The Butcher's Daughter

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  He spots an envelope addressed to him and stares at the words printed in the upper left-hand corner.

  Selective Service, Official Business.

  On her way to meet Greg, Gypsy convinces herself that the date is a cruel prank. Maybe Connie and Sharon put him up to it, or even Carol-Ann. But when she rounds the corner by the Rexall, he’s waiting out front. He looks relaxed, leaning against the plate glass window, hands in his pockets, one shoe propped on the brick storefront. He smiles when he spots her.

  “You look pretty,” he says, like she’s wearing a fancy party dress and not the thrift shop purple plaid jumper and cardigan she wears to school every other day.

  He holds the door open for her. The place is crowded with teenagers. She scans for familiar faces as they make their way to a booth near the back, half wishing someone from school will see her with Greg, half hoping nobody does.

  The waitress comes over with paper place mats and laminated menus.

  “Aren’t you going to look at it?” Greg asks when Gypsy pushes hers aside.

  “I thought we were having Cokes?”

  “Not literally. Coke date—it’s just a phrase, you know? Do you want a hamburger? Ice cream?”

  “Oh, um . . . Whatever you want.”

  He smiles as if he hasn’t guessed that Gypsy’s never been on a Coke date before, or any date, never been here before, never shared a table with a boy. He’s treating her as though she’s a regular person, like everyone else, for a change.

  They get a chocolate egg cream with two straws and share a plate of French fries. At first, Greg does most of the talking. He tells her about his family. His older brother was drafted and is shipping out to Vietnam in a few weeks, and his mother is a night shift nurse at Bronx Municipal Hospital.

  “How about you? Tell me about your family.”

  “It’s just . . . my dad. That’s it. Not really a family.”

  “Nice that you have a dad. Mine took off when I was a baby.”

  She expects him to ask about her mother, but instead, he asks what she thinks about the assassination, and next week’s biology test, and what kind of music she likes.

  How, she wonders, does he know what to say, and what not to say?

  Eventually, she relaxes enough to ask questions rather than just answer them. And she allows herself to lean in and sip from her straw while he’s sipping from his, instead of waiting for him to finish. Once, their noses bump and they laugh, and she imagines him kissing her right there, across the table, but he doesn’t. The date flies by, over too soon.

  On the way out, they pass three steady couples they know from school, jammed into one booth. Greg stops to talk to them, including Gypsy in the conversation as if she belongs, and the others treat her that way. One of the girls compliments her on her outfit, and another notes that her sweater matches her eyes. They seem genuine, and Gypsy says thank you. Just like a regular person. Like one of them.

  Out on the sidewalk, Greg says, “I’ll walk you home.”

  “Oh, no, I’m fine.”

  “It’s not safe out here tonight. You hear those sirens?”

  “There are sirens every night.”

  “Not like this. There’s rioting all over the city. It’s bad.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Because you’re white?”

  “Because I’m just not afraid.”

  “Of anything?”

  She considers the question. “No.”

  Not of anything you’d ever understand.

  Beneath a glowing streetlamp, he leans in and kisses her on the lips. Then he smiles, tells her to get home safely, and walks in the opposite direction, hands in his pockets, whistling.

  Gypsy floats back to her building.

  “Where have you been, man?” Oran’s voice calls in the dark as she steps over the threshold.

  “Out.” She flips on a light, takes off her sweater, looks around for an empty surface, and resorts to the doorknob. The place is a mess. Even when it’s clean, it’s dirty. But it hasn’t been clean in a long, long time.

  Oran appears in the doorway—disheveled, unshaven, barefoot, wearing striped bell bottoms and an orange shirt that are too big for his scrawny frame.

  “I’ve got a surprise for my Gypsy.”

  She goes still, closes her eyes, and braces herself for more chocolates. This time, she won’t eat them, but she won’t let on, either. Not until she’s certain. She can say that she’s full and that she’s saving them for later, and then she’ll examine them to see if—

  “Hey, you’re not looking!”

