Alligator Bayou (10 page)

“It’s never been the Negroes who hate us,” says Rosario.

“Never?” Cirone leans forward. It’s the first word he’s said so far.

Rosario nods. “We got on fine with them in New Orleans.”

“But that made the whites hate us more,” says Giuseppe. “They were afraid the Negroes would get fed up with the terrible conditions on the plantations and strike or quit, because that’s what Sicilians do. They passed laws against commingling—that’s what they called it. They frightened the Negroes from being our friends.”

“But it’s different here,” says Francesco.

I look at Cirone. Fraternizing with the Negroes. That’s what the boys said; that’s why they came after us. Cirone’s face is blank as he looks back at me.

“Calo’s chin,” says Giuseppe. “What are we going to do about that?”

“This will cool down,” says Carlo. “We don’t want trouble. That just plays into their hands. That just convinces them they’re right about us.”

“I agree,” says Rosario.

Francesco sighs. “I don’t know.”

Giuseppe doesn’t speak.

“We’re in the middle of a good season,” says Carlo, his voice very soft. “Independence Day is in just two days. Business, Francesco.”

Francesco nods. “And then there’s the big ball next week.”

“Right,” says Carlo. “Right. The town needs us. We can make a lot of money. We’re just six little people—six. They can’t really see us as a threat. This will pass. If we let it. We’re strong inside.” He’s almost whispering now. “We can let this pass.”

Francesco’s eyes wander.

“Like you said.” Rosario turns to Francesco, speaking as quietly as Carlo did. “We’ve got friends now. Imagine the good times ahead.”

Francesco slaps a hand on the table. I flinch at the sudden loudness. “We’re businessmen. There’s money to be made. We can’t overreact.” He points at me. “And you, Calogero, keep your eyes open. Don’t let those boys catch you again.” He looks at Giuseppe. “You hear me? This is how we’ll do it. Don’t make trouble.”

“I won’t,” says Giuseppe. “But if it comes, I won’t hide. Never again. I can’t.”

Francesco nods. “Fair enough.”

We eat. Then I spend the evening reading to Cirone by the waning summer light. The newspapers say we’re uncivilized, we’re like animals. We carry stiletto knives and use them on anyone. I want to rip these pages to shreds. Why does Carlo save them?

Then I read about Dago Joe. Two years ago he was on his way to Shelby Depot to stand trial for the murder of a railroad agent in Memphis when a crowd hanged him. There was no evidence against him other than his low birth—that’s what the newspaper said: “low.” His father was Sicilian. Like me. His mother was Negro. Like Patricia.

I fold the newspapers back into the blue paper and set them on top of Carlo’s trunk. Cirone and I wash our feet and get into bed. “Cirone,” I whisper. “You going to start having nightmares again?”

“I never stopped,” he whispers back.

seventeen

G
ranni and Docili are harnessed side by side to the front of the wagon. Giuseppe’s on the driver’s bench.

“Get in.” Francesco jerks his chin toward the wagon bed. “Today is the best selling day for watermelons all season. Go up and down every town road.”

“I’ve got to go to the post office.” I picked up the owl painting from Frank Raymond this morning. He packaged it for me. “I have to mail a present to Rocco. For his birthday.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to go to the post office after you sell all the melons.”

“All?” The wagon is big. “What if people don’t want watermelons?”

“Tomorrow is the Fourth of July. They want watermelons.”

Cirone and I climb into the back of the wagon.

“And, Calogero, when you pass men, remind them I’ll have homemade
limoncello
in pint jars at the grocery today.”

“Homemade
limoncello
. I’ll remind them.”

“And don’t say anything about alcohol directly to the ladies, but you two can talk between you in front of ladies about the
limoncello
. To remind them, too.”

We drive out to the field where Joe Evans is working. Patricia’s uncles, Bill and Paul, are there, too. Francesco said he’s going to use them regular on the fields now. I smile at them, hesitant at first. But they smile back big.

