Alligator Bayou (3 page)

five

I
’m sitting at the kitchen table waiting. Somehow, all the worry of this day has left me starving.

Francesco finally shows up.

I’d hug him, but he’s still got that shotgun in his hands. I keep my eyes on it.

“At last.” Carlo makes the sign of the cross. “Thank you, Sant’ Antonio.”

Sant’ Antonio is the saint you call upon to help you find lost things. I never prayed to him for a missing person, though.

Francesco rests the gun upright in the corner.

“Well?” says Carlo.

“Willy Rogers took a different way home.” Francesco unbuttons the top of his shirt and makes a show of scratching his chest, but I know he’s touching the crucifix that hangs around his neck. There’s a small dove in the center—the spirit of the Holy Ghost. “He must have heard I was waiting for him by the tracks.”

Does Francesco know my part in this? I watch their faces, but they don’t look at me.

“Finished, then,” says Carlo.

“He learned his lesson.” Francesco drops onto a bench.

Carlo turns and dumps the pasta into the boiling water, as though this is just an ordinary day.

So that’s the end of it. Squabbles in America end as fast as in Sicily. I’ve seen grown men roll in the dirt fighting, then lean on each other drinking whisky the next day.

“Go call everyone,” Carlo says to me.

In the bedroom the others are playing cards. I poke my head through the doorway. “Carlo says to come.”

We troop into the front room.

Carlo fills the wash pan with hot water from the iron teakettle. We dip in wash cloths and clean our faces and necks and hands, then sit at the table.

Rosario twists the tips of his mustache. All my uncles have mustaches that trail out to each side of their mouths. But Rosario curls his upward, while the others just let them hang. Cirone and I don’t have mustaches yet, but Cirone’s growing sideburns, like Rosario. Rosario points at the gun in the corner. “Someone going hunting?”

“Nah,” says Carlo, serving the food. “Too tired.” He gives me a quick look, but he doesn’t have to. I know how to keep quiet.

Everyone digs in. We eat long, flat pasta—
pappardelle
. The same as most nights. They’re the easiest shapes to cut.

Carlo does all the cooking. In a way he’s the one who really makes us a family, ’cause that’s what we become when we sit down at this table to eat.

The pasta is covered with fresh spinach and Italian olive oil that we order through New Orleans. So good. We finish and wipe the bottom of our bowls with bread. Then there’s baby artichokes, fried whole. I eat and eat. Someday I should learn to cook. If I ever get a wife, maybe it’ll help to know a little something.

Especially if she cooks ’gators.

I gnaw on the crusty end of the bread.

Carlo serves the meat. We have this kind a lot. Boys trade it for fruits and vegetables. Suddenly I sit up tall as the idea comes: “Is this ’gator?”

“Possum,” says Francesco.

“What’s that?”

“We don’t have them in Sicily,” says Carlo. “Long tails. They hang from trees.”

“Nasty things that run around at night,” mutters Giuseppe.

“But nasty tastes good,” says Carlo. “Eat.”

We don’t talk much. After a long day of work, eating is too important to interrupt with words. We save talk for between courses.

We’re just getting to the salad and the plate of batter-fried zucchini flowers when there’s a thump on the ground out front. Then another. Then lots.

Someone knocks.

My eyes go to the gun in the corner.

But Francesco stays seated; he jerks his chin at me. I get up and force myself to open the door as if it’s nothing special.

Joe Evans stands there, hat in hands. Three goats run around him, butting each other and chasing our rooster off into the bushes.

“Let him in,” says Francesco in Sicilian. We don’t have to use English in front of Joe. He works for Francesco in the fields. Lots of men work for Francesco on and off, but Joe’s worked for him steady for a long time.

Joe comes in.

So do two of the goats—Bedda and Bruttu. Bedda’s our oldest doe and Bruttu’s our only adult billy. I herd them back out with my knees.

“No, no.” Francesco beckons. “Bedda can come in. Not Bruttu. Just Bedda.”

Bedda clambers over my knee and scampers to Francesco. He swears that doe understands Sicilian, and I believe it. I hold back Bruttu and shut the door in his face.

“Evening, sir,” says Joe.

