‘Everything’s all right now. Think how much worse it could have been! ’

As soon as the excitement had died down a little, we examined the extent of the damage. Aside from the broken coupling and a few cracked boards, the trailer itself, fortunately, was uninjured. When it came to the interior, however, that was another story. There was hardly a dish, cup, or glass left whole; canned goods and pans were scattered everywhere.

‘Che brutta fortuna! (What a misfortune!) ’ mourned my father, examining the broken coupling dolorously.

‘ Eet ’sa nuttings, paesano,’ said Gianpaolo reassuringly. ‘Soonsa we get to a garage, we’ll feex him joosta likea new! ’

Now that it was all over, he again resumed authoritative command. He shouted to his sons to drive the Ford over and get out the tow rope. In a few minutes we had pulled the trailer out of the ditch and back on to the road. The boulder that had caused all the damage we rolled safely out of the way, the broken crockery we threw into the ditch. A few minutes more and we had reattached the stove to its original position. There remained only the task of persuading my mother to get back into the trailer, before proceeding.

‘Eet’s alla righta now, cara signora!’ said Gianpaolo. ‘Don’ta be afraid!’

‘Sure, sure — it’s all right now!’ the rest of us chimed in. The trailer had been bound with rope and wire to the Ford; we had only a few miles to go until we could reach a garage and have the coupling repaired. Such an accident could not happen again in a thousand years!

Still she refused to enter: she would, she vowed, walk first. It was all my father’s fault! If he had not bought the trailer in the first place —

At this my father, losing all patience, turned upon her in exasperation.

‘ Quiet, woman! ’ he roared. ‘ Do you want us to spend the rest of the trip here on this road? Now then!’ he shouted. ‘In with you! Not one more word! ’

And, picking her up bodily, he set her inside the trailer.

‘Ah, povera me!’ she wailed. ‘I shall never see my home again — never! I feel it in my bones!’

‘Pay no attention to her,’ said my father; and, giving the signal to Carlo, he commanded that we proceed on our way.

IV

The nearest town, according to the maps, was six miles off. Moving with extreme caution to prevent the trailer from pulling loose again, we headed in this direction; one hour later we limped into the outskirts, looking for a garage. By now half the afternoon was gone, and our nerves were frayed, our spirits completely dampened. Only Gianpaolo retained a confident demeanor.

‘Don’ta worry!’ he kept saying to my mother. ‘ We ’ll get heem feexed joosta likea new!’

The town was little more than a single street, lined with a few houses, stores, and a fruit cannery. Down the middle of this dusty thoroughfare, followed by the gazes of the natives, we crawled, keeping anxious eyes on the lookout for a garage. At last we saw one — a ramshackle frame building resembling an old-fashioned blacksmith shop.

Carlo piloted the Ford to the curb, and we parked in front of the garage. Accompanied by my father, Gianpaolo went in search of a mechanic, returning after a few minutes with a lanky, stoop-shouldered individual dressed in a greasy mechanic’s uniform. We all gathered anxiously around while he examined the broken coupling.

‘Well, what you think?’ said Gianpaolo.

The mechanic did not answer for a moment, staring gloomily at the broken coupling; then, rubbing his chin reflectively, ‘I donno,’ he said. ‘That’s a pretty bad break you got there. Donno’s how’s I could fix it. Yep,’ said he, shaking his head pessimistically, ‘ donno’s how I could fix that blamed thing a-tall.’

‘Not fix it!’ we cried, staring at him in horror.

‘I got my doubts,’ he said. ‘She’s snapped clean through the middle. Take a new piece there,’ he said, pointing, ‘and a new piece there,’ pointing again. ‘Have to sodder that piece,’ again pointing, ‘then bolt them two pieces together.’ He shook his head once more. ‘Pretty tough job. Donno’s how I could fix it a-tall.’

‘You’ve got to fix it!’ we cried with one voice. ‘What’ll we do?’

His myopic eye roved over our anxious faces.

