Alligator Bayou (8 page)

thirteen

T
he last time I saw this many people in one place was when my steamship arrived in New Orleans; passengers jammed the top deck of the ship, people swarmed the docks. But that was different, because everyone was going about their own business. Here, everyone has the same business—this giant party. The six of us stand and stare. Charles wasn’t exaggerating; there’re probably two hundred people here.

“Help me carry the
pasticcia rustica,”
says Carlo.

Good old Carlo. We’re bringing food; that means we belong here, even if we can’t see a soul we know.

We parade back and forth from the wagon to the long line of tables, carrying pies. The tables are already laden with food. We slide a pie in here, another in there.

But now we’re empty-handed again. And still surrounded by strangers. They talk and laugh, just not with us. In fact, they give us sideways glances, as though we make them anxious. I avoid their eyes and search for Patricia.

“Look how happy they are,” says Francesco. “So easy.”

“Bet this is what it’s like in Tangipahoa Parish,” says Rosario wistfully.

“Yeah,” says Giuseppe. “We should be with Sicilians.”

“Well, we’re here—not there.” Francesco waves to a man who’s been a hired hand in the vegetable fields many times. The man stares, then smiles uncertainly and waves back. “All right.” Francesco beckons us into a huddle. “I’m going off to talk. You do the same.”

“How can I be friendly if I can’t speak English?” mutters Giuseppe.

“You drank and ate with people when we lived in New Orleans, and you were no better at English then than you are now. What, Giuseppe? You want us to talk to no one but each other for the rest of our lives? They’re the first ones who have treated us nice since we got here. If you don’t understand, stuff your mouth with food and nod. Keep smiling and you’ll have a good time.” Francesco straightens up tall and marches off.

It’s funny, because I think of Francesco as strong and blustery. But the way he squared his shoulders just now, I can tell he’s trying to be brave.

We watch him disappear into the throng and I sense my uncles’ spirits flag. They’ll feel worse when I leave, too. Where is Patricia?

“Hi, stranger.” A hand clamps down on my shoulder. It’s Charles.

Rock is beside him. He clamps a hand on Cirone’s shoulder. “Hey, Dancer.”

Cirone smiles slow, almost shy. “Hi.”

“Your foot all right?”

“Fine,” says Cirone. “It was fine the next day.”

“Ben said it: you got spirit, Dancer. He off playing the graduate, by the way,” Charles says to me, as though I’d asked. “Y’all see the seat of his pants?”

“No,” I say. I don’t understand the question.

“Big and round. Someone put a throne back there.” Charles laughs.

I look at Rock for an explanation.

“Ben shaking hands with everyone, like some king,” says Rock.

Charles kicks the dirt. “The graduate. I be doing it in another couple of years.”

“I’ll shake King Ben’s hand,” I say.

“Shake it now,” says Charles. “Come with us.” He leads the way.

“No,” I say.

“Huh?” Charles turns.

“I’m going to stay with my uncles awhile.”

Rock glances over at Giuseppe and Carlo and Rosario. They’re standing in a row with their hands folded in front of their bellies, looking vaguely stunned. Rock nods to me. “See y’all later.”

“I’ll come,” says Cirone, not shy at all.

The three of them leave. Cirone abandoned me. But, hey, if I’d seen Patricia by now, I’d have left him behind, too.

Rosario sidles up to me. “Looking for someone?” He winks. “Patricia,” he sings very very softly right into my ear. “Patricia, Patricia.”

My cheeks go hot. Thank heavens the others can’t hear. “She’s just a friend.”

“I’ve seen how you are with her,” whispers Rosario. “I felt like that about a girl back in New Orleans.” Before I can protest, he jerks his chin. “Look! Joe Evans. Come on.”

“You don’t speak English any better than us,” says Giuseppe.

“Like Francesco says, we eat and smile. Come on.”

“Not me,” says Carlo.

Rosario leaves. Giuseppe rubs the back of his neck, then trails after him.

It’s just Carlo and me.

“All that food,” says Carlo. “I’m going to find new recipes. See you later.”

Now I’m alone. Standing here like a dummy.

I follow Carlo. We sample pan-fried catfish, piles of mashed potatoes, green beans with cubes of lard floating in them, collards, black-eyed peas, steamed mustard greens. The whole time my eyes search.

