Alligator Bayou

by Donna Jo Napoli

  “Thank you for that information, Patricia.” Miss Clarrie looks at me thoughtfully. “That must have been difficult. Terrifying, in fact.” My cheeks burn in embarrassment. “You must be resourceful, Calogero. I will be happy to have you in my classroom.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “It’s for me to thank you. With you I will now have twenty-one students, even if Patricia here makes the regrettable decision not to return. With that number I am guaranteed a salary of fifty dollars a month, instead of forty. So thank you, Calogero.”

  “You’re sincerely welcome, ma’am.”

  “And so polite.” She laughs. “I believe it will be a delight to have you regardless of the money. Have you had your vaccination?”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “It’s an injection that protects you from smallpox. You’ll have to go to a doctor and get that before you come to school.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And you have to use your right hand in school for all your letters and numbers. That’s the law.”

  “I’m right-handed, ma’am.”

  “Good. In school you must behave properly.”

  “No spitballs,” says Patricia. “No bending back other people’s hands or fighting or banging them on the head.”

  “Thank you for explaining that, Patricia,” says Miss Clarrie.

  “I’ll behave properly.”

  “Good. Do you know any letters?”

  “I can read.”

  “That’s even better. Oh my, I wish I had had you with me last summer.” She taps a finger delicately on her cheek. “I’m trying to get to know this state, you see. So I’m visiting two new parishes every summer. And last summer I visited Tangipahoa Parish. Have you ever heard of it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sicilians grow strawberries there. The best kind.”

  “That’s right. There’s a whole town of Sicilians there. All the signs are in Sicilian—even the street signs. I certainly could have used someone who reads Italian there.”

  “I read English, too. I’ve had a tutor all year.”

  “Would you mind reading for me?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Follow me.” She walks inside to a table where a thick book lies. “My hands are too floury. Just pick it up, would you, please?”

  “Cheapest Supply House on Earth. Our trade reaches around the world.” I read about watches, jewelry, sewing machines, saddles.

  “That’s enough, Calogero. You’re quite proficient.”

  “You planning on buying any of them things?” asks Patricia.

  “This is from 1894, when catalogues were free. Now they charge. So I don’t have a new one. I don’t even know if Sears, Roebuck carries these things. That’s the name of the store: Sears, Roebuck. Someday I’m going to Chicago to visit that store. And other sights. They hosted a world’s fair six years ago, and the pavilions are still up. Travel is important.”

  “Miss Clarrie gave postal cards to each of us graduates,” Patricia says.

  I look in confusion at Miss Clarrie.

  “Patricia, would you open this drawer, please?”

  Patricia opens the little drawer in the table, and hands me a postal card.

  “Hey, it’s already addressed. To you, Miss Clarrie,” I say.

  “Right. I encourage my graduates to travel. To the next town. The next parish, state, country. Anywhere you go, it’s good for you. You see new ways and learn to appreciate them. Books carry you far, too. But actually experiencing somewhere, ah, that’s quite different. The world would be a better place if everyone traveled. I want all my graduates to write to me from somewhere else and tell me what they’ve seen.”

  I carefully place the postal card back in the drawer.

  Miss Clarrie smiles. “Do you have any questions about school for me?”

  “What do I need to buy?”

  “Not a thing. Show up the first day, and I’ll give you a pencil and a tablet—a copybook.”

  “The school monitor will pass them out,” says Patricia. “And at the end of the day, the monitor will collect them.”

  “Thank you, Patricia. Well, now, I’m in the middle of making biscuits. Would the two of you like to stay for biscuits with sausage gravy?”

  twenty-one

  We’re standing out front of Miss Clarrie’s house, full of biscuits and gravy. She already told us goodbye and shut the door behind us. I reach for the bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “I’ll carry that satchel if you want.”

  “Nuh-uh. You drop it and you ain’t the one to suffer.” Patricia holds it close. “These aprons and white dresses going to let me and six other girls make money.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Working as servers in the dining room on the steamship this Sunday.”

  “What steamship?”