  Gypsy opens her eyes.

  He’s stripped off the shirt, grinning. “Check it out, man.”

  “What?”

  He points at his bony chest, and she leans in. “Is that a tattoo?”

  “Yep.”

  “You got a tattoo.”

  He nods, looking pleased with himself. “It’s a horse, you dig?”

  “Is that . . . because of me?”

  Something flashes in his eyes, as if she might be mistaken, but why else would he have a horse permanently etched on his skin?

  “You’re my Gypsy Colt. And you’ll get one, too. ‘Ye are of your father . . .’”

  He’s quoting his favorite gospel. John 8:44.

  “But I don’t want—”

  “ʽAnd the lusts of your father ye will do . . . ʼ”

  She wants to remind him that he skipped part of the passage.

  “Ye are of your father the devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do.”

  But he isn’t the devil. He loves her. It’s a gift.

  She sighs, eyes closed, face tilted to the heavens, refusing to allow the rest of the Bible verse into her head. “All right.”

  “Groovy. That way, we’ll know that we belong to each other, in case . . .”

  “In case what?”

  “In case one of us forgets that and loses her way.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Thursday, April 25, 1968

  Fernandina Beach

  Propped on three pillows to alleviate heartburn, Melody is too weary to heave her swollen body out of bed this morning. She’s been up and down to the bathroom all night, courtesy of this boulder of a baby resting on her bladder.

  Every time she fell asleep, she drifted right back into the nightmares that have haunted her sleep for weeks. She never remembers the details much past morning, though she’s certain Travis and Cyril are in all of them.

  She’d read in the paper that a local NAACP delegation had set out for Memphis in the early morning hours after the assassination. They paid their respects as King’s body lay in state, then traveled on to Atlanta for the funeral. Governor Maddox, a segregationist who considered King an enemy of the people, had denied him a state funeral. But the somber procession passed the Capitol building from Ebenezer Baptist Church to Morehouse College.

  She’d searched television news footage in vain for Cyril’s face.

  Riots and violence plague cities across the country. This is war, right here on American soil, and Cyril is on the front lines. Something might happen to him, could already have happened, and she’d never know. There will be no official knocking on her door to deliver the news, no outpouring of support, no one to even grasp her grief.

  Ten days after the assassination, she’d attended the seaside Easter sunrise service with her parents. Watching pink and orange glaze the horizon out beyond the rustling sea oats and shadowy dunes, she experienced sharp nudges in her womb, as though that tiny person was trying to tell her something.

  Yes. Dayclean.

  That afternoon, she’d driven out to Barrow for the first time since April 5, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror for the turquoise Impala. She’s been looking over her shoulder for Rodney Lee even when she’s home alone, but she could no longer stay away from Cyril.

  His place was still shuttered with an air of desertion, though, as if he hadn’t been back since he’d left for Memphis. Otis was t
here, barking inside the house, but the doors were locked. She’d scrawled a note on a napkin from the car, left it fluttering beneath the doormat and drove home to wait for him. He hadn’t come that night, or the next. He hadn’t come at all.

  And she’s still had no word from Travis in Vietnam, though Doris had mentioned last week that he’d sent a lovely Easter card. She hadn’t asked whether he’d been in touch with Melody. Of course she’d assume that he had. Why wouldn’t he write to his wife?

  Maybe his letters had gotten lost in the mail.

  Or maybe Rodney Lee had gotten to him with his suspicions.

  The police had followed up a few times, checking in on her, asking if she wanted to file a harassment report against the Negro. She’d pretended she had no idea what—or whom—they were talking about. She’d done the same with her parents.

  “The only one who’s been tormenting me is Rodney Lee Midget,” she’d told her mother.

  Honeybee, bless her heart, is the kind of person who can be led to recall things that had never happened, and to answer her own questions with speculation. She’d convinced herself, her husband, Raelene, and very nearly Melody, too, that Rodney Lee had been infatuated with Melody and having lost her to Travis, had decided to stir up trouble with outrageous claims.

