Alligator Bayou - Donna Jo Napoli [27]
But Carlo only takes Cirone by the arm and leads him to bed. Then he does the same to me. He whispers, “What happened to the alligator?”
“He died.”
“The meat. What happened to the meat?”
“They took it.”
“How stupid can you be? You risk your life and you come home empty-handed?” Carlo shakes his head. “It’s just as well. Sicilians don’t hunt alligators. Don’t do it again. Ever.”
I won’t. I never want to stare at a yellow-ball eye again.
In my dreams glowing yellow balls surround the boat. Charles jumps onto a big ’gator’s back. Other ’gators jump on Charles. The thrashing mass disappears under black water. I wake in a sweat. Snores come from other beds. I drop back asleep.
In my dreams we’re in the water, the skiff upside down on top of us. I can’t find Cirone; I can’t hear him, can’t feel him. Cirone! I wake in a sweat and lie trembling.
That swamp is a live thing with an empty heart that beats anyway. No mercy, no mercy, no mercy, no mercy—drumming till you lose your mind. How can Ben and Charles and Rock face it over and over? I roll on my side and Cirone’s heels hit my chest. He’s curled in an S. Somehow, he’s asleep. That’s good, at least. We’re lucky we can use our uncles as an excuse never to ’gator hunt again. I close my hands around Cirone’s ankles. I’m the older one. “I’m sorry, Cirone,” I whisper. After a while I drop back asleep.
“Get up!” Francesco drags me from bed. I fall on the floor.
The room is half dark. “It isn’t even morning.”
“Joe Evans is here. You’re going out to the fields today.”
“What about the grocery?”
“Cirone will help me in the grocery.”
“What about the stand?”
“Rosario will manage.”
“Please, Francesco.”
“You’re the older one. You get more punishment. Go with Joe. Now.”
I spend the day with Joe Evans and his crew, harvesting lettuce, plowing the roots under, and planting again. By Wednesday evening I’m dead on my feet.
It’s the same story Thursday. Friday. Saturday. I have never looked forward to a Sunday as much as this one. The Lord was right when He declared a day of rest.
On Sunday Francesco pulls me out of bed again.
“It’s Sunday,” I say. “No fair.”
“I’m the one who should say no fair. It’s my Sunday, too. My only mistake was taking you into this house. I can’t sleep late on a Sunday because I have to punish you.”
“The grocery is closed. The field hands are at home. How can I work?”
“Plenty for you to do around here. Work I’ve been putting off. Start with cutting firewood for winter.”
“It’s June!”
“Get up.”
“What about Frank Raymond?”
“You already speak English good enough.”
“But he needs the food I trade or he’ll starve.” That’s not the truth, now that Frank Raymond’s painting the mural in the saloon. But Francesco doesn’t know that.
“I’ll give him greens.”
“He won’t take charity.”
Francesco lowers his brows. “I understand that. A man who has to bow too low never gets up again.” He looks at me. “All right. Chop wood in the morning. Study in the afternoon. Then you come home and work.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll walk you there. I’ll walk you back.”
And so it goes. Day after day. And I’ve only caught one glimpse of Patricia since that Wednesday—the last day of May. I was carrying crates into the grocery and she waved from across the street. That’s all. Not even words, just a wave.
I never want to hear about alligators again in my life.
eleven
I start up from my bed in a sweat. The rooster’s crowing. It’s already morning. Francesco didn’t wake me before dawn. What’s going on? When my heart slows, I can feel the hollow pit in my stomach; I haven’t talked to Patricia for the entire month of June. I haven’t even seen her at a distance but twice.
I turn my head and my nose hits Cirone’s toes. He’s still in bed, too.
So where’s Francesco?
I jump up and wake Cirone. We wash, dress, and eat the bread and jam waiting for us under a cloth on the table. Carlo’s gone. But I know he’s close by, ’cause he left everything out. A mound of spinach and