Alligator Bayou (6 page)

Finally, Charles and the ’gator are still. Pinpricks go up my arms and neck.

“He’s dead,” says Cirone in Sicilian, his voice cracking in sadness. He makes the sign of the cross.

Then Charles lifts his head and smiles, like it’s all easy fun, like he’s riding on the back of a floating log.

And Ben is laughing and pointing at Cirone.

My eyes go to that ’gator, though. He doesn’t move. I wait for the powerful tail to thrash. Charles couldn’t have strangled him. No one could be that strong.

Rock poles us close, and Ben puts down the lantern and pulls Charles onto the side rim. Cirone and I reach out to help when
whap!
The skiff flips! We’re in the water. All of us. And the skiff is on top of us. It’s totally dark. The lantern’s gone. The water comes up over my collarbone and I’m standing in soft muck that sucks me down.

“Push,” shouts someone.

We’re all trying to turn the boat back over. It’s not that heavy, how could it be this hard? We’re pushing and I feel movement around my ankles. Alive and quick.

Someone screams.

The skiff turns and slaps right side up on the water. We’re instantly in moon glow, eerie and quiet.

“Me first. Then do what I say!” Ben shouts.

The skiff rocks violently as I hold on to the rim. Ben must have gotten in from the other side. Someone’s still screaming.

“Rock, get in and pull in Charles,” barks Ben. “Calo, say where you at.”

The boat rocks hard again, but I hold on. And the screaming is right beside me. It’s Cirone. Oh, God in Heaven, I’ve killed Cirone.

“Calo!” shouts Ben. “Where you at?”

“Here,” I manage.

“I got you.” Ben grabs me under the armpits and pulls hard. I’m in the boat now, lying in the middle beside someone panting hard. Charles. “Cirone!” I call.

“I got him.”

The boat lurches at one end; Cirone sloshes in. “My foot,” he sobs in English.

“Hold still,” says Ben. “Rock, help me. A loggerhead. Small. But it won’t let go.”

“I still got my knife,” says Rock. “I’ll kill it.”

I scrabble over to the shadowy figures and my arms circle Cirone from behind. He twists around and clings to me.

I feel a spurt of cold liquid on my arm. “What was that?”

“Turtle blood.”

“Help me, San Giuseppe,” mumbles Cirone in Sicilian. “Don’t let me die a miserable death. Spare me and I’ll pray to you every day. Please, San Giuseppe, please.”

“Whatever you saying, stop,” says Ben. “That turtle dead. Can you feel your foot?”

“Hurts like hell,” says Cirone in English.

Someone laughs. “Some spirit.”

“That foot got mashed,” says Rock, “but it ain’t even bleeding.”

“You got those good shoes to thank,” says Ben.

“We all owe thanks,” says Rock. “The swamp nearly got us tonight.”

We’re silent a moment.

“My ’gator!” Charles pushes himself upright, then drops back down limp again.

“Floating away dead. Can’t hardly see him. Oh, there.” Ben points.

“Really dead?” I ask.

“Dead as a hammer.” Rock’s right beside me, still holding Cirone’s leg.

“How? How did you kill him, Charles?”

Charles is panting too hard to answer.

“The spear worked its way into his brain,” says Rock. “Like a charm every time.”

“Get him,” says Charles in a raspy whisper. “Get my ’gator.”

Cirone starts to moan and gulps it back. Maybe he’s going to be sick.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say. “Let’s get out while we’re still alive.”

“Get my ’gator.”

“Everybody rock to this side.” Ben waves one arm through the misty dark like the wing of a giant owl. “Easy like. No more turning over.”

We rock. The skiff moves. We rock more. It moves more.

“Now stop and lean the other way, but don’t rock. Just lean.”

We lean, and Ben leans out the opposite way. “Got it. I got a pole.”

“See the others?” asks Rock.

“No. But one will do. Here, Rock.”

Rock stands and takes the pole.

“Move us this way.” Ben waves that arm again. “Okay, good. Now, you two—y’all sit tight. No helping. Your helping flipped us last time.”

