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laughs, and Cirone does, too. I finally join in.
    “All right, all right.” Francesco rubs his hands together. “You’ll paint it black. But later. Tomorrow paint it white. The day following that is Sunday, so I’ll invite Dr. Hodge over for limoncello after he gets out of his fancy church. He’ll say no—they all say no—but I’ll insist. He’ll see how fancy we can be. With a new wood porch, white and clean. As good as his. We’ll have a nice talk. After the doctor goes home, you can paint it black.”
    Wasting all that white paint—all that money—just to impress the doctor?
    Supper is quiet; things have settled down. Francesco’s talk with Dr. Hodge yesterday morning went well. Francesco told Carlo all about it, and I eavesdropped. The doctor didn’t mention goats. Just like Joe Evans said, he only wanted to talk about Willy Rogers—about both of them not “overreacting.” Francesco is going to leave his shotgun at home. And when Willy needs groceries, he’ll send a servant. If the two men see each other on the street, one of them will cross to the other side. That’s what the doctor promised, anyhow. The shotgun is closed away in Francesco’s trunk for the next time someone goes hunting.
    We move outside and sit on the floor of the new porch to eat cold berries for dessert. And I’m happy we’ve got a porch now.
    “Strawberries.” Carlo holds up his bowl. “And not the small wild ones from the woods—big fat juicy ones.”
    “All the way from Tangipahoa Parish, down south,” says Francesco with pride. “Sicilians own practically the whole parish. Fields and fields.”
    “Imagine a Saturday night down there,” says Rosario. “Like heaven—Sicilians dancing and singing.”
    “And eating.” Francesco puts a berry in his mouth and sucks noisily. “Perfect.”
    And Carlo knew the perfect thing to do with them. He put them in the icebox. They froze and their inner parts got all squishy, so they melt in our mouths.
    Five goats come trotting around from behind the house.
    “Stay back!” Giuseppe shouts at them.
    They stop. Giuseppe’s the only one gruff enough to make the goats behave. But Bedda jumps onto the porch and head butts Francesco in the shoulder. He grabs her by the hair at the front of her chest and feeds her a strawberry.
    “What are you doing that for?” says Giuseppe in disgust. “Tomorrow is June third. Decoration Day. The whole town will be buying food for parties. These strawberries will sell at top price, every last one of them.”
    Bedda’s baby, Giada, takes a timid step forward. Giuseppe slams the back of his shoe against the porch, and the little thing goes skittering off to the others.
    I ask, “What’s Decoration Day?”
    “A day to honor the men who died in war,” says Carlo. “Big celebrations.”
    “Except the rest of the country celebrated it this past Tuesday,” says Giuseppe.
    I look at Giuseppe, puzzled.
    Francesco leans across Bedda’s neck toward me. “Louisiana and some other states in the South—they have their own laws. The rest of America celebrates on May thirtieth and honors men who died on both sides of the Civil War. Here they celebrate on June third, Jefferson Davis’ birthday, and honor just the Confederate dead.”
    I know I’ve heard Jefferson Davis’ name in my lessons with Frank Raymond. “So we’re celebrating?”
    “Course not.” Francesco gives Bedda a kiss between her eyes, then stands and stretches. “This is nonsense—honoring only their own. But on Decoration Day people need food for parties. You boys paint the porch first thing in the morning—white paint. Then hustle over to the grocery store.”
    “Aw,” says Cirone under his breath.
    We had planned to paint slowly and take the whole day at it, go a little easy. “Both of us?” I say. “Who’ll help Rosario at the stand?”
    “I hired two men,” says Rosario. “You boys work in the grocery.”
    Cirone and I exchange doleful glances.
    Rosario gets his