“I know exactly what you were talking about,” says Francesco. “We’re not going to the Protestant church.”
“The American birthday party,” says Cirone. “That’s all it is. And we’re Americans.”
“I’m not,” says Giuseppe. “And neither are you two boys.”
“It’s a picnic,” says Cirone.
“You want a picnic?” says Carlo. “I’m making a frittata.”
“No,” says Cirone. “They don’t eat frittata at a picnic. They eat—”
“Stop!” Francesco slaps the table. “You heard Carlo.”
“Besides,” says Carlo, “we’re having our own party.”
“We can’t have our own party on the Fourth of July,” says Cirone. “It’s an American party—it’s got to be at an American place.”
I’m stunned. Cirone’s never acted like this. Downright belligerent.
“I didn’t mean today,” says Carlo. “Next Saturday is July fifteenth. Perfect for the festa of Santa Rosalia. A good Catholic celebration.”
“We can’t do a festa then,” says Rosario. “That’s the day of the town ball and tournament. We’ll have lots of extra work.”
“Right,” says Francesco. “We’ll postpone a week. Santa Rosalia won’t mind.”
“Beppe and Salvatore always come,” says Carlo. “Someone’s got to tell them.”
I perk up in spite of myself. “I’ll go to Milliken’s Bend.” Beppe and Salvatore are the only other Sicilians in this part of Louisiana; just being around them makes all of us happy. Beppe is married to the sister of Francesco and Giuseppe and Carlo. She’s back in Cefalù. Salvatore is Beppe’s son. He’s ten years old. All through the winter we saw them every Saturday, but now we haven’t seen them since before spring planting.
“Look at all you,” Cirone bursts out. He puts his hands together as if in prayer and shakes them furiously at Carlo and Francesco and all of them. “You don’t get excited at a Fourth of July festival—a huge thing—but you jump with joy at some dumb saint’s festa. You act like we’re still back in Sicily.”
“We don’t forget the saints,” says Carlo. “No matter where we are.”
Giuseppe walks toward Cirone, glaring. “And we never forget we’re Sicilian.”
“All right, all right,” says Rosario. He steps in front of Cirone. “That’s settled. Carlo’s making a picnic. Let’s all help.”
And so we carry a table out near the edge of the woods and we spread a tablecloth on it and set out the plates and forks and knives and spoons. We eat frittata under the broiling sun. And hot watermelon.
“I hate this,” whispers Cirone to me in English.
“Frittata?” I whisper back. “What’s wrong with frittata?”
“They call it omelet here.”
“Omelet?”
“It’s a French word. From New Orleans. French is better than Sicilian.” He blows through his lips in disgust. “This ain’t how it’s done in America.”
“How’s it done?”
“Barbecue. You got to see for yourself.” Cirone stands up. “Can we go get ice cream?” he says loudly in Sicilian to no one in particular.
“We’ve got cold limoncello back at the house,” says Carlo.
“Ice cream is what you eat on the Fourth of July,” says Cirone.
“Like you know all about it,” says Rosario.
“My friends told me.”
And I’m scanning my memory. Charles and Ben and Rock—they never said anything about ice cream in front of me. What’s Cirone talking about?
“Ice cream would go down easy in this heat,” says Francesco. “I’d like some.”
“No, I mean just Calogero and me. Can we go? It’s a holiday for everyone in the whole country. Let us go get ice cream.”
“Go on,” says Francesco. “Here.” He takes a nickel out of his pocket. “Have fun. And bring back a penny.”
I take the nickel.
Cirone glances at me sideways. But I don’t get why.
We walk toward town. There’s music coming from somewhere near Depot Street. But once we’re out of sight of the men, Cirone turns off the path.
“Where are you going?”
“The church,” says Cirone in English. “The ice cream saloon is closed, anyway. Everything closes on the Fourth of July.”
“You’ll get in trouble with Rosario,” I answer in English. “And I’ll get in worse trouble with Francesco.”
