Alligator Bayou

by Donna Jo Napoli

  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 w
alk 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.

  fifteen

  Sunday afternoon I’m walking home from Frank Raymond’s. I told him today that I’m going to Patricia’s school in autumn, so I wanted painting lessons instead of tutoring from now on. But he told me he’s leaving town at the end of the month anyway. He likes to wander—see the world. The thought of him disappearing makes me feel strange. I still can’t believe it.

  At least there are four more Sundays left in this month, so we can paint till he goes. Today was a good lesson. I made a birthday present for Rocco—a picture of an owl. The paint is drying. I’ll go back for it before supper tomorrow. Rocco will like it. The owl’s eyes glitter.

  I turn the corner. Three boys stand over a boy on his side. One of them is kicking him! The boy is curled around his middle, his hands over his cap, groaning. It’s Cirone!

  “Stop!” I run up and grab the kicker by the elbow.

  He stumbles aside in surprise, but in the same moment I’m shoved hard from behind. My chin smacks on the sidewalk and I hear a crack inside my head. I roll onto my back, cradling my chin.

  “Watch where you going. You bumped me,” says one of the boys.

  “Yeah, y’all blind or something? The both of you dagoes, blind as bats.”

  “Stupid is more like it.”

  “Are you stupid, boy?”

  “All dagoes is stupid.”

  Three pink faces glare down at me.

  I look past their legs. Cirone’s still on his side, silent now, but he’s rocking his head, so I know he’s conscious.

  My chin bleeds into my palm. I lean to the side and spit out half a tooth.

  “Ha! How many teeth you planning on losing today? That’s only number one.”

  None of this makes sense. I don’t recognize any of these boys. What was Cirone doing here? Did he do something to them?

  I look around. A man turns up the sidewalk, sees us, and crosses to the other side. There’s no one else about. Maybe they all ducked inside when they saw what was up.

  I keep one hand on my chin and pick up my cap with the other.

  A boy kicks the cap out of my hand, giving my fingers a wicked blow.

  I don’t move.

  This must be how Joseph felt when he was still Uruna, when the boys buried him alive. He must have known where it was going.

  Cirone must have known, too. Does he realize I’m here now? Please, Lord, tell him he’s not alone.

  I keep looking at them.

  “Playing dumb?”

  “Y’all speak English. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

  “Yeah, talk.”

  “Who cares if you talk, anyhow? We saw you. And we told. Oh, yeah, we told on you good. The whole town’s talking now.”

  “And y’all know what they’s talking about?”

  Patricia. They must have seen me kiss Patricia last night. She said I didn’t know what they’d do if they saw. Cirone got beat up for something I did.

  I pull my elbows in close, ready to punch. Giuseppe taught me how to fight when I arrived—said it would come in handy. I thought it was just Giuseppe being grumpy. I look over at Cirone. Oh, yeah, they’re going to beat me up, but I’m going to make it hard for them.

  “They’s talking about how y’all went to a darkie gathering. All you dagoes.”

  “Eating the same food, from the same plates.”

  “Disgusting.”

  “I saw you licking each other’s fingers.”

  “Really? Ain’t that something. I’d have vomited if I saw that.”

  My breath comes free again. They don’t know about Patricia. They won’t do anything to her. “We were at school,” I say. “Sicilians are allowed at that school.”

  “Ain’t no school in summer. That was a party.”

  “Fraternizing with them cotton pickers. That’s what Pa calls it. Fraternizing.”

  “Next thing you know, y’all be giving the darkies ideas.”

  “Fraternizing and big ideas. And selling stuff too cheap.”

  “Yeah. Making deals with the dagoes in New Orleans.”

  “Ruining the company stores.”

  “What you doing?” A woman stands in the street. Mrs. Rogers’ Lila.

  “Mind your own business.”

  I hate him sneering at her like that, but that’s good advice. These boys aren’t likely to care what Lila thinks, not with the color of her skin.

  “I work for Mrs. Rogers.” Lila comes up onto the sidewalk. She looks over at Cirone, who’s managed to work himself to a sit by now. He’s hugging his knees and still rocking his head. “These boys the greengrocers Mrs. Rogers buy from. Mrs. Rogers’ favorite grocer boys.”

  “Mr. Rogers don’t like dagoes,” says one boy. “I heard him say that.”

  “And Willy Rogers, he hates them,” says another. “He says we ought to run them out of town. Ain’t a single one worth spitting at.”

  “Mr. Rogers like to eat,” says Lila. “Willy do, too. These their favorite grocer boys. Stand back.”

  The boys don’t move.

  Lila steps forward with a loud noise through her nose. Almost a bugle sound.

  One boy takes a step away. The other two follow suit.

  “Get up, child,” she says to me.

  I get to my feet and help Cirone up. He stays bent, both hands on his belly.

  “See you in the morning. At the stand.” She looks at the boys. “Like always.”

  My cap lies behind one of the boys. I know I’m pushing my luck, but I already lost a hat on the ’gator hunt. I don’t want to know what Francesco will do if I lose this cap. Besides, pride gets the best of me. I walk past that boy. Our chests are only a foot apart. He tenses up. I reach behind him and grab my cap. I put it on and touch the tip of it in farewell to Lila.

  Cirone and I walk away. Slowly.

  It takes a long time for my thoughts to unscramble.

  “How bad does it hurt?”

  Cirone straightens a little. “No blood.” He looks at me. “Your chin’s a mess.”

  “What were you doing in town?”

  He turns his head away and straightens a little more.

  “Come on, tell me.”

  “Where did you go last night, huh?” Cirone presses on his
belly with both hands and takes a deep breath. “You’re not the only one with secrets.” He puts a fist to his mouth and chews on a knuckle. “Calo, don’t tell what they said about fraternizing. You do, and that’s the end of parties. That’s the end of everything good here.”

  I lick blood off my bottom lip. “I want us to go to every party we get invited to.”

  “Right. It makes me mad when they say we can’t be friends with Negroes. They don’t want us with whites and they don’t want us with Negroes. They think Sicilians belong nowhere, with no one. Like we’re not people at all.”

  “Well, we are.”

  We hook arms and cross the grass.

  sixteen

  “Rotten kids.” Carlo picks dirt and tiny pebbles from my chin. He heated water to wash the gash. This last picking part hurts like mad. He makes hissing noises as he works. He knows he’s hurting me and I think it bothers him more than me. “Nasty little no-goods,” mutters Carlo. And he doesn’t even know about my broken tooth.

  Or about Cirone’s bruises. They’re hidden under his clothes. But my chin was out in the open.

  Francesco comes through the door and takes me in with one swift glance. He glowers. “What did you do now?”

  “Me? It’s not my fault. They jumped me.”

  “Who?” snaps Giuseppe. He followed Francesco in, with Rosario at his heels.

  “Three boys.”

  Rosario looks quick at Cirone. “What about you?”

  “I was out back. Nowhere near.”

  Cirone lies good. How much practice has he had?

  Francesco looks over Carlo’s shoulder to inspect my wounds. “How old? What did they say?”

  “My age, maybe. They said all dagoes are stupid.”

  “Oh yeah? Did they say what we do that makes us so stupid?”

  “Something about deals with dagoes in New Orleans.”

  Francesco gives a harumph. “Is that everything?”

  I’m working on keeping my eyes steady.

  “Come on, Calo. What else did they say?”

  “That we’re ruining the company stores,” I mumble.

  “Enough!” growls Giuseppe. “They’ve got to be stopped.”

  “Sit!” Francesco points to the benches. “Everyone but Carlo and Calogero.”

  Giuseppe shakes his head, but he drops onto a bench. The others do, too.