Louis Roney: Mr. Natale's Christmas

In the palm-edged driveway, Mr. Natale greeted the pale lad who stood there, “Well, sir, what can I do for you?”

“Can I fish in your lake?” asked the boy.

“I don’t see why not — got any tackle?”

“A pole across the street,” said the lad.

“I haven’t seen you around before.”

“No sir. I was in the hospital.”

“You all right now?”

“I’m OK. We’re going back home up north tomorrow.”

“What was wrong?”

“A big long name I can’t say. I got blood transfusions. I’m OK now.”

“Good,” said Mr. Natale.

The old man and the boy walked down to the lake.

“Sit on the end of the dock. Dig some worms here on the shore. There are big bass in there, nice bream too,” Mr. Natale said.

“My dad told me your name is Mr. Natale — you’re a great singer,” said the boy.

“Was, son — was — a long time before you were born.”

“You don’t sing anymore, Mr. Natale?”

“No.”

"Why not?”

“I couldn’t do it anymore the way I wanted it to be.”

“Well, why not?”

“Guess I just got old, that's all.”

“You could still sing great if you really wanted to.”

“You don’t honestly believe that, do you?”

“Yes, I do. I know it.”

“Well, we’ll see … Have a good time … and catch fish,” Mr. Natale replied.

In the bank, Mr. Natale said, “Morning, Dottie,” to the teller.

He laid a check on the counter, and said, “I’d like to cash this…”

Suddenly, Giuseppe Natale’s mouth opened wide and began to sing. The words,“Che gelida manina....” came out as clear and strong as they had when he sang “La Bohème” in the great opera houses of Europe.

A ringing high C filled the air.

People stood transfixed, then applauded loudly.

“That was something,” the teller said.

“Yes. Wasn’t it!” said Mr. Natale.

Later at the supermarket, Mr. Natale filled his cart. The cashier gave him a smile.

“Mr. Natale, will it be cash or check?”

He said, “I’ll pay...”

Then Giuseppe Natale’s mouth began to sing “Celeste Aida.”

The people in the cashiers’ lines stared open-mouthed as he ended on a resounding high B-flat, the way he used to do it in Rome and Paris.

“Wow, Mr. Natale, I never heard anything like that!” said the dark-eyed young cashier clapping her hands along with all the other people in the store.

“No, Rosie, I guess you didn’t … Say, there’s no price on this olive oil.”

At the service station, Mr. Natale filled his gas tank.

“Mr. Natale, want me to check the oil?” asked Frank.

“That would be very…” And Natale’s mouth launched into “La donna è mobile” from “Rigoletto.” He held the high B at the end as long as he had ever had in Milano.

Cars stopped — people waved.

Giuseppe Natale bowed low.

At home, the little boy came up from the lake.

“Well I don’t see any fish, my friend,” Natale said.

“I caught some, but I threw ’em back,” said the little boy with a grin spread across his thin face.

“I didn’t want to kill a fish,” he said to Mr. Natale. “I just hadn’t ever caught one before.”

Mr. Natale said, “I sure wish you were going to stick around. We’d fish a lot.”

“Oh! I wish so too, Mr. Natale.”

The next day, Christmas, the boy and his family drove away.

Christmases came. Christmases went.

But Mr. Natale’s mouth never sang any more songs.