Brotherhood of Children

[Painting by Charles Roka, the "Gypsy Painter" Every time I see this painting, I think of my experience with Gypsies! I'm submitting this for the Painted Prose Challenge - stayed tuned at the end for more of Mr. Roka's work.]

I saw Charles Roka's work as an adult. The painting above reminded me of the lovely gypsy woman I met as a child, and I fell in love with his art immediately. I had no knowledge, really, of what a "gypsy" even was when I was young so... I found out the old fashioned way.

I’m eternally amazed by how little my parents knew about my childhood. My cousins, siblings and I had a “brotherhood of children” and saw life as “children against the grown-ups.” When I shared stories with mom as an adult, she didn't remember them because we kept huge secrets.

We rarely told on each other when it came to the big stuff. The little stuff we nagged about but the bigger stuff, we either helped each other with, or kept our noses out of it.

When I was thirteen; mom finally let me walk to school if I promised to avoid the railroad tracks under the bridge. She said gypsies lived there, and she didn’t want us around “white trash”. (Like we weren’t white trash.) She never mentioned they might be dangerous.

So, I went straight down there on my way to school.

Being in this place was like being in a dream, where you sense that spooky eyes are upon you, but can't see them. As I passed, heads poked out of tents and from under sleeping bags. A beautiful dark-haired woman approached me from the open door of a silver camper.

I'll always remember my first impression of her. She was tall and had long, waist-length black hair. She wore a roomy white blouse, and a mid-length skirt with bangles, buttons and sequins scattered over it. She wore knee boots and lots of jewelry. (It WAS the end of the 70's.)

She said her baby was starving, and she couldn't afford milk. Her voice lingered slowly over certain syllables, as though making proper English came down to training. Then she asked if I had lunch money to get his milk.

I have a soft heart, and couldn't stand the idea of eating public-school food, while this baby might be starving. I generally didn’t even get lunch money. Until they started giving out free lunches, I had to pack a lunch.

Just as I pondered the effects of handing over the two dollars, the sun caught in one of her gold chains, and a thought occurred to me.

“Ya know,” I told her. “We never had anything worth pawning, but I know folks who've pawned jewelry to pay bills. I bet a pawn ticket for those chains would buy more milk than my lunch money.”

The lady laughed and when she did, many of the men in the clearing laughed too, so loud that I jumped.

“I see you are a gypsy too.” The woman grinned.

“I don’t know about that.” I answered. “But I've been poor a long time and I know what a pawn shop is.”

“What is your name?” She asked me.

“Veronica.”

“What a beautiful name.” She exclaimed with genuine sincerity. “My name is Samara.” Her voice was musical. Her slightly broken speech and throaty tone made you want to hear more. I don’t have to tell you I was terribly late to school that morning.

I was excusing myself and trying to leave when she asked me to come for dinner. Looking around the bridge setting I thought that I might have had it hard, but it was surely better than eating out there in the cold. Though it was warm by day, the nights were beginning to get near freezing.

Just as I was going to decline her offer, a boy of about fourteen or fifteen emerged her trailer and smiled at me. He had sandy blonde hair like mine, and dark brown eyes... not like mine.

“This is my son Georgio.” She said softly as she put an arm around him.

“This is Veronica.”

I was too shy to speak, and he was too cute to keep looking at, so I just nodded. When he said “hello”, it was beautiful, like the sound of the sea to me, and I blushed. Sensing my discomfort, Samara passed her hand over my cheek.

“Come back tonight. You will enjoy it, I’m sure.”

Being thirteen, smitten by her son and terribly late for school, I said “OKAY”, as I ran away.

I didn’t have any friends in school except for my cousin Daniel, but on this particular day it wouldn’t have mattered. I spent the afternoon daydreaming about those brown eyes. I thought of the slope of his cheek, the way his nose seemed to glide from his forehead, and the deep undertone of his voice when he said hello.

At that age, I'd never thought this way before, so the whole experience had me grinning uncontrollably. I had myself under control by the time I got home though and hurried through my homework.