  Meanwhile, with every day that passes without a contraction, Honeybee has grown more concerned that Melody’s “modern” obstetrician has allowed her pregnancy to proceed so far past her due date without intervention.

  “He’s a quack!” she’d stormed this past weekend at Sunday dinner. “What’s his name?”

  “Dr. Smith.”

  “What kind of name is that?”

  “Smith? It’s the most common name in the country,” Melody had said indignantly.

  “Well, where is his office located? I’m going to march in there and—”

  “Now, Honeybee, why don’t you just leave doctoring to the doctor?” her father said.

  “He’s the wrong doctor. I’m in a mind to get Doc Krebbs to pay Melody a house call just to make sure—”

  “Mother, no! It’s fine! I’m fine, and the baby’s fine, just taking its time, and Dr. Smith says—”

  “I don’t care what he says! He’s wrong!”

  “Well, Dr. Spock says—”

  “And I surely don’t care what that man says!”

  “You’re the one who gave me his book,” Melody reminded her.

  “That’s before I heard about all the unpatriotic rubbish he’s been spreading.”

  “The war has nothing to do with his medical skills.” And it isn’t rubbish, she’d been tempted to add, but knew better. Honeybee wouldn’t tolerate her daughter’s disapproval of Vietnam any more than she does public opposition, whether from a renowned, Yale-educated pediatrician or long-haired hippies.

  Raelene might share Honeybee’s political views, but she’d stepped in to offer castor oil and herbal tea, home remedies guaranteed to bring on labor. Melody had promised to try them, and gone back to brooding about the impending birth, Cyril and Travis, her parents, Rodney Lee, and her in-laws.

  Tuesday, she’d seen Dr. Stevens for a checkup. He’d listened to the baby’s heartbeat and smiled.

  “That’s a good, strong little person you got in there, Mrs. Hunter.”

  “When do you think she’ll be born?”

  “Well, now, I don’t know if she’s a she . . .”

  “She is.”

  “. . . and only the good Lord in heaven above knows when she—or he—will be delivered. Mid-May on, I’d say, but you pay a mind to signs that it’s coming sooner.”

  “If it was sooner—like, say, this week—would everything be all right? A baby this premature could survive?”

  “Oh, sure, sure. These days, babies born even two months ahead of their due dates are pulling through just fine, so long as their mamas get to the hospital. Wonders of modern medicine, and all. But your baby’s only one month out, so don’t you worry none, Mrs. Hunter.”

  She’d gone home, gulped a hefty dose of castor oil, and made a cup of Raelene’s herbal tea. She’d done the same yesterday, several times.

  And now—

  Out of nowhere, a savage cramp, the kind that seizes her calves sometimes when she’s lying in bed, clenches her midsection. She cries out and sits up, doubled over until it passes.

  Something’s happened to the baby.

  Terrified, she gets out of bed and hurries to the phone. Her first instinct is to call her mother. But as she inserts her forefinger into the dial and starts to rotate it, the pain comes again, and she knows.

  The baby isn’t in peril; she’s about to enter the world.

  Two weeks have passed since Oran took Gypsy to a tattoo parlor in Greenwich Village to get a horse inked just above her left breast.

  “In case one of us forgets and loses her way,” he’d said.

  Her way. Not his way, or their way.

  She’d been paranoid, at first, that he knew she was suspicious of him. But the more she thought about it all, the more she realized it was ludicrous to think that her father had not only slipped drugs into her chocolate, but is the Brooklyn Butcher. Imagine if Greg found out she’d even considered such a thing? He’d think she’d lost her mind, and she wouldn’t blame him. A couple of random coincidences don’t mean that her father is a cold-blooded killer.

  She’s since put that notion out of her head, and her guilty conscience had allowed Oran to talk her into the tattoo.

  “If you do this for me, Gypsy, I’ll figure out how to get the bread to move us out of this dump.”

  “I don’t want to move.”

  “I thought you hate it here.”