‘Best thing I’d say is, you’d better send for a new coupling. That one’s about shot to hell. Yes sirree!’ he said, chuckling mirthlessly. ‘That blamed thing’s just about shot to hell! ’

We looked at each other in dismay; then we all began chattering at once. He had to fix it! It might take days before a new coupling arrived: surely it was not broken that bad!

He ceased chuckling and looked at the broken coupling gloomily again.

‘Well, I donno,’ he said, shaking his head doubtfully. ‘Be a pretty blamed hard job, but if you want me to try it —’

We got the trailer into the interior of the garage. For upwards of an hour, while the mechanic, on a worktable at the back of the shop, pounded at the broken coupling (to the accompaniment of judicious advice from Gianpaolo and my father), we waited; at last he pronounced it finished. Taking new heart, we gathered around while he attached the contrivance in its proper place. Carlo climbed in the driver’s seat; the rest of us stood anxiously by and watched while he steered the Ford back on to the street, holding our breath lest the coupling should snap again. And wonder of wonders! It held!

We had hoped to make the Camp by nightfall of the first day, but owing to the delay caused by the accident we had traveled less than halfway as the sun commenced to set. Rather than proceed along unfamiliar roads in darkness, we decided to camp for the night at the foot of a mountain, covered with wild flowers, through which a small stream bubbled merrily. We pulled the trailer off the road and parked it near the stream.

‘Ahhh!’ sighed my father, inhaling and exhaling vigorously. ‘ Che bell’ aria fresca! (What lovely fresh air!)’

Good cheer had once more returned to our little party, and we set merrily about getting supper ready. Gianpaolo and my father got out the great fivegallon, wicker-encircled jug of wine with which they had fortified themselves before leaving; my mother and Mrs. Maccalucci, assisted by the daughters, set the table with what was left of the dishes.

The pantry, it goes without saying, had been well stocked before we started out. There was a whole Italian ham, of the kind to be sliced wafer-thin and sprinkled with black pepper before serving; a variety of cheeses; canned goods of every description; pickled hot peppers; several dozen eggs, a slab of bacon, coffee, a half-dozen loaves of sour Italian bread, a twenty-five-pound sack of potatoes, and so forth, and so forth.

We had not eaten since noon, and the strenuous journey, combined with the brisk country air, had given us enormous appetites. Frank, the youngest of the sons, went to the stream with a big bucket for fresh water to make the coffee; my mother got out the largest of the frying pans to fry the potatoes. Pouring oil into the pan, she set it on the stove and struck a match to one of the burners. It was then that the second of the major calamities attending our expedition was discovered. The stove would not light!

‘ Sangue de la Madonna!’ cried my father. ‘Now what?’

We all gathered around while, with wrinkled brow, he examined the stove. It took only a moment to discover what the matter was: in the force of its collision with the wall, when it had broken loose from its moorings, the feed line connecting the burners with the fuel oil had been broken — a catastrophe we had not observed at the time.

’Che brutta fortuna! ’ mourned my father, while the rest of us clucked our tongues and shook our heads in dismay.

‘Well, we’ll just have to eat a cold supper, and that’s all there’s to it!’ said my mother, looking at my father with a glance of commingled triumph and reproach.

‘That’s all you know about it!’ retorted my father, squaring his shoulders resolutely. What was the matter, he demanded, with building a campfire and cooking outside?

‘A campfire!’cried my mother. ‘Me cook on a campfire? Are you out of your head?’

‘Sure, sure!’ said Gianpaolo, coming at once to the support of my father. It would take only a minute to make a stove; he himself knew just exactly how to do it — a few rocks, the grill from the defunct stove, and she would see! And without waiting for further protest on her part he commanded his sons to gather firewood.

In a few minutes they had collected a great heap of dried twigs and branches from the surrounding country; Gianpaolo meanwhile, assisted by my father, gathered together several boulders. These he placed carefully side by side in the form of an open horseshoe. Pouring some of the coal oil from the stove on the wood, he struck a match to it — and lo and behold, there was a stove! We all gathered around delightedly as the flames leaped and crackled — all, that is, except my mother, who maintained throughout an attitude of profound cynicism.

