The gypsies stirred up a fire in the center of the camp from embers left from the night before. A man appeared, holding chickens he killed and cleaned and cut into pieces with two knives he used at the same time. Grandma was good at cutting up chickens, but she could learn a thing or two from him. Others brought onions and carrots, and one man carried a burlap bag of potatoes thrown over his shoulder. A boy had a bunch of turnips that looked like they’d just been pulled out of the ground. One by one he tossed them in the air and the chicken man sliced off the root with a chop of his knife, catching the turnip before it could hit the dirt.
Everything went into the pot, including Madam Vadoma’s corn, still on the cob, along with a generous amount of paprika and a handful of salt from a round box with a picture of a girl holding an umbrella, just like ours at home. A woman added something that looked like little onions, but Carlotta said it was garlic.
A boy, still wearing yesterday’s dirt on his face, ran by.
“Lotty, there’s a game over in the field,” he hollered. He ran off, all elbows and knees, while Carlotta and I followed the noise to a bunch of girls and boys playing kickball behind the camp. They played rougher than I was used to, cussing and elbowing to get at the ball.
I didn’t let on I thought that was rude.
Everybody’s got their own ways of doing.
As the aroma of the stew spread, the gypsies began to gather around the fire, bowls and spoons clattering in their hands. Loaves of store-bought bread were stacked on a table next to the kettle. I watched as they put bread in their bowls, ladled stew on top, then added an ear of corn. A woman spooned a little into a bowl and handed it to me, watching as she motioned me to eat. It was different from anything I ever tasted—the ordinary vegetables and meat had lost all familiarity. A fire started at the back of my throat and burned down a wick to the bottom of my belly. My eyes watered, but I took another swallow.
The woman laughed, tilting her head back to show off a mouthful of gold teeth.
It was past time for me to start for home. I knew if I went to Peggy’s now I’d be late getting home. Instead, I walked up her street and touched the gate as I walked by so I could say I’d been by her house if anybody asked, although I hoped they didn’t. On the way home I started to think I’d make a fine gypsy. I liked Carlotta’s skirts, and I liked the music and the dancing too. They had horses, and I even had a taste for the heat of goulash stew. I’d already decided to be a Methodist when I grew up, so I’d need to find out if they allowed gypsies, although I didn’t think it would be a problem. I pulled the last piece of Double-Bubble from my pocket and put it in my mouth to mask my gypsy breath.
Sometimes at night you could hear the music all the way to Sissy’s house, and we sat in her yard and listened until her daddy called us in. When Grandpa drove home from prayer meeting, I’d ask him to drive past the camp, although it was out of our way, so I could see the gypsies around the fire, drawn to the light like a flock of bright moths. One man played a little accordion Grandma said was a concertina. Others fingered guitars strung with many strings. The girls danced, lifting their chins and holding their arms up as they circled the flames.
When the gypsies were in town, things went missing. Pants and shirts disappeared off the Harveys’ clothesline. The Bledsoes’ strawberry patch was picked clean one night, and Sissy’s grandma, Ma Moles, had her garden plundered and her pawpaw tree stripped almost bare. But even worse, Grandpa said unless he was mistaken, we were missing two white leghorns and a guinea hen. My heart flopped over. In my mind I could see white feathers flying as the man plucked the chickens for the stew. Caught in the web of my deceit, I couldn’t say a word.
One night someone dug up two potato hills in our garden, and left several bunches of parsnips on the ground to ruin. Apples thrown at Queenie lay rotting near the doghouse where she was tied. Grandpa decided to see if he could catch the culprit.
Nothing happened the first night or the second, but the third night I woke up to Queenie barking. I sneaked down to the porch and saw Grandpa softly snoring in the swing, a flashlight in his hand and his double barrel shotgun propped between his knees. He woke right up when I touched his shoulder. When he heard Queenie, he told me not to move or he’d skin me alive when he got back. I made sure to stay put until he disappeared from sight around the far side of the house.
Crouched behind the blue hydrangea bush at the corner of the porch, I was near the garden but could still scoot back to the swing if
