Ma and the Gypsies
Margaret Wold
It was a hot sticky afternoon in August when the brightly painted gypsy wagon stopped on the shoulder of the highway in front of our tourist camp grounds. We ran quickly into the house to tell Ma.
"Some gypsies are at the refreshment stand, Ma, and they're the same ones who were telling fortunes at the county fair!"
"Hush! How can I hear when you're all talking at once?" Ma asked. But she heard all right and started giving us orders. "Maggie, hang on to Jimmy's hand and don't let any of the others go near the wagon. Gypsies have been known to steal children." (Since Ma thought her children the smartest and prettiest in the county, she suspected everyone of wanting to steal us.)
My heart pounded as I clutched Jimmy's sweaty little hand and the other kids hung onto my skirt as we followed Ma's solid figure out the door, she disappeared into the little green stand with the drop-down shutters where she dispensed hot dogs, ice cream cones, candy and pop all summer long while Pa pumped gas into sputtering Model T's and Chevies.
We huddled in a ragtag little bunch and watched as the small, dark-haired strangers stepped down out of the odd-shaped, horse-drawn house on wheels. An old woman peeked out at us through red-curtained windows. When she smiled a toothless grin and beckoned to us with a long, skinny finger, we retreated in horror behind a bush, convinced that she was one of those who kidnapped and ate children.
About ten young gypsies pushed their way to the front of the stand, chattering in lively syllables. One of the young boys was shoved toward the screened window where Ma stood waiting to take their order.
"Thirteen hot dogs, orange Nehis, and Baby Ruths," he said, while the others laughed and cheered his bold command of English.
While Ma was busying herself with their order, an older girl left the group and glided toward Pa who was leaning against the wall of the gas station and licking the paper he was rolling around his freshly made Bull Durham cigarette.
The gypsy girl had long black hair and her bracelets and earrings tinkled as she walked up close to Pa with long slow swaying steps. We could barely hear her when she asked Pa in a low husky voice, "Fortune, Mister?"
Pa was dark and thin like a gypsy himself, only taller. We saw him look in Ma's direction like he usually did when he wasn't sure of something. But Ma was busy.
"Sure, I guess so," he finally said, putting the unlit cigarette above his ear.
The pretty little gypsy pulled the red silk kerchief off her head. "For real good fortune put money under this," she invited him.
As Pa reached into his pocket and took out the gas money, I couldn't stand it any longer and I let out a yell! "Ma, the girl is taking Pa's money!"
Whether it was the sight of the cute little gypsy so close to Pa or the hard-earned money disappearing under the kerchief that made Ma move so fast, I'm not sure, but suddenly there she was, upraised broom in one hand, Pa's money in the other, chasing the gypsies who were running for their wagon, shaking their fists and screaming foreign imprecations at her!
Then they were off at a gallop and all that remained to remind us of our visitors was the broken pop bottles on the highway, the smell of burning hot dogs and the red silk kerchief fluttering from Ma's clenched fist.
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