There she is. Two tables up. Patricia digs a spoon into a pie. It’s been so long, I feel I hardly remember her. She’s beautiful. I move along, winding around people. But by the time I get there, she’s disappeared.

So has Carlo.

Well, all right; I’m alone. Time to feast. I taste every meat—muskrat, swamp rabbit, chicken, loggerhead turtle. Is this the turtle that attacked Cirone’s foot?

There’s our ’gator. Everyone’s saying it’s tasty. The beast of that night is long gone. This is just meat. I take a nibble; it wakes my tongue. My tight neck and shoulders finally loosen. Now that I’m not so nervous, I realize I know lots of these people. Mostly the women. They’re servants—I sell them vegetables.

And there’s Patricia again. An old man pulls her into a hug, practically crushing her. Now the old woman beside him is kissing her.

I try to catch her eye.

Ah, the next table holds desserts. One is bread pudding, full of pecans, and oh, sweet Mother of God, that’s it for me. Bread pudding, ah, bread pudding is heaven.

I eat slowly, trying not to feel lost. I see people laughing with my uncles. Just about every time I spy Patricia, she’s laughing with someone, too. She’s got the brightest teeth.

The church bell rings and Patricia’s uncle Paul holds up a hand. He makes a speech about the graduates, who look proud. And the whole crowd says, “Amen.”

A man leads us in prayer and everyone closes their eyes.

But I can’t. Patricia looks soft and floaty in her pale yellow dress. Her hair hangs loose over her shoulders, glossy and thick, all wavy from being in braids most of the time. Her lips glisten.

Everyone sings “We’ll walk in the light, the beautiful light.” Then another song. And another. And another.

A band plays and people dance, singing along. Where’s Patricia gone?

A man comes through the crowd announcing, “No spitting. No card playing. No crap shooting. No whisky drinking. No cursing. This here celebration is for the young-uns. Just dancing and singing.”

Another man calls out dance figures and everyone’s spinning each other, raising hands high for a clap.

“Give it a try,” says a voice from behind. Rock. I think I like him best of the three boys. “Come on,” says Rock. “It ain’t hard to conquer. Just do what I do.”

If I dance, I won’t be able to keep my eye out for Patricia. “Later.”

“Y’all better stir now, before the party over.” Rock gives me a light punch in the arm. “I need to find Dancer and Charles. They ain’t no scaredy-cats.” He walks off.

And there’s Patricia. I finally catch her eye. I lift a hand, but a girlfriend whisks her off to dance.

Before I know it, people are kissing goodbye. It’s not that late; the party can’t be over yet. No! Two girls pass me with their arms wrapped around each other’s waists. That’s how girls in Tallulah like to walk together. Bumping along, half tripping each other.

Francesco gathers us. “Time to leave.”

“It can’t be.” My voice comes out as a whine. I want to snatch it back, but I can’t help it. The bowl I made is still in the wagon. I couldn’t give it to Patricia without breaking through a circle of friends—and that would have made it seem like some big thing, when all it is is a bowl.

“Get in the back,” says Francesco.

I look around one last time. Patricia must have gone inside the church.

I lift the bowl from the wagon and race off.

“You be quick,” Francesco calls after me.

I’m going into the back of the church when I almost smack into Patricia. “Here.” I thrust the bowl into her hands. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” She lifts it up and down. “A bunch of ferns with a rock in the middle?”

“I made it for you.” I’m walking backward down the path. “It’s nothing.”

“Thanks for nothing, then.” She’s walking toward me.

It takes me a second to get it. Then I laugh.

“Where you going?”

“Home.”

“Stay while I open it, at least.”

“Francesco’s in the wagon. He said be quick.”

“You always do things on time? Like a clock?”

“Don’t you?”

“Sometimes the clock slow.”

I smile.

“Sometimes it behind something, so you don’t even see it.”

I smile bigger.

“Sometimes ain’t no clock at all.”

I laugh. “But you don’t know Francesco. If he says quick, he means it.”

“Well, then, I’ll wait to open this present till I see you again.”

Good. That way I have to see her again soon. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Y’all get enough to eat?”

“More than enough. Good night, Patricia.”

“Night, Calogero. Sweet dreams.” Her voice teases.

The wagon is already lurching through the grass. I have to run and catch the side boards and throw myself on. Cirone grabs me by the seat of my pants and lugs me up. I scramble to the front of the wagon bed and sit with my arms hugging my knees.

