Alligator Bayou - Donna Jo Napoli [33]
I don’t have any idea what his stories might be; how can I choose? I think of the stories Frank Raymond told me about famous Indians. And it hits me. “Why are you named Joseph? That doesn’t sound Indian.”
“An ugly story. I was born Uruna—bullfrog. Boys found out what my name meant. They were not Tunica, not mixed blood. They made me jump, because bullfrog jumps. They made me jump and jump and jump. My feet bled. I fell down. They threw rocks on me. Rocks buried me. My mother dug me out. When I was well enough to walk again, we moved to another town. I became Joseph. A Christian name was safer.”
Buried alive! I want to hit someone. I breathe in. Deep. “Why didn’t you change your name back to Uruna when you came here?”
“I am Joseph. I remember Uruna. But I am Joseph.” He stands and stretches, and carries his basket back to the shack. Then he brings my pot out. It’s covered with ashes. He gets on all fours and blows the ashes off. I join him.
The bowl is smaller than I remembered it. And the designs on the outside aren’t as distinct. But it will look pretty once I’ve painted it.
We wrap it in ferns and I thank Joseph.
“Pay attention,” says Joseph. “And you can ascend to the sky and become thunder. You can be the manager of the clouds and the rain.”
I shake my head in apology. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“An orphan is free to become anything. The choice is yours.”
I ride away on Granni, clutching the ash gray bowl to my chest. I don’t know what time it is, but I know I’m in trouble. Granni won’t speed up. And I don’t have the heart to kick him in this heat. It’s dusk by the time I reach Tallulah.
Frank Raymond still isn’t in his room. I was hoping he’d help me paint the bowl.
I ride toward home chanting inside my head, “It’s all right.”
They’re lined up on the porch. Even Cirone.
I lead Granni out to the field, take off his bridle, and rush back.
Francesco glowers at me. “You promised.”
“I promised to be back early, and it isn’t dark yet.” I hold up the fern-wrapped bowl and put on a sorry face.
“You took Granni without permission,” says Francesco. “What’s wrong with you? Is your head empty? Get inside.”
I walk into the kitchen and put the bundle on the table.
“That present better have been worth it,” Francesco says.
I hope so. But now everything feels different. The bowl is dirty gray. And it stinks of ash. Joseph said I was stupid today. He’s right.
Cirone comes over and pushes some of the ferns away. “You made that?”
I nod. My eyes burn.
He unwraps it, and turns it over carefully. “She’s going to love it.”
thirteen
The last time I saw this many people in one place was when my steamship arrived in New Orleans; passengers jammed the top deck of the ship, people swarmed the docks. But that was different, because everyone was going about their own business. Here, everyone has the same business—this giant party. The six of us stand and stare. Charles wasn’t exaggerating; there’re probably two hundred people here.
“Help me carry the pasticcia rustica,” says Carlo.
Good old Carlo. We’re bringing food; that means we belong here, even if we can’t see a soul we know.
We parade back and forth from the wagon to the long line of tables, carrying pies. The tables are already laden with food. We slide a pie in here, another in there.
But now we’re empty-handed again. And still surrounded by strangers. They talk and laugh, just not with us. In fact, they give us sideways glances, as though we make them anxious. I avoid their eyes and search for Patricia.
“Look how happy they are,” says Francesco. “So easy.”
“Bet this is what it’s like in Tangipahoa Parish,” says Rosario wistfully.
“Yeah,” says Giuseppe. “We should be with Sicilians.”
“Well, we’re here—not there.” Francesco waves to a man who’s been a hired hand in the vegetable fields many times. The man stares, then smiles uncertainly and waves back. “All right.” Francesco beckons us into a huddle. “I’m going off to talk. You do the same.”
“How can I be friendly if I can’t speak English?” mutters Giuseppe.
“You drank