Alligator Bayou

by Donna Jo Napoli

  “Our ’gator? You didn’t eat it yet? It must be rotten by now.”

  He laughs. “We smoked it. That make it last. The sauce will be special. We invited every colored family in and around Tallulah. Over a hundred folks will come. Maybe two hundred. Going to be some show. And my family, we running it.”

  “Wow.”

  “Uncle Paul and I went over to your place last night to talk about trading for food. You was already asleep in bed, by the way.” He bumps me with his shoulder. “My uncle and your uncle, they conversated for a hour. Laughing and drinking. And in the end y’all coming, too.”

  “My family?” I give a whoop.

  We pull up to the church, and a man helps us unload. “This here’s Uncle Bill.”

  Not much later I’m standing in the kitchen porch beside the last box from the wagon, watching the women chop kale, cardoon, chicory. I’ve kept my eyes open since I got here, but I haven’t caught a glimpse of Patricia. Slowly I take celery out of the box and pile the stalks onto a table. Maybe if I hang around awhile, she’ll turn up.

  I step close to one of the women. “Could I make myself useful, ma’am?”

  The women hush and look at me, as though I’ve said a bad word. Then the one I addressed smiles wryly. “You already been useful, child. And polite. Much obliged.”

  “So that’s where you at.” Charles comes in. “Want to see my classroom?”

  I follow him down to the basement. Each of the two rooms has a long center table with side benches. I wonder where Patricia sits.

  Shelves line the inner walls. Some hold stacks of writing slates. Others have paper tablets. And books! Frank Raymond and I read his newspaper together. But he doesn’t own books. I walk along, scanning titles. Copies of the Bible. Hilliard’s First Reader. Hilliard’s Second Reader. Cowley’s Speller. The New York Speller. And there’s that playwright that Patricia told me about: William Shakespeare.

  Patricia’s probably held all these books. I pick one up.

  “I just finished second year of upper,” says Charles. “I’m good in my books.”

  I think of Patricia saying she’s not going on to upper school in autumn. She’s going to get her working papers. Why can’t she be the one to go on in school? “Doesn’t your family need you to work?”

  Charles looks at me. “I work all summer. All day long. And I don’t stop when school start. I get up and milk the same seventeen cows of Mr. Ralph Burton every morning before school. In autumn I go to Mr. Coleman and chop ten rows of cotton before school and come home to chop another twenty. You ain’t the only one who work, Mr. Calo-whatever. Maybe surrounded by fruits and vegetables all day, you think food is everything. Geography and history and music and composition and declamation and ’rithmetic. I care about all that.”

  So do I. But I don’t want to argue. I search for something to say. “Today’s July first. How come you didn’t have this graduation weeks ago, when school ended?”

  “This ain’t the ceremony. We had a graduation ceremony, with our teacher and all, the last day of school. This is a celebration for families—proud of us young-uns for getting an education.” He puffs out his chest.

  I ride the wagon to the grocery. The empty boxes bump around in back.

  Francesco greets me with a smile. “A party. And we’re invited. You made us friends. That’s what we’ve been missing. Friends and women. You can buy women in Vicksburg, but you can’t buy friends. No amount of my offering cigars and drinks has made us friends. The Negroes here are so much more timid than the ones in New Orleans. They just won’t take your hand, no matter how far out you stretch it. But you, you changed all that, Calogero. You made friends just selling fruits.” He stops. “Ah! Alligator friends?”

  I swallow.

  He puts up a hand. He drops his head and walks in a circle with that hand still held high. “You are never going in a swamp again! Never!”

  “Never.” I would stake my life on that promise.

  “Never!” he shouts.

  “Never.” My word is a stone.

  He finally stops circling and drops his hand. “Then we understand each other. There are other things to do with friends. Safe things. And that’s that.” His voice calms and his face changes back to normal. He takes a deep breath. “I like that Uncle Paul. He’s all right. And it makes sense we should go to a party at that school. That’s supposed to be our school. Sheriff Lucas said so. We’ll stay outside where the dancing and singing are. We won’t go in the Protestant church part. Just the school grounds.” He smiles and shakes his head as if in disbelief. “A party!” He dances between two rows of bins. “You should see what Carlo’s making to bring.”

