Every year, twice a year, for as long as I could remember, the gypsies would pass through our town on their way to God only knew where, and they would stop and make camp for a couple of days at the edge of the woods. It had become almost an event when they passed through, the wooden wheels of their wagons rumbling over the cobblestone street of old downtown while their horses' hooves clomped musically along. Everyone would gather in the small stores, using the ruse of shopping when they were really there to get a glimpse of the colorful wagons as they passed. You could hear them as they rolled down the street, and everyone would spill out onto the sidewalks to watch them pass. Even the people who'd lived in town all of their 80-plus years would still gawk in fascination as the gypsies rolled past.
My momma would say every year that it "just ain't Christian to gawk at the poor heathens." Yet every year, we'd hustle downtown to join the others. We'd roam from shop to shop as Momma half-heartedly looked at what was offered on the shelves of each store, just waiting for that familiar rumble from down the street. Momma would quickly scoot us out the door where we would stand near Mrs. Browning or one of the other women we knew. I could feel Momma's hand squeeze my shoulder just a bit tighter as the wagons passed, as if she was afraid one of the gypsies would snatch me from her right there in the middle of town.
As much as Momma was fascinated by the gypsies, she was more frightened of them. Until the 10 or so painted wagons left town, we were forbidden to go anywhere alone or even play outside unless it was just in the front yard. And so every year, twice a year, our lives changed for those few days. Whereas I normally could walk to my friend Jenny's house to play or Hansen's Ice Cream Shop in the summer for a cone, or even ride my bike up and down our street with the other neighborhood children, I was forced to stay just in our front yard, always in plain sight, so Momma could look out the kitchen window and easily see me.
And absolutely the woods was forbidden during those gypsy days. Where normally I was allowed to wander to the woods and, as long as I stayed within the first five feet or so, I could even make my way into the woods and search for treasures. I loved to look for interesting leaves, small strange rocks, acorns, and other items I could fill my pockets with to take home and look through. But not during the days the gypsies were there. And I really missed my time in the woods.
For years, I honored my mother's wishes about staying away from the gypsies. I was the good, obedient girl. It wasn't until that summer that I turned 15 that I broke that. It was late June, and we had been out of school for a couple of weeks. I had spent my time with my friends, running wild with the ones my age, and even venturing out with my few friends who were older than me and already driving. I was still on that strange cusp between being a little girl catching fireflies in jars and being a young woman on her first date at the drive in.
That strange Saturday when the gypsy wagons rolled through downtown, I was sitting at the lunch counter of the pharmacy with Belle Ann, Georgia and Phyllis, my three best friends in the world. We were talking about the boys we liked and wondering what it would be like when we got our first kiss. Suddenly, people began exiting to the sidewalk to watch the wagons pass, and so we followed, gathering together near a lamppost.
As the lead wagon passed me, an old woman I recognized from years past looked directly at me. Her eyes locked with mine, and it seemed like she could stare into my soul. I felt so uncomfortable, almost violated. Her thin, crackled lips curled upward slightly, almost in a smile, as her eyebrows raised just a touch. It looked as if she nodded at me subtly, a knowing nod that chilled me. I looked down, breaking the electric current of a gaze between us.
I suddenly felt more uncomfortable than curious, so I turned and went back to my seat at the lunchcounter and waited for my friends to return. "Where did you go?" they asked as they returned. I just shook my head and made an excuse about the sun making me feel dizzy.
That evening, no matter how hard I tried, I could not push that look from my mind...the old woman's eyes boring into my soul like the huge bits that drilled into the earth's surface searching for oil on the mountains nearby. I closed my eyes as tight as I could, read a book, played cards with my sister. Nothing helped, though. Finally, with a knot of something akin to dread in the pit of my stomach, I went to bed and curled up under the sheet, my window open so the slight breeze could hit my face during the night.
My sleep was fitful, though. Most of the night I spent tossing and turning, unable to relax enough to sleep. When I was finally able to drift off, though, I was haunted by the old woman's eyes in my dreams. I got up early the next morning, exhausted from a night of not sleeping. I washed my face in hopes to perk up a bit before heading to church then to Penelope's house for a youth mixer.
That evening, as the whole family sat on the front porch in the dying light, silence and the songs of crickets the only sounds, I heard a low, soft, mournful sound begin from the woods, slow and low. Soon, the song rose in volume and tempo, and I couldn't help but turn my gaze toward the woods from whence the music came. Over the next rooftop, against the tops of the tall trees, I could see the orange-red, flickering glow of a fire. The gypsies. Many times had I heard about how they would light large bonfires then dance madly around, singing, chanting, and doing whatever other "heathen" things gypsies did.
That night and the following were both as fitful as Saturday's sleep had been. Every moment I had slept had been filled with visions of gypsy women and men dancing wildly around a huge fire; the old woman's eyes peering into my soul. Tuesday afternoon I couldn't bear it any longer and had to satisy my curiosity about the unusual clan camped out at the edge of our woods. I snuck away, making an excuse about meeting friends in town to Momma on my way out the door.
Quickly I half-walked, half-ran down the sidewalk, turning onto Jasper Street, then on to Elm which would take me right to the woods. In about 10 minutes I would be able to sidle along the back wall of Edgar's Store and spy on the gypsy camp. As I thought about it, my heart raced faster and my steps quickened. I was giddy with anticipation and dread, wondering what these strange people would be doing when I arrived, what their camp looked like, and if I could get close enough to hear them even.
