“Hey,” calls a boy. He’s with two others, smaller than him. They’ve been following us for the past block.
“Want a melon?” asks Cirone.
“How much?”
“Fifteen cents.”
“Ain’t got fifteen cents,” says the boy.
Cirone looks at me. I nod. “How much you got?”
“Ain’t got no money.”
“Aw, get out of here,” says Cirone. “Go away.”
We sell melons to that block and move on to the next. The boys follow.
There are houses on both sides of the street now, so both Cirone and I have to deliver them. It’s slow going. I hand a melon to a woman and take her fifteen cents when “Bang!” I run back to the wagon.
“Bang, bang, bang!” It’s Giuseppe, shooting his finger like a gun at the back of the boys. They’re running like mad, but they’ve got one of the biggest watermelons, and they’re so little, they have to hold it among them, all three together. I’d laugh, except Giuseppe is shouting now in Sicilian, saying things about where thieves come from and where they ought to go. “Bang!” he shouts, his eyes popping.
And the littlest kid stumbles. The watermelon goes flying. Smash. There’s red juicy melon all over the dusty road.
“Serves them right,” says Giuseppe in Sicilian.
We finish this whole street, turn south, and then go west onto East Green Street. Some houses buy two melons. We’ve sold enough that there’s room for Cirone and me in the back of the wagon now. If the sun wasn’t so hot, everything would be good.
When we get to the western edge of town again, a girl hails us. Tall, with ropy arms, she squints through the sun at us. She holds a big osnaburg bag, long and white, the kind cotton pickers use. She comes up to the back of the wagon. “Who’s boss?”
“Me,” I say. After all, Giuseppe can’t say more than a word or two.
“My brother, he got something to say.”
I look past her. There’s no one there. “Where’s your brother?”
“Hiding behind them bushes.”
I look at her and wait. “Is he going to come out?”
“Not if you yell.”
I wipe the sweat off my forehead. “I won’t yell.”
“Come on out, Jerome.”
The watermelon thief comes out from behind the bush. “You going to shoot me?”
“You know a finger’s different from a gun, don’t you?” I shake my head. “Nobody’s going to shoot you.”
“Bang!” shouts Giuseppe. He cocks his finger at the thief. “Bang, bang!”
The boy runs behind the bush. “Sorry,” he shouts.
“Stop with the banging now, Giuseppe,” I say in Sicilian. Then I turn to the girl. “Well, I guess that’s done, then.”
“No, it isn’t,” says Giuseppe in Sicilian. “He cost us a melon.”
“Ain’t settled yet.” The sister lifts the bag. “Sweet potatoes. For that melon.”
“We’ve got white potatoes in our own field,” says Giuseppe in Sicilian. “They’re better than those orange things.”
“You keep them,” I say.
“I can’t abide a thief. We got to pay you.”
I take the bag. “Thanks.”
The girl doesn’t go away.
“Well?”
“I need the bag back.”
People save paper bags—they’re expensive. But osnaburg bags are different. And this one is old and beat up. She must work the cotton fields. Maybe her boss makes her pay for a new one. I dump the sweet potatoes in among the watermelons and go to fold the sack when I think better of it and put a watermelon inside it instead. I hand it to her. “That was enough potatoes to pay for two melons.”
“Don’t do that,” she says. “Jerome need to learn thieving ain’t right.”
“Maybe enough for three melons. But I docked you one, for the thieving.”
She takes the sack and looks at me. “Put them potatoes in the fire when you roast your rabbit, or whatever you got, then when it turn to ashes, they be sweet as candy.”
“I’ll do that. You want me to carry this melon to your door?”
“We live outside town. I’ll manage fine. Much obliged.” She turns and goes.
“We got a melon?” Jerome the Thief sticks his head out from behind the bush. “We really got a melon?”
“Get on home,” says the girl. She lugs that melon, following Jerome, who’s laughing and singing, “Melon, melon, we got a melon.”
