Zheltaya,” she says. “Tell me your troubles. I walk you to home.” She pulls me to my feet and hands me a tambourine. I don’t want to play it, but no matter how hard I try to keep it from tinkling, it chimes into the night. Each step I take makes music.
“See?” she says. “Music in you!”
Her laugh is contagious, and I chuckle despite feeling sorry for myself.
I drag my feet deliberately. “What language do you speak?” I ask the woman. I don’t want to sound rude, but I am curious. I want to know everything about how this life works for her, as a gypsy.
“Russian,” she says.
“And English,” I add, smiling. She laughs and holds up her fingers to indicate a tiny bit. “How many are camping tonight?”
“Maybe hundred. One fifty,” she answers, patiently letting me take my own sweet time going home.
“All from Russia?”
“Some,” she says. “Most from Brazil. Hungary.” Then she laughs, adding, “And Alabama.”
“Why would you come here? To Mississippi?” I ask.
“Here is good,” she says. I look down at my bare feet. I look up at the black hole-punched sky. I look out at the only town I’ve ever known. I wonder why she thinks here is good.
My tambourine is ringing through the sidewalked town, where years earlier I followed the gypsy laughter past red brick office buildings and white steeples. With the kind woman at my side, I rattle my tambourine all the way back to the outskirts, where Mr. Sutton’s farmland rises up like a swollen mother. Where his gentle horses graze on fertile grasses and tempt me to ride off in search of answers to what if and what’s out there and why not . Where everything around me hints there is more to offer but tells me time and again … not for me.
“When I your age,” the lady reads my mind again, “I run away. Far away. Where no one to find me. Not so easy for traveler. Home follow me.” She laughs hard, from her belly, like her soul is dancing inside.
“No one would come looking for me,” I say.
“No?” She points to Mama who has managed to move from her bed and is now sitting on the front porch swing.
“Millie?” Mama calls to me, straining to see us across the dark. We’re maybe fifty feet from the porch, but the light shines on Mama. She is looking a bit confused. “Where’d you go, Millie?”
I don’t feel like talking to Mama. I don’t have anything to say anymore. The gypsy woman has closed the door on me. She insists I belong right here, in Iti Taloa, in this dirty old slave cabin with a crazy, barely there father and a weak and withering mother. This is my life. And right now, in this very moment, I want nothing to do with any of it.
I hand the tambourine and the yellow silk scarf back to the traveler and mutter, “Thanks.” I keep the feather.
“Remember,” she says. “Ne boyitca.”
I stand in the front yard, listening to her jingle off into the distance. I move closer to Mama and lean against the sturdy trunk of my sweet gum. The tambourine bells slide into silence. I repeat what she has told me, “Ne boyitca. No fear. No fear.”
Mama sits on the porch swing, chewing her cheek and staring at her feet. I stand in the yard and stare at her. Neither of us says a word. Eventually, Mama stands, steps back through the door, and returns to her bed.
I don’t want to go back into that house. I don’t want to watch Mama breathe, swallow, blink. But I go. To make sure Mama has everything she needs.
“Jack’s not all bad,” Mama says. She rubs salve on another patch of her bruised and busted skin. I stand in the shadows, letting the smell of ointment sting my nose. I wonder how much of Mama is left inside her shell. Seems to me like every time Jack splits her open, splintered pieces of her fly out and away. Each day, she loses more of herself, until now she is a dark, hollow cave. I used to pretend I could crawl in through Mama’s mouth and fill her up again. Just stretch into her empty spaces and make
“See?” she says. “Music in you!”
Her laugh is contagious, and I chuckle despite feeling sorry for myself.
I drag my feet deliberately. “What language do you speak?” I ask the woman. I don’t want to sound rude, but I am curious. I want to know everything about how this life works for her, as a gypsy.
“Russian,” she says.
“And English,” I add, smiling. She laughs and holds up her fingers to indicate a tiny bit. “How many are camping tonight?”
“Maybe hundred. One fifty,” she answers, patiently letting me take my own sweet time going home.
“All from Russia?”
“Some,” she says. “Most from Brazil. Hungary.” Then she laughs, adding, “And Alabama.”
“Why would you come here? To Mississippi?” I ask.
“Here is good,” she says. I look down at my bare feet. I look up at the black hole-punched sky. I look out at the only town I’ve ever known. I wonder why she thinks here is good.
My tambourine is ringing through the sidewalked town, where years earlier I followed the gypsy laughter past red brick office buildings and white steeples. With the kind woman at my side, I rattle my tambourine all the way back to the outskirts, where Mr. Sutton’s farmland rises up like a swollen mother. Where his gentle horses graze on fertile grasses and tempt me to ride off in search of answers to what if and what’s out there and why not . Where everything around me hints there is more to offer but tells me time and again … not for me.
“When I your age,” the lady reads my mind again, “I run away. Far away. Where no one to find me. Not so easy for traveler. Home follow me.” She laughs hard, from her belly, like her soul is dancing inside.
“No one would come looking for me,” I say.
“No?” She points to Mama who has managed to move from her bed and is now sitting on the front porch swing.
“Millie?” Mama calls to me, straining to see us across the dark. We’re maybe fifty feet from the porch, but the light shines on Mama. She is looking a bit confused. “Where’d you go, Millie?”
I don’t feel like talking to Mama. I don’t have anything to say anymore. The gypsy woman has closed the door on me. She insists I belong right here, in Iti Taloa, in this dirty old slave cabin with a crazy, barely there father and a weak and withering mother. This is my life. And right now, in this very moment, I want nothing to do with any of it.
I hand the tambourine and the yellow silk scarf back to the traveler and mutter, “Thanks.” I keep the feather.
“Remember,” she says. “Ne boyitca.”
I stand in the front yard, listening to her jingle off into the distance. I move closer to Mama and lean against the sturdy trunk of my sweet gum. The tambourine bells slide into silence. I repeat what she has told me, “Ne boyitca. No fear. No fear.”
Mama sits on the porch swing, chewing her cheek and staring at her feet. I stand in the yard and stare at her. Neither of us says a word. Eventually, Mama stands, steps back through the door, and returns to her bed.
I don’t want to go back into that house. I don’t want to watch Mama breathe, swallow, blink. But I go. To make sure Mama has everything she needs.
“Jack’s not all bad,” Mama says. She rubs salve on another patch of her bruised and busted skin. I stand in the shadows, letting the smell of ointment sting my nose. I wonder how much of Mama is left inside her shell. Seems to me like every time Jack splits her open, splintered pieces of her fly out and away. Each day, she loses more of herself, until now she is a dark, hollow cave. I used to pretend I could crawl in through Mama’s mouth and fill her up again. Just stretch into her empty spaces and make
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