Alligator Bayou by Donna Jo Napoli Read Free Book Online Page B

Cirone. But that’s not worth arguing over, since Frank Raymond isn’t going to teach me Southern talk. “So, tell me, what’s lynch mean?”
    “I’ve been thinking about that since I saw you Wednesday morning. You know how I respect words. But lynch is one of the ugliest words ever. When a crowd gets it into their head to kill someone, and they do it—that’s a lynching.”
    “Like killing a murderer?”
    “The crowd might think someone committed a murder,” says Frank Raymond. “Or stole something. They think whatever they want. But, murderer or no murderer, crowds are not supposed to hand out punishments. We have a system of justice. Trials. You get to hear what you’re accused of; you get to defend yourself. And everyone is presumed innocent until proven guilty.” He shifts his shoulders. “What did your uncle Carlo say about lynching?”
    “Five years ago seven people got lynched on Depot Street.”
    “Anything else?”
    “They were Negro.”
    Frank Raymond nods. “Negroes have been lynched all over the South. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Killed without trials. Now that’s murder, Calogero.” He chews his tobacco. “Did your uncle say anything else about lynching?”
    “No.” I get the feeling he’s holding back. “What else should he have said?”
    “I thought maybe he was talking about the lynchings in New Orleans.”
    “New Orleans?”
    “Eight years ago. Ask him. I bet he knows more than I do.”
    “He used to live in New Orleans. All of them did.”
    “Then I’m sure they know more than me. Ask them.”
    “All right. Why do people call Sicilians dagoes? What’s it mean?”
    “It’s an insult, that’s all I know.”
    “One more question: who was Jefferson Davis?”
    “Come on. We talked a lot about the Civil War.”
    “I forget parts.”
    Frank Raymond purses his lips and looks out the window. “Jefferson Davis died in 1889,” he says at last. “I think December.”
    “And his birthday was yesterday,” I say impatiently. “But who was he?”
    “Not a bad man. Born nearby—in Mississippi. Went to West Point, the famous military academy. Then he was a cotton planter. Somehow, he wound up a senator.”
    “He doesn’t sound important enough for the whole state of Louisiana to celebrate his birthday.”
    “Well, I’m no history teacher. Just your language tutor. Though your English is good now, except for that twang.” Frank Raymond goes to the window and rests his forearms on the sill. “So. Eventually, Mr. Jefferson Davis wound up president of the Confederacy.”
    Now I’m confused. “And he wasn’t bad? That’s what you said.”
    “You think everybody in the Confederacy was bad?” Frank Raymond’s still leaning out the window, so I can’t see his face. But the rise at the end of his question tells me he’s baiting me.
    I’m not stupid. Something as big as the Confederacy has to have had good people as well as bad. But taking the bait is half the fun. “Yes. Francesco says it’s the old Confederacy way of thinking that led to the new voting laws.”
    Frank Raymond turns. “Are you asking me about the voting laws?”
    “I guess.”
    “No one can vote in Louisiana unless they’ve been residents for five years and pay the poll tax.”
    “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
    “There’s a third requirement: you have to read English. That alone is enough.”
    “Enough for what?”
    “To knock out Sicilians, even if they’ve become citizens. Most Negroes, too.”
    All my uncles except Giuseppe have become American citizens. But they can’t read. So with the new law they can’t vote. “How can they make a law like that?”
    “The justification goes like this: if you can’t read, you can’t understand the Constitution. And if you don’t understand the Constitution, you shouldn’t vote.”
    “People can read you the Constitution. And I could translate for my uncles.”
    “Exactly.” He crosses his arms and leans against the windowsill. “So there’s