Alligator Bayou - Donna Jo Napoli [60]
I climb down from the loft, which turns out to be harder than climbing up, and search around. The only thing I find is a heavy glass tube with a bulge at one end. I stick it inside my shirt and climb up into the loft again. And I wait.
The rain stops. Late sunlight slowly comes in through the gable opening. Sweat rolls from my temples down my neck. The air grows even stuffier than it was before.
Patricia sleeps on.
Somewhere far off a bell rings. Daylight is long in July. I crawl to the edge of the gable opening and take the glass tube out of my shirt. It’s red. I hold it up to the sun.
“Glory, what a light.” Patricia crawls over beside me.
I smile at her. “Sleepyhead.”
“A conductor’s lantern. From the trains. Where’d you find it?”
“Down below.” I hand it to her.
She holds it up and the light streams through onto her cheeks. “Imagine being on a train. Going someplace. Like Miss Clarrie say we should do.”
“I’ll take you places. We’ll see the world together.”
She smiles. “Where you going to take me?”
“New Orleans. And that’s only the first place.”
“Some dream.” Her smile stays. “This glass sure beautiful.”
“It’s yours,” I say. “But I’ll carry it home for you.”
“A gift, huh? A dream and a gift. Reckon that’ll buy you a kiss?”
“Ain’t got no idea what’ll buy me a kiss.”
“Now you acting smart, Calogero. Finally. A kiss got to be given.” She sets down the lantern glass and puts her hands lightly on my cheeks.
I touch the center of her back at the waist. Just a hint. She moves to me, natural as water running downhill.
twenty-two
Frank Raymond shakes his head. “I already told you. Don’t lay that paint on so thick.” His voice is sharp.
“It’s hard.”
“It wouldn’t be if you’d take your time.”
My fingers tighten around the brush. I’m not getting any better; I’m sick of these painting lessons. “You’re yelling.”
“You’re being clumsy.”
I slam the brush down on the table. “I quit.” Then I turn to him. “Why are you so ornery today?”
“Ornery? Who taught you that word? That’s a Louisiana word. Listen to your drawl. Next thing I know, all my teaching’s going to be lost.”
I stare at him. “This isn’t a good day for me, either. I’m going home.”
“Go ahead. All you are is trouble, anyway,” yells Frank Raymond.
“Me? What did I do?”
“You and your uncle. I’m back to eating my own lousy grub. Because of you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“John Wilson. He finally found out. Your uncle sold that cursèd lemon liquor for the Fourth of July and drove the man nuts. He knows I tutor you. See? Get it now?”
“He won’t allow you in the saloon.”
“You really are a genius, Calogero.” He snorts. “I got used to eating better when I was working there, and Wilson liked the mural so much, he said I could eat half price from then on. But now the whole arrangement’s ruined.”
“Eat with us. Carlo loves company. You can have limoncello. Come tonight.”
He puts his flat palm over his mouth and slowly wipes down his chin. “All right.”
“Good.”
“So.” He takes a deep breath and slaps his palm on his chest a few times. “So. Now you tell me, why’s this not a good day for you?”
“Because of Mr. Coleman.”
“What’d he do?”
“It isn’t just him. It’s Coleman and Wilson and Rogers and all of them. There’s a tournament today. Right now, in fact.”
“I know. So?” Frank Raymond raises an eyebrow.
“Well, there’s a big supper afterward on a steamboat. And I wanted to work in the kitchen with my friends. But Coleman won’t hire me. No one will hire me. Coleman told my friend dagoes are worse than trash, ’cause they’ll do anything to you.”
“Coleman’s an idiot.”
“He said dagoes will kill you. Americans believe Sicilians are murderers.”
“Not all Americans. It’s a Louisiana disease.”
“No, it’s bigger than that. I read it in newspapers from all over the country. From Washington state to Massachusetts to New York.”
“So much for the intelligence of our news reporting.” Frank Raymond runs his hands through his hair. “Tell me, how bad do you need the money?”
“It isn’t just the money. I wanted to see the inside of a steamboat.”
Frank Raymond smiles. “Clean