Alligator Bayou - Donna Jo Napoli [5]
For sure, Francesco and Willy Rogers are both still alive. Frank Raymond came through for us. Carlo was smart to think of asking him.
And Rosario wasn’t annoyed at my being late to work. He’s been telling jokes all day, like always.
I’m starting to feel normal again. Well, no—not normal. Actually, I’m starting to feel jittery all over again. But good jittery this time.
Church school let out half an hour ago. The closing bell rang just minutes after the public-school bell sounded off from the other direction. But I’m almost sure Patricia’s still in there. It’s Wednesday; she stays after for piano lessons.
The piano is on the ground floor of a two-story house. A family lives on the upper floor. The ground floor is the Baptist church. And the basement is the school. Unless it rains hard. Then the basement floods and school is held in the church.
It makes sense Patricia plays piano. She’s always singing something under her breath. Her shoulders sway, her lips move. I saw the music in her before I ever knew anything else about her, except that she liked the sound of Sicilian.
She’ll pass by on the way home if I’m lucky. I’m squinting through the afternoon sun up Stage Road, watching the church door. The windows are open, but it’s too far to hear that piano.
“Calo, come,” Rosario calls in English. In front of customers we’re supposed to smile and repeat English after them and not worry about anything except counting cents.
If we’re paid in cents, that is. Mostly, at Rosario’s stand we barter. It’s at Francesco’s grocery store, in the center of town, that I have to be careful of the money. At least, when the ladies and gentlemen shop. They’re the ones who use coins.
I used to work at Francesco’s store every day, but lately he’s wanted Cirone there so that Cirone can learn to handle money. I don’t care. Out here I get to watch for Patricia.
“Calo! You hurry.”
Two more English words. Rosario’s near his limit. He understands what the customers say. It’s speaking he won’t do. Town people make fun of broken English.
Nothing bothers me, though. I practice English all I can. I started back in Cefalù with Gian Pietro. He had spent a decade in America. When my father left, Mamma asked him to teach me so that I’d be ready when Papà sent for me. Only Papà never did. Anyway, I could already say lots by the time I got here. And Frank Raymond taught me more. So while Rosario’s in charge, it’s me who deals directly with the customers.
“Afternoon,” I call, rushing to help.
A white lady comes up to the stand with a Negro woman walking two steps behind. Why on earth is a lady shopping out here? The servant wears a kerchief covering her hair and tied under her chin, like the women who work in the cotton fields. The lady wears a fine dress and a wide, white shade hat with a rolled brim. She lifts her chin. Oh no: it’s Willy Rogers’ mother.
I glance at Rosario. He’s not nervous. But he didn’t see the gun this morning.
I feel like I’ve swallowed sand.
“Good afternoon.” Mrs. Rogers smiles. I can’t tell if it’s real. Tallulah ladies smile even when they’re ordering you to get off their property. But, at least, it’s clear nothing bad has happened between Willy Rogers and Francesco. Yet.
I take off my hat. “What can I get for you, ma’am?”
“Them beans—the ones over there.” She points.
Rosario throws a giant handful on a sheet of newsprint. He lifts his eyebrows at Mrs. Rogers, asking if it’s enough.
She doesn’t look at him.
“Is that enough, ma’am?” I ask.
“Double that. And okra. The smallest ones.”
Rosario is already filling the order.
Mrs. Rogers watches with sharp eyes as the okra pods pile up.
“Good choice.” I nod. “Tender. And the first zucchini of the season are in.”
“Zucchini?” Mrs. Rogers wrinkles her nose at the word. I hold one up. “Green squash,” she says. “Newfangled things.” I don’t know what that means, but I can see her eyes change. “Oh, all right. Give me some of