“Evening,” says Francesco, switching to English. He rubs Bedda with a closed fist on the top of her knobby head, right between the ears. She lifts her chin to push up against his hand in pleasure. Francesco laughs at her and gestures to Joe with his other hand. “You want sit? Carlo get plate. Sit. Please. Sit.”

I’m not sure Carlo knows the English words, but he understands. He gets up.

Joe stares at the bright orange zucchini flowers. “No, no, sir. Thank you, sir. Generous, sir. Much obliged, but no. I’m here on a errand.”

“Wine? Whisky?”

“No, thank you, sir. I brought a message.”

“I listen.” Francesco folds his hands on top of Bedda’s head.

“Dr. Hodge said enough. Your goats were on his porch again. He told me to bring them here. Right to the front door of your residence. That’s what he said.”

Francesco lifts an upturned hand. “That all?”

Joe shakes his head. “He told me you can listen to them tramping back and forth, back and forth.” He rubs his chin, then pulls on his fingers. “He say it again: back and forth, back and forth. And he say it worse at his residence, because of his fine wood porch and all. They clatter on the wood. He can’t sleep. Not a wink.”

“He say his ‘fine wood porch’?”

“Yes, sir. Exactly.”

“The big doctor, he want go to bed now?” Francesco’s mouth twists. “Now? Now is for eat.”

“He ate hours ago.” Joe’s voice has a certain ring. I know he means that everyone did. That’s how it is in America. And even we would have eaten by now if Francesco hadn’t come home so late.

“Goat go where goat go. Is nature. Is how God want. Who can prevent?” Francesco shrugs. “Not me.”

“Dr. Hodge say you got to.”

Francesco leans back from Bedda and folds his hands in front of his chest.

“That’s the message, sir.” Joe’s eyes shift nervously.

“No worry, Joe. You bring message. You done. I talk to doctor.” Francesco turns. “Carlo …”

Carlo’s already standing beside Francesco with a pile of okra. He wraps it in newsprint and hands it to Joe.

“Much obliged, sirs.”

Francesco gives a nod.

Joe holds the bundle to his chest and hesitates. “And they’s a second message. The doctor say he wants to talk to you tomorrow morning. At his office.”

“About goat?”

“No, sir. About the gentleman Willy Rogers.”

“Like sheriff.” Francesco shakes his head. “Summons.”

“I reckon so.”

“You know what, Joe?”

“What, sir?”

“Willy Rogers, he want see you and me we no get nothing for our work, no money, no matter how hard we work. He want see us poor, like dirt, and never change. Everybody like you, you father, you grandfather, they slave before the war. Everybody like me, from other country. He want us go to him for help. Like children.”

“You talking about them new voting laws,” says Joe.

“Right. Right, Joe.”

I listen carefully. Francesco often invites hired hands to come around on a Saturday night, but only once since I’ve been here have any come—a few weeks back. Francesco sat drinking wine, with them drinking whisky, and everyone smoking cigars and complaining about the new voting laws. I didn’t pay attention. I should have, though; I sense that now. I move closer.

But Francesco just wags his finger at Joe. “So now you know. Willy Rogers, he no gentleman.”

“I reckon he ain’t, no, sir.”

“And he not want us be friend, because friend, they help. You know? I help you. You help me. We should be friend. Who care what Willy Rogers want?”

“Yes, sir.” Joe looks across the table at all of us. “Much obliged.”

“And, Joe.” Francesco leans forward and his face softens. “You know what friend do? Eat together. Dance together. Have fun. You understand what I say?”

“I reckon I do, sir.”

“Down in New Orleans, we all dance together. Years ago. Why not here? Next time I invite, you come? Maybe you come next time?”

“If I ain’t too tired from working, sir. Y’all have a good evening now.” Joe backs out the door.

Francesco puts his forehead to Bedda’s. He kisses her on the nose.

“Come sit down,” Rosario says to me and Carlo, switching us back to Sicilian.

“Right,” says Carlo. “The food calls.”

It’s a relief to use Sicilian; everyone can talk. I wonder how much each of them understood.

