Alligator Bayou

by Donna Jo Napoli

Blander crosses the street into the saloon.

  I can barely manage to stand still. I tuck in my thumbs, and wrap my fingers around them, and look up and down Depot Street.

  On the far sidewalk a lady and her daughter are watching me. It’s Mrs. Johnson. She brushes her hands off as though they’re suddenly dirty and gives me an ugly look. Then she turns her head and hurries her daughter away.

  The way she brushed her hands, she must have seen Blander’s palm on my shoulder. Rich white people like her don’t touch Sicilians or Negroes. I feel all strange and slimy. There’s crazy ways here in America, rules that Francesco calls just plain stupid. He says to ignore them. But it’s hard to ignore a woman looking at me like that.

  Blander’s not rich, so maybe he can touch whoever he wants. Still, I wonder if he’s just made a problem for himself. Maybe rich people won’t want Blander shaving their faces for a while.

  But forget that. What to do about Francesco and that gun?

  I look into the barbershop, where Frank Raymond’s landscape paintings hang on the back wall. Blander lets Frank Raymond live over the barbershop in exchange for paintings.

  What’s taking so long?

  I look toward the saloon. An enormous alligator head hangs from iron prongs above the door. Usually I glance at it, then drop my eyes as I pass. Staying on the very edge of the sidewalk, closest to the street. But now I stare, like Cirone and I stared at the panther. The ferocious mouth gapes and I see his yellow teeth. The story is, this alligator was caught crossing the road with a whole dead boar in his mouth. I believe it.

  Alligators and panthers. And men with guns. Sometimes I’m glad my little brother Rocco’s not here with me.

  What is taking them so long?

  Frank Raymond comes out of the saloon with Blander. His blond hair is bright in the sun. “Good morning, Calogero.” He smiles at me.

  “Good morning.” I look at Blander. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I reckon you’re welcome.” Blander waits, all nosy.

  I’m just about to jump out of my skin. I look at Frank Raymond. “Can we go upstairs to your place, please?”

  “I don’t have much time, Calogero. I have to get back to work.”

  “In the saloon?”

  “Painting a picture on the wall.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “There’re no customers yet, so I guess I could sneak you in just for a minute.” Frank Raymond turns to Blander. “Thanks so much.”

  “Ain’t nothing to speak of. See y’all later.” Blander goes inside his shop.

  As we walk away, I whisper, “Show me later. You have to hurry. Please, you have to get a message to Willy Rogers not to cross the railroad tracks today.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He can’t cross in his usual spot.”

  “What’s his usual spot?”

  “I don’t know. He just can’t cross. Not going to work. Not coming home.”

  “How come?”

  “I can’t tell.”

  “Then I won’t help you.” Frank Raymond crosses his arms at his chest.

  “Francesco’s waiting for him with a gun.”

  “Oh, Lord.” He rubs his forehead. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Really? Just like that?”

  “Count on it.”

  Count on it. Just like Carlo’s counting on me now. “How?”

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  “Thanks. Thanks! And, hey, what does lynch mean?”

  “Lynch?” Frank Raymond blinks and his voice goes raspy. “What are you talking about?”

  “My uncle Carlo said it, but it doesn’t sound Sicilian.”

  “Let’s talk about it at Sunday’s lesson.”

  “Thanks. And don’t let Willy Rogers know I told you.”

  “Then get out of here fast, because I’m sure Blander isn’t the only one who knows you’re talking to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Every window is an eye.”

  I don’t even dare to nod. “Thanks, thanks,” I whisper, and run.

  three

  The day is passing too slowly. But quietly, thank heavens. It’s been nothing but a steady stream of customers. Rosario and I keep selling lettuce and peas and spinach out here at the stand on the edge of town.

  For sure, Francesco and Willy Rogers are both still alive. Frank Raymond came through for us. Carlo was smart to think of asking him.

  And Rosario wasn’t annoyed at my being late to work. He’s been telling jokes all day, like always.

  I’m starting to feel normal again. Well, no—not normal. Actually, I’m starting to feel jittery all over again. But good jittery this time.

