Read Online Alligator Bayou by Donna Jo Napoli - Free Book Online Page A

canebrakes through the vines and creepers that hang from the trees, trailing all the way to the water. A bark comes from the top of a tree up ahead. A black squirrel races down the trunk and jumps on something white—old antlers. He sharpens his teeth on them, and gives another harsh bark as we pass.
    Something leaps from the brush, plops into the water, and disappears. “Swamp rabbit,” says Charles. “Good eating.”
    A fat, furry creature with a striped tail goes by. “’Coon,” says Rock.
    Well, I knew that. I’ve seen raccoon coats and hats in Tallulah.
    “Follow him?” asks Charles.
    “Yeah,” says Ben.
    We follow that waddling raccoon through the undergrowth to a muddy flat. The raccoon climbs onto a heap of mashed grasses and sets to digging. We stand completely still. The afternoon has passed, and as the sunlight fades, I strain to see.
    The raccoon reaches down through the grasses and pulls up a white oval. An egg? He holds it in both paws. It’s bigger than a chicken egg. He bites and rips. Thick yellow gook runs down his paws. He wipes his snout with his tongue and buries it in the egg. He eats another, and another. Then he waddles off.
    We walk to the pile of grasses and Ben pulls them aside. “Good one. Must have been a big ’gator.”
    The nest is a shallow hole brimming with eggs. Maybe a hundred. Is the mother coming back? I look around.
    “Anybody bring a empty sack?” asks Charles.
    “Let’s eat now, so we can use my satchel.” Ben’s already handing out biscuits.
    This biscuit sits in my hand, a heavy lump. Cirone’s gobbling his down. I take a bite. Good! There’s turkey inside.
    We finish and Ben passes around a bottle. It’s coffee—nice and strong.
    Ben hands out a second biscuit each. I take a bite. Meat again, but richer and darker and sweeter. I look at Rock with a question on my face.
    Ben laughs. “Mr. Calo-whatever never ate loggerhead before.”
    Charles tilts his head. “Someday, with luck, y’all’ll taste Tricia’s turtle soup.”
    Turtle? Some people back in Sicily eat turtle. I wash it down with coffee.
    Now it’s our turn. Cirone is handing out the pizza. I want to kick him. I should be the one to make the offer—and get the credit. It was my idea to bring pizza.
    Ben takes a bite. “Raisins?” he croaks, as though he’s just eaten rabbit droppings. “Who ever heard of raisins in something salty?”
    “I like it.” Rock licks olive oil off his thumb and takes a big bite. “Different.”
    No one else says anything. But they finish the pizza.
    We load soft, leathery eggs into Ben’s empty satchel.
    “What’ll we do with them?” I ask.
    Charles looks at me as though I’m daft. “Eat ’em, course.”
    “But what if there’s a baby inside? Bones and teeth and bumpy skin and all?”
    “There ain’t. This is egg-laying week. All the ’gators all over Louisiana, they laying their eggs this week. Perfect time to gather them.”
    And now we’re looking up into the trees again. Back to the mysterious searching we were doing before.
    “There.” Rock points. From a crook about eight feet up hangs a boat, roped in place. “Good old skiff.”
    Charles and Ben climb the tree, untie the skiff, and lower it down.
    It’s flat bottomed, lightweight, and big enough to hold all of us and then some. Tied inside are three sturdy poles. A small trunk is attached to the bottom and filled with rope. Charles yanks on the rope, section by section, testing it.
    We carry the skiff through mud that sucks at my shoes like a live thing. Only Cirone and I have shoes on; we stumble while the other boys walk on, steady. Finally, the skiff slides onto water. We get in and the skiff sinks into the mud. We have to dig the poles in deep to push us off and free.
    Charles stands and poles at the rear.
    I reach my hand over and cup the water and bring it to my lips.
    Rock slaps my hand away. “Swamp water make you so sick, by the time you stop rolling you be late for