Free Alligator Bayou by Donna Jo Napoli Page B

empty.
    I’ve never even dreamed of anything worse.
    “’Gator hide bring sixty cents a foot.” Rock shakes moss off the pole.
    “And the oil bring forty cents a gallon,” says Ben. “All in the tail and the tongue. I bet we get two gallons out of this one.”
    “Money, money, money.” Charles pushes himself up on his elbows. “Ain’t you boys got nothing else on y’all’s minds?”
    “The moss on Charles, now,” says Ben, “enough of that to dry out and send to New Orleans to make buggy cushions. Four and a half cents per pound, I hear.”
    They laugh. Cirone is still cradling his foot in both hands, but he laughs. The idiots. And they’re right. That horror—and now we’re safe. Oh yeah, I’m laughing—I’m laughing and laughing.
    “As for your portion,” says Charles, looking at me, “a ’gator supper. Tricia promised to make your portion special good.”
    “Supper? We didn’t earn it.” I search for the words. “And we made the skiff flip.”
    “It ain’t over,” says Ben. “We got to make a palmetto sled and drag it home. And guess who doing most of the dragging.”

ten
    O ur house sits on open land. Cirone and I have no choice but to walk across the grasses in plain view. It’s full morning now; we could have made it back from the swamp a lot faster if Cirone hadn’t been limping.
    Cirone makes the sign of the cross.
    “Who are you praying to?”
    “Santa Dimpna.”
    “Why?”
    “I’m asking her to make them still be sleeping.”
    “That won’t help.” Mamma talked about the saints all the time. I know. “All Santa Dimpna does is stop sleepwalking.”
    “Do you know which saint makes people sleep?”
    “There probably isn’t one.”
    “Well, then, I’m praying to Santa Dimpna.”
    I make a little prayer, too: please, please, let my uncles be in bed.
    Francesco stands on the porch, his arms crossed at the chest, his head drooping. He looks like he’s asleep on his feet. His head jerks up as we come near. “Where?” His voice is low, quiet, and tired. “Where have you been?”
    “I’m sorry,” I say.
    “Me too,” says Cirone.
    “Where?”
    “With friends,” I say.
    “Friends? You have friends? Where with friends?”
    Nothing I say will sound good. I look down.
    “Your shoes are soaking—and don’t go thinking you’re getting another pair before the year’s up, either. Clothes damp, too.” Francesco walks around us, inspecting. He picks the last bits of moss off our hair. “Lost your hats. You’ll have to dig into the basket where we keep old caps. Where were you?” His tone threatens.
    “I’m sorry,” says Cirone.
    If we don’t talk, Francesco will never know.
    “You said exploring.” Francesco pulls the tips of his mustache. “That means a walk in the woods—home within an hour. Instead, this! If you were doing anything bad, if you were on property you shouldn’t have been on, if the sheriff comes telling me …”
    “We were in the swamps,” says Cirone quickly. “No one’s property.”
    “The swamps at night?” Francesco’s voice rises. His face goes ruddy.
    Cirone’s done the damage. “We were in a boat,” I say.
    Rosario comes running out. “Ah! I thought I heard you.” He hugs Cirone and reaches out to tousle my hair, too. “At last. Where were you?”
    “With cottonmouths,” says Francesco. “In the swamps.”
    “The swamps!” Rosario pushes Cirone away to hold him at arm’s length. “Do you know how dangerous that is?”
    “We didn’t see snakes,” says Cirone.
    “Oh, you didn’t, did you?” shouts Rosario in Cirone’s face. “You don’t see these things at night. They see you!”
    Carlo and Giuseppe come out on the porch.
    “I suppose you didn’t see snakes, either,” says Francesco to me.
    I stare at the ground again. In my head, I will Cirone to stare down, too.
    “Speak to me,” says Francesco. “Speak or you’ll be even sorrier.”
    “We saw alligators,” says Cirone.
    “You went to the