Rosario heaps salad on his plate. “Did you see how surprised Joe looked at seeing our wild greens? And the zucchini flowers. People around here have no idea how good they taste.”

Francesco points at Cirone and me. “Pay attention, boys. Eat whatever grows. Save and don’t waste. That’s how to get ahead.”

I take a huge helping of salad. So does Cirone.

“That Joe…,” says Rosario. “He sees what the new voting laws are about. He knows they’re trying to keep us all down.”

“The voting laws!” Carlo looks at Francesco in alarm. “What are you thinking? You trying to organize the Negroes?”

“A little honest talk, is all,” says Francesco.

“A little honest talk?” Carlo’s got his hands on top of his head, on his bald spot. “The whites will say we’re causing trouble. Next thing you know, they’ll say we’re going to organize strikes on the plantations. They’ll be afraid we’ll burn down cotton gins, like those Sicilians burned the sugarhouse in Lafourche Parish. Then they’ll really have a reason to run us out of business.”

I drop my fork, I’m so flustered. I open my mouth to ask what’s going on, but Cirone kicks me under the table and flashes me a warning look.

“What are you talking about?” Rosario waves Carlo off. “Go on, boys, eat. No one’s trying to run us out of business. It’s just a complaint about goats.”

“It starts with goats. Then it grows.” Giuseppe gestures angrily with his fork. “Dr. Hodge and men like him—plantation owners, cotton-gin owners. Big bosses. They need straightening out.”

I close my fingers tight around my fork. I don’t know who’s right, but I hate the way Giuseppe’s talking.

“Dr. Hodge is no problem,” says Francesco. “I know how to talk to him.”

“Oh, sure, you and the doctor, you’re friends. Bah!” Giuseppe says. “You have a cigar with him—what? once a year?—and you think that’s something?”

“It is something! Dr. Hodge doesn’t own a plantation—he isn’t one of them. He likes us. You leave Dr. Hodge to me. I’ll take care of him in the morning.”

“You better.” Giuseppe jams his fork in the salad. “You just better.”

“Eat,” says Carlo. “Everybody eat.”

I stuff my mouth.

Francesco pushes his empty plate away. He looks at me. “You still thinking about alligators?”

I’m so startled, for a second I can’t answer. “A little.”

“Vicious!” Rosario makes a monster face, wrinkling his big nose and putting his hands beside his cheeks like threatening claws. Then he laughs. “I saw a giant one roped up in the back of a wagon once. Long like you wouldn’t believe. The length of two men standing on top of each other. Still alive. Even when they close their jaws their teeth show.” He leans toward Cirone. “As if they’re smiling at you and saying, ‘Hello, dinner. My, you look tasty.’”

That’s exactly what the ’gator head over the saloon looks like it’s saying. I grip my fork so tight it hurts. Cirone chews the corner of his thumb.

“Good eating, though,” says Francesco. “We had them in New Orleans.”

“The figs will be ripe in July,” says Carlo. “I can make alligator with fig sauce. In autumn I’ll make it with pomegranate sauce. In winter I’ll get oranges from a plantation near New Orleans. Sicilians work there—so the fruit is good.”

“Figs, pomegranates, oranges.” Francesco rests his elbows on the table and takes a loud breath. “They didn’t have good fruits or vegetables in this state before the Sicilians. Without us, all they’d eat is squirrel and possum and alligator.”

“And chicken,” says Carlo. “They eat chicken on Saturday nights.”

Francesco gets an odd, sad look on his face. “It smells good, the way they make it. The way they sit outside and laugh together and play music.”

“We have fun on Saturday nights, too,” says Rosario.

“Yeah,” says Giuseppe. “We’ve got each other. Who needs them?”

six

C
irone and I shift from foot to foot as Francesco inspects the new porch floor. We spent all day building it. He checks the edges to see if they’re even. He runs his fingers over the surface to see if we lined up planks of equal thickness to make it level. He grabs ends here and there to see if we put in enough nails so that they won’t jiggle.

I jam my hands in my pockets. Cirone does the same. I bet his are balled into fists like mine.

Francesco walks the length, stopping and flexing his knees every few paces. He stamps.

We flinch.