The three of them have already picked the melons and stacked them into a giant pile. It takes us more than half an hour to load the wagon, there are so many. I count as we go, but I lose track. Over two hundred. We’ll make a fortune.

Cirone and I climb onto the driver’s bench on either side of Giuseppe. We start at the northeast corner of town, stopping on every block and selling to every household. Francesco is right: the whole town wants melons. The trouble is, there aren’t two hundred families in Tallulah. So how are we going to sell them all? I shout at the top of my lungs: “Watermelons! Big, ripe, juicy melons!”

The sun beats. I’m sweating so hard, when I carry a melon to a doorstep, I have to hug it to my chest or it’ll slip through my wet hands. We reach the western edge of town, go south a block, then head back across town on East Askew.

“Hey,” calls a boy. He’s with two others, smaller than him. They’ve been following us for the past block.

“Want a melon?” asks Cirone.

“How much?”

“Fifteen cents.”

“Ain’t got fifteen cents,” says the boy.

Cirone looks at me. I nod. “How much you got?”

“Ain’t got no money.”

“Aw, get out of here,” says Cirone. “Go away.”

We sell melons to that block and move on to the next. The boys follow.

There are houses on both sides of the street now, so both Cirone and I have to deliver them. It’s slow going. I hand a melon to a woman and take her fifteen cents when “Bang!” I run back to the wagon.

“Bang, bang, bang!” It’s Giuseppe, shooting his finger like a gun at the back of the boys. They’re running like mad, but they’ve got one of the biggest watermelons, and they’re so little, they have to hold it among them, all three together. I’d laugh, except Giuseppe is shouting now in Sicilian, saying things about where thieves come from and where they ought to go. “Bang!” he shouts, his eyes popping.

And the littlest kid stumbles. The watermelon goes flying.
Smash
. There’s red juicy melon all over the dusty road.

“Serves them right,” says Giuseppe in Sicilian.

We finish this whole street, turn south, and then go west onto East Green Street. Some houses buy two melons. We’ve sold enough that there’s room for Cirone and me in the back of the wagon now. If the sun wasn’t so hot, everything would be good.

When we get to the western edge of town again, a girl hails us. Tall, with ropy arms, she squints through the sun at us. She holds a big osnaburg bag, long and white, the kind cotton pickers use. She comes up to the back of the wagon. “Who’s boss?”

“Me,” I say. After all, Giuseppe can’t say more than a word or two.

“My brother, he got something to say.”

I look past her. There’s no one there. “Where’s your brother?”

“Hiding behind them bushes.”

I look at her and wait. “Is he going to come out?”

“Not if you yell.”

I wipe the sweat off my forehead. “I won’t yell.”

“Come on out, Jerome.”

The watermelon thief comes out from behind the bush. “You going to shoot me?”

“You know a finger’s different from a gun, don’t you?” I shake my head. “Nobody’s going to shoot you.”

“Bang!” shouts Giuseppe. He cocks his finger at the thief. “Bang, bang!”

The boy runs behind the bush. “Sorry,” he shouts.

“Stop with the banging now, Giuseppe,” I say in Sicilian. Then I turn to the girl. “Well, I guess that’s done, then.”

“No, it isn’t,” says Giuseppe in Sicilian. “He cost us a melon.”

“Ain’t settled yet.” The sister lifts the bag. “Sweet potatoes. For that melon.”

“We’ve got white potatoes in our own field,” says Giuseppe in Sicilian. “They’re better than those orange things.”

“You keep them,” I say.

“I can’t abide a thief. We got to pay you.”

I take the bag. “Thanks.”

The girl doesn’t go away.

“Well?”

“I need the bag back.”

People save paper bags—they’re expensive. But osnaburg bags are different. And this one is old and beat up. She must work the cotton fields. Maybe her boss makes her pay for a new one. I dump the sweet potatoes in among the watermelons and go to fold the sack when I think better of it and put a watermelon inside it instead. I hand it to her. “That was enough potatoes to pay for two melons.”

