Alligator Bayou - Donna Jo Napoli [49]
“I’ve got to go mail my present for Rocco,” I say.
Francesco looks at me. “All right. We agreed on that. But hurry.”
eighteen
“We’re not Protestants.” Carlo chops potatoes on the big board.
I’m standing beside him, peeling onions. Rosario sits with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. Francesco and Giuseppe are out on the porch talking. We have to hurry, Cirone and me. We have to get Carlo and Rosario on our side before Francesco comes in. It’s already afternoon. The Fourth of July is going to pass us by.
“It’s a birthday party,” says Cirone. “The birthday party of this country. It has nothing to do with religion.”
“Then why is it at a church?” says Carlo.
“The graduation party was at the church,” Cirone says. “And we went to that.”
Good for him. He’s getting good at arguing.
“That was different,” says Carlo. “That was the school’s party.”
“This is the country’s party.”
“Stop!” Rosario looks up. His eyelids droop as if he’s got a headache. “We’re not going to that church.”
“We went there before,” says Cirone. “And we had a good time.”
“Stop!” This time it’s Francesco. He comes into the room and takes a seat. Giuseppe’s right behind him.
“Onions.” Carlo holds out his hand.
I push two peeled onions toward him and work on a third.
“We were just talking about the Fourth of July,” says Cirone in a reasonable tone.
“I know exactly what you were talking about,” says Francesco. “We’re not going to the Protestant church.”
“The American birthday party,” says Cirone. “That’s all it is. And we’re Americans.”
“I’m not,” says Giuseppe. “And neither are you two boys.”
“It’s a picnic,” says Cirone.
“You want a picnic?” says Carlo. “I’m making a frittata.”
“No,” says Cirone. “They don’t eat frittata at a picnic. They eat—”
“Stop!” Francesco slaps the table. “You heard Carlo.”
“Besides,” says Carlo, “we’re having our own party.”
“We can’t have our own party on the Fourth of July,” says Cirone. “It’s an American party—it’s got to be at an American place.”
I’m stunned. Cirone’s never acted like this. Downright belligerent.
“I didn’t mean today,” says Carlo. “Next Saturday is July fifteenth. Perfect for the festa of Santa Rosalia. A good Catholic celebration.”
“We can’t do a festa then,” says Rosario. “That’s the day of the town ball and tournament. We’ll have lots of extra work.”
“Right,” says Francesco. “We’ll postpone a week. Santa Rosalia won’t mind.”
“Beppe and Salvatore always come,” says Carlo. “Someone’s got to tell them.”
I perk up in spite of myself. “I’ll go to Milliken’s Bend.” Beppe and Salvatore are the only other Sicilians in this part of Louisiana; just being around them makes all of us happy. Beppe is married to the sister of Francesco and Giuseppe and Carlo. She’s back in Cefalù. Salvatore is Beppe’s son. He’s ten years old. All through the winter we saw them every Saturday, but now we haven’t seen them since before spring planting.
“Look at all you,” Cirone bursts out. He puts his hands together as if in prayer and shakes them furiously at Carlo and Francesco and all of them. “You don’t get excited at a Fourth of July festival—a huge thing—but you jump with joy at some dumb saint’s festa. You act like we’re still back in Sicily.”
“We don’t forget the saints,” says Carlo. “No matter where we are.”
Giuseppe walks toward Cirone, glaring. “And we never forget we’re Sicilian.”
“All right, all right,” says Rosario. He steps in front of Cirone. “That’s settled. Carlo’s making a picnic. Let’s all help.”
And so we carry a table out near the edge of the woods and we spread a tablecloth on it and set out the plates and forks and knives and spoons. We eat frittata under the broiling sun. And hot watermelon.
“I hate this,” whispers Cirone to me in English.
“Frittata?” I whisper back. “What’s wrong with frittata?”
“They call it omelet here.”
“Omelet?”
“It’s a French word. From New Orleans. French is better than Sicilian.” He blows through his lips in disgust. “This ain’t how it’s done in America.”
“How’s it done?”
“Barbecue. You