In the Gypsy Fashion

by Dorothy Barnett

We met the Gypsies in Fort Worth when we lived on Belnap Street. Our trailer had been moored beneath the yellowing pecan trees of the park for a week or so when they arrived in chaotic splendor. There were six trailers, all bullet-shaped and shiny like silvered foil and a least a dozen dusty cars, some new. It was early September, and the first of the cooler fall weather had arrived. The air had a clean freshly washed smell, and when the wind blew pecans fell onto the roof like thrown rocks, but we were getting accustomed to the noise.

Until then it had been fairly quiet; my dad was outside working on the car again. Mom was watching the world go by from what was called the breakfast nook that stretched across the front beneath the double windows. She was drinking coffee and making, still yet, another doily, this time green and white with specks of gold shooting through here and there.

She learned to crochet when we lived in Gardena from a lady with red hair whose husband smelled like whiskey all the time. The lady, I think her name was Violet, lived a few spaces down from us. When we moved in, she pulled the curtain back to watch from her window as we unloaded the car and carried our things into the rented trailer piece by piece. Dad was gone a lot playing poker, I guess. When he was away, Mom liked to sit on the front steps and watch the traffic on South Main. One day Violet walked over and when Mom looked up, she said, “You look like someone with time on her hands. You want me to show you how to crochet?” It was the beginning of a friendship built on black coffee, crochet thread and absent husbands.

Laura never quite got it right; she couldn’t get the tension tight enough to keep the colored circles from looking like ruffled petticoats billowing around the knees of a square-dancer. We left Gardena before Violet could show her how to add on another color, so her lines were always staggered like drunken steps where she stopped on hue to add another. We had doilies everywhere, doubles under some things. She could sit for hours and whip the metal needle through, over, under and across. She was doing just that and probably on her forth or fifth cup of black coffee when the wind brought the Gypsies.

I was reading, but stopped to watch from the window as they parked and leveled the trailers. When they were finished they all climbed into cars and took off. They didn’t come back until late in the night after everyone was asleep. I woke and watched from the window as the interior car lights yellowed the darkness. The long colored skirts of the women moved like silk curtains in the wind as they ushered sleeping children into the trailers. The men leaned against the cars, smoking and laughing quietly; there was one young boy about my age that stayed outside with them. After a time the women came back out to carry in the shopping bags and grocery sacks. When the women finished, the men followed them into the trailers, closing the doors against the night chill. One by one the lights went out, babies stopped crying, and the old black dog that lived with the Dexter’s quit barking. I saw the shadow of the young boy against the closed curtain in the front window as he got ready for bed, then his light was dark, too.

The next morning there was a knock on our door, and when I opened it there was a little girl about four or five on the steps. She didn’t look like anyone had combed her hair in days, and she must have slept in her dress. I was curious about her because she looked more like me than anyone I had seen I quite a while. Her dark hair was tangled around her face and her skin was olive like mine. She looked around me, to my mom and said, “Excuse me, lady, momma wants to know if we can borrow some sugar.”

“Sure you can, honey. You come on in and I’ll get you some,” she said.

My mom had a soft spot for children and an open hand to the world in general; there was always enough to share in her world. She sent the little girl home after she fed her scrambled eggs and bacon. We didn’t get back the sugar or the cup the girl used to carry it home. She came back the next day for butter, and there was a need for coffee the day after that, each time we fed her breakfast. Soon she quit asking to borrow things and just came to eat each morning.

I remember my Dad said, “You shouldn’t feed that kid. She’ll be like a stray cat and never leave. She’s got a home; let her eat over there.”

Mom said, “With those people it’s the grown ups you have to watch, not the kids.” When I asked her about them she said, “They’re Gypsies, they tell people’s fortunes with cards and read the lines in palms and in general taking anything that’s not tied down.” Then she said she didn’t believe in any of that fortune telling crap. Then she warned me to stay away from them. When I asked her why, she said, “It’s not real safe, and I don’t want you playing over there with those kids.” So, I watched them come and go from the front window for a long time.

 In the mornings an ancient old man came out of the longest trailer to sit under the pecan trees that canopied the trailer court. His hair was dark, but turning to gray, and his drooping mustache was white. He always wore a felt hat with a wide turned-up brim and a black suit with an open throated shirt underneath. Some days he needed help in walking and the young boy I’d seen the first night walked beside him offering support, but most days he used a dark wooden cane. From the back his right hip rode higher than his left, and his spine was crooked a little.

When the adults left for the day, he sat in his overstuffed chair, and the smaller kids played in the dirt around him. He’d chase them away with his cane every once in a while, but they laughed and came back to taunt him. They didn’t seem to be afraid of him. They didn’t seem afraid of anything. The young boy sat at his side and they talked or played cards until the cars brought the other grownups back. I watched the boy pick up pecans from the yard to crack open for the old man to eat.

