Alligator Bayou - Donna Jo Napoli [2]
two
The next morning I’m slow because I took so long to fall asleep. I sit at the table with my chin propped in my palms.
Francesco picks up the shotgun.
Town people call Francesco crazy because he’s quick to shout. They snicker behind his back in the grocery. I’ve never seen him act crazy, though. But when I see that gun in his hand, I think of the argument last night and that man cursing.
The others have gone on ahead to work; only Carlo’s here in the front room, straining goat milk for cheese. He doesn’t see the gun.
I nudge Carlo and jerk my chin toward Francesco.
Carlo’s eyes widen. He puts down the milk bucket. “You shoot at Willy Rogers and the whole town will come after us.”
Shooting anyone would be terrible, but Willy Rogers? Tallulah has over four hundred people, but only a few run the show. And Willy Rogers’ father is one of them.
Francesco jabs his finger at Carlo. “Not if he shoots at me first.”
“Francesco! Remember five years ago?” Carlo wipes his hands on his apron. “They lynched seven Negroes right on Depot Street. A white man started it, but no one asked who shot first. Don’t do anything stupid!”
Lynched? Francesco winced when Carlo said that. What’s it mean? But Francesco’s already talking again, louder and faster.
“No one tells us how to run our business. Not Willy Rogers, not anyone.”
“He’s a boy,” says Carlo.
“You’re so old, you think everyone’s a boy. Willy’s got to be twenty.”
Carlo shrugs. “What he said didn’t bother me.”
“Of course not. You went inside and slept through most of it. Besides, he said it in English and all you speak is Sicilian. But if you had understood…”
“I didn’t. That’s my point. I didn’t understand. Neither did Giuseppe or Rosario. So we weren’t insulted. We went to bed peaceful. Give it another day and you’ll feel peaceful, too.”
“I don’t want to give it another day.” Francesco’s face goes purple. “If I let Willy Rogers get away with insulting us here, at our home, the next thing you know, he’ll do it in public. We’ll lose customers.”
Carlo turns to me. “What do people say about our fruits and vegetables?”
“They’re the b-b-best,” I stammer.
“See? No one’s going to shop elsewhere because of what Willy Rogers says.”
“Oh, yeah? He said we’re criminals. Like all Sicilians–that’s what he said—all Sicilians are Mafia. It’s the same rotten lies all over again.”
I jerk back at the word Mafia. Back in Italy the Mafia men used to offer boys money to knock over a fish cart or break a window. Little jobs—warnings before the Mafia men did something more drastic to ruin anybody who didn’t do things their way. Mamma said that’s how boys got corrupted into joining them—she told me to run when they came near. We’re nothing like Mafia. How could anyone say that about us?
Carlo stiffens. “We run a legitimate business. Everybody knows. Words don’t change the facts.”
“Words like that give them the excuse they want. He said there’s more Sicilians in Louisiana than in all the other states put together, so many we’re running honest men out of business. He said we’re an epidemic; we should be wiped out.”
Carlo’s shaking his head. “We haven’t given anyone cause to complain.”
“He says I gave him cause. Yesterday.”
Carlo’s eyes narrow. “What did you do?”
“He came into the store—first time ever. A Negro walked in and Willy stamped out. Then he comes here last night and says our store is dirty because we serve Negroes. He says all Negroes are filthy except for the servants of the whites. He wants them standing out by the back door. And waiting till all the whites are served first.”
Willy Rogers must be crazy. Negroes aren’t dirty. Besides, half our customers are Negroes. You can’t make half your customers wait for the other half.
Carlo’s cheek twitches. “Telling us how to run our business.”
“That’s what I said. You see? You see why I have to stand firm? They have the whole town to run their way—we have our store. We decide how we run it.”
Carlo’s shoulders slump. “Are you sure we’re not breaking any law?”
“The