Alligator Bayou by Donna Jo Napoli Read Free Book Online

anxiously. Will the doctor come tearing after them?
    Nothing.
    We go on collecting dung. When we reach West Street, at the edge of town, Charles stands straight and presses a hand into the small of his back. In the dark he seems like an old man. The other boys roll their heads around on their necks and swing their arms, like Francesco dancing across the new porch.
    Cirone had the same thought, because he throws himself into the middle and dances the tarantella. He hops around, clapping over his head like a crazy man. Before you know it, all of us are running and hopping and clapping for no reason, but it’s so much fun. We dance till we fall exhausted in the grass by the side of the road.
    “Some dancer!” Rock says to Cirone.
    “So, this mean we taking Dancer ’gator hunting, too?” Charles says to me.
    I’d hoped he’d forgotten about that. “I don’t know.”
    “You got a name, Dancer?” Charles says to Cirone.
    “Cirone.” He holds out his hand to shake.
    “That’s a dirty hand you got there.”
    “No dirtier than yours,” says Cirone.
    Charles laughs and they shake. Then Cirone shakes hands and exchanges names with Rock and Ben, too. But they all keep calling him Dancer.
    “You coming ’gator hunting?” asks Rock.
    “Are you really going?” Cirone says in Sicilian in my ear.
    I look quickly at the boys. I don’t want them hearing Sicilian; it reminds them we’re foreigners. I want them to be friends. Our first American friends.
    But the boys don’t seem to care.
    “I don’t know,” I answer in Sicilian. “It’s dangerous.”
    “They do it, and they’re still alive.” Cirone turns to Rock. “Yeah. When?” He doesn’t even notice I haven’t agreed.
    “School out, so we can go to the swamp anytime,” says Charles.
    “Monday,” says Rock.
    “Monday,” repeats Ben.
    My throat is too tight to speak.
    “Where South Street end at Brushy Bayou—meet there. Monday after the midday meal.”
    “We got to work,” I manage to squeak out.
    “You think we don’t?” says Ben.
    “A little time off won’t starve no one,” says Charles. “You two the food men. So bring food.”
    “Dago food?” says Ben. “Forget it. I can haul supper in a sack. Breakfast, too.”
    “Breakfast?” I say in quick alarm. “We’re going to stay all night?”
    “Bless your soul,” says Rock. “Y’all don’t know nothing. Night the only way.”

seven
    M y family’s sitting out back of the house, the six of us on the kitchen benches that Cirone and I carried out here. We fold our hands and listen to Father May’s gospel.
    The three Difatta brothers share one bench: Carlo, Giuseppe, and Francesco. From shortest to tallest, fattest to thinnest, oldest to youngest. They look so much alike, it’s as though the Lord made them out of the same size lump of clay, but with each version pulled the clay more upward than outward. Even their hair is the same, close-cropped and wavy. I wish I looked more like them.
    But I look like my father. And my brother Rocco looks like me. That’s good. How it should be. I blink and try to pay attention to what Father May’s saying.
    Father May is French, so he’s giving the gospel in that language. We don’t understand a word. Still, we try to look interested. The rest of the service is a mix of Latin and English. Father May’s Latin isn’t like the church Latin back in Cefalù, and his English is hard to make out. But the Lord knows we’re doing the best we can.
    Father May travels to small Catholic groups all around north Louisiana. There isn’t a Catholic church to be found anywhere, but Francesco says if you scratch hard enough, you’ll always find Catholics anyplace—and anyplace makes a fine setting for a Mass.
    I look forward to Father May’s visits. I never fail to receive the sacrament of Holy Communion when he makes it to Tallulah. Mamma would be glad about that.
    Rosario sits beside me. He whispers, “I like the service outside. And just once a