Alligator Bayou - Donna Jo Napoli [72]
I crawl out. It’s past midday. Joseph is nowhere in sight. I drink from the little pond. The water is clean, but it makes me retch. I stuff my fist in my mouth to keep from screaming, and I wait.
Joseph appears silently from the direction of the river. He carries a sack. He sits beside me and hands me a peach.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat. You need it.”
I take a bite. The juice fills my mouth. I’m crying, but I eat. And Joseph eats. We eat peaches and peaches.
I finally stop and wipe my chin. “Where did you get these?”
“I went to Milliken’s Bend.”
“So far?”
“It is close if you go through the woods. I got provisions for your trip. Everyone talks.” He speaks slowly. His eyes fasten on mine. “They are dead.”
My lips go tingly. My eyes feel like they will fall from my head. “All of them?”
“All five are dead.”
I hug my knees to my chest, but it doesn’t stop the shaking. I’m shaking all over, so hard I hear my bones. Cirone. My uncles and cousin—they’re dead. The people I love—they’re dead. Joseph holds me. I moan into the hollow under his collarbone. I want to climb inside there. I want to disappear.
All five, dead. Five. Slowly the number means something. I pull myself away. I’m not shaking anymore; I’m limp. I whisper, “The two in Milliken’s Bend—alive?”
“Buck Collins took them to Vicksburg. He has a skiff.”
“Buck Collins?”
“A human being. No one knows about it. Buck will not tell.”
“He told you.”
“Telling me is not telling.”
I lick my bottom lip. “I am alone.”
“You are free to become anything.”
“No! No! I don’t know anymore. I don’t know anything.”
“That is not true. Let yourself know.”
“I didn’t tie up Bedda, I know that. Francesco’s goat. It mattered, what I didn’t do, it mattered.”
“To you.”
I stare at him.
“You were there. You know what happened. Tell me.”
“Goats don’t explain what didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that Carlo never owned a stiletto. It didn’t matter that Dr. Hodge shot first. And that he didn’t die.” I’m crying again. My chest heaves. “They were waiting. Waiting for their chance.”
Joseph holds me again.
“Cirone,” I sob. “Cirone was thirteen. All he wanted was to be American. He was thirteen. Joseph, he was thirteen. He was…he was…”
Joseph rocks me. “But there is good, too. Try to think of that. Can you think?”
There’s Patricia. Rock. Charles. Ben.
“Think,” Joseph says.
There’s Frank Raymond. Joe Evans. Mr. Blander. Miss Clarrie.
There’s Joseph.
Rocco! My brother, my brother. I pull away and look at Joseph.
He tilts his head. “Do you want more peaches?”
“No.”
“Come.” Joseph picks up the sack and I follow him through the woods to the river. He puts down the sack and pulls a giant log out from under thick bushes. How can he be that strong? But the log is hollowed out. It’s a dugout boat from a cypress log. A long paddle lies in the bottom.
Joseph sets the sack in the boat. “Food. Make it last.” He takes a wide hide pouch from around his neck and puts it around mine. “Coins. One dollar.” He pats the pouch. “Do not lose it. Also a pipestone bowl. Tunica. People in cities buy pipestone bowls. They think our work is quaint. They will pay high. Make them pay high.”
“Cities? Where am I going?”
“When you see a settlement, lie flat. People will see only a log. The river will take you to Baton Rouge. Sell the bowl. Then walk east to Tangipahoa.”
“The Mississippi goes straight to Baton Rouge?”
“The great river, the titik, does nothing straight. It twists and turns. A sandbar can flip you. A rough patch or sawyer can wreck you.”
I shake my head. “I can’t do this. Tangipahoa Parish. I can’t get there on my own.” My body shakes; I walk in a circle. “What’s going on? This can’t be! I can’t—I can’t.” I lean forward with my hands on my knees.
Joseph grabs me by the arms and his fingers are strong. “You are free. You can choose. You can become what you choose.”
He chose to become Joseph.
I stare at the boat. I want to scream. But I hear myself say, “Teach me how to use this.”
“The titik teaches you. Go to shore at bad spots. Huri is light. You can carry it.