Alligator Bayou - Donna Jo Napoli [25]
“Hey,” says Rock. “Something here.”
Ben crawls to him, slowly. “Hold me around the waist.”
Rock holds Ben, and Ben leans his whole upper half into the water.
I want to grab him back. His head’s in that water!
He’s out! One hand plucks moss from his head, the other holds the lantern. “What you waiting for?” he says to Rock. “You so lazy. If you was a dog, you’d lean against the fence to bark.”
“Ha! You ain’t worth a milk bucket under a bull.” Rock poles us steady.
The air turns rosy, and I can smell dawn coming. My eyes meet Charles’.
He lifts his chin toward me. “Glad you came?”
I don’t trust myself to answer. I can’t let myself think about what could have happened. “That ’gator,” I breathe, holding myself far from it, “he’s not a small one.”
“Sure he is. See the yellow bands on his tail? A young-un. They grow twice that long, easy. Some grow three times that.”
I can’t pull my eyes away. The ’gator’s back is all spiked, like armor. Two rows of scales stick up along the sides of his tail. His hind feet are webbed. That head that was huge when he opened his jaws in the water is now flat and empty.
I’ve never even dreamed of anything worse.
“’Gator hide bring sixty cents a foot.” Rock shakes moss off the pole.
“And the oil bring forty cents a gallon,” says Ben. “All in the tail and the tongue. I bet we get two gallons out of this one.”
“Money, money, money.” Charles pushes himself up on his elbows. “Ain’t you boys got nothing else on y’all’s minds?”
“The moss on Charles, now,” says Ben, “enough of that to dry out and send to New Orleans to make buggy cushions. Four and a half cents per pound, I hear.”
They laugh. Cirone is still cradling his foot in both hands, but he laughs. The idiots. And they’re right. That horror—and now we’re safe. Oh yeah, I’m laughing—I’m laughing and laughing.
“As for your portion,” says Charles, looking at me, “a ’gator supper. Tricia promised to make your portion special good.”
“Supper? We didn’t earn it.” I search for the words. “And we made the skiff flip.”
“It ain’t over,” says Ben. “We got to make a palmetto sled and drag it home. And guess who doing most of the dragging.”
ten
Our house sits on open land. Cirone and I have no choice but to walk across the grasses in plain view. It’s full morning now; we could have made it back from the swamp a lot faster if Cirone hadn’t been limping.
Cirone makes the sign of the cross.
“Who are you praying to?”
“Santa Dimpna.”
“Why?”
“I’m asking her to make them still be sleeping.”
“That won’t help.” Mamma talked about the saints all the time. I know. “All Santa Dimpna does is stop sleepwalking.”
“Do you know which saint makes people sleep?”
“There probably isn’t one.”
“Well, then, I’m praying to Santa Dimpna.”
I make a little prayer, too: please, please, let my uncles be in bed.
Francesco stands on the porch, his arms crossed at the chest, his head drooping. He looks like he’s asleep on his feet. His head jerks up as we come near. “Where?” His voice is low, quiet, and tired. “Where have you been?”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Me too,” says Cirone.
“Where?”
“With friends,” I say.
“Friends? You have friends? Where with friends?”
Nothing I say will sound good. I look down.
“Your shoes are soaking—and don’t go thinking you’re getting another pair before the year’s up, either. Clothes damp, too.” Francesco walks around us, inspecting. He picks the last bits of moss off our hair. “Lost your hats. You’ll have to dig into the basket where we keep old caps. Where were you?” His tone threatens.
“I’m sorry,” says Cirone.
If we don’t talk, Francesco will never know.
“You said exploring.” Francesco pulls the tips of his mustache. “That means