  Church school let out half an hour ago. The closing bell rang just minutes after the public-school bell sounded off from the other direction. But I’m almost sure Patricia’s still in there. It’s Wednesday; she stays after for piano lessons.

  The piano is on the ground floor of a two-story house. A family lives on the upper floor. The ground floor is the Baptist church. And the basement is the school. Unless it rains hard. Then the basement floods and school is held in the church.

  It makes sense Patricia plays piano. She’s always singing something under her breath. Her shoulders sway, her lips move. I saw the music in her before I ever knew anything else about her, except that she liked the sound of Sicilian.

  She’ll pass by on the way home if I’m lucky. I’m squinting through the afternoon sun up Stage Road, watching the church door. The windows are open, but it’s too far to hear that piano.

  “Calo, come,” Rosario calls in English. In front of customers we’re supposed to smile and repeat English after them and not worry about anything except counting cents.

  If we’re paid in cents, that is. Mostly, at Rosario’s stand we barter. It’s at Francesco’s grocery store, in the center of town, that I have to be careful of the money. At least, when the ladies and gentlemen shop. They’re the ones who use coins.

  I used to work at Francesco’s store every day, but lately he’s wanted Cirone there so that Cirone can learn to handle money. I don’t care. Out here I get to watch for Patricia.

  “Calo! You hurry.”

  Two more English words. Rosario’s near his limit. He understands what the customers say. It’s speaking he won’t do. Town people make fun of broken English.

  Nothing bothers me, though. I practice English all I can. I started back in Cefalù with Gian Pietro. He had spent a decade in America. When my father left, Mamma asked him to teach me so that I’d be ready when Papà sent for me. Only Papà never did. Anyway, I could already say lots by the time I got here. And Frank Raymond taught me more. So while Rosario’s in charge, it’s me who deals directly with the customers.

  “Afternoon,” I call, rushing to help.

  A white lady comes up to the stand with a Negro woman walking two steps behind. Why on earth is a lady shopping out here? The servant wears a kerchief covering her hair and tied under her chin, like the women who work in the cotton fields. The lady wears a fine dress and a wide, white shade hat with a rolled brim. She lifts her chin. Oh no: it’s Willy Rogers’ mother.

  I glance at Rosario. He’s not nervous. But he didn’t see the gun this morning.

  I feel like I’ve swallowed sand.

  “Good afternoon.” Mrs. Rogers smiles. I can’t tell if it’s real. Tallulah ladies smile even when they’re ordering you to get off their property. But, at least, it’s clear nothing bad has happened between Willy Rogers and Francesco. Yet.

  I take off my hat. “What can I get for you, ma’am?”

  “Them beans—the ones over there.” She points.

  Rosario throws a giant handful on a sheet of newsprint. He lifts his eyebrows at Mrs. Rogers, asking if it’s enough.

  She doesn’t look at him.

  “Is that enough, ma’am?” I ask.

  “Double that. And okra. The smallest ones.”

  Rosario is already filling
the order.

  Mrs. Rogers watches with sharp eyes as the okra pods pile up.

  “Good choice.” I nod. “Tender. And the first zucchini of the season are in.”

  “Zucchini?” Mrs. Rogers wrinkles her nose at the word. I hold one up. “Green squash,” she says. “Newfangled things.” I don’t know what that means, but I can see her eyes change. “Oh, all right. Give me some of them, too.”

  “And lettuce?”

  “Rabbit food.” Mrs. Rogers laughs. “Them bananas there.” She looks at the fruit table. “How is it y’all got pineapples and grapes?”

  “They come from South America, ma’am. Right through the port of New Orleans.” I reach and pull out a spiky leaf from the top of a pineapple. “This one’s perfectly ripe. Would you like it, ma’am?”

  “Perfectly ripe,” she mimics me. “How come you talk so fancy?”

  “I take lessons, ma’am.”

  “From that white Northern teacher in the colored school? The uppity one?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She pulls back in shock. “Y’all ain’t in the white school, surely?”