I talked to her. I’ve talked to her so many times, but it was never like this. This time she couldn’t think it was accidental, just me happening to be in her path. She knows I came to find her. I talked to her and she was funny. She’s always funny.

“They ate them all.” Carlo sits with his legs straight out in front of him and a pile of pie tins on his lap. “Every single one.”

“Ten pies,” I say.

“What do you mean, ten? Twelve. Americans do things by the dozen.”

“Twelve.” I give a whistle of approval. Americans do that, too.

“They loved them,” says Carlo.

“What did you think of that alligator?” Rosario asks Carlo. In the moonlight I see him picking things out from between his teeth. And he’s looking at me all sly. Why?

“Pepper,” says Carlo, and he shakes his head. “Too much.” He rubs his hands together. “One of the graduates prepared it. A girl.”

A girl? I look at Cirone.

“Patricia,” Cirone whispers in my ear.

“How do you know?”

“Charles told everyone.”

I remember when Charles caught that alligator. He said Patricia was going to make a special portion for me.

And she asked me if I’d had enough to eat.

And I said, “More than enough.” Oh, no. That could mean I didn’t like it. I finally get up the nerve to talk to her and that’s what I say.

What must she think?

fourteen

W
e get home and take care of the wagon and horse, and Cirone and I go to bed while the men sit on the porch. They sit right on the floor—that’s our new tradition. After all, it’s a wood floor now, as Francesco likes to point out, just like Dr. Hodge’s. They smoke cigars and drink
limoncello
and talk softly. The goats tramp around them and make their
nee-haw
noises.

I lie in bed fully dressed with a sheet pulled up to my neck and wait and wait. The night cools down a bit, but I’m drenched in sweat, practically ready to jump out of my skin by the time the men finally haul off to bed.

When the room is a chorus of snores, I get up and pad softly through the kitchen. Dried butter beans and okra and garlic hang from the ceiling. I work my way around them to the porch, tie my shoes on, and run.

This is crazy. If Francesco finds out, I’m a dead man.

But even without Francesco, this is crazy. I know where Patricia lives. That day I walked her home we could see her house at the end of the path when Charles and Ben and Rock stopped us. It looks like every two-room tenant-farmer shack. How on earth will I get her to come outside without waking up everyone else?

No answer comes. But I’m still running.

More than enough
.

I want to kick myself for saying that.

The quickest way is to pass through town and out the other side. I take Walnut Street at a run. Families are walking home from the ice cream saloon down the center of the road. Sidewalks line the major streets of Tallulah, but no one uses them at night. So I can run free there.

A little girl rides on her daddy’s shoulders. I carried Rocco like that sometimes. He laughed when I’d prance and make him bounce. I’ve got to get him over here soon.

The little girl points at me. “That your goat?”

I stop and turn around. Bedda trots up and bangs her head into my legs.

“Go home, Bedda,” I mutter in Sicilian.

The little girl laughs, and her family hurries on by.

I should have used English in front of them. But Bedda doesn’t understand English. At least, that’s what Francesco says.

Bedda rams me again. I look around. She’s alone. It’s odd for a goat to go trotting off alone. She should want to go back to the others.

“Get out of here, Bedda.”

She jumps up and puts her front hooves on my chest, like a dog. I’m not going to run all the way back home to tie her up. She’d only kick at whatever I tied her to and then Francesco would wake and everything would be ruined. Dr. Hodge is right: goats should be penned up at night. Francesco is a maniac to say goats need their freedom. And Carlo is a fool to back him up and say cheese from free goats tastes better. The truth is, Francesco loves these stupid goats, especially Bedda.

I’ll just have to lose her. I run through the streets this way and that. Bedda stays at my heels. I hide behind trees, but she finds me. I shout at her, but she only rams me.

Then I get an idea. I know it’s terrible of me, but what can I do? I run past Dr. Hodge’s house. And just like that Bedda leaves me and trots up onto Dr. Hodge’s porch. Why, I don’t know. But in this moment I’m just grateful.

I run flat out. The night is full of croaks from the little ponds all around. Insects fly into my face with a small
crack
. It’s still warm. Running through this heavy, humid air feels almost like swimming. But I don’t slow down.

Finally, I’m in front of Patricia’s place. I lean forward and push my hands against my knees to rest as I catch my breath. Not a single lamp shines in that house. If I peek in a window, I’m liable to get a smack on the head. Or worse.