  She had, until Greg Martinez asked her out.

  “I don’t want to switch schools. I just wish we had a nicer place to live around here. If you can get the bread for that—”

  “None of this matters. Paradise is waiting for us, Gypsy.”

  She put aside her suspicions and focused on her relationship with Greg. He takes her out on weekend nights, and she’s pretty sure he’s going to ask her to go steady tomorrow night. It’s time. They’ve already gone to third base and he wants to go farther. Plus, he’d asked Carol-Ann to be his steady after taking her out just once—though their first date had been at a big school dance, and not just the drugstore.

  There haven’t been any dances lately, but if there were, Gypsy knows Greg would take her. And she’s sure he’d eat lunch with her every day if she asked him to, instead of sitting with his friends at his usual table while she eats alone in a corner, same as always.

  Sometimes, she does feel a little wistful walking into the cafeteria on her own. Today, carrying a bruised apple in a brown bag, she sees Greg waiting in line for the hot lunch. He’s busy talking to Ricky Pflueger and playing solo catch with a wadded piece of paper, so he doesn’t see her.

  The only empty table is adjacent to the one where Carol-Ann is sitting with Sharon and Connie. They stop talking and stare when Gypsy sits down. She ignores them, opening a textbook and taking a bite of her apple.

  A shadow falls over the page. She looks up to see Carol-Ann. She’s wearing a bright yellow shift.

  Greg’s favorite color. He’d mentioned it yesterday as they walked past the old lady’s garden patch across the street, daffodils blooming where the crocuses had faded.

  “Wow, Linda,” Carol-Ann says, “I never would’ve guessed that you read Vogue.”

  “This isn’t Vogue.”

  “You’re funny. I mean, you obviously read Vogue, too.” At her blank look, Carol-Ann adds, “Twiggy? This month’s cover?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Twiggy! The skinny English model.”

  “You mean your idol?”

  “Mine? No, I’d be famished if I just ate an apple for lunch, but good for you, dieting and all. I bet you’ll look just like her in no time.”

  Gypsy holds her gaze, takes another bite of her apple, and returns to her
book. After a moment she turns another page and asks, without looking up, “Why are you still here?”

  “Because I’m talking to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re friends, so I thought I’d just—”

  “We are not friends.”

  “Wow. Guess you think you’re hot stuff now, with a tattoo and all.”

  How can she possibly know about that? It’s hidden beneath Gypsy’s blouse and brassiere. She hasn’t even changed for PE ever since she got it, feigning period cramps. Greg is the only one who’s seen it. He thinks it’s far out, but he wouldn’t tell Carol-Ann, of all people. He can’t stand her, and he’d promised not to tell anyone.

  Carol-Ann leans in. “He’s just using you, you know.”

  No, he isn’t.

  She doesn’t say it, though.

  “He’s seeing how far you’ll let him go. That’s all he wants.”

  Gypsy looks up at her. “You know what they say about apples, right?”

  “Um, what?”

  “They don’t fall far from trees. And since my old man’s a psycho lunatic . . .” She methodically devours what’s left of the apple, core, seeds, and all, eyes glued to Carol-Ann.

  She does her best to return the glare, but falters. “See you later, freak,” she mutters, and returns to her own table.

  Gypsy looks back at her book, the text gibberish as she forces the bristly mess down her throat.

  Greg isn’t using her. He’s crazy about her. He says it all the time.

  But how can Carol-Ann know about the tattoo?

  Oran must be out there talking about it. Yes, and Carol-Ann ran into him again, preaching one of his sidewalk sermons. That has to be it.

  She glances over to see Greg carrying a tray heaped with steaming food to a table filled with popular kids. She tries to catch his eye. If he spots her, he might come over. Not to eat with her. She wouldn’t expect him to do that. But he might want to say hi.

  Unfortunately, he doesn’t see her. He sits in a vacant seat with his back to her.

  I trust him, though. Of course I do. He’d never hurt me any more than my father would.