Alligator Bayou Read Online Free PDF

to talk to you tomorrow morning. At his office.”
    “About goat?”
    “No, sir. About the gentleman Willy Rogers.”
    “Like sheriff.” Francesco shakes his head. “Summons.”
    “I reckon so.”
    “You know what, Joe?”
    “What, sir?”
    “Willy Rogers, he want see you and me we no get nothing for our work, no money, no matter how hard we work. He want see us poor, like dirt, and never change. Everybody like you, you father, you grandfather, they slave before the war. Everybody like me, from other country. He want us go to him for help. Like children.”
    “You talking about them new voting laws,” says Joe.
    “Right. Right, Joe.”
    I listen carefully. Francesco often invites hired hands to come around on a Saturday night, but only once since I’ve been here have any come—a few weeks back. Francesco sat drinking wine, with them drinking whisky, and everyone smoking cigars and complaining about the new voting laws. I didn’t pay attention. I should have, though; I sense that now. I move closer.
    But Francesco just wags his finger at Joe. “So now you know. Willy Rogers, he no gentleman.”
    “I reckon he ain’t, no, sir.”
    “And he not want us be friend, because friend, they help. You know? I help you. You help me. We should be friend. Who care what Willy Rogers want?”
    “Yes, sir.” Joe looks across the table at all of us. “Much obliged.”
    “And, Joe.” Francesco leans forward and his face softens. “You know what friend do? Eat together. Dance together. Have fun. You understand what I say?”
    “I reckon I do, sir.”
    “Down in New Orleans, we all dance together. Years ago. Why not here? Next time I invite, you come? Maybe you come next time?”
    “If I ain’t too tired from working, sir. Y’all have a good evening now.” Joe backs out the door.
    Francesco puts his forehead to Bedda’s. He kisses her on the nose.
    “Come sit down,” Rosario says to me and Carlo, switching us back to Sicilian.
    “Right,” says Carlo. “The food calls.”
    It’s a relief to use Sicilian; everyone can talk. I wonder how much each of them understood.
    Rosario heaps salad on his plate. “Did you see how surprised Joe looked at seeing our wild greens? And the zucchini flowers. People around here have no idea how good they taste.”
    Francesco points at Cirone and me. “Pay attention, boys. Eat whatever grows. Save and don’t waste. That’s how to get ahead.”
    I take a huge helping of salad. So does Cirone.
    “That Joe…,” says Rosario. “He sees what the new voting laws are about. He knows they’re trying to keep us all down.”
    “The voting laws!” Carlo looks at Francesco in alarm. “What are you thinking? You trying to organize the Negroes?”
    “A little honest talk, is all,” says Francesco.
    “A little honest talk?” Carlo’s got his hands on top of his head, on his bald spot. “The whites will say we’re causing trouble. Next thing you know, they’ll say we’re going to organize strikes on the plantations. They’ll be afraid we’ll burn down cotton gins, like those Sicilians burned the sugarhouse in Lafourche Parish. Then they’ll really have a reason to run us out of business.”
    I drop my fork, I’m so flustered. I open my mouth to ask what’s going on, but Cirone kicks me under the table and flashes me a warning look.
    “What are you talking about?” Rosario waves Carlo off. “Go on, boys, eat. No one’s trying to run us out of business. It’s just a complaint about goats.”
    “It starts with goats. Then it grows.” Giuseppe gestures angrily with his fork. “Dr. Hodge and men like him—plantation owners, cotton-gin owners. Big bosses. They need straightening out.”
    I close my fingers tight around my fork. I don’t know who’s right, but I hate the way Giuseppe’s talking.
    “Dr. Hodge is no problem,” says Francesco. “I know how to talk to him.”
    “Oh, sure, you and the doctor, you’re friends. Bah!” Giuseppe says. “You have a