  “I don’t go to school, ma’am.”

  “Well.” She fiddles with the gathers on her bodice. “Whoever teaches you sure don’t sound like the good folk around here.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She narrows her eyes, as if she suspects I’m poking fun at her. But I keep an open face. “So, ripe pineapples. But they ain’t bruised up. And they came all the way from South America. How do y’all get them in such good shape?”

  “We know who to order from, ma’am.” I hold up a pineapple.

  “I bet you do.” Her voice is harsh again. She glares. “Them bananas is all I need.”

  Rosario tucks the newsprint packages of vegetables and bananas into the servant’s basket. She smiles small at him, and then at me. I’ve never heard her name.

  Mrs. Rogers drops coins into Rosario’s hand, careful not to touch him. At least a penny short. Rosario puts a finger on each coin in turn, then looks pointedly at her.

  She adds another penny. And, finally, another.

  I work to hold in a smile; Rosario doesn’t need words to run this stand.

  The women turn to go.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Rogers,” I call. “Good day, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Rogers looks over her shoulder and blinks. “Y’all know me?”

  Everybody knows Mrs. Rogers. And she knows that, of course. I bob my head. “Your husband is an important gentleman.”

  The corners of her mouth twitch. “Ah, you’re the boy used to work in that other grocery.” She half whispers the word other, as though she’s talking about something bad. “You did good to change bosses.” Mrs. Rogers nods. “You got sense. Next time I’ll send Lila alone. You take good care of her now, grocer boy, you hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Off she goes, Lila following.

  I slap my hat back on my head.

  “Yes, ma’am,” comes a taunting whisper from behind.

  I turn. And she’s there, hair drawn into two braids that glisten in the sun. I grin.

  “You ain’t got to kiss her feet, you know.” Patricia takes off her shoes and slips them into her cloth bag. She walks past me on wide brown feet rimmed with pink. “She got nowhere else to buy such nice vegetables and fruits now that her son Willy had that fight with your crazy uncle.”

  So that’s why Mrs. Rogers came here rather than the “other” grocery—Francesco’s store. And everyone’s heard about the fight, and probably knows I visited Frank Raymond this morning, too. Everyone in Tallulah knows everything that happens in Tallulah.

  As she leaves, Patricia looks over her shoulder at me in a way that makes my skin wake up.

  “I’ll be back.” I run to catch up with Patricia.

  “Hey!” Rosario calls.

  I keep going.

  four

  “Mrs. Rogers is wrong,” I say to Patricia. “Business is business. Francesco would sell to her no matter what her son did.”

  Patricia walks fast. “That ain’t what she think. She just proud. She won’t let her money go into his hands.”

  “It does anyway. We all share.”

  “All you Eye-talians.” Patricia drags the word out.

  I don’t know what to make of that, so I ignore it.

  “She believe what she want to believe, and I reckon a yes-ma’aming boy like you ain’t never going to set her straight.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “Couldn’t care less.” She sticks her nose in the air.

  I don’t understand this girl. “Can I walk you home?”

  “It’s a free country. Besides, it look like you already is.”

  And all at once I don’t know what else to say. We walk quickly. Patricia’s bare feet make almost no noise, but my shoes crunch. Too loud. I wish she’d sing that song she taught me last time we met. But I can’t ask.

  We walk south along the edge of Brushy Bayou, out of town.

  A startled bird flies up from the brush.

  “If I only had a slingshot on me.” Patricia blows through closed lips, making a blubbery sound. “That was a wild turkey.”

  I shrug. I don’t like hunting. I don’t have good aim.

  “I know everything about birds.” Patricia turns her head sharply, tossing a braid. “They’s lots more turkey if you go north. You ever been north?”

  I shake my head. “I only been south. I landed in New Orleans and spent a week there.”

  “A week in New Orleans,” she breathes, impressed.