  She shakes her head. “Ain’t you heard about the tournament and the ball?”

  “Sure I have. My uncles ordered all kinds of food from New Orleans for it.”

  “The ball will be on a ship. I could tell Mr. Coleman you want a job in the kitchen. Washing dishes and stuff. You’d get to see everything.”

  Working for Mr. Coleman. The very idea makes my jaw clench. Still… “Will Charles be working in the kitchen?”

  “And Rock. And Ben.”

  I can’t fight that. “Then I want to work, too. And Cirone does, too.”

  “I’ll try.”

  I step off the porch. Patricia doesn’t follow. “What are you waiting for?”

  “Everyone going to see us,” she says.

  “You dive to one side, I dive to the other. That’s your rule, right?”

  “That’s easy before dawn. They’s too many folks out now. Besides, I can’t go diving without getting this package all dirty. And look at that sky. Rain, for sure.”

  Charcoal gray clouds billow in from the north. “So what do you want to do?”

  “Stash away till evening.” She looks up and down the path. “Wait five minutes, then follow me.”

  “Five minutes? You’ll be way ahead of me. How will I find you?”

  “The good Lord gave you eyes, sugar.” Patricia walks up the path, just as fast with that bundle as she was without it. I wonder what makes her that strong.

  I count to sixty, five times. Then I’m off, up that path. Patricia’s out of sight. I knew it. I can’t even call for her; she’d only get mad. I walk, looking every which way. Soon the houses stop and the grasses grow tall. If there’s a path, I can’t see it. Hot wind pushes at my back, and it goes dark. Lightning. Thunder claps. Where is that girl?

  Patricia steps out from a stand of woods ahead. She waves me on.

  I run and now we’re running together through the forest undergrowth. A furry, stub-faced, squat creature zips across in front of us. It races at a rabbit, hugs it, bites its head, and scratches at its belly with its hind feet, shredding it.

  “Don’t watch.” Patricia runs on.

  “What was that?”

  “A mink. The thunder must have woke him. Usually you don’t see them till dusk. But they’s a pond near here. They live near ponds.”

  A shiver shoots through me. “Mean creature.”

  “I reckon he’ll get his—a coyote or red wolf will eat him if a ’gator don’t.”

  We dodge in and out of the trees until we come out on a field. A shabby building sits in the middle.

  “Hurry.”

  Big fat drops are already falling. We run flat out for the building and duck inside the front door just as it starts to pour.

  It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the shadows. Patricia puts her package in a dark corner, then comes over to stand beside me. “Lucky us. We just made it.”

  “Where are we?”

  “This is an old cotton gin. That there …” She points. “That’s the old boiler. And that’s the gin stand.” She walks to the wall. “Follow me.” She climbs the wall holding on to nothing but those rough logs, all t
he way up to a loft. “Come on.”

  It isn’t as hard as it looked. I’m up there with her quick. Straw pads the floor except for a spot in the middle that’s been swept. “Who comes here?”

  “Men. They play craps. Coloreds ain’t allowed to gamble. But on Saturday night, people have to. Late tonight they be coming here, bet on that.”

  “How do you know about all this?”

  “Everybody know.”

  The rain drums on the tin roof. I walk to the end of the loft and look out the open gable end. “It’s coming down hard.”

  “Better for napping.” She lies on the straw. I stretch out near her. “You really going to school in September?” asks Patricia.

  “Mmm-hmm,” I say, mimicking her. “You sure you’re not going back with me?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Will you work for rich people in some big house?”

  “Ain’t enough rich people to go around, Calogero.”

  “So you’ll work the cotton fields?”

  “You got to chop two hundred pounds by midafternoon, then carry it to the gin—the running gin, not this old place—to get them tenacious seeds removed.”

  “Tenacious seeds?”

  “That’s what my uncle call them. They stick.”

  “I bet you’re strong enough to do all that,” I say.

  “Thing is, you get old and tired overnight. And skinny. I like fat better. I’d rather shake than rattle, any day. I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’ll find work.”