Francesco smiles. “Fine job.” He does a dance across the floor. One of the circle dances we do together on a Saturday night.

Cirone and I hoot and hug each other.

“Tomorrow you take the old step that used to be in front of the door and you attach it right here.” Francesco taps his foot at the outside edge of the porch across from the door. “Then paint the whole thing white.”

“White?” I say. “On a floor?”

Francesco glowers. “What’s wrong with white?”

I’ve got a stake in this porch. Cirone and I spent all day Thursday choosing the planks, lining them up, planing the irregular ones. And today was all sawing and hammering. My back aches and my hands are ripped up. And that’s two days in a row I haven’t been there to see Patricia walking home from school. She’s all I can think about. “Everyone tramps dirt across a porch. White will look bad fast.”

Francesco points at Cirone. “And you, what do you think?”

Cirone hardly ever talks in front of the men, and now with Francesco’s finger aimed like that, he squirms. “Goats run across porches,” he mumbles at last.

In Francesco’s eyes the goats do no wrong; I’m flabbergasted at Cirone’s daring. So is Francesco—he blinks and pulls on his mustache. It’s not a good sign when Francesco does that. But he laughs, and Cirone does, too. I finally join in.

“All right, all right.” Francesco rubs his hands together. “You’ll paint it black. But later. Tomorrow paint it white. The day following that is Sunday, so I’ll invite Dr. Hodge over for
limoncello
after he gets out of his fancy church. He’ll say no—they all say no—but I’ll insist. He’ll see how fancy we can be. With a new wood porch, white and clean. As good as his. We’ll have a nice talk. After the doctor goes home, you can paint it black.”

Wasting all that white paint—all that money—just to impress the doctor?

Supper is quiet; things have settled down. Francesco’s talk with Dr. Hodge yesterday morning went well. Francesco told Carlo all about it, and I eavesdropped. The doctor didn’t mention goats. Just like Joe Evans said, he only wanted to talk about Willy Rogers—about both of them not “overreacting.” Francesco is going to leave his shotgun at home. And when Willy needs groceries, he’ll send a servant. If the two men see each other on the street, one of them will cross to the other side. That’s what the doctor promised, anyhow. The shotgun is closed away in Francesco’s trunk for the next time someone goes hunting.

We move outside and sit on the floor of the new porch to eat cold berries for dessert. And I’m happy we’ve got a porch now.

“Strawberries.” Carlo holds up his bowl. “And not the small wild ones from the woods—big fat juicy ones.”

“All the way from Tangipahoa Parish, down south,” says Francesco with pride. “Sicilians own practically the whole parish. Fields and fields.”

“Imagine a Saturday night down there,” says Rosario. “Like heaven—Sicilians dancing and singing.”

“And eating.” Francesco puts a berry in his mouth and sucks noisily. “Perfect.”

And Carlo knew the perfect thing to do with them. He put them in the icebox. They froze and their inner parts got all squishy, so they melt in our mouths.

Five goats come trotting around from behind the house.

“Stay back!” Giuseppe shouts at them.

They stop. Giuseppe’s the only one gruff enough to make the goats behave. But Bedda jumps onto the porch and head butts Francesco in the shoulder. He grabs her by the hair at the front of her chest and feeds her a strawberry.

“What are you doing that for?” says Giuseppe in disgust. “Tomorrow is June third. Decoration Day. The whole town will be buying food for parties. These strawberries will sell at top price, every last one of them.”

Bedda’s baby, Giada, takes a timid step forward. Giuseppe slams the back of his shoe against the porch, and the little thing goes skittering off to the others.

I ask, “What’s Decoration Day?”

“A day to honor the men who died in war,” says Carlo. “Big celebrations.”

“Except the rest of the country celebrated it this past Tuesday,” says Giuseppe.

I look at Giuseppe, puzzled.

Francesco leans across Bedda’s neck toward me. “Louisiana and some other states in the South—they have their own laws. The rest of America celebrates on May thirtieth and honors men who died on both sides of the Civil War. Here they celebrate on June third, Jefferson Davis’ birthday, and honor just the Confederate dead.”

I know I’ve heard Jefferson Davis’ name in my lessons with Frank Raymond. “So we’re celebrating?”