Cirone and I crawl to Charles, pushing the turtle away. His neck is cut halfway through, so the head hangs crazylike. And he isn’t small. He’s as long as my forearm.

Ben and Rock pull that ’gator and he slides in on a sheet of moss. He’s longer than Charles. Must be six feet.

Ben stands in the front of the skiff and stares out. “I lost the lantern.”

Rock stands at the rear and stares out over the water. “Must have sunk.”

“We got the ’gator,” says Charles. “Let’s go.”

“Not without that lantern.” Ben gets on his knees and leans out. He puts both arms in the water and swishes around.

“Don’t do that!” says Cirone. “You know what’s in that water. Let’s go home.”

“I can’t go without it,” says Ben, and the way he says it, I understand: that’s someone’s lantern.

“Let’s go back to where we turned over,” I say. “We can feel with the pole.”

Rock poles us along, stopping often to swish the pole around the bottom. Ben sets his hands on the rim and looks into the water. Nothing but black there. With the ’gator on board, the skiff rides deep. If anyone makes a sudden move, we’ll take in water over the sides. We must all have the same thought; no one moves. No one even speaks. It goes on like this a long time. My wet clothes stiffen. The night has passed.

“Hey,” says Rock. “Something here.”

Ben crawls to him, slowly. “Hold me around the waist.”

Rock holds Ben, and Ben leans his whole upper half into the water.

I want to grab him back. His head’s in that water!

He’s out! One hand plucks moss from his head, the other holds the lantern. “What you waiting for?” he says to Rock. “You so lazy. If you was a dog, you’d lean against the fence to bark.”

“Ha! You ain’t worth a milk bucket under a bull.” Rock poles us steady.

The air turns rosy, and I can smell dawn coming. My eyes meet Charles’.

He lifts his chin toward me. “Glad you came?”

I don’t trust myself to answer. I can’t let myself think about what could have happened. “That ’gator,” I breathe, holding myself far from it, “he’s not a small one.”

“Sure he is. See the yellow bands on his tail? A young-un. They grow twice that long, easy. Some grow three times that.”

I can’t pull my eyes away. The ’gator’s back is all spiked, like armor. Two rows of scales stick up along the sides of his tail. His hind feet are webbed. That head that was huge when he opened his jaws in the water is now flat and empty.

I’ve never even dreamed of anything worse.

“’Gator hide bring sixty cents a foot.” Rock shakes moss off the pole.

“And the oil bring forty cents a gallon,” says Ben. “All in the tail and the tongue. I bet we get two gallons out of this one.”

“Money, money, money.” Charles pushes himself up on his elbows. “Ain’t you boys got nothing else on y’all’s minds?”

“The moss on Charles, now,” says Ben, “enough of that to dry out and send to New Orleans to make buggy cushions. Four and a half cents per pound, I hear.”

They laugh. Cirone is still cradling his foot in both hands, but he laughs. The idiots. And they’re right. That horror—and now we’re safe. Oh yeah, I’m laughing—I’m laughing and laughing.

“As for your portion,” says Charles, looking at me, “a ’gator supper. Tricia promised to make your portion special good.”

“Supper? We didn’t earn it.” I search for the words. “And we made the skiff flip.”

“It ain’t over,” says Ben. “We got to make a palmetto sled and drag it home. And guess who doing most of the dragging.”

ten

O
ur house sits on open land. Cirone and I have no choice but to walk across the grasses in plain view. It’s full morning now; we could have made it back from the swamp a lot faster if Cirone hadn’t been limping.

Cirone makes the sign of the cross.

“Who are you praying to?”

“Santa Dimpna.”

“Why?”

“I’m asking her to make them still be sleeping.”

“That won’t help.” Mamma talked about the saints all the time. I know. “All Santa Dimpna does is stop sleepwalking.”

“Do you know which saint makes people sleep?”

“There probably isn’t one.”

“Well, then, I’m praying to Santa Dimpna.”

I make a little prayer, too: please, please, let my uncles be in bed.

Francesco stands on the porch, his arms crossed at the chest, his head drooping. He looks like he’s asleep on his feet. His head jerks up as we come near. “Where?” His voice is low, quiet, and tired. “Where have you been?”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Me too,” says Cirone.