  “Pasticcia rustica,” I say, remembering the ingredients on the table this morning.

  “Those pies are so good, they’ll be like a present.”

  A present! “I want to get Patricia a present.” The words blurt from me on their own. I don’t even know if people give graduation presents here.

  “Who’s Patricia?”

  “She’s graduating. It’s her party. Charles is her brother. Paul from last night is her uncle.” The words keep tumbling out. Would she even want a present from me?

  Francesco bobs his head. “Graduating, huh? She needs a nice present.”

  And in this instant I know exactly the right one. I made it for her—I just didn’t know that when I was doing it. “I’ve got to go see Frank Raymond. About the present.”

  Francesco rubs his lips. “You’re the reason we’re invited. So, all right. You go to Frank Raymond’s. Then you come back early.”

  “I promise.”

  But at that moment the girl who works for Mrs. Severe comes in. I smile. Then I blink. I’d nearly forgotten about the feud. The Severe family is friends with the Rogers family, everyone knows that. So if Mrs. Rogers is boycotting Francesco’s grocery, I would have expected Mrs. Severe to do the same. Francesco rushes past me to serve her.

  Coming through that door a second later is Joe Evans’ wife. Francesco shoots me a look: take care of her fast. I greet Mrs. Evans and run around filling her order. Then Richie comes in. He’s been our hired hand on many occasions. Francesco’s still serving Mrs. Severe’s girl and I’m still serving Mrs. Evans. So I wave to Richie, to let him know I saw him.

  Mr. Coleman comes in the door. I feel almost dizzy: four customers at once! He calls out, “What I got to do to get some service around here?”

  Francesco is already wrapping the last of the order for Mrs. Severe’s girl. He tucks it into her basket and she scurries out, head down.

  “Mr. Coleman,” calls Francesco. “I be there. I take care Richie, and you next.”

  “What? You joking? I need them fat strawberries—like you sold us last week.”

  “Richie here first. You next.” Francesco turns to Richie. “What you want?”

  Mr. Coleman looks like he’s been hit on the head. He points at me. “Boy, get me them strawberries.”

  I’m wrapping beans in newsprint for Mrs. Evans. My breath catches.

  “Now!” he shouts.

  Mrs. Evans grabs the beans. “I reckon I have what I need, Calogero. Much obliged.” She practically runs out the door.

  Francesco is talking friendly to Richie. He doesn’t even look at Mr. Coleman.

  “Yes, sir!” I say to Mr. Coleman. “Strawberries. They came fresh this morning.”

  Mr. Coleman’s hands are jammed in his pockets. He rocks back on his heels and surveys the ceiling.

  “Is this enough?” I hold out a sheet of newsprint piled high with the best berries.

  “You say sir to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t look me in the face. Look at the ground when you talk to a gentleman.”

  I look down. “Yes, sir. Would you need anything else, sir?”

  “Be polite. Not like that crazy man you work for. Serving darkies ahead of whites! Ain’t you got eyes? I walk in here and I see three darkies. That makes me first. You got that
?” He takes off his cap and smacks it against a bin. “No wonder you people get in trouble all the time. They say you’re instigators. But they’re wrong. Fact is, you ain’t got no sense.” He slaps his cap back on, pulls it down hard. “I ain’t soft, like Willy Rogers. You ever treat me this way again and y’all won’t have no business no more.”

  I’m shaking now. Polite. That’s the second time I’ve heard that word this morning. Be polite. No matter what. I wrap the strawberries. Perfect Sicilian-grown strawberries, if he only knew—ha! “Six cents, sir.”

  Mr. Coleman throws the coins on the floor. “I see how y’all give food to them darkies for free. You didn’t take a cent from that woman. Not one red cent. Then you overcharge the whites. Y’all’re planning something, all right. You pee down my back and tell me it’s raining, and you think I don’t know no better. Criminals. A bunch of criminals. Willy Rogers got that down, all right.” He grabs the strawberries and leaves.

  Francesco pats Richie on the back and leads him to the door.