“They told us to go have fun. They didn’t tell us not to go to the church.”
“Are you crazy? We both know what they meant. And they know we know it. Besides, you said we were going for ice cream.”
“There’ll be ice cream at the church. All we have to do is eat some and we can answer—we went out for ice cream.” Cirone looks at me in disgust. “By the way, Mister Pocket-the-Money, what happened to the four pennies Francesco gave us last time?”
“I spent them.”
“On what?”
“Postage. I didn’t think it would be that much. I sent a birthday present to Rocco. I’m sorry. You can have the four cents this time.”
“You don’t tell anyone we went to the church, and we can share these four cents.”
“All right.” My heart is beating hard. “Maybe we should bring something.”
Cirone stops. “Like what?”
“We didn’t sell all the limoncello pints yesterday.”
“Good thinking.”
We turn again and go to the grocery. It’s locked, of course. But it’s easy to get in through the high rear window. I give Cirone a boost and he’s up and inside fast.
“Here.” He holds a pint out the window.
I take it.
“Here.” He holds out another.
I take it.
“Here.”
“Francesco will notice. Two’s enough.”
“Just take it.”
I do.
He climbs to the window and jumps out onto the ground.
I look around. “We can’t walk through town with bottles in our hands.”
Cirone takes off his shirt and wraps them in it. “It’s too hot for a shirt, anyway.”
Nee-haw. Bedda peeks around the grocery corner and bolts over to greet us.
“You are such a bother.” I push Bedda in the side. “Go on home.”
We walk and she follows.
“Don’t look back,” I say. “She’ll go away if we don’t look at her.”
But she doesn’t go away.
“We can’t go to a picnic with a goat. Here, hold these.” Cirone hands me the bundle of limoncello pints. He races at Bedda shouting, “Via, via—away!”
“Well, look who’s here.” Three boys come down the street. It’s the bullies. The one who just spoke is the one who kicked my cap from my hand.
“With a goat this time.”
“She’s probably their girlfriend.”
They laugh.
Cirone backs up till he’s half behind me.
Bedda follows him, but the tallest bully quick catches her around the neck. She bucks. He’s big and strong, though; he holds on. “Want your girlfriend back, boys?”
“What are you ready to do to get your girlfriend back? Huh?” says another bully. “Y’all going to shoot us?”
“Yeah. We know about that noisy one. The liar who runs the grocery store. He shot a little darkie boy just for stealing a watermelon.”
They’ve got it all wrong. Francesco didn’t shoot Jerome the Thief. Giuseppe just went “bang” with his finger.
“And that other one—the one who don’t speak any English at all. He shot the old soldier from Milliken’s Bend. He shot a white man!”
Who’s spreading these lies?
“No gun today, boys?” says the one holding Bedda. “Well, if you want her back, you got to pay. You got money?” His arms are around her neck. Will he strangle her?
I put my hand in my pocket.
“Whoa!” shouts one of the boys. “Stop rig
ht there. You chunk a rock at us and y’all’ll be sorry. We’ll pitch a fight you ain’t never going to forget.”
I slowly take the nickel out of my pocket and roll it in the street.
The tall bully’s eyes go wide. He lets go of Bedda and chases the nickel.
We run, Cirone and Bedda and me. When I look back, they’re gone.
“That was dumb,” says Cirone in English. “Now they’ll try to get money off us all the time. And we ain’t got a penny to give back to Francesco. Dumb!”
“What would you have done?”
“Same dumb thing you did.”
I laugh, but I’m not happy. “I’ll tell Francesco I lost the penny.”
“Good.”
“If you tell him you stole the limoncello.”
Cirone spits in the street. “He ain’t going to notice the limoncello. Stop whining.”
I’m just jittery because of those bullies. “Why are we speaking English?”
“I’m sick of being Italian, Calogero. I been thinking about it since you read me those newspapers. I been remembering. I can’t stand being different. I can’t stand it no more. I’ve gone my whole life without friends because I was afraid.” He looks down. His bottom lip trembles just the slightest.