“Where?”

“With friends,” I say.

“Friends? You have friends? Where with friends?”

Nothing I say will sound good. I look down.

“Your shoes are soaking—and don’t go thinking you’re getting another pair before the year’s up, either. Clothes damp, too.” Francesco walks around us, inspecting. He picks the last bits of moss off our hair. “Lost your hats. You’ll have to dig into the basket where we keep old caps. Where were you?” His tone threatens.

“I’m sorry,” says Cirone.

If we don’t talk, Francesco will never know.

“You said exploring.” Francesco pulls the tips of his mustache. “That means a walk in the woods—home within an hour. Instead, this! If you were doing anything bad, if you were on property you shouldn’t have been on, if the sheriff comes telling me …”

“We were in the swamps,” says Cirone quickly. “No one’s property.”

“The swamps at night?” Francesco’s voice rises. His face goes ruddy.

Cirone’s done the damage. “We were in a boat,” I say.

Rosario comes running out. “Ah! I thought I heard you.” He hugs Cirone and reaches out to tousle my hair, too. “At last. Where were you?”

“With cottonmouths,” says Francesco. “In the swamps.”

“The swamps!” Rosario pushes Cirone away to hold him at arm’s length. “Do you know how dangerous that is?”

“We didn’t see snakes,” says Cirone.

“Oh, you didn’t, did you?” shouts Rosario in Cirone’s face. “You don’t see these things at night. They see you!”

Carlo and Giuseppe come out on the porch.

“I suppose you didn’t see snakes, either,” says Francesco to me.

I stare at the ground again. In my head, I will Cirone to stare down, too.

“Speak to me,” says Francesco. “Speak or you’ll be even sorrier.”

“We saw alligators,” says Cirone.

“You went to the swamp at night to see alligators?” says Rosario. “Are you blockheads?”

“We hunted one. We killed one,” says Cirone. “And we killed a turtle, too.” He sounds proud of himself, the little liar. He’s nuts to run off at the mouth like that. If he tells his foot is hurt, we’re done for.

Francesco shakes his head. “You were off in the swamps with guns?”

“Just a spear,” says Cirone.

Francesco looks sick. “You faced an alligator with a spear?”

“Sicilians don’t go in swamps.” Rosario still has Cirone by the shoulders and he shakes him now. “Sicilians don’t hunt alligators.”

“We didn’t,” says Cirone. “Our friends did.”

“Who are these friends?” asks Francesco.

Even Cirone can’t be stupid enough not to recognize the threat in that question. I move closer.

“This is your doing, Calogero. You’re the older one.” Rosario shakes a fist at me. “You don’t care if you die? All right, that’s your business. But you could have gotten Cirone killed.” He turns to Francesco. “Are you going to whip them?”

“I’ll do it.” Giuseppe takes a step forward. “You’re not tough enough with these boys.” Anger steels his voice. “I’ll whip them till they can’t walk.”

“Do that and they can’t work,” says Carlo quietly.

“I’ll teach them,” says Francesco.

“No, I’ll whip them,” says Giuseppe.

“Listen to Carlo,” says Francesco. “We need them to work. Leave it to me, Giuseppe, I’ll teach them good.”

“You better.” Giuseppe slaps his hands as though he’s wiping them off. “I’m hungry. Can we finally eat?” He goes inside.

Carlo follows.

Rosario waits, his eyes on Francesco.

“Work,” says Francesco. “You will work. All the time. No friends. Work.”

“Work? That’s punishment?” says Rosario. “Calogero could have gotten my little brother killed.”

“Hard work. For as long as I say.”

Rosario gives a
harumph
, but he goes inside.

I can’t believe how easy we’ve gotten off. We walk for the door.

“Are you limping, Cirone?” Francesco says.

Cirone shakes his head. He walks normal to prove it.

We go inside and start to crawl into bed.

Francesco follows and catches my arm. “Work.” He points at Cirone. “You too.”

We’ve been up all night. I can hardly keep my eyes open. “Now?”

