Alligator Bayou - Donna Jo Napoli [65]
Francesco clears his throat and puts up his hand: halt. “The English, it go too fast.” He turns to me. “What’s happening?” he asks in Sicilian.
“They’re fighting about miracles and what some Jew said.”
“Quick,” Francesco says to Giuseppe in Sicilian, “get out the grappa. And, Carlo, didn’t you make a sweet tonight?”
“I made pie from those orange potatoes.” He used the English word pie in the middle of his Sicilian sentence. Now he looks at me, a little shyly. “Are you happy, Calogero? Giuseppe told me that’s what you wanted.”
“Sure I’m happy.” But I wonder where Carlo got a recipe.
Giuseppe is already pouring Frank Raymond a small glass of grappa. Now he pours one for Father May.
Frank Raymond lifts his glass to us, then downs it all at once. He falls off the bench coughing. No one drinks a glass of grappa in one big gulp. It’s like fire blasting through your chest, exploding your stomach.
Francesco pats him hard on the back and offers water.
Frank Raymond’s eyes stream and he coughs and coughs. Then he stands up straight. “What was that?”
“Grappa,” I say. “You’re supposed to sip it.”
“Like this.” Father May sits and takes a small sip. “My compliments to the maker.”
Frank Raymond looks at Father May. Then he laughs.
Father May’s mouth twitches. Then he laughs, too. And we’re all laughing.
Carlo brings in the sweet potato pie. But it’s not pie at all. It’s a layer of dough with thinly sliced sweet potato arranged in overlapping rows. It’s nothing like Patricia’s recipe, or anyone else’s, I bet. “So, Calogero,” he says in Sicilian, “what do you think?” He proudly thrusts his face forward over the baking tray.
“It’ll be perfect with grappa.”
Frank Raymond grabs the bottle from the table and pours me a little. I spoke in Sicilian—but Frank Raymond must have picked out the word grappa. I dip in my tongue tip and savor the burn.
We eat the dessert. It’s far from delicious.
Carlo frowns. “Sicilian sweets are better.”
We move to the front porch and the men smoke cigars and drink more grappa. In little sips. Frank Raymond refills my glass.
“Don’t get drunk,” Cirone says in my ear. “We’re sneaking out tonight.”
The conversation is a mix of Sicilian, English, and French, with Latin speckled here and there. I don’t believe anyone is listening to anyone else anymore. Finally, Father May and Frank Raymond leave together. The rest of us go to bed.
“Come on.” Cirone pinches my cheeks.
My eyes opened at his words, but it took the pinches to pull me together. I run my tongue along the top of my mouth, scraping it against my front teeth. The grappa left a cottony feeling. I roll out of bed and pull on clothes and follow Cirone outside.
We lope through the grasses toward town. It’s drizzling lightly. I tilt my head back and open my mouth. This feels good. “Where are we going?”
“Speak English,” says Cirone in English.
“You heard me,” I say in English.
“The courthouse. Your favorite spot.” We run in easy strides.
Only one boy stands on the sidewalk waiting. “You always last, you know that?” It’s Rock. He spits on the ground in annoyance.
“We had guests,” says Cirone. “They didn’t leave till late.”
“But we’re not last, anyway,” I say. “Ben and Charles aren’t here yet.”
“They came and went. We got work in the morning, and Mr. Coleman extra mean for some reason. We got to be there at six o’clock on the dot. I only stayed so you wouldn’t get here and act dumb, walking in circles shouting for us. Good night.”
“We got work in the morning, too,” says Cirone.
“Then go sleep.” Rock waves and turns to leave.
Bang! Bang bang bang.
“Guns,” gasps Rock. “Run!”
We’re already gone.
twenty-four
I’m out of the house before breakfast, calling, “Bedda! Bedda!” Where is that goat? The little doe Giada runs to me. So do Carina and Furba, and the young billy Duci, and all the others. But Bedda’s nowhere in sight. Neither is Bruttu, the old billy. My stomach turns. Please, don’t let this be so. I run toward the field. “Bedda! Bedda!”
“Come back, Calo.” Cirone grabs me by the elbow.
“I didn’t tie her back legs.”
Cirone