After informing my mother that I was going to my cousin Shannon’s house, I took off down the road. After alerting Shannon to my shenanigans, I went straight to the gypsy camp for dinner.

We told Shannon’s mom that we were going to play in the sand pit, and although Shannon had no intention of going with me, she and her secret boyfriend, Travis, stood look-out with a flashlight on the edge of the woods to alert me when our mothers started calling us home.

I went into the woods just as the sun started setting. My heart pounded, but I was too curious about Georgio to stay home.

I wanted to see what they were like, these strange people who lived under bridges and ate outdoors. I'd romanticized their culture all day, but still couldn't see how anyone existed this way without being unhappy.

Emerging the trees, I entered the dirt clearing just before the bridge. Firelight sparkled beneath the small structure. We'd seen their fires from the road before but at that time, my head was full of mom's horror stories about cutthroats and thieves. I'd never given much thought to the human equation of it.

These were real people like me, like mama, like everyone I knew, but they didn’t have homes. They didn’t have traditional jobs and though it didn’t appear they had much, they seemed perfectly content with their lives.

As I came to the little clearing beneath the concrete arch of the bridge, I was transported to a place out of time, a moment I'll never forget.

There was merriment like things I'd only read in storybooks. Eerie shadows flickered over the walls of the arch and people either sat or stood or lounged next to the warm blaze.

I scanned the faces for Georgio but didn't see him. His mother walked from person to person with a pitcher in her hands, pouring “pee-colored” liquid into their cups as they talked amongst themselves. They occasionally poked at the fire with sticks to keep it busy cooking four or five lumps of clay.

I later discovered that the liquid was homemade beer and was really glad I had turned down any drink they offered. Samara sat down, Indian fashion on the ground next to me and began singing and humming as she used metal pokers to remove the clay lumps from the fire.

She dropped them onto large plates and the elder women, (who were very homely and witch-like to me), would begin chipping the clay away from the lumps with forks. Beneath, there was beautiful white meat, cooked to savory perfection. When I asked what it was, Samara said that it was a new twist on the “Hotchi-Witchi” dish of her people from long ago.

She said her people had cooked hedgehog in this fashion, but since they'd not found any, rabbit sufficed.

I had pet rabbits at home and vowed to keep a lock on their pens from now on to restrain gypsies from stealing them, but I ate the food. It wasn’t the first time I had rabbit meat, but it was the first time it tasted so good.

As I nibbled, people began sitting up around the fire. A man pulled a violin out of a neighboring tent and played soft and sensuously. Shortly thereafter, Georgio appeared with a couple of dead rabbits hanging from a branch he had over his shoulder.

Approaching the fire, he tossed the stick off to one of the elder women and pushed the woman next to me out of the way so he could sit beside me.

Blushing, and with a mouth full of the succulent rabbit flesh, my eyes made a quick roam over his bare chest muscles, and I muttered between bites:

“Hi.”

He smiled as his mother handed him a plate. The plates had lettuce, tomatoes, potato, and meat on them, so the food was actually much better than I had originally expected.

As I watched Georgio, Samara stood up, her shadow floating over the flames, and everyone hushed.

“If it hadn’t happened.” She began mysteriously. “Then it wouldn’t be told. Here follows the tale of my ancestors.”

Soon, she was singing a tale of gypsy legend. The other musical instruments broke in, soft and slow, building to a crescendo as Samara shook a tambourine. My breath caught in the cold night air like a smoky phantom, hanging in front of me as the flames danced around to the song like little devils, reveling in hellish quarry.

The contrast of cold and warm, right and wrong, good and bad was wearing on me. Then I looked at Georgio. His gaze, with those terribly haunting eyes, made me forget the inner struggle I was so aptly involved with. His gaze held mine and though I wanted to not look at him, I couldn't resist. It wrought far too much promise in my heart.

After Samara’s tale, the others began sharing theirs. I scarcely remember the stories because the flashlight illuminated the trees. I dropped my plate and rose immediately.

“I have to go.” I announced, interrupting the guy telling his story.

“I’m sorry. But my cousin was keeping look-out for me, and my mother’s calling.”