“You heard me.”

We eat.

We go to work; Cirone at the stand, me at the grocery. I stock shelves, fill orders. The hours drag. Whenever I doze off, Francesco gives me a hard pinch.

By evening my eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed in sand. My whole body is sore from dragging the sled with that ’gator. My arm is bruised where Francesco’s been pinching me. I stumble home. Supper is a haze. I don’t even know what I’m eating.

Francesco, Giuseppe, and Rosario go out on the front porch to smoke cigars.

I stand up from the table and sway; my body is so heavy. Cirone stays slumped over the table. I pull on his arm.

Cirone stands and plods across the room toward the bedroom, weaving. He falls over a pot of goat-milk curds. Stinky white spills everywhere.

Carlo shakes his head. Those curds were set out to cool, to make cheese. If he shouts, the others will come back in, and then who knows what will happen.

But Carlo only takes Cirone by the arm and leads him to bed. Then he does the same to me. He whispers, “What happened to the alligator?”

“He died.”

“The meat. What happened to the meat?”

“They took it.”

“How stupid can you be? You risk your life and you come home empty-handed?” Carlo shakes his head. “It’s just as well. Sicilians don’t hunt alligators. Don’t do it again. Ever.”

I won’t. I never want to stare at a yellow-ball eye again.

In my dreams glowing yellow balls surround the boat. Charles jumps onto a big ’gator’s back. Other ’gators jump on Charles. The thrashing mass disappears under black water. I wake in a sweat. Snores come from other beds. I drop back asleep.

In my dreams we’re in the water, the skiff upside down on top of us. I can’t find Cirone; I can’t hear him, can’t feel him. Cirone! I wake in a sweat and lie trembling.

That swamp is a live thing with an empty heart that beats anyway. No mercy, no mercy, no mercy, no mercy—drumming till you lose your mind. How can Ben and Charles and Rock face it over and over? I roll on my side and Cirone’s heels hit my chest. He’s curled in an
S
. Somehow, he’s asleep. That’s good, at least. We’re lucky we can use our uncles as an excuse never to ’gator hunt again. I close my hands around Cirone’s ankles. I’m the older one. “I’m sorry, Cirone,” I whisper. After a while I drop back asleep.

“Get up!” Francesco drags me from bed. I fall on the floor.

The room is half dark. “It isn’t even morning.”

“Joe Evans is here. You’re going out to the fields today.”

“What about the grocery?”

“Cirone will help me in the grocery.”

“What about the stand?”

“Rosario will manage.”

“Please, Francesco.”

“You’re the older one. You get more punishment. Go with Joe. Now.”

I spend the day with Joe Evans and his crew, harvesting lettuce, plowing the roots under, and planting again. By Wednesday evening I’m dead on my feet.

It’s the same story Thursday. Friday. Saturday. I have never looked forward to a Sunday as much as this one. The Lord was right when He declared a day of rest.

On Sunday Francesco pulls me out of bed again.

“It’s Sunday,” I say. “No fair.”

“I’m the one who should say no fair. It’s my Sunday, too. My only mistake was taking you into this house. I can’t sleep late on a Sunday because I have to punish you.”

“The grocery is closed. The field hands are at home. How can I work?”

“Plenty for you to do around here. Work I’ve been putting off. Start with cutting firewood for winter.”

“It’s June!”

“Get up.”

“What about Frank Raymond?”

“You already speak English good enough.”

“But he needs the food I trade or he’ll starve.” That’s not the truth, now that Frank Raymond’s painting the mural in the saloon. But Francesco doesn’t know that.

“I’ll give him greens.”

“He won’t take charity.”

Francesco lowers his brows. “I understand that. A man who has to bow too low never gets up again.” He looks at me. “All right. Chop wood in the morning. Study in the afternoon. Then you come home and work.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll walk you there. I’ll walk you back.”

And so it goes. Day after day. And I’ve only caught one glimpse of Patricia since that Wednesday—the last day of May. I was carrying crates into the grocery and she waved from across the street. That’s all. Not even words, just a wave.

I never want to hear about alligators again in my life.