Alligator Bayou Page 3

  Charles looks me up and down. “You shake hands a lot, like some big man.”

  I wasn’t trying to be a big man. I keep my mouth shut.

  “Yeah, bet you don’t weigh more than a hundred pounds with your britches off and your feet washed,” says another one of the boys, “yet you proud as a dog with two tails.”

  They all laugh.

  “That shaking hands—that’s a dago thing,” that boy says. “I seen it before.”

  Charles puts a fist on a hip. “That’s a dago thing?”

  I shrug.

  “You like my sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “What you like about her?”

  I feel a trap, but I don’t know how to get around it. “Everything.”

  The boy who’s been silent all along steps forward and digs a toe into the dirt. “Tricia pretty as a speckled pup. I like everything about her, too.”

  Am I supposed to fight? I cross my arms at the chest like Frank Raymond always does. I know how to fight. But three against one …

  “That’s Rock,” says Charles, jerking his chin toward the boy.

  I nod at Rock.

  “Strange name, huh?” says Charles. “He got it ’cause he stubborn. His mother call his head a rock.”

  “I have a brother back in Sicily named Rocco.”

  “Yeah?” This time it’s Rock who speaks up.

  “He’s stubborn, too. And smart.” I don’t tell him Rocco is only four.

  Rock gives a half smile.

  I drop my arms and smile back.

  “A little agreement over a name and ’stead of fighting, y’all suddenly conversating.” Charles makes a face. “You dumb as a sack full of hammers, Rock.”

  Rock shrugs and looks at me. “I seen you working at the grocery.”

  “My uncle owns it.”

  “You must have too much work now and then, huh?”

  I’ve never seen us too busy, but I nod. Cirone told me business gets wild by midsummer, when the fields are producing nonstop.

  “Maybe you could throw a job our way. Just now and then, I mean.”

  “I could ask.”

  Charles shakes his head. “This is something, all right. We in business together now.” He laughs. “Well, how about this? Tricia going home to cook. You know what she put in the pot for supper?” His voice is a challenge.

  I stare at him.

  “’Gator.” Charles smiles. “Still like everything about her, Mr. Calo-whatever?”

  I nod, keeping my eyes steady. The image of the alligator head above the door to the saloon comes into my mind. Ugly as a pox.

  “You ever eat ’gator?”

  I shake my head.

  “I didn’t think so. I hear say you dagoes too dumb to eat ’gator.” Charles laughs and looks at the others. “We got to remedy that, don’t you think?”

  “Sure do.” Rock nods. “And the best eating, well… that’s after catching. Right, Ben?” He looks at the third boy, who gives a nod. Rock puts his finger in the middle of my chest. “When the time right, we going hunting. ’Gator hunting.”

  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

  Cirone 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.