by Patricia Gale

The Gypsies camp out on the bare lot down the street from our house. They are disgraceful. Dirty. The women with bare shoulders and loose skirts. No shoes. Laughing, dancing, shouting, singing late into the night. Mother won’t let us go out when they are in town. Only into the backyard to hang out the wet wash. I could hear their voices rising up and over the rooftop. I put the clothespins in my mouth and bit down hard so as not to hear. They should be ashamed of themselves! And then the woman’s laughter lilted like a chime of bells through the yard.

Yesterday I peeked out of the front parlor window when Mother wasn’t looking. It was late afternoon. The men were coming back from wherever they went during the day. Slapping one another across their shoulders, on their rears, throwing back their dark tousled hair, the white teeth flashing in the throaty laughter. How could they be so bad and be so happy? (Was Mother looking at me? Did she hear that thought?) Tonight. Tonight I’ll go.

The usual silence in the sleeping household jingled with the bells, guitars, tambourines and jumbled rhythmic voices from down the street. I never went out before after dark. I could walk the stairs in bare and silent feet, carrying my lace up shoes, my dark felt coat. I knew the walkway, the hedgerows. I could get close. No one would know. I checked the back door just today. No squeaks.

There. I am out. It’s night. I am growing confident with stealth. Around the front of the house, I am startled by the firelight glow. I can see orange pulsing in the darkness. The street looks larger. I don’t see the edges. I am walking, trusting the dirt to be even, to carry my feet. I can go closer. Closer. At the edge of the field, I feel the warmth of the fire on my cheeks. The night air is so still, and chilly. The voices sound hot and bawdy. Then, “Aha! A foundling! Come, child. Come dance with us. Before morning you can go back home. You are safe here. Come laugh. Come sing. We’ll teach you the dance.” His coarse hand took mine with a curious and welcome tenderness and led me toward the circle, toward the flurry of sparks and licking flames and moving figures in the orange light.