Alligator Bayou - Donna Jo Napoli [66]
Don’t, Lord, please please don’t.
Everyone’s at the breakfast table when we come in. We eat in silence.
“So, Calogero.” Francesco puts down his coffee cup and stands. “You were out there calling a goat. A goat who didn’t come.”
He loves that goat. I can’t stand it that I did this to him. “I’m sorry, Francesco. I forgot. I’m so sorry.”
“I forgot, too,” Cirone says.
Francesco’s mouth is a straight line. But now it quivers at one edge. Why does it have to be Bedda? Of all the goats, why her? He clears his throat and pulls on the tips of his mustache. “Let’s go find out if it’s too late for sorry. You and me, Calo. It was your job.”
I walk with Francesco into town. We go straight to Dr. Hodge’s office. Bedda and Bruttu lie on the porch. Flies cover them.
Dr. Hodge comes out immediately. He must have been watching from the window. His hands are behind his back.
Francesco doesn’t look at him. His eyes are on the bodies. “You shoot my goat.”
“I warned you.”
“You shoot my goat.” Francesco shakes his head slowly, like it weighs so much he can hardly hold it up. Tears stand in his eyes. “You shoot my goat. My heart, it go like this.” He snaps his fingers. Then he drops his hand. “Now you better shoot me.”
I can’t believe he said that.
Dr. Hodge’s eyes open larger. “Don’t be absurd. I was afraid you’d come at me with your stiletto. But crying. Don’t do that. You’re a businessman. Act like one. Be sensible.”
“You shoot my goat,” Francesco says so quietly I’m almost not sure he spoke. He puts his hand over his heart. “Now you better shoot me.”
“You people, you’re all crazy. But, so help me God, I’ll shoot you if I have to.”
We walk to the grocery on leaden feet, go in through the rear door. Francesco sits on the iron bed in the storage room, his hands in his lap.
The bed is piled high with empty crates. I would move some aside, to sit near Francesco, but I don’t know if he wants me there.
I stand in front of him. “I’m sorry.” I have to stop talking or I’ll cry.
We stay that way a long time. The air grows hotter and stuffier. We pant.
Someone knocks on the front door.
“Should I open the store?”
“We’re not open today. Today we’re in mourning.”
“I’ll go out front and tell people.”
Francesco doesn’t answer.
I go around to stand on the front step. When people come, I tell them we’re closed for luttu—I don’t know the English word for mourning. I know so many words. Reading the newspaper has taught me thousands and thousands. But that one is missing.
People don’t seem to mind, though. They don’t ask what luttu is. They just go away. Maybe they think it’s some crazy Sicilian ritual. Maybe they all think we’re crazy. Maybe it’s not just Dr. Hodge.
Crazy murderers. Dr. Hodge said he thought Francesco would come after him with a stiletto. And he’s an educated man. Like Mr. Snyder. All these educated men. But Dr. Hodge—how could he? He knows us.
I sit on the front step now. As the morning passes, I realize: no one white has come by. They all know the store is closed. They know what’s happened. It’s like they’re one giant family, news passes among them so fast.
Carlo brings food at midday. He tries to get Francesco to come home with him. Francesco stays put on the bed.
I sit on the front step all afternoon. How could I have forgotten to tie Bedda’s legs? I love Francesco. I hate myself for doing this to him. I rest my arms on my knees and my head on my arms and I sleep.
Evening comes. Rosario and Cirone show up. We walk around to the back of the grocery and go in to see Francesco.
“I closed the stand early,” says Rosario. “Let’s go home now. It’s time to eat.”
Francesco actually gets up. Thank heavens.
We walk home and Carlo serves spaghetti with tomatoes and homemade venison sausage. Francesco’s favorite meal. No one speaks as we eat.
“It was good.” I wipe my bowl clean with a hunk of bread. “Thank you, Carlo.”
“I’ll go sit on the grocery step now,” says Carlo.