  The noise of the rain outside seals us in. I roll on my side and look at her. “What’s school like?”

  “Beatings ain’t allowed. The last teacher, though, she smacked us with her ruler.”

  “Did she get fired for it?”

  “Ain’t nobody told on her. If you told, your folks would whip you for misbehaving in school—hurt you a lot worse than a smack from a ruler. But Miss Clarrie, she’ll give you a bawling out, oh, yes, but she ain’t never hit nobody.”

  “What else?”

  “Well, you’ll see. The most important thing, though, is love your teacher.”

  “Love her? How come?”

  “She good to us. And, ain’t nobody else love her. The white folk hate her for teaching us. And she ain’t allowed to live near the colored folk and…”

  “Why can’t she live near you?”

  “The law. Whites go one way—coloreds go another.”

  Maybe that’s why we live outside town proper—maybe the Jim Crow laws don’t allow Sicilians to live anywhere inside town, not with the whites, not with the Negroes.

  Patricia’s still talking. “And since our parents never get to know Miss Clarrie, they never get over being afeared of her. You know, feeling stupid around her.”

  “Oh.” I sigh. Miss Clarrie’s got it worse than Sicilians; there’s only one of her. “She must be lonely.”

  “So you got to love your teacher. Rest now, Calogero.” She closes her eyes.

  I stare up at a spiderweb. Then I move a little closer to Patricia.

  “Don’t go getting no ideas. Move away, Calogero. Now. Scat.”

  One kiss. What would one kiss hurt? I close my eyes. And I’m inside that first kiss we had, out in the dark of night. The taste of her. I open my eyes. I can’t let myself think of the second kiss, behind the rose trellis, or I’ll never sleep.

  Something’s moving down under this loft. Pad pad pad. My whole body clutches. A panther? I shimmy silently on my stomach to the edge and peek down. An animal walks up the wall. Rings on its tail. A raccoon.

  “Hey,” I call. “Scat!”

  That raccoon turns and runs headfirst down the wall and disappears. I never saw something that big run downwards headfirst before.

  I’ll stand guard. Except I’ve got no weapon if something big comes.

  I climb down from the loft, which turns out to be harder than climbing up, and search around. The only thing I find is a heavy glass tube with a bulge at one end. I stick it inside my shirt and climb up into the loft again. And I wait.

  The rain stops. Late sunlight slowly comes in through the gable opening. Sweat rolls from my temples down my neck. The air grows even stuffier than it was before.

  Patricia sleeps on.

  Somewhere far off a bell rings. Daylight is long in July. I crawl to the edge of the gable opening and take the glass tube out of my shirt. It’s red. I hold it up to the sun.

  “Glory, what a light.” Patricia crawls over beside me.

  I smile at her. “Sleepyhead.”

  “A conductor’s lantern. From the trains. Where’d you find it?”

  “Down below.” I hand it to her.

  She holds it up and the light streams through onto her cheeks. “Imagine being on a train. Going someplace. Like Miss Clarrie say we should do.”

  “I’ll take you places. We’ll see the world together.”

  She smiles. “Where you going to take me?”

  “New Orleans. And that’s only the first place.”

  “Some dream.” Her smile stays. “This glass sure beautiful.”

  “It’s yours,” I say. “But I’ll carry it home for you.”

  “A gift, huh? A dream and a gift. Reckon that’ll buy you a kiss?”

  “Ain’t got no idea what’ll buy me a kiss.”

  “Now you acting smart, Calogero. Finally. A kiss got to be given.” She sets down the lantern glass and puts her hands lightly on my cheeks.

  I touch the center of her back at the waist. Just a hint. She moves to me, natural as water running downhill.

  twenty-two

  Frank Raymond shakes his head. “I already told you. Don’t lay that paint on so thick.” His voice is sharp.

  “It’s hard.”

  “It wouldn’t be if you’d take your time.”

  My fingers tighten around the brush. I’m not getting any better; I’m sick of these painting lessons. “You’re yelling.”

  “You’re being clumsy.”

