March 1942
It has been six years since I first followed gypsy laughter to the cemetery, spying on them behind the poplar tree, then running through the woods with a gypsy boy on my trail.
And it’s been six years since Sloth died, but I still feel him with me. When the warmth of the sun wakes me in the morning, Sloth calls to me, “Morning, Wild Child.” When I stir the roux for gumbo in the heavy iron pot, Sloth helps me glide the wooden spoon in smooth, round circles. “Color of a penny.” When I check the trotlines and set a turtle free, Sloth clicks his tongue. “Coulda made a mighty fine soup.”
It’s been six years since Sloth died, but I see him all the time. I see him in the woods and in the garden and in the chicken coop. I see him between the stacks at the library and in the swaying cornfields and in between the warm green rows of cotton. He watches me when I climb my tree and gather eggs and walk to school. I am not afraid of Sloth’s ghost. I am only afraid of myself. Afraid I’m going nuts, like Jack and Mama, and that there’s no way for me to escape the madness. My blood runs crazy. That’s all there is to it.
“Those gypsies’ll steal anything not tied down,” Jack says to himself before leaving for another rodeo. I prop my feet against Sweetie’s trunk and lie flat against the grass. I try to block the sounds of Jack by focusing only on Steinbeck. Of Mice and Men.
I seen the guys that go around on the ranches alone. That ain’t no good. They don’t have no fun. After a long time they get mean. They get wantin’ to fight all the time.
Jack locks his guns and whiskey into a long metal box. Lets the metal from the lock and the box both bang together. Makes me jump. I’ve never seen a gypsy steal anything, so I don’t believe a word Jack says. Not about the gypsies—or anything else, for that matter.
Jack keeps slamming things and banging things and stomping his boots across the porch, so I give up on Steinbeck and climb my tree, hoping for a glimpse of the gypsies. I always long to see them come. Little dashes zipping through like light before heading back out to the free. When they finally do arrive, I find a spot in town, usually behind a brick corner or a budding tree. From there, I watch them spin colored scarves through the streets. Some come in silence, others in song. But none come alone. They are never alone.
They come every year, right on time, with the birth of spring. And with them comes the boy in the brown cap. The one who first followed me when I was just a girl. He’s no ghost, like Sloth. He’s as real as I am. I’m sure of it because others see him and talk to him, and in a strange sort of scratch across time, he has grown up with me. A living, breathing, aging human being. Not suspended like Sloth.
I have never said a word to the boy, with his dark hair and even darker eyes. But my nights have become filled with dreams of him. In my younger years, the dreams involved us steering pirate ships together or climbing foggy Asian peaks. But in recent months, the dreams have shifted. Now he fills my thoughts. Both night and day.
Over the years, while I’ve tended Sloth’s coop and managed his garden, kept up my studies and taken care of Mama, the gypsy boy has become my secret. But he is not the only secret I keep. Every year I watch the caravans of color weave their way through Iti Taloa during the gypsies’ annual pilgrimage. And every year, their music triggers thoughts about that wooden box Mama buried under the sycamore tree when I was just a little girl. I have never dug it up again, believing that the box is not mine to touch. Nor have I ever told a soul about it. Instead, I have watched the ivy swallow it whole.
I have tried to forget the box. To set my sights on the gypsies and the boy. But I’m sixteen now and craving a change. I wonder if today is the day.
When Jack finally leaves, I climb back down and go inside. I stand over Mama’s bed and tell her to listen. “The gypsies are coming,” I say, but she doesn’t answer. She’s back in the valley, and as always, there’s no telling when she’ll come out.
Last week, she spent two afternoons planting daisies, even though I warned her that a cold front was coming. I could feel it in my bones. Mama put both hands on her left hip, cocked herself to the side like a banana, tilted her narrow chin with a quick nod, and said, “You got that from your father. Listening to the wind like that.”
Even though I warned her, she kept planting daisies. And sure enough, a late freeze came and got them all.
“They’ll grow back. Daisies always do,” I said.
But Mama couldn’t take the hit. “Not this time,” she said and went to bed. She’s been there for nearly a week, wouldn’t even get up to cook for Jack. So I’ve done it for her. But she isn’t willing to eat what I cook, or wear what I set out for her, or go to the market with me. She’s locked in again, back in the valley, where nobody can reach her. Not even me.
I barely remember the years when she still sang and laughed and danced. Truth be told, I hardly remember the last time she looked up. She spends more and more time looking down. Down at the ironing board. A book. The stove. Down at the floor. Sometimes, I feel like the only thing that can snap her out of it is one of Jack’s punches. I hate to admit it, but sometimes I think about hitting her myself. Get her to come back to life. I wonder how it would feel to flash my fist into Mama’s sallow cheek. Give her one quick slap. Snap her back into my world.
But, of course, I’d never hurt Mama.
Instead, I’m here. Taking care of her. Jack has packed his bags and driven away again, and now it’s just the two of us. The afternoon sun shines bright through Mama’s window, so I adjust her pillow to turn her face from the light. I pull up a chair next to the bed and I sit, holding Mama’s hand. I just want to rest for a minute before I start lunch. I smooth her hair back from her face and I watch her breathe, swallow, blink. Part of me is sinking with the sounds of her. I’m tired of her diving deep into nothing and leaving me on the surface. Waiting for her to come back up for air.
Then it happens.
Out the window, streaks of yellow fly by. Followed by red and purple and green. A rainbow has formed just outside our worn-out cabin, and I want to dive right in. I peel back the flimsy cotton panel hanging crooked over Mama’s bedroom window. Wiping a layer of dust from the pane, I tell Mama, “Look.” The rainbow is a batch of silk scarves waving in the wind.
At its end is the happy old woman I see every year. The one who caught me spying in the graveyard when I was a little girl. “Look, Mama,” I say again. I try to prop her up to see the traveler and her dancing scarves, but she just stares down at her hands and resists my attempts to reposition her. So I leave Mama in her bed and go out to the porch, hoping the gypsy boy will be here too.
The woman is surrounded by children, both gypsies and locals. It’s Friday, but school was canceled today. Something was wrong with the plumbing, so the kids are free to play. They all follow the old gypsy woman, skipping and clapping and singing. A children’s song about birds and mothers and learning to fly. It’s like a scene in a fairy tale. Nothing like anything that happens in real life. Especially at my house, where doors slam and glass breaks and adults never skip or clap or laugh. I scan the faces, looking for the boy’s deep eyes, crooked smile. He’s not here.
For years I have watched the travelers trail through town, but I’ve never seen locals join them, and they’ve never taken this route, in front of our cabin.
The woman waves to me with fingers that curl the air. I smile shyly, embarrassed to be caught staring. She motions for me to join the parade, but I slide behind the peeling porch column and try to disappear. The woman walks my way, leaving the children to wait for her in the thin edges of our gravel lane, giggling and whispering about the strange girl who thinks they can’t see her on the porch.
“You know,” says the woman. “Gypsy see invisible.”
I want her to keep talking to me.
“You want zheltaya?” she asks. “Yellow?” She is reading my mind. I’ve heard they can do that sort of thing. I shrug and look down at my dirty feet.
“Oh, I see,” she says. “Too old for nonsense? What this make me?”
I smile so she won’t think I am rude, but I can’t think of a single thing to say. Except to ask about the boy. I don’t dare.
“Never too old to parade,” the woman says. Then she wraps a bright-yellow scarf around my head, repeats the word “zheltaya,” and pulls me toward the crowd. I let the woman take me anywhere she wants to lead me. I worry for a second about Mama shouting, “Millie, stop! You can’t just run off with the gypsies.”
But she doesn’t even notice I am gone.