Alligator Bayou - Donna Jo Napoli [44]
“Carlo?” Giuseppe jerks his chin at Carlo. “Get the newspapers.”
Carlo goes to a chest. He digs down to the bottom, and comes out with an armload of newspapers wrapped in blue paper. He sets them on the table.
“Read, Calogero,” says Giuseppe. “You know how. Read to Cirone. Our friends in New Orleans pack newspapers in the fruit crates. Every time someone writes something bad about Italians, they send it. We can’t read them, but we know what they say because it’s always the same. Why should Tallulah be different?”
“Tallulah is different!” The blood pounds my head. “My friends don’t hate us.”
“Sit down, Calogero,” says Francesco.
I hadn’t even realized I’d stood up. I sit again.
“You’re right,” says Francesco. “They’re good people.”
“It’s never been the Negroes who hate us,” says Rosario.
“Never?” Cirone leans forward. It’s the first word he’s said so far.
Rosario nods. “We got on fine with them in New Orleans.”
“But that made the whites hate us more,” says Giuseppe. “They were afraid the Negroes would get fed up with the terrible conditions on the plantations and strike or quit, because that’s what Sicilians do. They passed laws against commingling—that’s what they called it. They frightened the Negroes from being our friends.”
“But it’s different here,” says Francesco.
I look at Cirone. Fraternizing with the Negroes. That’s what the boys said; that’s why they came after us. Cirone’s face is blank as he looks back at me.
“Calo’s chin,” says Giuseppe. “What are we going to do about that?”
“This will cool down,” says Carlo. “We don’t want trouble. That just plays into their hands. That just convinces them they’re right about us.”
“I agree,” says Rosario.
Francesco sighs. “I don’t know.”
Giuseppe doesn’t speak.
“We’re in the middle of a good season,” says Carlo, his voice very soft. “Independence Day is in just two days. Business, Francesco.”
Francesco nods. “And then there’s the big ball next week.”
“Right,” says Carlo. “Right. The town needs us. We can make a lot of money. We’re just six little people—six. They can’t really see us as a threat. This will pass. If we let it. We’re strong inside.” He’s almost whispering now. “We can let this pass.”
Francesco’s eyes wander.
“Like you said.” Rosario turns to Francesco, speaking as quietly as Carlo did. “We’ve got friends now. Imagine the good times ahead.”
Francesco slaps a hand on the table. I flinch at the sudden loudness. “We’re businessmen. There’s money to be made. We can’t overreact.” He points at me. “And you, Calogero, keep your eyes open. Don’t let those boys catch you again.” He looks at Giuseppe. “You hear me? This is how we’ll do it. Don’t make trouble.”
“I won’t,” says Giuseppe. “But if it comes, I won’t hide. Never again. I can’t.”
Francesco nods. “Fair enough.”
We eat. Then I spend the evening reading to Cirone by the waning summer light. The newspapers say we’re uncivilized, we’re like animals. We carry stiletto knives and use them on anyone. I want to rip these pages to shreds. Why does Carlo save them?
Then I read about Dago Joe. Two years ago he was on his way to Shelby Depot to stand trial for the murder of a railroad agent in Memphis when a crowd hanged him. There was no evidence against him other than his low birth—that’s what the newspaper said: “low.” His father was Sicilian. Like me. His mother was Negro. Like Patricia.
I fold the newspapers back into the blue paper and set them on top of Carlo’s trunk. Cirone and I wash our feet and get into bed. “Cirone,” I whisper. “You going to start having nightmares again?”
“I never stopped,” he whispers back.
seventeen
Granni and Docili are harnessed side by side to the front of the wagon. Giuseppe’s on the driver’s bench.
“Get in.” Francesco jerks his chin toward the wagon bed. “Today is the best selling day for watermelons all season. Go up and down every town road.”
“I’ve got to go to the post office.” I picked up the owl painting from Frank Raymond this