All those years before I came, Cirone had no one. I swallow and throw my arm across his skinny bare shoulders.
He shrugs me off and looks me in the face. “Rosario and Carlo and Francesco and Giuseppe, they were like a wall around me. Well, I ain’t staying inside no wall no more. I’m different now. I got friends. And I don’t care who beats me up—I’m keeping them. I’m speaking English outside the house.”
“All right. Me too.”
“I’m going to eat American food every chance I get.”
I love Sicilian food. But this is important. “Me too.”
“I’m going to act American. I’ll become an American citizen.”
“Maybe I will, too.”
Music comes from ahead, from the direction of Patricia’s church. A brass band.
“We can’t take Bedda to the church,” I say.
“We go back home now and we ain’t never going to get out again.”
I take off my shirt without unbuttoning it and slip it over Bedda’s head so that it hangs around her neck. Then I grab on to the shirt so that I’ve got her tight. The buttons won’t hold if she fights me. I pet her, to calm her.
Cirone laughs. “The both of us, half naked. What do you think they’ll do?”
“Guess we’ll find out.” I grin.
The church lawn is filled with people again. Some are at tables. Others have spread tablecloths on the grass and they’re sitting right there on the ground, eating. Some aren’t even using forks. Just picking up food with their fingers and talking and laughing.
“Now that’s a barbecue,” says Cirone. “This is America. Let’s be all-American for one afternoon.”
Patricia walks up the road as though she’s been on the lookout. There’re ribbons in her hair. Red, white, and blue, like the flag. Her legs stick out from under that old flowered dress, strong in the sunlight. I will be American for this girl. I will be anything she wants me to be.
“You sure jar my preserves.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
She laughs. “You came. No shirt. And a goat. But you came.” And she smiles.
Cirone unwraps the limoncello pints. “These are for your family. But you got to put them in the icebox before you drink them.”
Patricia gapes at the bottles. “Liquor? Y’all crazy? Can’t bring no liquor to church.”
Cirone shrugs. “We ain’t got nothing else to bring.”
“Y’all already done contributed two melons. But come on, follow me.” She leads us along the road and around to the far side of the church. There’s a rose trellis running half the length of the wall, covered with red blossoms so thick it looks like a green and red blanket. She disappears behind it and sticks out her hand. “Gimme.”
Patricia stashes those three pints somewhere behind the roses.
Cirone puts on his shirt. “Where’re the boys?”
“Follow the food smell and you’ll find them for sure.”
Cirone sniffs loudly and grins. “See you later.” He takes off.
Patricia puts out her hand again.
I go behind the rose trellis.
The dim air hangs dense with rose perfume. It makes me woozy.
Patricia takes the ribbons from her hair. She ties them together in a long string. Then she takes my shirt off Bedda and she ties Bedda to the trellis with her ribbons.
I put on my shirt and peer at her in the shady dark. I don’t know what to say. “How do you make sweet potato pies?”
She laughs. “Roast the biggest ones in the fire. Then peel them and squish them and add chopped pecans. And butter, if y’all got it. If not, milk. If not, it don’t matter. And sugar. Or, if you like the taste, molasses. Or skip it. Only thing matter is the pecans. Then put it all in a baked pie shell and stick it in the oven. Easy.”
“Much obliged.”
“So that’s how it is?”
“That’s how what is?”
“Ain’t you going to kiss me hello?”
And I do.
“Want to go out to the party?” she asks.
“No. I want to stay here, with you.”
She laughs, again. “Too bad for you.” And she leads me out to my first American Fourth of July.
nineteen
A few days later Patricia and I are walking the clay road to Milliken’s Bend. Both of us have errands there. Her feet move quick. “If anyone come, you go off the right side,” she says. “I go left.”
“Why?”
She lets out a whistle. “You something else, all right. For a murderer you sure don’t know nothing.”