Despite her grumbling complaints, however, she would not permit anyone but herself to do the cooking. Rolling up her sleeves, she commanded us to bring the food from the trailer, and set with pursed lips about her task. It was not an easy one. The makeshift stove was only a couple of feet above the ground, and she had to bend low above the crackling flames in order to reach the pans. In addition, the lights of the trailer and the open fire had attracted a swarm of moths and insects of all varieties, which came out of the surrounding darkness in droves to pester us. While my mother sweated and grumbled and stirred the food, the rest of us, using rolled newspapers for weapons, tried to keep the insects from dropping into the open pans — without, I am afraid, as complete a success as we could have wished for.

There have been, I suspect, more appetizing meals than that which we now enjoyed: the potatoes were partly raw, partly burned; the vegetables smelled, and tasted, of smoke tinged with the odor of coal oil; the coffee was weak as dishwater. Still and all, it was food, and food in plenitude — which, in our present state, was what we most desired. Using slices of the ham and great chunks of cheese and bread to temper, as it were, the flavor of the rest, we munched greedily; and when we had finished, the last dish had been licked clean.

The problem of where all of us were to sleep we had settled before leaving. The one bed was to be occupied by my mother, Mrs. Maccalucci, and little Mary. My father and Gianpaolo were to sleep on one mattress on the floor, the oldest daughter on another. Carlo and I were to occupy a third mattress; the other two sons were to sleep in the car.

By the time we were ready to retire, those of us in the trailer resembled so many sardines. Not an inch of space on the floor was left uncovered; the mattresses had had to be jammed right up against each other; the outjutting sink, icebox, shelves, and stove necessitated bending the ends back in such a way that it was impossible to lie fully outstretched. We were all too tired to care. We did the best we could, interlocking legs and arms where necessary, and even pillowing our heads against our neighbors’ backs; and so at last, worn out from the day’s journey, with our bones aching and our stomachs growling plaintively, we sank into the deep and dreamless slumber of the completely weary.

v

Why should it have rained in the middle of that night? There was not the slightest hint of it in the heavens when we retired. Yet sometime toward two o’clock in the morning we were awakened by the sound of rain on the roof — not just a few drops, but whole torrents of it, shattering down on to the roof with a savage force that seemed to hold something of the diabolic in it.

Once awakened, we found sleep, for the rest of that miserable night, wellnigh impossible; we tried to plug the cracks, but the rain seeped through; furthermore, we were all suffering as a result of that horrible supper.

Sometime during the middle of the night two of the tires of the Ford developed leaks in their inner tubes, leaks which let all the air out of them. The tires had seemed all right when we started out — Gianpaolo himself, by his own word, had looked them over carefully. Yet when we arose in the cold, damp gloom of the early morning, and prepared to take up the second lap of our journey, there they were — two flat tires.

Well, we changed the tires, and after a cold breakfast of bread and cheese, without even hot coffee to bolster our frayed nerves, we started out again. How different, now, was the complexion of our journey! When we left home all had been gay: innocents that we were, it had seemed that we were leaving far behind the cares of a mundane and prosaic world; that somewhere off in the mountains, in that green valley of the enchanting name, we should find joys hitherto denied us. Already the vision was fading; already a kind of grimness, of irritable desperation, was beginning to color our journey. With each mile we traversed, the Camp seemed to be getting farther away. Then, too, we had commenced to squabble among ourselves. The incident of the flat tires had started a breach between my father and Gianpaolo (‘Donkey! Why did n’t you make sure they were in good shape before we started?’) which had grown steadily wider; my mother had chosen to resent Mrs. Maccalucci’s resentment of my father’s quarrel with her husband; once or twice I saw Carlo, the oldest of the Maccalucci boys, eyeing me malevolently.

Still we did not turn back. For Camp Paradise Valley we had started; and to Camp Paradise Valley we would go. Presently we came to a sign at the foot of a towering mountain just beyond which (according to the maps) lay our goal. The sign bore the ominous inscription: ‘Detour to Paradise Valley.’

This was really too much. We stared at the sign, then at each other.

