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My Father’s God John Fante Fiction (1975) Upon the death of old Father Ambrose, the Bishop of Denver assigned a new priest to St. Catherine’s parish. He was Father Bruno Ramponi, a young Dominican from Boston. Father Ramponi’s picture appeared on the front page of the Boulder Herald. Actually there were two pictures—one of a swarthy, shortnecked prelate bulging inside a black suit and reversed collar, the other an action shot of Father Ramponi in football gear leaping with outstretched hands for a forward pass. Our new pastor was famous. He had been a football star, an AllAmerican halfback from Boston College. My father studied the pictures at the supper table. ‘‘A Sicilian,’’ he decided. ‘‘Look how black he is.’’ ‘‘How can he be a Sicilian?’’ my mother asked. ‘‘The paper says he was born in Boston.’’ ‘‘I don’t care where he was born. I know a Sicilian when I see one.’’ His brows quivered like caterpillars as he studied the face of Father Ramponi. ‘‘I don’t want any trouble with this priest,’’ he brooded. It was an ominous reminder of the many futile years Father Ambrose had tried to bring my father back to the church. ‘‘The glorious return to divine grace,’’ Father Ambrose had called it. ‘‘The prodigal son falling into the arms of his heavenly father.’’ On the job or in the street, at band concerts and in the pool hall, the old pastor constantly swooped down on my father with these pious objurations Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins. 11 12 my father’s god which only served to drive him deeper among the heathens, so that the priest’s death brought a gasp of relief. But in Father Ramponi he sensed a renewal of the tedious struggle for his soul, for it was only a question of time before the new priest discovered that my father never attended Mass. Not that my mother and we four kids didn’t make up for his absences. He insisted that it had to be that way, and every Sunday, through rain, sleet and snow he watched us trek off to St. Catherine’s ten blocks away, his conscience vicariously soothed, his own cop-out veiled in righteous paternalism. The day after the announcement of Father Ramponi’s appointment, St. Catherine ’s School droned like an agitated beehive with rumors about our new priest. Gathered in clusters along the halls, the nuns whispered breathlessly. On the playground the boys set aside the usual touchball game to crowd into the lavatory and relate wild reports. The older boys did all the talking, cigarettes dangling from their lips, while second graders like myself listened with bulging eyes. It was said that Father Ramponi was so powerful that he could bring down a bull with one punch, that he was structured like a gorilla, and that his nose had been kicked in on an historic Saturday afternoon when he had torn apart the Notre Dame line. We younger kids stiffened in fear and awe. After the gentle Father Ambrose, the thought of being hauled before Father Ramponi for discipline was too ghastly to contemplate. When the first bell rang we rushed to our classrooms , dreading the sudden, unexpected appearance of Father Ramponi in the halls. At 11:30, in the midst of arithmetic, the classroom door opened and our principal , Sister Mary Justinus, entered. Her cheeks shone like apples. Her eyes glittered with excitement. ‘‘The class will please rise,’’ she announced. We got to our feet and caught sight of him in the hall. This was it. The awesome Father Ramponi was about to make his debut before the second-grade class. ‘‘Children,’’ Sister Justinus fluttered. ‘‘I want you to say ‘Good morning,’ to your new pastor, Father Bruno Ramponi.’’ She raised her hands like a symphony conductor and brought them down briskly as we chanted, ‘‘Good morning, Father,’’ and the priest stepped into the room. He moved forward to stand before us with massive hands clasped at his waist, a grin kneading his broken face. All the rumors about him were true—a bull of a man with dark skin and wide, crushed nostrils out of which black hairs flared. His jaw was as square as a brickbat , his short neck like a creosoted telephone pole. From out of his coat sleeves small bouquets of black hair burst over his wrists. ‘‘Please be seated,’’ he smiled. The moment he uttered those three words the myth of...

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