“You’ve got no stomach for business,” says Giuseppe in Sicilian.
“I saw that,” comes a voice in English.
I turn around. “Good day, Mr. Johnson, sir.”
Fred Johnson runs the general-goods store. He must be walking to work after dinner break. He takes a round tin out of his pocket and stuffs tobacco in his cheek. He points in the wagon. “How many sweet potatoes for that melon?” His tone is sarcastic.
“We’re taking coins, sir,” I say.
“Real business, huh? I just saw otherwise. I just saw an ar-range-ment.” He draws out the word. “That’s what you do with them darkie cotton pickers. Ar-range-ments. They’s no real business with them. Ain’t got no brains, them darkies. They can’t deal in money. They just make ar-range-ments.” He spits in the road. Tobacco spit. It smells good, though it looks like something unmentionable. “Y’all the same, boy? No brains?”
No, sir, I’m thinking. You’re the one with no brains. “If you want a melon, sir, I’ll be happy to carry it home for you.”
“What do I look like, a girlie? Hand me a melon.”
“How about the biggest one, sir?” I say, polite as can be.
Mr. Johnson looks pleased. “That’s right. The biggest one.”
“That’ll be twenty cents, sir.” I dare to look directly in his face, searching for a reaction.
He pays his twenty cents and spits again.
“And remember, sir,” I say, “they’re selling limoncello today at Francesco Difatta’s grocery.”
“Lemon what?”
“You drink it cold. It’s good on a hot day.”
“Like today. It’s hotter than the gates of hell today.”
“Yes, sir. Francesco makes it himself. It takes your mind off your problems.”
“Liquor? Wait’ll John hears about this. You people. Never in my born days have I seen the likes. Selling liquor without a permit. No telling what y’all be up to next.” He walks off with the melon.
“Twenty cents,” says Cirone in Sicilian. “He’s going to be burning angry when he finds out everyone else got a melon for fifteen.”
What I did is a lot worse than overcharging Mr. Coleman for the strawberries. There’s no way Mr. Coleman could know I overcharged. Besides, it was only a penny. But this was a whole nickel, and everyone else knows the price. I must have lost my mind. I wipe sweat from my neck. “Anyway, he got the biggest one.”
We work our way back and forth across town from north to south, till we finish. There are only four melons left. And a pile of sweet potatoes.
I climb up on the bench beside Giuseppe. “We got no one to sell the rest to. And we can’t eat them all.” I clear my throat. “I know some families that could use a watermelon.”
“Yeah?” Giuseppe tightens the reins. “Are we driving by the church?”
“I’ll take one to their home. There’s no road out there. I’ll walk.”
“Cirone, you go, too,” says Giuseppe.
“I can carry a melon myself.”
“You can carry two if there are two of you,” says Giuseppe. “And take them those nasty orange things.”
“No, I want sweet potato pies,” I say.
“Carlo doesn’t know how to make sweet potato pies.”
“I’ll make them.”
“You?” Giuseppe shrugs.
And so Giuseppe drives across South Street and lets us off near the bayou. Cirone and I walk the grassy path to Patricia’s house with the melons.
“You
know, I can carry two melons myself,” I say.
“No, you can’t,” says Cirone.
“Yes, I can.”
“If Charles is there, I’ll talk to him. If not, I’ll just leave the melon and go. You can talk to Patricia alone.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“Ha!”
We walk in silence.
“Did she like the bowl?” asks Cirone.
“Yes.”
“I knew she would.”
Finally, we get there. I go up on the porch and knock my elbow on the open door.
A woman stands by a pot-bellied stove, where an iron’s heating up on top. Long face, long arms, long fingers. A pile of ironed and folded laundry sits on the foot of a bed. There’s a sewing machine in the corner. She looks up at us and fear crumples her forehead. She rushes to the door. Cirone and I step back as she comes out on the porch. She looks around, then back at us. “Y’all alone?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She blinks. “Anybody see y’all come up here?”