  I slam the brush down on the table. “I quit.” Then I turn to him. “Why are you so ornery today?”

  “Ornery? Who taught you that word? That’s a Louisiana word. Listen to your drawl. Next thing I know, all my teaching’s going to be lost.”

  I stare at him. “This isn’t a good day for me, either. I’m going home.”

  “Go ahead. All you are is trouble, anyway,” yells Frank Raymond.

  “Me? What did I do?”

  “You and your uncle. I’m back to eating my own lousy grub. Because of you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “John Wilson. He finally found out. Your uncle sold that cursèd lemon liquor for the Fourth of July and drove the man nuts. He knows I tutor you. See? Get it now?”

  “He won’t allow you in the saloon.”

  “You really are a genius, Calogero.” He snorts. “I got used to eating better when I was working there, and Wilson liked the mural so much, he said I could eat half price from then on. But now the whole arrangement’s ruined.”

  “Eat with us. Carlo loves company. You can have limoncello. Come tonight.”

  He puts his flat palm over his mouth and slowly wipes down his chin. “All right.”

  “Good.”

  “So.” He takes a deep breath and slaps his palm on his chest a few times. “So. Now you tell me, why’s this not a good day for you?”

  “Because of Mr. Coleman.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “It isn’t just him. It’s Coleman and Wilson and Rogers and all of them. There’s a tournament today. Right now, in fact.”

  “I know. So?” Frank Raymond raises an eyebrow.

  “Well, there’s a big supper afterward on a steamboat. And I wanted to work in the kitchen with my friends. But Coleman won’t hire me. No one will hire me. Coleman told my friend dagoes are worse than trash, ’cause they’ll do anything to you.”

  “Coleman’s an idiot.”

  “He said dagoes will kill you. Americans believe
Sicilians are murderers.”

  “Not all Americans. It’s a Louisiana disease.”

  “No, it’s bigger than that. I read it in newspapers from all over the country. From Washington state to Massachusetts to New York.”

  “So much for the intelligence of our news reporting.” Frank Raymond runs his hands through his hair. “Tell me, how bad do you need the money?”

  “It isn’t just the money. I wanted to see the inside of a steamboat.”

  Frank Raymond smiles. “Clean up these paints, Calogero. We’re going out.”

  I open my mouth to ask more, and he shushes me.

  We place the paint jars in their boxes and wash the brushes. Then Frank Raymond puts on fancy clothes. He looks me up and down. “Those your best clothes?”

  It’s Sunday, of course. And Father May’s in town. He’s staying all week for some reason. He gave a service this morning, so I dressed right. “Yes.”

  “That will have to do, then. Stay by me. A tournament in a county seat, well, not much beats that. That’s stop number one.”

  We walk to the courthouse. People were just arriving when I passed earlier, but I never guessed so many would have come in the meantime. They sit perched on surreys and buggies parked in the street. Some have added elevated benches for a better view.

  And there’s Francesco with Carlo beside him on our wagon bench. Standing in the wagon bed are Rosario and Giuseppe. I can’t spy Cirone.

  We snake through to the edge of the wide, wide lawn, with me keeping to the far side of Frank Raymond, out of Francesco’s line of sight—if he sees me, he’ll make me stay with him. Two small boys jostle us as they run by with popguns. Women in gowns, all pleated and puffy, sit on chairs. Men in evening coats, even in this heat, stand behind them with white kid gloves on. White silk handkerchiefs peek from their breast pockets.

  Frank Raymond sees me gawking and he pulls a red cotton handkerchief from his hip pocket. He folds it neatly and tucks it at the neck of my shirt. I pat it and I’m happy.

  “What in hell do you think you’re doing?” comes a harsh voice.

  Frank Raymond and I look at a whiskered man wearing spectacles.

  “This area’s for whites. Get out of here, boy.” He looks at Frank Raymond. “Red handkerchief on a dago. You must be plum crazy. If it wasn’t such a happy day for the town, I’d make sure y’all got fined. This ain’t some cockamamie New York.”