‘ Corpo di Bacco!’ swore my father, scowling at the sign malevolently. ’Che cosa é? (What thing is this?) ’

We got out of the trailer and surveyed the sign dismally, then the road which we should be forced to take if we wished to go farther. It was a narrow, little-used road, leading right up over the mountain, toward what precarious heights and curves none could say. What to do? My mother, for one, was all for turning back.

‘Go back?’ echoed Gianpaolo, his brows wrinkling angrily. After we had come all this way? Was she crazy?

At this my father scowled at Gianpaolo. Quiet! he roared. How dared he talk that way to my mother?

Gianpaolo’s face flooded beet-red. Quiet? Quiet? And who was to tell him to keep quiet? Ever since they had started out my father had behaved as though he were the Lord of all creation! Who did he think he was, anyway ?

So! said my father. That’s the way it was, was it? After he had gone to all the expense of buying that broken-down trailer just to help out Gianpaolo’s poverty-stricken relatives, that was the thanks he got! He narrowed his eyes and clenched one huge fist. For two cents —

‘Luigi!’ cried my mother, grabbing my father by the arm. Was he out of his mind? To fight here on the road with Gianpaolo — and for what? We were all tired and nervous, that was the matter — now enough of this foolishness!

‘That’s right, that’s right!’ the rest of us chimed in. No one had meant to hurt anyone else’s feelings; in the name of Heaven, let’s not make things any worse by fighting among ourselves. . . .

And so on and so forth. At last we patched it up between them and got them to shake hands. With this the rest of us, remembering the rudeness with which we had been behaving toward one another all day, looked at each other shamefacedly; Mrs. Maccalucci, kissing my mother tearfully, told her she was sorry for the way she had been acting; even Carlo, as though seized by a guilty conscience, held a match for my cigarette.

But though we had managed to prevent, by the narrowest of margins, the outbreak of civil warfare, we had not yet settled the problem of what we should do about the detour.

It might be best, after all, if we turned back, said Gianpaolo, bowing gallantly to my mother. If the cara signora was really nervous at the thought of attempting the climb —

Ah, but no! said my mother graciously, paying him back in kind. After we had come all this way? No, she wrnuld not be the one to spoil everything; if the rest of us were of a mind to make the attempt, she could not but accede to the general desire. . . .

‘There’s only one thing to do,’ broke in my father. ‘We’ll flip a coin.‘

He took out a silver dollar.

‘Heads we proceed, tails we turn back. Agreed?‘

We nodded our heads, and he flipped the coin. High in the air it went, describing a gleaming half circle, then, with a merry little tinkle as it glanced off a rock, fell into the dust of the road. We ran to it excitedly.

It had fallen — need I say? — head uppermost.

VI

For the next half hour the Ford puffed valiantly, and, though the trailer creaked and groaned, it nevertheless stuck to its proper place in the ever-narrowing road. On our right, as we climbed, was the mountain; to our left we could see the sheer drop to the valley below. My mother had long since refused to look out the windows; she sat with white face and tightly screwed eyes, her lips working in an inaudible prayer. No one spoke; we hardly dared to breathe. And still we climbed — up, up, and still upward, around and around, then up again, until it seemed that the sky alone could be our final goal. At last we were at the top. Breathing prayers of relief, we stopped for a moment. Off in the distance was a green, tree-filled valley, — Paradise Valley, no less, — which to our anxious eyes seemed as beautiful as the most enchanting of mirages. We looked at it wonderingly, almost not daring to believe that it was really there. Eagerly we got back into the cars and started the descent.

The road was narrow and deeprutted, and the weight of the trailer was such that the Ford had difficulty negotiating the curves. With bated breath, not daring to look at the dizzy drop on our left, we clung to our seats, while the Ford, with steaming radiator and smoking brakes, crawled along, hugging the side of the mountain. And then, all at once, it happened.

We were just rounding a particularly steep and narrow curve when the Ford, with a frantic tooting of its horn, stopped short. Those of us in the trailer, remembering only too well what had happened the other time Carlo had applied the brakes suddenly, jumped to our feet in terror and looked out the w indows. Directly below the Ford was another car, headed in our direction, also with trailer attached. A collision had been averted by only a few feet.