“Ain’t nobody to see us,” says Cirone. “Ma’am.” The houses out here are scattered through the trees. You can’t see more than one at a time except in winter.
She wipes the sweat from her brow. “Well, come on in quick.” She gives a small smile as we pass by, and closes the door behind us. She walks over and picks up the iron, spatters water on a shirt on the table, and sets that iron down on it with a hiss. She irons the shirt, folds it, and puts it on the pile. “Boys?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Mr. Blander—you know who he is?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“A smart man, Mr. Blander. He warned my sister. Said it ain’t a good idea for you to come visiting here. At our house.”
How did Blander guess we’d come here? Maybe the whole town’s guessing about us. “We got watermelons.”
“I can see that.”
“We’re delivering melons. Like we delivered them all over town.”
She smiles at us for real this time. “Blander ain’t the only smart one.” She’s sweating so much, her dress is all soppy at the neck. “Want to set them melons down? On the floor will be fine. Till I finish this ironing.” She irons a pillowcase and folds it. Then she takes a towel and wipes her face and neck. “What can I do for y’all?”
“Are you Patricia’s mother?” I ask, but her smile gave her away. And her eyes.
“Yes.”
“I’m Calogero.”
“I’m Cirone,” says Cirone.
“I figured. Nice to finally meet y’all. Thought I’d meet you at the graduation party.”
“It was a good party,” says Cirone.
“Thank you.”
“You’re good at ironing,” I say.
She laughs. “This is my sister’s job. She iron up at the Blander house. But she took to bed sick, so here I am. This way she don’t lose her job. But y’all don’t want to hear about that. I expect you came to see my onliest boy, Charles, and my onliest girl, Patricia. They ain’t here.”
“We’ll just leave these melons and go, then.”
“Much obliged. Please tell your family that.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Happy Fourth of July,” says Cirone.
“Same to you,” says Patricia’s mother. “Y’all going to the festivities tomorrow?”
“What festivities?” I ask.
She gives an odd smile. “Well, there’ll be some mighty big doings all over town, don’t y’all know that? Specially at our church. The picnic will start in the late afternoon, after it cool off a bit.” She blinks. “You know what? Your family ought to come. Brother Caleb will slaughter a hog. So if y’all come on over early, you two boys, I’ll fry you up some brains and eggs.”
I love brains. “What about what Blander said?”
“The church the Lord’s house. I reckon no one going to say who can and can’t come visiting in His house.” Patricia’s mother tilts her head. “They’s going to be ice cold lemonade. And my lemon pie has two inches of calf slobbers on top.”
“I’ll tell my family,” I say.
“Y’all do that.”
We walk back along the path. Once we’re out of hearing distance, Cirone says, “Why do you always have to act so stupid?”
“What’d I do stupid?”
“You acted like we don’t know about the Fourth of July.”
“I don’t know about the Fourth of July.”
“Well, I do,” says Cirone. “Everyone in America does. I’m not the new one here. You are. Ask me about things before you go acting so dumb.”
“How can I ask about things I don’t know about?”
“Shut up.”
We walk a ways, kicking the dirt.
“What’s calf slobbers?”
Cirone laughs. “I knew you didn’t follow that. Ha! It’s meringue, dummy.”
Back at the grocery John Wilson, the saloon keeper, is standing in the doorway.
I touch the tip of my cap. “Good day, Mr. Wilson.”
Mr. Wilson smirks, but doesn’t say a word. And doesn’t move.
“Could we get by, please, sir?”
He moves aside.
Cirone and I slip past him.
“You open it?” Francesco’s talking to old Pat Matthews, loud with anger. I’m surprised; we’ve always been on good terms with Pat. He makes himself useful doing odd jobs here and there. Francesco’s hired him lots of times. We’re all usually real gentle with him ’cause he’s sick in the head from his war days. “Who tell you do that?”
“The box was sitting there,” says Pat. “What’s the harm? It ain’t nothing personal. It just came off the train.”