I pointed into the woods where the flashlight was wiggling back and forth, and they all chuckled. Everyone but Georgio.

“Will we see you again?” Samara asked.

The good girl in me knew the answer should be “no”, but I was drowning in Georgio's pleading inky pools, so I said:

“Sure.”

“I’ll walk her to her friends to see that she’s safe.” Georgio said.

It was the first thing he’d said all night and when his voice came out, I shuddered. All the same, I couldn’t bear the idea of having him walk with me in the dark.

Did he think I wasn’t capable of handling myself? I could take care of myself in fact and did not want him treating me like a baby.

“I can take care of myself.” I blurted out. He seemed surprised by my outburst and his eyes almost looked hurt. So, in an effort to not seem so abrasive I added… “but thank you.”

I hastened toward Shannon and Travis, but I stole glances over my shoulder.

Georgio stood at the edge of the clearing, faceless in the dark, a silhouette in the firelight that burned into me forever.

Once I arrived home, my mother asked me how Shannon was and rather than talk her head off, I said:

“Fine.”

Ordinarily mama might have pushed, but I think she was glad I wasn’t talking her head off, and decided not to get involved with the new, moodier me.

The next day was Friday and way worse than the day before. I couldn’t focus on classwork. I snapped at anyone who interrupted a daydream. I couldn’t remember what I should have done for homework, and I actually slapped Daniel once for pestering me.

I hurried home, dying to get my chores done so I could pretend to run to Shannon’s. I went by the camp earlier that morning, but Georgio was already hunting, and most were still asleep. Samara came out and wished me a good day, but she looked kind of sleepy and headed right back into her trailer.

As I polished off my chores, I ran in the back door to tell mom I was off to Shannon’s. Dashing through the kitchen, hall and into the living room, I realized I had passed my family in the kitchen. I slammed on brakes and went back.

Mom was wearing her nicest dress, and my brother and sister were all cleaned up.

Mama told me to hurry up and get ready because her boyfriend, (the Marine), was going to take us all out to dinner.

I started to ask if I could stay home, but then I thought about mom’s boyfriend. Mike Crocker loved steak. There was a chance we might go to a steakhouse.

I mean, I liked Georgio, but we didn’t get steak often and my stomach was much stronger than my heart back then. So, I rushed to my room, grabbed some clothes and began cleaning up for the night out.

I wish I could say I remember the steak, but I don’t. I thought only of the agony on Georgio’s face when I shouted that I could take care of myself. I was picking at my plate and mushing some baked potato around in my mouth when Mike looked at me and asked in a worried tone if I was okay.

I played it off on having a hard day at school and having more chores than usual.

The next morning, I was rushing to the camp. Mom had to do some plumbing with Uncle Luke, so she wouldn’t be around to ask questions.

As I dashed into the trees, my ankle caught some thorns and I stopped to pick them out. As I bent over picking at them, I heard:

“Now that is a pretty sight.”

I knew it was Georgio’s, and that he was talking about my behind.

“Ha ha.” I smarted as I turned to face him.

He had a bucket in one hand and the other hand on his hip. His eyebrow was raised, and he had an odd smirk that I found unnerving.

“What brings you into the woods?” he asked as he passed.

“I was going to hang out with your mom.”

Georgio stopped in his tracks and turned to look over his shoulder.

“What about you?” I asked pointing at the bucket.

“Fishing.” He answered as he started off again.

Watching after him, trying to think of a reason he shouldn’t go, I noticed his lack of a fishing pole.

“But you don’t have a cane pole.”

Georgio stopped again, looking at me, amused.

“Imagine that.” He quipped.

“How do you fish without a pole?”

“Come with me and I’ll show ya.” He said, grinning.

At first, I was afraid to be alone with him. He was older than me and such a handsome boy. I was experiencing something at my age that I couldn't define either aloud or to myself.

We stood there, the invitation hanging between us, and I rationalized that he probably had no clue what he was doing. If I went, I could make him a cane pole. So… I went.

We passed in and out of tree-shadows for a while without talking. As we arrived at the creek, Georgio thrust the metal bucket at me.

