Donna Jo Napoli - Alligator Bayou  

ALSO BY DONNA JO NAPOLI

For Young Adults
Beast
Bound
The Bravest Thing
Breath
Changing Tunes
Crazy Jack
Daughter of Venice
Fire in the Hills
For the Love of Venice
Gracie, the Pixie of the Puddle
The Great God Pan
Hush: An Irish Princess Tale
Jimmy, the Pickpocket of the Palace
The King of Mulberry Street
The Magic Circle
Mogo, the Third Warthog
North
On Guard
The Prince of the Pond: Otherwise Known as De Fawg Pin
Shark Shock
Shelley Shock
Sirena
The Smile
Soccer Shock
Song of the Magdalene
Spinners (with Richard Tchen)
Stones in Water
Three Days
Trouble on the Tracks
Ugly
When the Water Closes Over My Head
Zel
For Younger Readers
The Hero of Barletta
Angelwings (a series of sixteen books)
The Wishing Club: A Story About Fractions
Sly the Sleuth Mysteries (with Robert Furrow)

For Maurice Eldridge

T he night is so dark, I can barely see my hands. Its eerie. As if Cirone and I are made of nothing but air.

Thats how I used to feel back in Sicily when Id walk in the caves near Cefal. I was nothing, till the bats sensed me and came flapping out in a leathery clutterthwhooshthen my arms would wake and wave all crazy as they passed by and away into the sea breeze.

But this flat meadow couldnt be more different from those hillside caves; this sleepy Louisiana town couldnt be more different from busy Cefal; and I feel like a whole new person. I was a scaredy-cat boy when they pushed me onto the ship last autumn to come here. But now I work like a man. And Im important at work, because I can speak English with the customers.

Still, some of the old me remains. Right now Im jittery at being out late without permission from my uncles. It was my cousin Cirones idea. Its always his idea. We all go to bed early every night except Saturday, but hes got energy to spare. He begs me to sneak out.

The grass is high here behind the lettuce field, but soft. It crushes underfoot, silent.

I follow close behind Cirone. He knows lots about this place. Hes been in America longer than me. He came with his big brother, Rosario, when he was only four. Hes thirteen; Im fourteen; I edge in front of him now.

The slaughterhouse sits on the outskirts of town, at the edge of the woods. The place is lit up and we can smell the rot and hear the men inside singing as they work. Cirone heads that way.

Shhh, Cirone says, even though we werent talking. They hear Sicilian and theyll chase us off.

I dont get why people here dont like Sicilian. Our family supplies this town, Tallulah, with the best fruits and vegetables. Youd think the sound of Sicilian would make their mouths water. Instead, we hold our tonguesor speak English if we canin the presence of town people.

But not everyone minds hearing Sicilian.

Thats how I met Patricia. I smile. She overheard Cirone and me as we unloaded crates, and she asked what we were speaking. She said Sicilian was pretty, like music. And she walked off singing. Weve talked a half-dozen times since then. Always at the vegetable stand. I hear her voice in my head all the time. Ill be working, and there she is, in my mind, looking over my shoulder, saying something sweet.

I miss hearing Sicilian in the streetsjokes, arguments, announcements, everything that makes up life. Here the six of us are like mice on a raft in the middle of the sea. Oh, there are two more Sicilians in Millikens Bend, five miles awayBeppe and his son, Salvatore. To find more, though, you have to travel down south to New Orleans, over 250 miles. Thousands live there.

I watch Cirones shadow move farther ahead of me, out of whisper range. But here in the dark its better to hush anyway.

In the woods now, we wind through pines. These trees are gigantic compared to the trees back home. They crowd out the sky so I can hardly see the stars.

In an instant Cirone is running, and I am, too. We dash for the open grass. No ones chasing us, but it feels like they are.

Calo, stop! Cirone grabs me by the arm and pulls me to a halt.

A giant cat comes out of the woods. Tawny brown sleeks his back and white flecks his head and shoulders. He glances at us and pauses as his eyes catch the light: yellow-green. He flicks the tip of his long tail and I think I might wet myself. That cat weighs more than me.

The cat hisses low. Then he walks on toward the stench of the slaughterhouse.

Cirones fingers dig into my arm. A panther, he breathes. They stay in the forests, away from people. Its special to see one so close to town.

Special? Im shaking. In Sicily mountain wildcats dont even come up to your knees. I can do without special. I can go the whole rest of my life without special.

We did good. We did really good, Calo. Youre never supposed to run from them. You just stare. A panther wont attack unless you look away. If you stare right at them, they think youre going to eat them.

I yank his arm, and we run. We dont slow down till we see our house.

Out front we hear a man arguing with Francesco in English. Shouting. The man stomps off into the night, throwing curses over his shoulder. Cirone and I crouch off to the side. Its so dark, all we can see is the tip of Francescos cigar, glowing red when he sucks on it. And hes sucking fast. Red, red, red, red. Hes mad, all right.

Cirone and I sneak to the back and climb in through a window. We quick move the sacks of pinecones in our bed that were doubling for us and stash them. We dive under the sheet fully clothed.

My heart still bangs against my rib cage. A panther. This place is full of surprises. Nasty ones.

I have to push Cirones feet away from my chin. Mine reach past his nose. Feet stink, especially when you dont dip them in the wash pan before sleeping. But lying head to toe is the only way we both still fit in this bed.

I turn my head to the right and listen to the noisy breathing of Rosario, Cirones brother, in the next bed. Hes thirty-seven, old enough to be Cirones father. Rosario has a big beak of a nose and long sideburns. Cirones nose is small like mine.

Beyond Rosario theres Carlo, in his fifties. And in the next bed, Giuseppe, whos thirty-six. Carlo and Giuseppe are Francescos brothers. Francesco, the youngest, is only thirty, but hes the leader. Its his nature. He sleeps in the bed closest to the doorthe first to face trouble, if any comes.

These two sets of brothers are cousins to each other. And then theres me. Were all from Cefal, in Sicily. The men call me nephew, and Cirone calls me cousin, even though my father was just good friends with them.

Back in Cefal I have a younger brother, Rocco. The spitting image of me. The one person alive in the world I know for sure Im related to. When Mamma died last summer, there we were, Rocco and me, with nobody but each other. Our father disappeared years ago. The Buzzi family next door took in Rocco, but they couldnt afford me; I eat too much. They put me on a ship to Louisiana. They said Francesco would take me in. My father paid his passage to America years beforeit was time for Francesco to repay the favor.