“Somebody tell you, eh? Somebody nose in my business? How much they pay you?” Francesco picks up the broom from behind the weighing counter. “You go back to Milliken’s Bend.” He chases Pat out the door.
Mr. Wilson moves aside obligingly as Pat passes. He turns to face into the store. “I can’t hardly believe my eyes. If I ain’t mistaken, you just chased a white man with a broom. And I ain’t mistaken. Pat’s old and broken-down with the drink and all—but he was a soldier. You either color blind or plum crazy.”
“This trouble no concern you,” says Francesco.
“Got troubles, huh? That’s what you people attract: trouble.” His upper lip curls at the words you people.
“You stand in doorway,” says Francesco. “Fifteen minutes you stand there. Why?”
“So no one comes in.”
“You block business.”
“Now you got the idea.” Mr. Wilson taps his temple. “You block my business, I block yours.”
“I no understand.”
“I just bet you no understand. Play dumb with me? Where’s this lemon stuff you’re thinking of selling?”
“Ah, I understand. You sell whisky. I no sell whisky.”
“You bet your sorry ass you no sell whisky. It takes a permit to sell whisky. Y’all ain’t got no permit.”
“I no sell whisky.”
“That’s right. You got no permit. You got no government tax stamps. That’s how it works in Louisiana. Ain’t nothing like that country you come from. We regulate. Understand?”
“I no sell whisky.”
“You sell one drop of that lemon stuff and I’ll get Sheriff Lucas in here so fast, you won’t have time to cock a gun.”
“You see gun here? No gun here.”
“Good.”
“You want vegetable? Fruit?”
“No.”
“Then you leave my store.”
“If I hear…”
“I no sell whisky.”
“You got the chorus right. Go back to your goats now. Drink that stinky milk. Eat that rotten cheese. Use just one barrel of flour to make miles of that crap you eat—those wormy strands. Don’t buy nothing from nobody. That’s fine. We don’t need your money. We can get through these hard times without dirty money from dirty foreigners. But lis
ten good.” He points a finger at Francesco’s nose. “Ain’t that much business these days—and ain’t no one going to stand for you stealing theirs.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Wilson.”
Mr. Wilson leaves.
Francesco turns to us. “Never go in his saloon,” he shouts in Sicilian.
“We don’t go in saloons,” I say.
“Don’t talk back to me.” He slams his hand on the weighing counter. “Get to work. We have to fill the pint bottles with limoncello. It’s business time.”
“You just promised Mr. Wilson you wouldn’t sell it,” says Cirone.
“I promised I wouldn’t sell whisky. Limoncello isn’t whisky. And I’ve already got orders for almost all of it. Get to work.”
“I’ve got to go mail my present for Rocco,” I say.
Francesco looks at me. “All right. We agreed on that. But hurry.”
eighteen
“We’re not Protestants.” Carlo chops potatoes on the big board.
I’m standing beside him, peeling onions. Rosario sits with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. Francesco and Giuseppe are out on the porch talking. We have to hurry, Cirone and me. We have to get Carlo and Rosario on our side before Francesco comes in. It’s already afternoon. The Fourth of July is going to pass us by.
“It’s a birthday party,” says Cirone. “The birthday party of this country. It has nothing to do with religion.”
“Then why is it at a church?” says Carlo.
“The graduation party was at the church,” Cirone says. “And we went to that.”
Good for him. He’s getting good at arguing.
“That was different,” says Carlo. “That was the school’s party.”
“This is the country’s party.”
“Stop!” Rosario looks up. His eyelids droop as if he’s got a headache. “We’re not going to that church.”
“We went there before,” says Cirone. “And we had a good time.”
“Stop!” This time it’s Francesco. He comes into the room and takes a seat. Giuseppe’s right behind him.
“Onions.” Carlo holds out his hand.
I push two peeled onions toward him and work on a third.
“We were just talking about the Fourth of July,” says Cirone in a reasonable tone.
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