Alligator Bayou - Donna Jo Napoli [26]
“We were in the swamps,” says Cirone quickly. “No one’s property.”
“The swamps at night?” Francesco’s voice rises. His face goes ruddy.
Cirone’s done the damage. “We were in a boat,” I say.
Rosario comes running out. “Ah! I thought I heard you.” He hugs Cirone and reaches out to tousle my hair, too. “At last. Where were you?”
“With cottonmouths,” says Francesco. “In the swamps.”
“The swamps!” Rosario pushes Cirone away to hold him at arm’s length. “Do you know how dangerous that is?”
“We didn’t see snakes,” says Cirone.
“Oh, you didn’t, did you?” shouts Rosario in Cirone’s face. “You don’t see these things at night. They see you!”
Carlo and Giuseppe come out on the porch.
“I suppose you didn’t see snakes, either,” says Francesco to me.
I stare at the ground again. In my head, I will Cirone to stare down, too.
“Speak to me,” says Francesco. “Speak or you’ll be even sorrier.”
“We saw alligators,” says Cirone.
“You went to the swamp at night to see alligators?” says Rosario. “Are you blockheads?”
“We hunted one. We killed one,” says Cirone. “And we killed a turtle, too.” He sounds proud of himself, the little liar. He’s nuts to run off at the mouth like that. If he tells his foot is hurt, we’re done for.
Francesco shakes his head. “You were off in the swamps with guns?”
“Just a spear,” says Cirone.
Francesco looks sick. “You faced an alligator with a spear?”
“Sicilians don’t go in swamps.” Rosario still has Cirone by the shoulders and he shakes him now. “Sicilians don’t hunt alligators.”
“We didn’t,” says Cirone. “Our friends did.”
“Who are these friends?” asks Francesco.
Even Cirone can’t be stupid enough not to recognize the threat in that question. I move closer.
“This is your doing, Calogero. You’re the older one.” Rosario shakes a fist at me. “You don’t care if you die? All right, that’s your business. But you could have gotten Cirone killed.” He turns to Francesco. “Are you going to whip them?”
“I’ll do it.” Giuseppe takes a step forward. “You’re not tough enough with these boys.” Anger steels his voice. “I’ll whip them till they can’t walk.”
“Do that and they can’t work,” says Carlo quietly.
“I’ll teach them,” says Francesco.
“No, I’ll whip them,” says Giuseppe.
“Listen to Carlo,” says Francesco. “We need them to work. Leave it to me, Giuseppe, I’ll teach them good.”
“You better.” Giuseppe slaps his hands as though he’s wiping them off. “I’m hungry. Can we finally eat?” He goes inside.
Carlo follows.
Rosario waits, his eyes on Francesco.
“Work,” says Francesco. “You will work. All the time. No friends. Work.”
“Work? That’s punishment?” says Rosario. “Calogero could have gotten my little brother killed.”
“Hard work. For as long as I say.”
Rosario gives a harumph, but he goes inside.
I can’t believe how easy we’ve gotten off. We walk for the door.
“Are you limping, Cirone?” Francesco says.
Cirone shakes his head. He walks normal to prove it.
We go inside and start to crawl into bed.
Francesco follows and catches my arm. “Work.” He points at Cirone. “You too.”
We’ve been up all night. I can hardly keep my eyes open. “Now?”
“You heard me.”
We eat.
We go to work; Cirone at the stand, me at the grocery. I stock shelves, fill orders. The hours drag. Whenever I doze off, Francesco gives me a hard pinch.
By evening my eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed in sand. My whole body is sore from dragging the sled with that ’gator. My arm is bruised where Francesco’s been pinching me. I stumble home. Supper is a haze. I don’t even know what I’m eating.
Francesco, Giuseppe, and Rosario go out on the front porch to smoke cigars.
I stand up from the table and sway; my body is so heavy. Cirone stays slumped over the table. I pull on his arm.
Cirone stands and plods across the room toward the bedroom, weaving. He falls over a pot of goat-milk curds. Stinky white spills everywhere.
Carlo shakes his head. Those curds were