Alligator Bayou - Donna Jo Napoli [61]
I open my mouth to ask more, and he shushes me.
We place the paint jars in their boxes and wash the brushes. Then Frank Raymond puts on fancy clothes. He looks me up and down. “Those your best clothes?”
It’s Sunday, of course. And Father May’s in town. He’s staying all week for some reason. He gave a service this morning, so I dressed right. “Yes.”
“That will have to do, then. Stay by me. A tournament in a county seat, well, not much beats that. That’s stop number one.”
We walk to the courthouse. People were just arriving when I passed earlier, but I never guessed so many would have come in the meantime. They sit perched on surreys and buggies parked in the street. Some have added elevated benches for a better view.
And there’s Francesco with Carlo beside him on our wagon bench. Standing in the wagon bed are Rosario and Giuseppe. I can’t spy Cirone.
We snake through to the edge of the wide, wide lawn, with me keeping to the far side of Frank Raymond, out of Francesco’s line of sight—if he sees me, he’ll make me stay with him. Two small boys jostle us as they run by with popguns. Women in gowns, all pleated and puffy, sit on chairs. Men in evening coats, even in this heat, stand behind them with white kid gloves on. White silk handkerchiefs peek from their breast pockets.
Frank Raymond sees me gawking and he pulls a red cotton handkerchief from his hip pocket. He folds it neatly and tucks it at the neck of my shirt. I pat it and I’m happy.
“What in hell do you think you’re doing?” comes a harsh voice.
Frank Raymond and I look at a whiskered man wearing spectacles.
“This area’s for whites. Get out of here, boy.” He looks at Frank Raymond. “Red handkerchief on a dago. You must be plum crazy. If it wasn’t such a happy day for the town, I’d make sure y’all got fined. This ain’t some cockamamie New York.”
“I’m from Iowa.” Frank Raymond’s voice has a small, angry tremble. “Straight north up the Mississippi from here.” He draws a map in the air.
“I know where Iowa’s at. What are you—eighteen, nineteen? You’re just an overgrown boy who ain’t nearly as smart as he thinks. Let me help you out with a lesson, son: insolence ain’t the proper attitude for someone far from home.” The man walks on.
Then he stops and comes back. “Everyone’s got an eye out for the first sign of trouble.” He glares at me. “Ain’t no one going to disturb the peace of our Tallulah. Y’all going to learn that. One way or another.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say softly. “I’d rather stand in the side street.” I leave.
Frank Raymond follows me out to the road. We stop beside a small group of boys having a yo-yo contest. I look around. A brass band plays on the courthouse steps. All the musicians are Negro, wearing white clothes. The ladies on the chairs and the gentlemen standing behind them are white. But the crowd beyond them, spilling into the street, surrounding the buggies, that’s all Negroes. Except for my uncles’ wagon.
Frank Raymond rubs his neck again. “That was Mr. Snyder.”
“The one that runs the Madison Journal?”
“How’d you know that?”
“His name’s on it. I must have read it a hundred times at your place.”
“Well, good,” says Frank Raymond. “You paid attention. He’s worth watching out for. All the bigwigs are. Especially the school board.”
“Will I meet them when I go to public school?”
“Nope. They won’t have anything to do with what happens in your school. They’re supposed to, but they won’t. Your teacher will do as she pleases.”
“Good.”
Frank Raymond cocks his head and laughs. “A genius, like I said.”
An old woman with a checked apron and a white bonnet walks through the crowd selling fresh peach preserves, the first of the summer. A man tosses a clay saucer high and another man shoots at it. Blue fragments shower the large open area on the lawn. A girl gets up from her chair and shoots. Everyone cheers for her. Now men dressed as knights in royal blues and reds ride out from behind the courthouse on black horses, waving plumes. The crowd hoots and cheers as they parade past.
And they’re