“Course not.” Francesco gives Bedda a kiss between her eyes, then stands and stretches. “This is nonsense—honoring only their own. But on Decoration Day people need food for parties. You boys paint the porch first thing in the morning—white paint. Then hustle over to the grocery store.”

“Aw,” says Cirone under his breath.

We had planned to paint slowly and take the whole day at it, go a little easy. “Both of us?” I say. “Who’ll help Rosario at the stand?”

“I hired two men,” says Rosario. “You boys work in the grocery.”

Cirone and I exchange doleful glances.

Rosario gets his mandolin and plucks a few notes. “Who wants to sing tonight?”

“Me.” Francesco reaches into his pocket. “And here. For you boys.” He places pennies on the floor between us: one, two, three, four. Four! “In case you want to skip the music and go have some other kind of fun tonight.”

I pocket all four pennies. After all, I’m older. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” says Cirone.

We walk toward town, our uncles’ songs fading in the background. It will be the usual night at home—music and dance and cigars. Pretending like they’re back in Sicily, surrounded by neighbors, joking and laughing. Just the four of them. Or maybe only three, ’cause they take turns going across the river to Vicksburg for fun. Vicksburg is four times the size of Tallulah; there’s plenty going on.

All at once I’m blue, thinking about them. They’re lonely. At least Francesco is—saying all that to Joe. If I didn’t have Cirone, I don’t know what I’d do.

“How about the slaughterhouse?” asks Cirone as soon as we’re out of sight.

“You want to risk crossing a panther again?”

“Aw, come on. He didn’t hurt us.”

“Why do you like that place so much, anyway?”

Cirone says real quiet, “My father was a butcher.”

My father was a fisherman. With thick arms from pulling in nets, and pocked cheeks from facing the salty wind all the time. He left for America to find his fortune, right after Rocco was born. We never heard from him again. I was ten when I last saw him, but I remember everything about him, his voice, even his smell. Cirone was only four when he last saw his father. What can he possibly remember? “All right. But I’m not going near the woods where that panther came out. Race you.”

We run across the meadow, past the lit-up slaughterhouse, then I punch Cirone lightly in the shoulder and slow us to a walk. Running in town draws attention. A few minutes later I turn onto Cedar Street.

“Not yet.” Cirone catches me by the elbow. “The ice cream saloon isn’t for two more blocks.”

I smile. We haven’t said a word to each other about where we’re going to spend those four cents, but of course the ice cream saloon is the best choice. I feel proud at the idea of going somewhere public without my uncles, which is dumb. I’m fourteen! But Francesco keeps tight rein on us, as though we’re little kids, so this is new to me.

“If we go down Cedar, we pass the courthouse,” I say.

“Who cares? What do you want to look at it for?”

“It’s different at night.”

“How?”

“Did I give you a hard time about going past the slaughterhouse?”

Cirone pads along after me.

Sometimes I think I’ll never get used to the dirt streets here. I miss the cobblestones of Cefalù. But at least the dirt lies flat tonight. In the daytime it’s dusty, stirred up by people, wagons, horses, carts, mules, hogs.

Dead quiet.

Except for the crickets. There must be millions of them.

We pass Sheriff Lucas’ house, and his two dogs charge off the porch, ears and jowls flopping. I’m glad there’s a fence. The dogs are massive, and their short hair covers loose, wrinkled skin. I pull back. Cirone reaches between pickets and pets one.

I gasp. “Are you crazy?” But that dog is acting as if he likes it.

“They don’t bite unless the sheriff tells them to.”

I feel stupid. “I thought you didn’t like dogs.”

“I don’t.” Cirone shoves the hand that petted the dog in my face.

“Yuck.” I sneeze. “That stinks.”

Cirone laughs. “Their drool stinks even worse.”

A soft sound comes from above. It’s a large bird. From the ragged zigzags I know it’s a yellow-headed night heron. Francesco taught me that. They’re good eating.

