Alligator Bayou - Donna Jo Napoli [31]
Francesco pats Richie on the back and leads him to the door.
And we’re alone. Finally.
“Criminals,” says Francesco in Sicilian. “He’s the criminal. You and me, we never commit crimes.”
“I don’t know about that,” I say, my voice trembling. “I charged him six cents for five cents’ worth of strawberries.”
“You didn’t! Really?”
“A penny fine. Rudeness.”
Francesco comes over and hugs me. “You’ve got a good head.” He laughs.
But I’m fighting tears. “I hate Mr. Coleman.”
“You hate him, or you’re afraid of him?”
“Both.”
“He’s not going to hurt us. I won’t let him.” Francesco chucks me under the chin. “You’ve got a present to take care of, right? For a friend. Go on, get out of here.”
twelve
Frank Raymond isn’t in the saloon or in his room over Blander’s barbershop. He must be out having experiences—it’s almost noon, after all.
I go in the pharmacy and stand on the courthouse porch to peek in those tall windows. I check every store, the post office, the telegraph window. No luck.
So I head out alone, on Granni, riding east toward the Mississippi River. I have a cap on and I bend my head, but the sun beats down so hard, sweat stings my eyes and soaks my shirt. I’m panting.
I didn’t ask Francesco if I could take Granni. But I’ll have the horse back long before evening. I trot slightly northward; Frank Raymond warned about a swamp to the south.
I don’t pass a soul. In Sicily we stay inside in this kind of heat, too. But there this kind of heat happens only in August when the Scirocco wind blows from Africa. Yesterday afternoon Cirone read the thermometer outside the train depot. Over ninety degrees. And he said it’ll be like that for months.
We come out on the river at last and the sun on the water blinds me. Granni goes slower. His back is so lathered, I slide side to side in time to his gait. I didn’t take the time to saddle him up—it would have only made him hotter, anyway.
We wander up the riverbank, looking for the little meadow where Frank Raymond turned last time. It can’t be that hard to find Joseph.
I’m thirsty and Granni sure needs a break from the sun. We stop in the shade of a smooth-barked tree. White petals rimmed with brown litter the ground. The smell is so sweet, it feels damp. As Granni and I drink from the river, we startle a lone pelican, who flaps clear across to the other side of the river.
I feel lost. I should have sat outside Frank Raymond’s and waited. A party can sure make a person act foolish. The last big party I went to was my little brother Rocco’s baptismal celebration.
Oh! What day is it? Saturday, July first. Rocco’s birthday was two days ago. He’s five. I didn’t even send him a birthday letter and I’m his family, his whole family.
I’ll write one tomorrow.
I hope someone celebrated his birthday. Rocco probably doesn’t even know the date. And if he does, he’s so little he probably doesn’t know enough to tell anyone.
He didn’t get presents. Well, I’ll buy him something Monday. I still have the four cents Francesco gave Cirone and me. I’ll have to do something for Cirone to pay him back for his half.
Ferns grow thick near the bank. I break off a pile. I don’t have rope, but the ferns bend easy. I tie their stems together and make two mats. One goes over Granni’s head and neck, leaving his eyes free. The other drapes over my head and shoulders. Not much, but they’ll help against the sun.
I walk with Granni trailing behind. I turn inland through hickory and pine and come out at Joseph’s shack. No one is there. But logs poke up into a cone shape from a pit near one end of the little pond. The wood is charred. I walk toward it.
“Hana!” Something whizzes past my nose.
I stumble. My leaf hood goes flying. Granni whinnies and takes off.
Joseph comes into the open, holding a bow with a fresh arrow at the ready, eyes squinted. Then he lowers it. “My friend. I am sorry, friend.”
I sink to my knees in relief.
Joseph pulls me up by the arm. “You disguised your head. You disguised your horse. You look like someone up to no good. You are stupid.”
And I’m laughing like a drunk man.