Alligator Bayou - Donna Jo Napoli [10]
I’m not sure Carlo knows the English words, but he understands. He gets up.
Joe stares at the bright orange zucchini flowers. “No, no, sir. Thank you, sir. Generous, sir. Much obliged, but no. I’m here on a errand.”
“Wine? Whisky?”
“No, thank you, sir. I brought a message.”
“I listen.” Francesco folds his hands on top of Bedda’s head.
“Dr. Hodge said enough. Your goats were on his porch again. He told me to bring them here. Right to the front door of your residence. That’s what he said.”
Francesco lifts an upturned hand. “That all?”
Joe shakes his head. “He told me you can listen to them tramping back and forth, back and forth.” He rubs his chin, then pulls on his fingers. “He say it again: back and forth, back and forth. And he say it worse at his residence, because of his fine wood porch and all. They clatter on the wood. He can’t sleep. Not a wink.”
“He say his ‘fine wood porch’?”
“Yes, sir. Exactly.”
“The big doctor, he want go to bed now?” Francesco’s mouth twists. “Now? Now is for eat.”
“He ate hours ago.” Joe’s voice has a certain ring. I know he means that everyone did. That’s how it is in America. And even we would have eaten by now if Francesco hadn’t come home so late.
“Goat go where goat go. Is nature. Is how God want. Who can prevent?” Francesco shrugs. “Not me.”
“Dr. Hodge say you got to.”
Francesco leans back from Bedda and folds his hands in front of his chest.
“That’s the message, sir.” Joe’s eyes shift nervously.
“No worry, Joe. You bring message. You done. I talk to doctor.” Francesco turns. “Carlo …”
Carlo’s already standing beside Francesco with a pile of okra. He wraps it in newsprint and hands it to Joe.
“Much obliged, sirs.”
Francesco gives a nod.
Joe holds the bundle to his chest and hesitates. “And they’s a second message. The doctor say he wants to talk to you tomorrow morning. At his office.”
“About goat?”
“No, sir. About the gentleman Willy Rogers.”
“Like sheriff.” Francesco shakes his head. “Summons.”
“I reckon so.”
“You know what, Joe?”
“What, sir?”
“Willy Rogers, he want see you and me we no get nothing for our work, no money, no matter how hard we work. He want see us poor, like dirt, and never change. Everybody like you, you father, you grandfather, they slave before the war. Everybody like me, from other country. He want us go to him for help. Like children.”
“You talking about them new voting laws,” says Joe.
“Right. Right, Joe.”
I listen carefully. Francesco often invites hired hands to come around on a Saturday night, but only once since I’ve been here have any come—a few weeks back. Francesco sat drinking wine, with them drinking whisky, and everyone smoking cigars and complaining about the new voting laws. I didn’t pay attention. I should have, though; I sense that now. I move closer.
But Francesco just wags his finger at Joe. “So now you know. Willy Rogers, he no gentleman.”
“I reckon he ain’t, no, sir.”
“And he not want us be friend, because friend, they help. You know? I help you. You help me. We should be friend. Who care what Willy Rogers want?”
“Yes, sir.” Joe looks across the table at all of us. “Much obliged.”
“And, Joe.” Francesco leans forward and his face softens. “You know what friend do? Eat together. Dance together. Have fun. You understand what I say?”
“I reckon I do, sir.”
“Down in New Orleans, we all dance together. Years ago. Why not here? Next time I invite, you come? Maybe you come next time?”
“If I ain’t too tired from working, sir. Y’all have a good evening now.” Joe backs out the door.
Francesco puts his forehead to Bedda’s. He kisses her on the nose.
“Come sit down,” Rosario says to me and Carlo, switching us back to Sicilian.
“Right,” says Carlo. “The food calls.”
It’s a relief to use Sicilian; everyone can talk. I wonder how much each of them understood.
Rosario heaps salad on his plate. “Did you see how surprised Joe looked at seeing our wild greens? And the zucchini flowers. People around here have no idea how good they taste.”
Francesco points at Cirone and me. “Pay attention, boys.