Alligator Bayou by Donna Jo Napoli Page A

cold.
    “That is how the Tunica people entered the world and found seasons,” Joseph says. He pauses, but only briefly. He tells of beans and corn and floods. He warns against killing frogs (because the world will dry up) and killings kingfishers (because a storm will come ruin you). His voice grows creaky as he talks of the tricks the rabbit plays on everyone, even the gods.
    I’m Catholic, so I know the world is full of miracles and mysteries, but I don’t believe that at night animals turn into talking people and alligators have mystical powers.
    Still, there’s something about Joseph’s storytelling that catches me. I’d like to stay and listen except it’s getting late. “I have to hurry.”
    “I know. Your face tells me.” He doesn’t get up, though.
    Joseph reads my face. But I can’t read his. He never even cracks a smile except at his own jokes.
    “One more story. You choose.”
    I don’t have any idea what his stories might be; how can I choose? I think of the stories Frank Raymond told me about famous Indians. And it hits me. “Why are you named Joseph? That doesn’t sound Indian.”
    “An ugly story. I was born Uruna—bullfrog. Boys found out what my name meant. They were not Tunica, not mixed blood. They made me jump, because bullfrog jumps. They made me jump and jump and jump. My feet bled. I fell down. They threw rocks on me. Rocks buried me. My mother dug me out. When I was well enough to walk again, we moved to another town. I became Joseph. A Christian name was safer.”
    Buried alive! I want to hit someone. I breathe in. Deep. “Why didn’t you change your name back to Uruna when you came here?”
    “I am Joseph. I remember Uruna. But I am Joseph.” He stands and stretches, and carries his basket back to the shack. Then he brings my pot out. It’s covered with ashes. He gets on all fours and blows the ashes off. I join him.
    The bowl is smaller than I remembered it. And the designs on the outside aren’t as distinct. But it will look pretty once I’ve painted it.
    We wrap it in ferns and I thank Joseph.
    “Pay attention,” says Joseph. “And you can ascend to the sky and become thunder. You can be the manager of the clouds and the rain.”
    I shake my head in apology. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “An orphan is free to become anything. The choice is yours.”
    I ride away on Granni, clutching the ash gray bowl to my chest. I don’t know what time it is, but I know I’m in trouble. Granni won’t speed up. And I don’t have the heart to kick him in this heat. It’s dusk by the time I reach Tallulah.
    Frank Raymond still isn’t in his room. I was hoping he’d help me paint the bowl.
    I ride toward home chanting inside my head, “It’s all right.”
    They’re lined up on the porch. Even Cirone.
    I lead Granni out to the field, take off his bridle, and rush back.
    Francesco glowers at me. “You promised.”
    “I promised to be back early, and it isn’t dark yet.” I hold up the fern-wrapped bowl and put on a sorry face.
    “You took Granni without permission,” says Francesco. “What’s wrong with you? Is your head empty? Get inside.”
    I walk into the kitchen and put the bundle on the table.
    “That present better have been worth it,” Francesco says.
    I hope so. But now everything feels different. The bowl is dirty gray. And it stinks of ash. Joseph said I was stupid today. He’s right.
    Cirone comes over and pushes some of the ferns away. “You made that?”
    I nod. My eyes burn.
    He unwraps it, and turns it over carefully. “She’s going to love it.”

thirteen
    T he last time I saw this many people in one place was when my steamship arrived in New Orleans; passengers jammed the top deck of the ship, people swarmed the docks. But that was different, because everyone was going about their own business. Here, everyone has the same business—this giant party. The six of us stand and stare. Charles wasn’t exaggerating; there’re