  Guilt prickles my cheeks. “Well, actually, the steamship docked on Tuesday, the twenty-fifth of October 1898…” I love that date. It’s like a birth date in a way, the birth of my American life. “…but with all the inspections and questions, they wouldn’t let anyone but first class off board until Friday. So, really, I was only in the city a few days, before … what do you call it? … sneak … sneaking onto a freight train to come north. It rained the whole time.” I search for the right words. “Mud. All that mud slopped up everywhere.”

  She looks at me sideways. “You done talking yet?”

  My cheeks flame. “I’m done.”

  “You sure? ’Cause that was some speech. Like a flock of geese, all landing at once.” She laughs. “Your ship have a name?”

  “The Liguria.”

  “Hmm. I’d give a lot to spend a few days in New Orleans.”

  “You will someday. You’re getting an education. You’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Where you from, sugar, that you think a colored girl can do whatever she want, with or without a education? That Sicily, it’s some other kind of world?” Despite her words I see a smile in her eyes.

  “Don’t they teach you hope in school?” I ask. “A church school, and no hope? Baptists got it all wrong.”

  “That ain’t no church school.” She skips a few steps. “Colored boys ain’t allowed in the boys’ class at the town schoolhouse, and colored girls ain’t allowed in the girls’ class. So we use the church basement. Boys and girls together. A fine public school.” She throws her shoulders back. “Course, we read Bible verses. At the opening and closing of the day. Like every public school.”

  I thought it was a Baptist school. Sheriff Lucas told Francesco that Italians aren’t white according to the laws of Louisiana, so I wasn’t allowed in the town schoolhouse on South Chestnut Street, either. The sheriff said I could go to the church school—Patricia’s school. He advised against it, though. He said I’d be better off with no education. Or I could take a tutor, and he told us about Frank Raymond.

  Well, Francesco couldn’t have given a dried fig for Sheriff Lucas’ opinions. And he didn’t think I needed more schooling, anyhow. Cirone didn’t have any. But, no matter what, he wasn’t about to send me to a Protestant classroom.

  That sounded right to me—I would never set foot in a Baptist church, for the sake of my dead mamma’s spirit, which is
as Catholic as spirits get. I had to keep up my education, though. Mamma would have wanted me to. She didn’t let me quit school even after my father disappeared, when we needed money so bad. I had to keep studying. It was paying respect.

  And now it turns out that school isn’t a church school at all. Here I’ve been trading food and chores for lessons in English from Frank Raymond when I could have been spending the days with Patricia.

  But Frank Raymond’s done well by me. Besides, he’s a painter, and artists know more about the world than most people.

  Still, a real school is something else. With a real teacher. And Patricia.

  “I think I’ll come to school with you tomorrow. To sign up.”

  “Go ahead. Be dumb.” Patricia lifts her nose.

  “What do you mean? Then I could study with you.”

  “We get out for the summer at the end of the day on Saturday. Besides, I’m graduating lower school. And I don’t guess I’ll be going to upper school come September. I’ll get my working papers. I’m the right age now. If I can save enough money from cleaning the church to pay for piano lessons, I can sure save enough to pay for working papers.”

  “What you doing, Tricia?” A boy a head taller than Patricia approaches. Two boys follow; they block our path. “You late.”

  “Like every Wednesday. Besides, it ain’t your business, no how.”

  “You oughtn’t to walk alone. Four miles. That’s too long for a girl alone.”

  Patricia smirks. “Y’all see just fine I ain’t alone.”

  “Right, honey,” the boy says in a patronizing tone. “That’s why you ought to walk with a friend.”

  Patricia shakes her head in disgust. “Calogero, meet my brother, Charles. He ain’t always rude. Charles, meet my friend Calogero.”

  I hold out my hand to shake.

  Charles looks at it in surprise. Then he shakes.

  I shake hands with all three boys.

  And no one’s speaking.

  “You best hurry, Tricia,” says Charles at last. “Reckon we’ll walk your friend back where he came from.”

  Patricia frowns. “You be friendly, Charles. All of you boys, y’all be friendly.” She glances at me, then runs past the boys.

  They step forward so that they’re standing one on either side of me and one directly in front. I’m surrounded. Two of them are taller than me.