“Don’t do that,” she says. “Jerome need to learn thieving ain’t right.”

“Maybe enough for three melons. But I docked you one, for the thieving.”

She takes the sack and looks at me. “Put them potatoes in the fire when you roast your rabbit, or whatever you got, then when it turn to ashes, they be sweet as candy.”

“I’ll do that. You want me to carry this melon to your door?”

“We live outside town. I’ll manage fine. Much obliged.” She turns and goes.

“We got a melon?” Jerome the Thief sticks his head out from behind the bush. “We really got a melon?”

“Get on home,” says the girl. She lugs that melon, following Jerome, who’s laughing and singing, “Melon, melon, we got a melon.”

“You’ve got no stomach for business,” says Giuseppe in Sicilian.

“I saw that,” comes a voice in English.

I turn around. “Good day, Mr. Johnson, sir.”

Fred Johnson runs the general-goods store. He must be walking to work after dinner break. He takes a round tin out of his pocket and stuffs tobacco in his cheek. He points in the wagon. “How many sweet potatoes for that melon?” His tone is sarcastic.

“We’re taking coins, sir,” I say.

“Real business, huh? I just saw otherwise. I just saw an ar-range-ment.” He draws out the word. “That’s what you do with them darkie cotton pickers. Ar-range-ments. They’s no real business with them. Ain’t got no brains, them darkies. They can’t deal in money. They just make ar-range-ments.” He spits in the road. Tobacco spit. It smells good, though it looks like something unmentionable. “Y’all the same, boy? No brains?”

No, sir, I’m thinking. You’re the one with no brains. “If you want a melon, sir, I’ll be happy to carry it home for you.”

“What do I look like, a girlie? Hand me a melon.”

“How about the biggest one, sir?” I say, polite as can be.

Mr. Johnson looks pleased. “That’s right. The biggest one.”

“That’ll be twenty cents, sir.” I dare to look directly in his face, searching for a reaction.

He pays his twenty cents and spits again.

“And remember, sir,” I say, “they’re selling
limoncello
today at Francesco Difatta’s grocery.”

“Lemon what?”

“You drink it cold. It’s good on a hot day.”

“Like today. It’s hotter than the gates of hell today.”

“Yes, sir. Francesco makes it himself. It takes your mind off your problems.”

“Liquor? Wait’ll John hears about this. You people. Never in my born days have I seen the likes. Selling liquor without a permit. No telling what y’all be up to next.” He walks off with the melon.

“Twenty cents,” says Cirone in Sicilian. “He’s going to be burning angry when he finds out everyone else got a melon for fifteen.”

What I did is a lot worse than overcharging Mr. Coleman for the strawberries. There’s no way Mr. Coleman could know I overcharged. Besides, it was only a penny. But this was a whole nickel, and everyone else knows the price. I must have lost my mind. I wipe sweat from my neck. “Anyway, he got the biggest one.”

We work our way back and forth across town from north to south, till we finish. There are only four melons left. And a pile of sweet potatoes.

I climb up on the bench beside Giuseppe. “We got no one to sell the rest to. And we can’t eat them all.” I clear my throat. “I know some families that could use a watermelon.”

“Yeah?” Giuseppe tightens the reins. “Are we driving by the church?”

“I’ll take one to their home. There’s no road out there. I’ll walk.”

“Cirone, you go, too,” says Giuseppe.

“I can carry a melon myself.”

“You can carry two if there are two of you,” says Giuseppe. “And take them those nasty orange things.”

“No, I want sweet potato pies,” I say.

“Carlo doesn’t know how to make sweet potato pies.”

“I’ll make them.”

“You?” Giuseppe shrugs.

And so Giuseppe drives across South Street and lets us off near the bayou. Cirone and I walk the grassy path to Patricia’s house with the melons.

“You know, I can carry two melons myself,” I say.

“No, you can’t,” says Cirone.

“Yes, I can.”