I walk slowly around the house. Something screeches and runs across my path. I stop short. Just a cat. A dog would rip me apart, me sneaking around like this. Something sits on the ground outside one window. A pile of crumpled ferns. Like the ones I wrapped the bowl in. Patricia stood inside that window, for sure.

What’s the worst that could happen? Her uncles might yell at me. They’re not going to have a loaded shotgun waiting by the window.

Are they?

I crouch down under the window and whisper loudly, “Patricia.”

I wait forever.

This is insane. If anyone heard me, they’re going to bonk me over the head with a plank of wood. I straighten up and walk back toward the path.

“Y’all sure give up easy.” Patricia’s standing out front in that soft yellow dress. She walks up to me.

I want to touch her arm. “I liked the ’gator.”

“Come all this way just to tell me that?” The tips of her teeth shine white in the moonlight.

“No. I loved the ’gator. It was the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“The best, huh?”

“The very best.”

“Well, if that’s all you got to say, then good night.” She turns to go.

“Wait.”

She spins on her heel.

“I didn’t know you had a cat.” How dumb can I get?

“I didn’t know you was a artist.”

“You opened my present. I saw the ferns on the ground outside the window. You said you wouldn’t open it till you saw me again.”

“I saw you,” says Patricia. “I saw you in my head.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

“I like the bowl,” she says.

“Really?”

“No. I love it.” She giggles. “Want to take a walk?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t you want to put shoes on first?”

“What for? Shoes make feet tender. I got strong feet and I aim to keep them strong.”

“You had shoes on at the party.”

“I got a mother, too.”

I laugh. “You make everything so … simple … I mean…”

“Y’all calling me simple?” But she’s laughing, too.

Flustered, I turn and walk off the path.

“Not that way,” Patricia whispers loud. “That way the outhouse.”

“Oh.”

“It be moving all the time.”

“What?”

“In the wintertime it’s too far away; in the summer too close.”

It takes me a minute to catch her joke. I laugh. “I was in your classroom. I held a book.”

“Y’all ain’t never held a book before?”

“Of course I did.” But I didn’t hold a book you’d held. “I went to school in Sicily. Until my mother died.”

“I didn’t know.” Patricia’s voice goes soft. “Sorry you lost your mamma.” She walks ahead now, then turns to face me, so she’s walking backward and I’m walking forward. It’s just like we were at the church earlier tonight, only I was the one walking backward then. “Ever hear they’s seventeen thousand Eye-talians in Louisiana?”

I shake my head. “How do you know?”

“The United States Census of 1890 told me.” She turns and skips a few steps, then turns back to face me again. “Well, not actually them. Miss Clarrie. My teacher. During sugarcane season they’s more, because Eye-talians come from all over to work the harvest.” She points at me and smiles. “Most of them Sicilian. Like y’all. That’s what my teacher say.”

“Your teacher is smart.”

“The smartest woman in the world. Ugly, too. Ugly as a mud fence in a rainstorm.”

“A mud fence?”

“It just mean she really ugly. But that’s good.”

“Good? How come?”

“A pretty woman get married. And a married woman ain’t allowed to teach.”

“What do you like best about her? I mean, besides that she’s the smartest woman in the world.”

“She taught us to ask. Never be afeared to look dumb. ’Cause looking dumb don’t matter. Being dumb, that matter. So just ask. And if you don’t get a straight answer, then go seeking. No matter what it is. Just go seeking.”

I’m suddenly ashamed. I should ask, then. “What’s the United States Census?”

Patricia laughs. “Every ten years our government send people door-to-door collecting information. Who live here? What color? What religion? You know.”

“Why do they want to know that?”

“I’m not sure. But I’m glad.”

“Because then you know how many Eye-talians there are in Louisiana?” I say, joking.

“That, and ’cause when the census takers went around after the big war, they found slaves who didn’t know they wasn’t slaves no more.”

Prickles run up my arms. “How could people not know?”

“My grandmother didn’t. My mother was seven years old in 1870 when a census taker came to the door and told her they was free. Five years after the war ended.”

Slaves five years longer than they had to be. I feel like some giant animal has stomped on me.

A hoot comes from far off, then a screech.

“Know what that was?” asks Patricia.

“No.”