“Could you hold this, please?” He asked. Although the gesture was forceful, the politeness with which he asked, made me inclined to consent.

Taking the bucket as it swung from his hand, our fingers met and there was a brief, awkward silence. That electricity was new to me, and it was years before I felt anything like it again.

Georgio laid down on the bank in a bed of thick grass, dangling his hand into the reeds and other plants in the water.

I started to ask what he was doing, but he put his finger to his lips as if to say “shhh”. I complied. I didn’t want to scare the fish.

As he lie there perfectly still, his eyes closed. My eyes made fond passes over him.

He wore cut-off jean shorts, and nothing else. His body was tan, and the sun danced along his hair as the clouds raced overhead. As I stared at the rise and fall of his chest, I sighed. Just then, a fish came hurling through the air at me and I screamed.

Georgio laughed. Before I realized what happened, the fish hit the ground and he pounced on top of it, a knife from out of nowhere in his hand, and he stabbed it in the head.

There was something primal about this that frightened me, but the wild light in his eyes as he dropped the fish into the bucket was mind-scrambling.

“That is how we fish without equipment.” He said, standing too close to me while pushing the folded pocketknife into his pocket.

“The fish like the tickle of the water weeds, so they swim through them a lot. If your fingers are there, you wiggle them like this…”

He spread his fingers apart and brushed them softly over my bare arm.

“They push into your hand. Then it’s nothing to flip them up onto the bank.”

I swallowed hard trying to maintain my composure, but the tickle of his fingers was still on my arm, evoking chills.

Turning toward the stream he plopped down, his arms resting on his knees, as he began talking.

“It’s a while before the fish will come back. Your scream likely scared ‘em off.”

“Sorry.” I muttered, mortified.

Taking a seat next to him, I looked into his eyes again.

“No sweat.” He responded. “As long as we keep quiet, they’ll come back. How long have you been in Georgia?”

At first, I didn’t answer. The words got stuck and I must have looked like an idiot staring at him, my mind a million miles from regular conversation.

“I mean, you don’t talk like these people, so I’m guessing you must be new here.”

“Yeah.” I piped up, pleased that he noticed. “I’m originally from Indiana. I’ve only been in Georgia about two years.”

“Parents divorced?” He asked.

I nodded and put my head down. I'd always felt that if I had been better, my parents would be together, that I shouldn’t have sat by and watched. I should have fixed things somehow.

“Hey.” He tilted my head up with his fingertips. “Don’t beat yourself up. Grown-ups are nuts. That’s not our fault. It’s not something you had any control over, although I can tell you think you control everything in your life.”

I’m sure he thought himself clever but implicating that I was stupid enough to think I could control everything… that was overstepping, and I couldn’t allow that! I recoiled from his touch on my chin and glared at him.

“See? I bet you think you'll change my mind. Don't ya?”

Exhaling, I looked away. I didn’t like him all of a sudden.

Regardless of how attracted I was, he thought he knew everything and obviously felt like he knew me... which wouldn’t have been bad, if he hadn’t been right.

I got up, dusting the debris off of my shorts, but he caught my hand as I tried to turn around.

“Why are you leaving?” He asked, his dark eyes probing mine with such a desire, that as a grown woman of fifty-something, I’ve still not seen since.

“You know everything.” I fussed. “Figure it out.”

“Hey I’m sorry.” He said, genuinely concerned. “I wasn’t trying to run you off. I was just trying to get you to talk to me. You don’t talk much, do you?”

Boy he really didn’t know anything. If he had any idea how much my mother told me to shut up, he’d probably not have anything to do with me.

The truth was, that I was on uncertain ground. I needed time to adapt to the idea that I could be attracted to someone.

“You don’t know everything I guess.” I answered as I sat back down. He chuckled, indicating that he did know I was a talker, but never said so.

All day, we shared our favorite poems, talked about books we loved and favorite foods. He adored Shakespeare. (Which I thought was odd. As much as I loved reading, the only thing harder than reading Shakespeare to me… was the Bible.)

The sun was setting over the treetops when we'd finally begun talking about Georgio’s people.