“If Charles is there, I’ll talk to him. If not, I’ll just leave the melon and go. You can talk to Patricia alone.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“Ha!”

We walk in silence.

“Did she like the bowl?” asks Cirone.

“Yes.”

“I knew she would.”

Finally, we get there. I go up on the porch and knock my elbow on the open door.

A woman stands by a pot-bellied stove, where an iron’s heating up on top. Long face, long arms, long fingers. A pile of ironed and folded laundry sits on the foot of a bed. There’s a sewing machine in the corner. She looks up at us and fear crumples her forehead. She rushes to the door. Cirone and I step back as she comes out on the porch. She looks around, then back at us. “Y’all alone?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She blinks. “Anybody see y’all come up here?”

“Ain’t nobody to see us,” says Cirone. “Ma’am.” The houses out here are scattered through the trees. You can’t see more than one at a time except in winter.

She wipes the sweat from her brow. “Well, come on in quick.” She gives a small smile as we pass by, and closes the door behind us. She walks over and picks up the iron, spatters water on a shirt on the table, and sets that iron down on it with a hiss. She irons the shirt, folds it, and puts it on the pile. “Boys?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Mr. Blander—you know who he is?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“A smart man, Mr. Blander. He warned my sister. Said it ain’t a good idea for you to come visiting here. At our house.”

How did Blander guess we’d come here? Maybe the whole town’s guessing about us. “We got watermelons.”

“I can see that.”

“We’re delivering melons. Like we delivered them all over town.”

She smiles at us for real this time. “Blander ain’t the only smart one.” She’s sweating so much, her dress is all soppy at the neck. “Want to set them melons down? On the floor will be fine. Till I finish this ironing.” She irons a pillowcase and folds it. Then she takes a towel and wipes her face and neck. “What can I do for y’all?”

“Are you Patricia’s mother?” I ask, but her smile gave her away. And her eyes.

“Yes.”

“I’m Calogero.”

“I’m Cirone,” says Cirone.

“I figured. Nice to finally meet y’all. Thought I’d meet you at the graduation party.”

“It was a good party,” says Cirone.

“Thank you.”

“You’re good at ironing,” I say.

She laughs. “This is my sister’s job. She iron up at the Blander house. But she took to bed sick, so here I am. This way she don’t lose her job. But y’all don’t want to hear about that. I expect you came to see my onliest boy, Charles, and my onliest girl, Patricia. They ain’t here.”

“We’ll just leave these melons and go, then.”

“Much obliged. Please tell your family that.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Happy Fourth of July,” says Cirone.

“Same to you,” says Patricia’s mother. “Y’all going to the festivities tomorrow?”

“What festivities?” I ask.

She gives an odd smile. “Well, there’ll be some mighty big doings all over town, don’t y’all know that? Specially at our church. The picnic will start in the late afternoon, after it cool off a bit.” She blinks. “You know what? Your family ought to come. Brother Caleb will slaughter a hog. So if y’all come on over early, you two boys, I’ll fry you up some brains and eggs.”

I love brains. “What about what Blander said?”

“The church the Lord’s house. I reckon no one going to say who can and can’t come visiting in His house.” Patricia’s mother tilts her head. “They’s going to be ice cold lemonade. And my lemon pie has two inches of calf slobbers on top.”

“I’ll tell my family,” I say.

“Y’all do that.”

We walk back along the path. Once we’re out of hearing distance, Cirone says, “Why do you always have to act so stupid?”

“What’d I do stupid?”

“You acted like we don’t know about the Fourth of July.”

“I don’t know about the Fourth of July.”

“Well, I do,” says Cirone. “Everyone in America does. I’m not the new one here. You are. Ask me about things before you go acting so dumb.”

“How can I ask about things I don’t know about?”

“Shut up.”

We walk a ways, kicking the dirt.

“What’s calf slobbers?”

Cirone laughs. “I knew you didn’t follow that. Ha! It’s meringue, dummy.”