“A barred owl just caught him a snake. I hope it was a coral snake. They look so pretty and act so mean. Why, a coral snake would do his grandma out of her supper if he had a chance.” She turns and skips ahead again. Skips barefoot, after talking about a coral snake.

I run and catch up.

A
rat-a-tat
comes from somewhere ahead.

“Ivory-billed woodpecker,” says Patricia. “See that bit of white?” She points.

“I don’t see a thing.”

“It’s hard in the dark. He big and fat—the biggest woodpecker of all. But he black, so the night hide him, even his red crest. All you can see is that bright white bill. Look up in that old tree. They like the oldest trees. There. See him?”

And I do now. A little speck of white.

“Looking for a mate,” says Patricia.

“Is that what his pecking means?”

“When the beats come regular. If they come all crazy, then you just got one hungry bird, pecking for grubs.”

“And that?” I point where something flew low. “What was that?”

“Hush.” Patricia puts her hand on my arm to still me.

Her hand is warm and soft.

After a while the call sings out.

“I thought so. A nightjar.”

“It flew like the bats in Sicily.”

“Both of them swoop low to catch insects.”

“You said you know everything about birds. It’s true. How’d you learn?”

She takes her hand off my arm.

In a flash of courage, I catch that hand.

She doesn’t pull away.

We’re hand in hand. It doesn’t matter where we go now, we’re hand in hand.

“Uncle Bill used to take all us young-uns out for hikes. Day and night. The others didn’t care. But I learned. And it mattered.”

“How?”

“I got sick when I was eight. Ran a fever all winter. Couldn’t eat, could barely drink. I had to stop school. For the whole year after that, Mamma was too afeared to let me go to school. She thought I might catch something even worse and die. All I did was stay by the window and listen to the birds.”

“That must have been hard, being sick.”

“Sure. But it was wonderful learning birds right. I love their calls. They use music to talk. And they chatterboxes like you wouldn’t believe. They talk all the time. Less at night, but if you pay attention, you hear them. Listen.”

I listen. At first there’s nothing. Then… “You’re right. The night’s full of birdcalls.”

“Not them frogs. Listen to the other ones. The far-off calls.”

I strain. And there they are. Distant and soft with long silence between.

“Whip-poor-wills,” she says. “Anyway, I missed two years of school. I had to study extra hard to graduate lower school on time.”

“I knew you were smart.”

She stops in her tracks. “You trying to butter me up for a kiss?”

I feel all crazy. I’ve never kissed a girl. I step toward her.

She points past me. I look. “The edge of town. You know what they do to you if they see you kiss a colored girl?”

I step closer. “I don’t care.”

“You got no idea.”

I kiss her. And she kisses me back. Warm and sweet and wet.

“Good night, Calogero,” she says right into my mouth. “You got soft lips. They feel nice.” She steps away.

All I want is to pull her to me again. But I don’t. “I’ll walk you back home.”

“No you won’t. You too slow. I’m running.”

I hold her hand tighter. “Don’t run. Cirone and I saw a panther. They chase runners.”

“Silly. Ain’t enough trees between here and home for a panther to feel safe. I’m running.”

“What’s the hurry?”

“Every human being got his race to run.”

“Is that a riddle or something?”

She smiles. “My mamma say that. I got mine. You got yours. Be quick!” And she’s gone, yellow folding into the black air in the time it takes to stop feeling her hand in mine.

I walk along Depot Street, going pole to pole, touching them—for no other reason than that they’re there. They go all the way to New Orleans in one direction and New York in the other, and to farther places, to the whole rest of the world. The wires linking those poles carry telegraph messages. And those new things—telephone messages. Frank Raymond told me half a dozen people in town already have those gadgets.

The street is deserted. Every store has closed for the night. It’s peaceful. Wonderful. I run in a long lope. I’m not in any hurry, it just feels good. The sky is star-spangled from horizon to horizon. I turn up a side street.

“Damn goats!” Dr. Hodge has a broom in his hands, swiping at the rear of two goats.

I race to the next corner. But not fast enough. Bedda heads straight for me. And Bruttu, the billy, is right behind her. He must have come looking for her.

“Are those your goats?” shouts Dr. Hodge. “You one of those damned dagoes?”

He can’t possibly recognize me in the dark. But my heart bangs.

“Next time I’ll shoot them. I’ll shoot them dead. And you, too.”

I run as if the devil’s chasing.