Slowly I rounded the corner of the store and there it was, the gypsy camp. My breath caught in my throat as I took it in. Ten or so brightly painted wagons were in a semi-circle, their doorways facing the center where a firepit had been set up. Over the fire, smoldering low, was a pot set upon a grate and a spit with a couple of animal carcasses on it, roasting slowly over the heat. Men and women moved around the camp, doing chores of the day, talking softly, or even napping in the shade of the trees overhead. My eyes raked over the camp, absorbing every detail I could as quickly as I could.
It was in a heartbeat of a moment, though, when my excitement turned to dread. There she was, standing at the edge of the fire, looking straight at me, those eyes peering into me once again. Her weathered, wrinkled face without expression for a moment, then her eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiled. Her withered right hand, gnarled with age, raised slightly as she crooked her finger and motioned for me to come closer. Although my blood ran cold, I couldn't help but move toward her, my eyes locked on hers as my cheeks flushed.
As if her finger tugged a string that pulled me closer, I moved forward, past the men sharpening axes, past the women washing laundry, even past the boisterous children playing tag. I stood in the center of the camp, just 6 feet away from this woman who had haunted my dreams for so many nights now. She took two steps toward me and reached out, wrapping her hand around my wrist, pulling me closer.
"You want I should read for you, no?" her raspy voice almost cooed to me. Her smile returned, but where it once looked almost sinister and cold, it was now warmer, more welcoming. If only it would calm the butterflies dancing in the pit of my stomach. She tugged at my wrist, pulling me with her as she turned and walked toward one of the wagons. I could see over her stooped shoulder a table with two chairs was sitting in the grass, and on the table was the oddest set of cards I had ever seen. "Come, I read for you," she cooed again. "I tell your future. Just $20."
I blinked, unsure if I heard her correctly. My future? She could see my future? I looked from the table to her face, then back to the table again. The cards spread on it had the most odd pictures I had seen, and none of them had numbers that I could tell. I wondered what kind of game she played with the cards as she pulled me closer to the table. She pulled me to one of the chairs as I continued to examine the funny cards before me. She spun, sprightly for someone of her seemed age, and sat across from me in the opposite chair then held out her hand. I looked down at it then back to her eyes. They seemed to beckon to me to take the chance.
I had saved my money from babysitting all school year: That $38.43 was going to be a nice payment on a car next fall. But before I realized what I was doing, my hand slid into my pocket, grabbed my money, took it out and pushed it into her hand. She smiled in return, looked down at the $20 bill in her hand, laid it on the table, then picked up her special cards.
Her hands, gnarled with time and age, deftly began shuffling the cards before she dealt them into neat little piles on the table before us. Each stack was topped with a card, face-up, and with each she flipped like this, she made a small noise deep in her throat. Sometimes the noise sounded soft, like the purr of a kitten or the coo of a dove. Other times, her noises were gutteral, like a low growl, and made me nervous.
Slowly she flipped through the cards, studying them, moving and adjusting their placement from time to time. After a while, she stopped and looked up at me. Her eyes were glistening and looked so deep I thought I could fall into them. It felt like my heart and breath halted as she looked at me.
"Young lady, you have much to offer, yet you hide your true self," she began, her voice raspy and soft. "Someone, a woman, holds you back, you think. She does not, though. No. You hold yourself back. You are scared of yourself and do not know what to do.
"You must trust the heart inside you. Listen to its beating. It tells truth to you. Yours will be a long, hard road if you do not listen to your heart."
She then placed her hand over mine. Her skin was ice cold, but soon warmed as she moved my hand over the table. Our hands, together, hovered over one of the cards.
"This shows that you are smart," she said. "You know much, but you use it little."
She moved my hand with hers until they hovered together over another card, placed crossways over one of her stacks. Gently she pressed my hand downward until the palm lay flat on the card's face, her own hand blanketing mine.
"See this? This means you are lucky in love," she continued, her voice lowering just a bit. "Yet because you trust not yourself, you can trust no other. Until you trust yourself, you will always have a broken heart."
On and on, she outlined my personality to me, speaking soft and low, her voice at once raspy and frightening, then turning sweet and gentle. Time and again, each stack of cards held the same message for me: I had to learn to trust myself, or I would not enjoy my life completely. I must gain courage in myself, or I would always be scared. I must rely on what my heart told me to do, or I would always feel lost.
Finally, with a slight nod, she released my hand, then patted the back of it gently.
"Now you go. Hear what I said. Listen to my words," she said. "You are a good girl. You have much. You just need to see it."
I paused, wondering if I was really free to go. Slowly, though, I lifted myself from the chair, turned, and began walking away, my legs wobbly and my head spinning. I glanced back over my shoulder, but the old woman was gone. All that was left were her funny cards on the table.
That evening, I guess I was unusually quiet because both my momma and daddy asked me several times if I was feeling alright. Momma even leaned over and pressed her hand to my forehead, checking me for fever. I assured her I was fine, just tired, and I suppose they eventually believed me, because they quit asking me how I felt.
That night, though, as I laid on my bed, I thought I could hear a gypsy tune in the song of the crickets and the old woman's voice in the wind: "Trust the heart inside you. It tells truth to you..."