The redbrick courthouse looms at the corner of Depot Street, a two-story giant with front balconies and chimneys up the north side. On the south a stand of cottonwoods lifts its arms as if in praise. The windows are tall, and the columns and railings and arches on the balconies seem to move in the dusky light. At the very top a little alcove juts up with a round window, like a loving eye looking out over everything. It seems a grand, welcoming home. The seat of justice. It presides over Tallulah, like the cathedral presides over Cefalù.

Cirone elbows me in the ribs. “Look.”

Three boys walk bent, picking things up off the road, throwing them in sacks.

“Hey,” I call.

Charles jerks his head up, then away. The other boys don’t even bother to look.

I pull on Cirone’s arm.

“Stop,” he says. “Don’t go near them. They hate us.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Everyone hates us.” Cirone curls his shoulders and shrinks in on himself. “You don’t know.”

“What? These boys are all right.” I drag him over. “What’re you doing?” I say in English.

“Y’all ain’t got eyes?” Charles doesn’t look up.

Stupid question. They’re collecting horse manure.

Cirone moves closer to me. “How come?” he says real soft.

I don’t get to hear Cirone speak English much. But I know he talks good. He sounds like everyone else from Tallulah, not like Frank Raymond, which is who I sound like. No one accuses Cirone of talking fancy, like Mrs. Rogers said to me.

“What you use on your fields?” asks Rock. “Human turds?”

The boys laugh.

It takes me a second, ’cause that’s the first time I’ve heard that English word, but I’m laughing, too. I’m laughing so hard, I double over. Then I pick up dung. The soft, round ball smells sweet. I drop it in Ben’s bag, closest to me.

All three boys straighten up and look at me.

I pick up another piece and add it to Rock’s bag. Then Cirone does the same and we’re all picking up clods. We go the length of Depot Street, through the town center. Men are noisy in the whisky saloon. Families are noisy in the ice cream saloon. I look through the window. Boys my age are scrambling to buy soda water for girls, offering them gumdrops and peanuts from the candy store. Children sit on laps and eat ice cream from shiny spoons. A man pounds out a quick melody on the old piano.

Whatever they pay the piano player, I’m sure it’s more than Patricia gets for cleaning the Baptist church. “Hey, Charles.” I walk up beside him. “Hear that? Your sister should apply for a job playing piano.”

Charles drops his head toward me. “You sure you smart enough to collect dung?”

“What?”

“Colored folk ain’t allowed in that ice cream saloon. We stand outside and put our money in a cup on the ground, and they lay us a scoop on a piece of old newspaper.”

My face goes hot. It’s those Jim Crow laws again—whites and Negroes can’t be served food in the same eating establishment at the same time. How could I forget? But I work all day, every day but Sunday. I go to bed early, except Saturday. I don’t really see how this town works.

I wonder what Cirone’s thinking as we pass by the laughter of those families around the piano. Can he taste the ice cream we’re not eating? I pray he doesn’t say it. But he won’t. I bet he never forgets who is and isn’t allowed in the ice cream saloon or anywhere else. Cirone knows everything. He doesn’t even give me a meaningful glance. He just throws dung balls in the boys’ sacks.

We own two horses: Granni and Docili. In the winter they stay in the shed. Hired hands muck out the stalls and spread the manure on our fields. That’s what any farmer who can afford it does. But I never thought about the farmers who don’t have horses. There are farms around here where men push plows through the dirt with their shoulders.

A dog barks; a second joins him.

“Sheriff Lucas’ dogs,” says Charles. “They’ll be a-howling all night.”

Goats trot over the railroad tracks and up Elm Street. Five. They’re ours. I bet they passed by Sheriff Lucas’ and drove those dogs wild. Have they been tramping on Dr. Hodge’s porch? I look around anxiously. Will the doctor come tearing after them?

Nothing.

We go on collecting dung. When we reach West Street, at the edge of town, Charles stands straight and presses a hand into the small of his back. In the dark he seems like an old man. The other boys roll their heads around on their necks and swing their arms, like Francesco dancing across the new porch.

Cirone had the same thought, because he throws himself into the middle and dances the tarantella. He hops around, clapping over his head like a crazy man. Before you know it, all of us are running and hopping and clapping for no reason, but it’s so much fun. We dance till we fall exhausted in the grass by the side of the road.