Read Alligator Bayou for Free Online Page B

and arches on the balconies seem to move in the dusky light. At the very top a little alcove juts up with a round window, like a loving eye looking out over everything. It seems a grand, welcoming home. The seat of justice. It presides over Tallulah, like the cathedral presides over Cefalù.
    Cirone elbows me in the ribs. “Look.”
    Three boys walk bent, picking things up off the road, throwing them in sacks.
    “Hey,” I call.
    Charles jerks his head up, then away. The other boys don’t even bother to look.
    I pull on Cirone’s arm.
    “Stop,” he says. “Don’t go near them. They hate us.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Everyone hates us.” Cirone curls his shoulders and shrinks in on himself. “You don’t know.”
    “What? These boys are all right.” I drag him over. “What’re you doing?” I say in English.
    “Y’all ain’t got eyes?” Charles doesn’t look up.
    Stupid question. They’re collecting horse manure.
    Cirone moves closer to me. “How come?” he says real soft.
    I don’t get to hear Cirone speak English much. But I know he talks good. He sounds like everyone else from Tallulah, not like Frank Raymond, which is who I sound like. No one accuses Cirone of talking fancy, like Mrs. Rogers said to me.
    “What you use on your fields?” asks Rock. “Human turds?”
    The boys laugh.
    It takes me a second, ’cause that’s the first time I’ve heard that English word, but I’m laughing, too. I’m laughing so hard, I double over. Then I pick up dung. The soft, round ball smells sweet. I drop it in Ben’s bag, closest to me.
    All three boys straighten up and look at me.
    I pick up another piece and add it to Rock’s bag. Then Cirone does the same and we’re all picking up clods. We go the length of Depot Street, through the town center. Men are noisy in the whisky saloon. Families are noisy in the ice cream saloon. I look through the window. Boys my age are scrambling to buy soda water for girls, offering them gumdrops and peanuts from the candy store. Children sit on laps and eat ice cream from shiny spoons. A man pounds out a quick melody on the old piano.
    Whatever they pay the piano player, I’m sure it’s more than Patricia gets for cleaning the Baptist church. “Hey, Charles.” I walk up beside him. “Hear that? Your sister should apply for a job playing piano.”
    Charles drops his head toward me. “You sure you smart enough to collect dung?”
    “What?”
    “Colored folk ain’t allowed in that ice cream saloon. We stand outside and put our money in a cup on the ground, and they lay us a scoop on a piece of old newspaper.”
    My face goes hot. It’s those Jim Crow laws again—whites and Negroes can’t be served food in the same eating establishment at the same time. How could I forget? But I work all day, every day but Sunday. I go to bed early, except Saturday. I don’t really see how this town works.
    I wonder what Cirone’s thinking as we pass by the laughter of those families around the piano. Can he taste the ice cream we’re not eating? I pray he doesn’t say it. But he won’t. I bet he never forgets who is and isn’t allowed in the ice cream saloon or anywhere else. Cirone knows everything. He doesn’t even give me a meaningful glance. He just throws dung balls in the boys’ sacks.
    We own two horses: Granni and Docili. In the winter they stay in the shed. Hired hands muck out the stalls and spread the manure on our fields. That’s what any farmer who can afford it does. But I never thought about the farmers who don’t have horses. There are farms around here where men push plows through the dirt with their shoulders.
    A dog barks; a second joins him.
    “Sheriff Lucas’ dogs,” says Charles. “They’ll be a-howling all night.”
    Goats trot over the railroad tracks and up Elm Street. Five. They’re ours. I bet they passed by Sheriff Lucas’ and drove those dogs wild. Have they been tramping on Dr. Hodge’s porch? I look around