  And we’re alone. Finally.

  “Criminals,” says Francesco in Sicilian. “He’s the criminal. You and me, we never commit crimes.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I say, my voice trembling. “I charged him six cents for five cents’ worth of strawberries.”

  “You didn’t! Really?”

  “A penny fine. Rudeness.”

  Francesco comes over and hugs me. “You’ve got a good head.” He laughs.

  But I’m fighting tears. “I hate Mr. Coleman.”

  “You hate him, or you’re afraid of him?”

  “Both.”

  “He’s not going to hurt us. I won’t let him.” Francesco chucks me under the chin. “You’ve got a present to take care of, right? For a friend. Go on, get out of here.”

  twelve

  Frank Raymond isn’t in the saloon or in his room over Blander’s barbershop. He must be out having experiences—it’s almost noon, after all.

  I go in the pharmacy and stand on the courthouse porch to peek in those tall windows. I check every store, the post office, the telegraph window. No luck.

  So I head out alone, on Granni, riding east toward the Mississippi River. I have a cap on and I bend my head, but the sun beats down so hard, sweat stings my eyes and soaks my shirt. I’m panting.

  I didn’t ask Francesco if I could take Granni. But I’ll have the horse back long before evening. I trot slightly northward; Frank Raymond warned about a swamp to the south.

  I don’t pass a soul. In Sicily we stay inside in this kind of heat, too. But there this kind of heat happens only in August when the Scirocco wind blows from Africa. Yesterday afternoon Cirone read the thermometer outside the train depot. Over ninety degrees. And he said it’ll be like that for months.

  We come out on the river at last and the sun on the water blinds me. Granni goes slower. His back is so lathered, I slide side to side in time to his gait. I didn’t take the time to saddle him up—it would have only made him hotter, anyway.

  We wander up the riverbank, looking for the little meadow where Frank Raymond turned last time. It can’t be that hard to find Joseph.

  I’m thirsty and Granni sure needs a break from the sun. We stop in the shade of a smooth-barked tree. White petals rimmed with brown litter the ground. The smell is so sweet, it feels damp. As Granni and I drink from the river, we startle a lone pelican, who flaps clear across to the other side of the river.

  I feel lost. I should have sat outside Frank Raymond’s and waited. A party can sure make a person act foolish. The last big party I went to was my little brother Rocco’s baptismal celebration.

  Oh! What day is it? Saturday, July first. Rocco’s birthday was two days ago. He’s five. I didn’t even send him a birthday letter and I’m his family, his whole family.

  I’ll write one tomorrow.

  I hope someone celebrated his birthday. Rocco probably doesn’t even know the date. And if he does, he’s so little he probably doesn’t know enough to tell anyone.

  He didn’t get presents. Well, I’ll buy him something Monday. I still have the four cents Francesco gave Cirone and me. I’ll have to do something for Cirone to pay him back for his half.

  Ferns grow thick near the bank. I break off a pile. I don’t have rope, but the ferns bend easy. I tie their stems together and make two mats. One goes over Granni’s head and neck, leaving his eyes free. The other drapes over my head and shoulders. Not much, but they’ll help against the sun.

  I walk with Granni trailing behind. I turn inland through hickory and pine and come out at Joseph’s shack. No one is there. But logs poke up into a cone shape from a pit near one end of the little pond. The wood is charred. I walk toward it.

  “Hana!” Something whizzes past my nose.

  I stumble. My leaf hood goes flying. Granni whinnies and takes off.

  Joseph comes into the open, holding a bow with a fresh arrow at the ready, eyes squinted. Then he lowers it. “My friend. I am sorry, friend.”

  I sink to my knees in relief.

  Joseph pulls me up by the arm. “You disguised your head. You disguised your horse. You look like someone up to no good. You are stupid.”

  And I’m laughing like a drunk man. “You could have killed me.”

  “It was a warning. Did it come too close? My eyes grow poor. Lucky for you I do not carry my gun today.”

  “Your gun!” I slap my hand on my forehead. “Your gun, your gun.” Tears roll down my cheeks, but I’m still laughing. I fall to my knees, this time with my hands in prayer. “Thank you, San Cristofero,” I say in Sicilian.