He spoke of ghosts, gypsies and customs. He told of a "Gypsy Massage". I asked him what the difference was between that and a regular massage. At first, he stared at me as though musing over whether to show me, or to tell me.

“The purpose of a massage is to loosen tight muscles and put someone at ease where once they were tense. The same applies to Gypsy Massage, but its purpose isn’t to loosen tight muscles, but to put the other person at ease so you can do as you please with them.”

He laughed at my expression. I was in the middle of a blond moment and couldn’t make any sense of what he said.

“Here.” He said, as he scooted behind me. He began rubbing my shoulders, and arms. His hands were very strong, but his touch was gentle.

“That's a regular massage.” He patted me on the back, then came out from behind me and laid down, stretching lazily on the bank next to me.

“What’s the difference between that and your gypsy style?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

“It's done so the chin acts as the hand, the tongue acts as the fingers.”

“I bet that looks ridiculous.” I laughed.

“You tell me.” He answered, leaning over and using his chin to massage my thigh.

Although his chin was down, rubbing firmly into my muscles, his eyes never left mine. My mouth went dry, and my heart pounded so loud that I thought for sure he heard it. My breath went ragged. Fever crept across my face like a sunburn, and I didn’t know what to do.

I quaked, unsure how long my elbows would support me when… he looked longingly into my eyes, and his tongue emerged. It was pink, with a golden hue around it as the setting sun lit, and as it landed upon my bare thigh, tickling senses I didn’t know I had… I jumped straight up and ran home.

Georgio’s voice trailed after me but there was no way I was going back.

Hours passed by until they had become days, and days had become two weeks before I had the heart to go back.

I'd made up my mind. I would ask him to understand that I didn’t know about that stuff yet. I wanted to thank him for openly sharing in my love for poetry. Until that day with him, I felt that no one understood me. I hoped to tell him I loved him as much as an adolescent could, but that I needed space and time to grow into my feelings.

I knew Georgio would understand because he was smarter than any grown-up I knew. He was a provider, a hunter, a poet.

The sight of the gypsy camp when last I arrived, has haunted many heartbroken nightmares since.

The silver mobile home was gone along with the tents of the elder women. The men were packing the rest of their belongings.

I found the violinist because I felt a musical kinship with him.

“Where is Georgio, Samara?” I asked.

“Samara is sick.” He answered. “Our elders don't know what’s wrong and the emergency room wouldn't see her because she has no address, and no means to pay.”

“Where are they? Where’s Georgio?” My voice quivered with emotional disappointment.

“They left to see the elders of another tribe. They can help Samara, where we cannot. All the same, it is good to see you.”

The crow's feet around his eyes tightened as he smiled at me.

“Georgio left something for you.” He pulled a piece of paper from his coat pocket.

“He asked me to deliver it to your home if you didn't come. Had I gone there, your family would have known about us, and I don’t think we would have profited by that, but I would have done it.”

Tears moistened my eyes.

The old man sighed softly.

“He’s an old man already.” He told me. “But his heart beats strong, with love for you.”

I couldn’t stand listening anymore. I ran wildly through the woods, sobbing. I couldn’t cry to my mother about this one. This was something that would stay inside and hurt me for a very long time.

Making my way to the creek, I sat down to read my letter.

I don’t remember it exactly, but it said something about an eternal love he'd hoped after; knowing it was me.

It said he was sorry for making me uncomfortable, that if Samara hadn't taken ill, he'd have waited for me. He said he would always remember that dark, silent side of me, which I was so bent on hiding: and to never forget him.

When we read Shakespeare in school the following year, I broke down and cried. The other children said that kids didn’t fall in love and run away to get married. Kids that age didn’t know what love was… but I had known.

Our paths never crossed again. I've always hoped they will. Years later, I wrote a song called “Gypsy Glory” about Samara. The rhythms were cut from the same kind of tambourine work she did on the night I dined with them. I hope Georgio or Samara will hear it someday and know that though they were without a place in this world, they are always part of me.

You can hear the song by clicking below. I hope it does justice to the gypsies who inspired it.

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The work of Charles Roka - 1912 - 1999