Swearing prodigiously, my father and Gianpaolo got out of the trailer.

‘Back up! Back up!’ shouted Gianpaolo to the other driver — a big, redfaced man with a drooping moustache.

‘Like hell I will!’ yelled this individual. ‘ You back up! ’

At this moment a woman’s head was poked out the window of the other trailer.

‘Henry! What’s the matter?’

‘There’s some blamed foreigners blocking the road! Want me to back up.’

‘Back up?’ she echoed, glaring in our direction. ‘Well, don’t you do it, do you hear? Make them back up!’

‘That’s what I’m gonna do,’ said he.

‘Ees thata so!‘ cried Gianpaolo, advancing toward the other driver, with my father close at his heels. ‘Ees thata so!’

‘You’re dern tootin’,’ said the other driver. ‘Don’t you know anything about road laws? On a hill, the car coming down’s supposed to back up. I ain’t gonna budge.’

By now the rest of us had got out of the trailer. While Gianpaolo, supported by my father, argued heatedly with the driver of the other car, we gathered around. Carlo was still waiting in the Ford; finally he set his brake and also got out. This brought the woman out of the other trailer, followed by two small grimy urchins, who stared at us contemptuously while their father argued with Gianpaolo.

‘There ain’t no use in you arguin’,’said the former. ‘I know my rights, and I’ll be damned if I’ll move an inch. Now get that blamed thing out of the way so I can get past you! ’

‘For the lasta time,’said Gianpaolo, waving his fists before the other’s nose, ’I’ma telling you to move. And be quick about it!’

‘And for the last time, you little runt, I’m tollin’ you to get out of the way, if you know what’s good for you! ’

At this Gianpaolo looked as though he would be seized with apoplexy. Swearing mightily in Italian, he fell upon the door of the car and jerked it open, making a wild grab for the driver.

‘Gianpaolo!’ screamed Mrs. Maccalucci, running to stop him. The other man’s wife, also screaming, ran forward; the rest of us tried to pull Gianpaolo off the other driver, who, flailing with arms and fists, was doing his best to defend himself.

At that moment we heard a terrible grating sound from the direction of the abandoned Ford. We jerked our heads around. The Ford was moving!

‘Look out!’ someone screamed.

What happened next occurred so swiftly it seemed to occupy less time than it takes to tell it. While we stood, paralyzed with that inertia which seizes people in the face of sudden catastrophe, the Ford, with its brakes slipped free and the weight of the trailer behind propelling it forward, headed straight for us down the steep road. We scattered like rabbits to safety against the mountain side; the Ford, screeching horribly, rushed headlong toward the edge of the precipice. Still we could not believe it was really happening. It would surely stop in time. But it did not stop: with a last terrible screech that seemed to hold within it something of the mournful, as of a final farewell, it hurtled over the side. The trailer, tottering precariously, seemed to hesitate on the edge for a moment — then it too wTas gone.

We stared at the spot whence it had vanished, stricken numb by the terrible sound of the cars bumping and crashing down into the depths; then with one movement we rushed to the edge and looked down.

The Ford, rolling over and over, was still dropping; the trailer lay against an outjutting mound of stones, crushed to splinters. . . .

So ended our pilgrimage in search of Paradise Valley — the valley which, alas, we never reached after all. That we were not meant to reach this valley from the beginning it is now plain to see; and though each of us has aged at least ten years we are grateful for one blessing — that none of us was in the trailer when it went over. The tale of how we were taken to the nearest town by the other driver, who, at first our enemy, became, after the catastrophe, our savior; and of how, worn and exhausted with shock and fright, we returned to the city by train, is in itself a story. For the present, however, this story is ended — ended, that is, except for the one question which has haunted us ever since: the question whether or not something, we know not what, was intent on making sure that we should not find that which we had set out for.

My mother alone is unharried by such conjectures: to her the reasons for all that occurred can be summed up in one simple sentence: If my father had not bought the trailer in the first place, it would never have happened!

And, after all, this may be as good an explanation as any. . . .