My cheeks sting as if I’ve been smacked. “Don’t you say that.”
“Say what?”
“That I’m a murderer.”
“All Eye-talian men murderers.” She laughs.
“How can you laugh? I told you about those newspapers to make you understand. It’s the worst lie I ever heard.”
“It ain’t no worse than saying all colored men rapists.”
I stop. “Your uncles and brother and Rock and Ben—they’d go crazy if they heard you say that.”
“Mortified.” Patricia looks back at me, but she doesn’t stop walking.
“What’s that mean?”
“How they’d feel. Mortified. Like you want to die. Like you felt when you read those newspapers. But it’s the truth. The plantation owners’ truth. And if you don’t learn to respect that truth, you done for.”
“Respect a lie?”
“A lie they believe…well, Calogero, that kind of lie can kill you. Really kill you. Not just mortify you.”
“Murderers.” I run to catch up. “It drives me crazy that they believe that. That’s why they can start that stupid rumor that my uncles shot an old man and some little kid.”
“Just ’cause that drunk soldier wobbled out of the grocery on his own two feet and because that little loud-mouth thief, Jerome, go around bragging he got a bellyache from eating your watermelon—you mean because of that it’s a lie? Don’t be dumb, Calogero. Them facts don’t change nothing. You listen to me. Anybody come along this road, you dive to the right, I go to the left. Get out of sight fast. And if they stop, run.”
“It’s barely daylight. Who’s going to come?”
“Just dive. And hide.”
“What would they do if we didn’t hide?”
“An Eye-talian boy and a colored girl? Y’all crazy?”
“Sicilians have Negro girlfriends in New Orleans. My uncle told me.”
“Well, this ain’t New Orleans. And I hope you never find out how this place act.”
I think of Dago Joe. I didn’t tell Patricia about him. “I’m going to find out. You’re my girl.”
“Oh, so you kissed me and now
you think you own me?”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“You meant my heart, huh? Well, I’m hanging on to my heart a while longer.”
I want to say my heart is hers. But it doesn’t seem right after what she just said. I look up and down the road. No one’s coming. “Should we walk through the fields?”
“Five miles to Milliken’s Bend. And so hot, the trees be bribing the dogs for a shower. Any other path will take longer. Walk fast and stop moaning.”
“I ain’t moaning.”
“Listen to that: ‘I ain’t moaning.’” She sashays in front of me. “You talked normal for once. Not like some schoolteacher.”
“Frank Raymond.”
“Right, he yours. But Miss Clarrie, she a teacher, too. And y’all talk the same. She from somewhere far away. New Jersey. You want to hear her talk?”
“You bet I would.”
“Well, Mr. Calogero,” says Patricia in a pinched, formal voice. She stretches her neck long, so her head seems to wobble on top of it. “That is your name, isn’t it, young man? Did I hear right? I’m delighted to meet you. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? Could I offer you something? Perhaps a cool drink of lemonade?”
I laugh. “I thought you meant really meet her.”
She looks at me sideways. “After I get all the aprons and dresses from my cousin, after you see your friends, we’ll visit Miss Clarrie. She live in Milliken’s Bend.”
“Really?”
“Mmm-hmm. She ain’t no fancy lady. Just a smart one. Hurry now. We got to beat the sun. And keep your eyes open.”
I look up and down the road again.
“No, not that. Look to either side as we come up on this field.”
The road goes straight through cotton fields. The tiny plants have grown a lot since the last time I passed here. They’re bushy with vivid green leaves, broad and shiny.
“Stop,” says Patricia. “Stop and watch.”
The sun hits the fields gradually, and it shines white up here, pink over there, crimson beyond. The next instant the whole place sparkles white and pink and crimson all at once. Flowers! They open with the sunlight. So many of them. And those blossoms, they actually glow.
“You playing ’gator?” asks Patricia.
“What?”
“You standing there with your mouth open like a ’gator catching flies.”
Alligator Bayou Page 13