It was in November and close to dusk one day; I was helping my dad with the car. He was doing something with the carburetor, and I had to turn the engine off and on. The young boy I’d noticed with the old man wandered over. He stood watching my dad. Finally, he said, “you’re always working on your car, why don’t you get a new one?”

I peeked through the crack between the hood and window and saw my dad look up. “Turn it off again, sister. That’s all for now,” he said. “You think I need a new car, well, this one’s got a few more mile. Unless you’re going to part with one of those fancy jobs ya’ll have.”

I was just wondering why you work on the car all the time,” the boy said. My dad closed the hood, pushed it hard at the nose to lock it shut. “Well, sometimes the car needs it, and sometimes I just like to tinker.” Then e offered the boy a coke. His name was Tony and he must have liked my dad a lot because he started coming over when we were outside. I read all the time and didn’t talk to him much.

Except for this one time when I was sitting out by myself in the autumn sun. He came and sat beside me. I remember we talked about school mostly. I was surprised that he didn’t go; I thought I was the only one that skipped, but he hadn’t been in school in four years.

School was one of the reasons we moved around so much. The last time my dad came home with his pockets full of money, he and mom decided they wanted to travel, so we bought a small trailer and hit the road. But the thing that usually kept us moving was the noisy neighbors who always wanted to know why I didn’t go to school. Every time the subject came up mom was afraid we’d get in trouble, so we kept moving, place to place, state to state. Tony said that his family didn’t make the kids go to school if they didn’t want to go, so he stayed at home with his grandfather so he didn’t have to put up with any bullshit of outsiders. That was the only time I remember really talking to him; it seemed that he came to visit my dad, ignoring me.

Someone knocked on our door one day; we were finishing lunch, and a light rain fell. My dad opened the door, and I could hear them talking softly. Then he opened the door wider, and dad stepped out into the dampness to help the old man through. When he sat down, he looked even older; his skin was a light walnut brown and the wrinkles around his eyes were etched deep like he’d spent his life squinting into the sun. I moved over on the sofa so he would have more room. My mom and dad stood by the counter just a few feet away. He placed his cane between us; it was the first time I’d seen it up close. It was carved from one piece of gnarled purplish-red wood, and the handle where he rested his hand was a fox head. The carved fur and ears were sleek and flowed down onto the staff. It was beautiful, and I reached out to touch it.

“Go ahead, girl,” the old man said, “you can hold it if want.”

I picked it up and ran my hands over it. There were two small knotholes where the eyes of the fox should have bee. “That was my father’s and his before,” he said. “Someday I give it to my grandson Tony. You know him, don’t you, girl? He come talks to your father, every day now.” He turned his attention to my dad while still ignoring mom. “Which is why I come talk with you. We want to know, my family, how much for the girl?”

My dad laughed that quick laugh he had when he thought someone was pulling his leg. He looked over at my mom, and said, “What do ya think, about two million?” He looked at Tony’s grandfather and said, “You got that much on you, old man?”

“No, is a place to start. You know the boy Tony thinks she’s very beautiful. He needs a bride soon.”

“You’re crazy, old man,” mom broke in, “she’s just a child…”

 “Lady, they are both children, but the marriage is not for now, is for later,” he said. “But is best she come live with us, become family, before.”

My dad rose to his full six foot two and said, “I thought you were joking outside just now, I think you need to take yourself home. You and your people don’t have enough to buy her or anything else we have.” His face was red and his jaw was clinched tight. “And you tell that boy of yours not to come sniffing around here any more.”

When the old man got up to make his way to the door, mom moved over to sit by me on the sofa and she put her arm around me. “I’m sorry if I offended,” he said, but remember, some things have a price and some don’t and you never know until you ask. There are many ways of acquiring things, even those that are priceless.” He turned at the open door and gestured towards me with his cane, “Anyway, she looks like one of ours. We could hide her away forever.” My mom’s arm tightened around me. “Good evening to you,” he said as he closed the door.

Later after dinner as my mom cleaned up, I noticed that after she put away things in the cabinets, she tied the handles together with pieced of twine like she did when we traveled. “Mom, are we leaving?” I asked. “Yes, we’re going on down the road, maybe we’ll head over to your grandpa’s for a while,” she said.

We went to bed as usual, and it was very quiet when she woke me and said to go get in the car. I didn’t bother to put on more than my chenille robe. Barefoot I walked to the open door of the car and climbed into the back seat with my pillow and a blanket. Dad had the motor running, and he backed the car around to the front. Mom closed and locked the trailer door then she stood by the front and guided my dad as he hooked up the trailer. I felt its weight lower the back of the car; a few sounds of metal coupling, then the car doors closing after they got in.

The engine lugged softly as we pulled away, and through the rivulets of rain I saw a shadow move across the front window of the old man’s trailer, and the turquoise curtain dropped back into place as if someone had let go.

© 2004