  Joseph pulls me up again. “Do you have weak knees?”

  I laugh again and shake my head. “I thanked a saint for making you not carry your gun today. He protects travelers.”

  “Does your saint steal bullets?”

  “No.”

  “Then you can thank him if you want. It is good to give thanks. But he does not deserve it. I do not carry my gun because I am out of bullets. Bullets cost money. I can make arrows for free. Come catch your horse.”

  We find Granni and calm him down.

  “You came at the right time,” Joseph says after I explain why I’m here. “I fire pottery when the moon is full. Last week the moon was full.”

  I want to ask where my pot is, but it feels rude to rush.

  Joseph offers me berries and some kind of mash. “Rest from the heat.” He sits under a tree and weaves pine needles.

  “What are you making?”

  “An alligator basket.”

  I shiver.

  Joseph blinks at me. “You do not like alligator?”

  “Who does?”

  “He can be ugly. He can be dangerous. But he is honest. He is who he is. You treat him with respect if you want a free life.”

  What’s he talking about? I’m getting the jitters. I watch him weave. A basket could be a birthday present for Rocco. I gather an armload of needles and sit beside him. “Will you teach me?”

  “Children and women weave baskets,” says Joseph. “Not you.”

  “You’re a man, and you’re weaving a basket.”

  “I am the Tunica tribe. The Tunica tribe weaves baskets.”

  “I am Sicilian,” I say. “There are six of us in Tallulah. My uncles and a cousin. And two in Milliken’s Bend. No women or children. I am not the whole tribe. But Sicilians weave baskets.”

  Joseph looks at me with new interest. “You are an orphan?”

  I’m taken aback. “No.” Then I falter. “I don’t know. My mother died last summer, and my father came to America years ago. We never heard from him again.”

  “You are alone in the world.”

  “No. I have a brother in Sicily. As soon as he’s old enough, I’m sending the money for him to come over, too.”

  Joseph scratches his chest. “You cannot weave. But since you are an orphan, you can listen. The Tunica tribe is good to orphans.”

  I don’t want him calling me that.
But if he’s decided I’m an orphan, it doesn’t matter what I say. I scootch across the ground and rest my back against the base of the tree. And Joseph tells me a story.

  The Tunica people lived in a mountain with two alligators outside the entrance. They wanted to come out into the world because they’d been in that mountain since the beginning of time. But the alligators wouldn’t move, and they were afraid. So they fasted and said prayers to all nine gods. To the sun, the thunder, and fire—the three most powerful ones. And to the gods of the north, west, south, east, the earth below, and the heaven above. It worked; the alligators slunk aside. One was red and the other was blue. When the red one turned over, the world got hot. When the blue one turned over, the world got cold.

  “That is how the Tunica people entered the world and found seasons,” Joseph says. He pauses, but only briefly. He tells of beans and corn and floods. He warns against killing frogs (because the world will dry up) and killings kingfishers (because a storm will come ruin you). His voice grows creaky as he talks of the tricks the rabbit plays on everyone, even the gods.

  I’m Catholic, so I know the world is full of miracles and mysteries, but I don’t believe that at night animals turn into talking people and alligators have mystical powers.

  Still, there’s something about Joseph’s storytelling that catches me. I’d like to stay and listen except it’s getting late. “I have to hurry.”

  “I know. Your face tells me.” He doesn’t get up, though.

  Joseph reads my face. But I can’t read his. He never even cracks a smile except at his own jokes.

  “One more story. You choose.”

  I don’t have any idea what his stories might be; how can I choose? I think of the stories Frank Raymond told me about famous Indians. And it hits me. “Why are you named Joseph? That doesn’t sound Indian.”

  “An ugly story. I was born Uruna—bullfrog. Boys found out what my name meant. They were not Tunica, not mixed blood. They made me jump, because bullfrog jumps. They made me jump and jump and jump. My feet bled. I fell down. They threw rocks on me. Rocks buried me. My mother dug me out. When I was well enough to walk again, we moved to another town. I became Joseph. A Christian name was safer.”