Alligator Bayou - Donna Jo Napoli [11]
I take a huge helping of salad. So does Cirone.
“That Joe…,” says Rosario. “He sees what the new voting laws are about. He knows they’re trying to keep us all down.”
“The voting laws!” Carlo looks at Francesco in alarm. “What are you thinking? You trying to organize the Negroes?”
“A little honest talk, is all,” says Francesco.
“A little honest talk?” Carlo’s got his hands on top of his head, on his bald spot. “The whites will say we’re causing trouble. Next thing you know, they’ll say we’re going to organize strikes on the plantations. They’ll be afraid we’ll burn down cotton gins, like those Sicilians burned the sugarhouse in Lafourche Parish. Then they’ll really have a reason to run us out of business.”
I drop my fork, I’m so flustered. I open my mouth to ask what’s going on, but Cirone kicks me under the table and flashes me a warning look.
“What are you talking about?” Rosario waves Carlo off. “Go on, boys, eat. No one’s trying to run us out of business. It’s just a complaint about goats.”
“It starts with goats. Then it grows.” Giuseppe gestures angrily with his fork. “Dr. Hodge and men like him—plantation owners, cotton-gin owners. Big bosses. They need straightening out.”
I close my fingers tight around my fork. I don’t know who’s right, but I hate the way Giuseppe’s talking.
“Dr. Hodge is no problem,” says Francesco. “I know how to talk to him.”
“Oh, sure, you and the doctor, you’re friends. Bah!” Giuseppe says. “You have a cigar with him—what? once a year?—and you think that’s something?”
“It is something! Dr. Hodge doesn’t own a plantation—he isn’t one of them. He likes us. You leave Dr. Hodge to me. I’ll take care of him in the morning.”
“You better.” Giuseppe jams his fork in the salad. “You just better.”
“Eat,” says Carlo. “Everybody eat.”
I stuff my mouth.
Francesco pushes his empty plate away. He looks at me. “You still thinking about alligators?”
I’m so startled, for a second I can’t answer. “A little.”
“Vicious!” Rosario makes a monster face, wrinkling his big nose and putting his hands beside his cheeks like threatening claws. Then he laughs. “I saw a giant one roped up in the back of a wagon once. Long like you wouldn’t believe. The length of two men standing on top of each other. Still alive. Even when they close their jaws their teeth show.” He leans toward Cirone. “As if they’re smiling at you and saying, ‘Hello, dinner. My, you look tasty.’”
That’s exactly what the ’gator head over the saloon looks like it’s saying. I grip my fork so tight it hurts. Cirone chews the corner of his thumb.
“Good eating, though,” says Francesco. “We had them in New Orleans.”
“The figs will be ripe in July,” says Carlo. “I can make alligator with fig sauce. In autumn I’ll make it with pomegranate sauce. In winter I’ll get oranges from a plantation near New Orleans. Sicilians work there—so the fruit is good.”
“Figs, pomegranates, oranges.” Francesco rests his elbows on the table and takes a loud breath. “They didn’t have good fruits or vegetables in this state before the Sicilians. Without us, all they’d eat is squirrel and possum and alligator.”
“And chicken,” says Carlo. “They eat chicken on Saturday nights.”
Francesco gets an odd, sad look on his face. “It smells good, the way they make it. The way they sit outside and laugh together and play music.”
“We have fun on Saturday nights, too,” says Rosario.
“Yeah,” says Giuseppe. “We’ve got each other. Who needs them?”
six
Cirone and I shift from foot to foot as Francesco inspects the new porch floor. We spent all day building it. He checks the edges to see if they’re even. He runs his fingers over the surface to see if we lined up planks of equal thickness to make it level. He grabs ends here and there to see if we put in enough nails so that they won’t jiggle.
I jam my hands in my pockets. Cirone does the same. I bet his are balled into fists like mine.
Francesco walks the length, stopping and flexing his knees every few paces. He stamps.
We flinch.
Francesco smiles.