Alligator Bayou - Donna Jo Napoli [36]
“Pepper,” says Carlo, and he shakes his head. “Too much.” He rubs his hands together. “One of the graduates prepared it. A girl.”
A girl? I look at Cirone.
“Patricia,” Cirone whispers in my ear.
“How do you know?”
“Charles told everyone.”
I remember when Charles caught that alligator. He said Patricia was going to make a special portion for me.
And she asked me if I’d had enough to eat.
And I said, “More than enough.” Oh, no. That could mean I didn’t like it. I finally get up the nerve to talk to her and that’s what I say.
What must she think?
fourteen
We get home and take care of the wagon and horse, and Cirone and I go to bed while the men sit on the porch. They sit right on the floor—that’s our new tradition. After all, it’s a wood floor now, as Francesco likes to point out, just like Dr. Hodge’s. They smoke cigars and drink limoncello and talk softly. The goats tramp around them and make their nee-haw noises.
I lie in bed fully dressed with a sheet pulled up to my neck and wait and wait. The night cools down a bit, but I’m drenched in sweat, practically ready to jump out of my skin by the time the men finally haul off to bed.
When the room is a chorus of snores, I get up and pad softly through the kitchen. Dried butter beans and okra and garlic hang from the ceiling. I work my way around them to the porch, tie my shoes on, and run.
This is crazy. If Francesco finds out, I’m a dead man.
But even without Francesco, this is crazy. I know where Patricia lives. That day I walked her home we could see her house at the end of the path when Charles and Ben and Rock stopped us. It looks like every two-room tenant-farmer shack. How on earth will I get her to come outside without waking up everyone else?
No answer comes. But I’m still running.
More than enough.
I want to kick myself for saying that.
The quickest way is to pass through town and out the other side. I take Walnut Street at a run. Families are walking home from the ice cream saloon down the center of the road. Sidewalks line the major streets of Tallulah, but no one uses them at night. So I can run free there.
A little girl rides on her daddy’s shoulders. I carried Rocco like that sometimes. He laughed when I’d prance and make him bounce. I’ve got to get him over here soon.
The little girl points at me. “That your goat?”
I stop and turn around. Bedda trots up and bangs her head into my legs.
“Go home, Bedda,” I mutter in Sicilian.
The little girl laughs, and her family hurries on by.
I should have used English in front of them. But Bedda doesn’t understand English. At least, that’s what Francesco says.
Bedda rams me again. I look around. She’s alone. It’s odd for a goat to go trotting off alone. She should want to go back to the others.
“Get out of here, Bedda.”
She jumps up and puts her front hooves on my chest, like a dog. I’m not going to run all the way back home to tie her up. She’d only kick at whatever I tied her to and then Francesco would wake and everything would be ruined. Dr. Hodge is right: goats should be penned up at night. Francesco is a maniac to say goats need their freedom. And Carlo is a fool to back him up and say cheese from free goats tastes better. The truth is, Francesco loves these stupid goats, especially Bedda.
I’ll just have to lose her. I run through the streets this way and that. Bedda stays at my heels. I hide behind trees, but she finds me. I shout at her, but she only rams me.
Then I get an idea. I know it’s terrible of me, but what can I do? I run past Dr. Hodge’s house. And just like that Bedda leaves me and trots up onto Dr. Hodge’s porch. Why, I don’t know. But in this moment I’m just grateful.
I run flat out. The night is full of croaks from the little ponds all around. Insects fly into my face with a small crack. It’s still warm. Running through this heavy, humid air feels almost like swimming. But I don’t slow down.
Finally, I’m in front of Patricia’s place. I lean