GYPSIES, TRAMPS, AND THIEVES

by Parris Afton Bonds

  “Love and happiness abound, Micah, when you establish a home of your own and stop caring about what others think.” That sounded good enough, didn’t it? Micah looked comforted, at least.

  Jock’s three-card layout turned up the Five of Spades, the Ace of Diamonds and the King of Clubs. “Jock, the Five of Spades,” she improvised, “represents only temporary obstacles, because by now you have surmounted life’s hardest ones. And all the years that the locusts have eaten will be returned to you through your service to a spirited ruler.”

  Now where did that malarkey come from?

  He took another swig from the remainder of his chipped cup’s tequila. “Sounds good ‘nuff to me, lass.”

  And so it went, one ranch hand after another – Bud, Glen, Skinny-Henry, and, Arturo, until she came to Sally and Sam – and Miriam and Gideon.

  Sally’s spread turned up a Ten of Clubs, which, according to Romy’s mum, signified travel; next an Ace of Spades – definitely not a good card – and a Jack of Hearts.

  “Hmmm, I see an ill-timed trip here, but when positioned next to this card – ” Romy tapped the Jack, “ – there is a deepening attraction with a knave, a younger man, who is quite the chatterbox. The knave should offset all yuir heart’s earlier preoccupations.” That should be cheery enough.

  Sally looked pleased.

  Her pistol-toting father was a sufficiently predictable person to read. She glanced at the Eight of Spades. Guilt? And the Two of Spades adjacent to it? “This Eight of Spades indicates on a delay any feelings of guilt you might have should lessen,” she tempered. “And the Seven of Hearts in this spread indicates, if you bide your time and ignore life’s irritations, a piece of good luck could be in store for you.”

  “With the rampant tick infestation, I sorely need it,” grouched old Sam.

  Observing Gideon and Miriam closely, the way their bodies were turned more to each other, as if shutting out the rest of the world, Romy thought their relationship had possibilities that she could playfully use in their card layouts.

  She turned over Miriam’s three cards and tapped the Two of Clubs. “There is opposition to yuir desires.” The young woman appeared so stiff and starchy, she would probably resist any change as threatening, as fearful. Next, Romy noted the Three of Clubs, adjacent to the Deuce. “But another chance will be given ye – financially.” And then, the Three of Hearts. “This represents a favorable outcome to happiness,” she summed up with an iridescent smile.

  Always keep the inquirer happy.

  With Gideon’s card spread, she turned over the King of Hearts – what her mum called the Suicide king because of the sword behind his head, making him appear as if he were stabbing himself. Next, the Seven of Spades, and, lastly, the Two of Hearts. Her finger hovered over, first, the King of Hearts, a fair-haired man with a good nature. She could run with that.

  “Ye will be a fair ruler, if you ignore others’ advise. However, this Seven of spades, indicates a dire warning card. There will be two relationships. Still, the Two of Hearts shows support coming from a partner, if ye choose wisely.”

  What codswallop. And from his expression, the rolling of his eyes, he felt the same.

  All these readings at one setting were taking much more energy than she had anticipated. And there was still to go Duke, with his tetchy visage. “Yuir turn, Duke.”

  She passed him the deck, their fingers brushing in the transfer, and it was as if static electricity had prickled the fine hairs on her arms. Their startled gazes clashed above their clasped hands, cupping the deck.

  He took control of it, shuffled and, riffling through the cards like a man long familiar with them, then cut them into three piles.

  She waited until he had slouched back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest, as if daring her, before she slowly turned the three piles over to view each card below.

  All eyes were upon her, expectantly. As if this were some pivotal moment in each of their lives.

  She dreaded what she might see unfolded before her – ridiculously dreading, needlessly dreading, because this was all a fabrication on her part, wasn’t it?

  She addressed the Nine of Hearts, which caught her eye first. Restlessness. Then, the Ten of Hearts – someone who safe-boxed their strong feelings; still, there showed the possibility of wishes or dreams fulfilled. But the next one would factor in gravely with the Nine of Hearts. Lastly, she glanced at it. The fiery Queen of Clubs. What kind of story could she – should she – make of this spread?

  She cleared her throat and tapped the Nine of Hearts. “All that ye have yearned for can be yuirs. All the restlessness vanquished from yuir life – if ye but risk sailing the High Seas every once and while, so to speak. But ye must heed the advice of the young woman with the fiery spirit in order for yuir dreams to come true.”

  Duke’s cigar-brown mustache wobbled. “And I suppose you are the young woman with the fiery spirit?”

  Around her and Duke, breaths audibly sucked in the remnants of the kitchen’s fragrant air.

  She lifted one brow and grinned triumphantly. “But who else? Are ye not consulting me at this very moment?”

  § § §

  Sally or Charlotte?

  Which one?

  They both could comfortably fit the hazy image that was Duke’s eternal longing for a home, a wife, a family.

  But which woman?

  A home. A wife. A clan.

  So many past Christmases spent far from home. In New Zeeland’s squalid dives, with Algeria’s perfumed whores, and among Japan’s gaudy geishas.

  Yet none of them in his wildest imagination, nor Edgar Allen Poe’s, for that matter, came close to this harridan, this creatively alive female, Romy Sonnenschein.

  Not beautiful by society’s standards, but . . .

  Later that Christmas night Duke’s hand gradually accelerated stroking his thick length for less than satisfying, relief . . .

  . . . but, yet, he desired her. Desired her above the others.

  § CHAPTER TWELVE §

  Rituals.

  For Romy, they provided valuable stability in a crazy, unstable world. Evenings spent reading with the reluctant Duke, listening to the rumble of his low voice, inhaling his particular smell – citrusy soap, old leather, and fresh hay – was reassurance that all was in order in this tidy little corner of her world right now.

  That particular morning, January 1st, 1939, she was still in the kitchen, long after breakfast, performing yet another ritual – preparing the traditional Irish dish for a New Year feast, filled with luck and abundance.

  The seasoned corned beef was simmering, the cabbage boiling. She was dicing the carrots, potatoes, and onions – and then Duke had to stride in, his spurs clanking on the flagstones like the closing of a cell gate.

  Naturally, she did not hear that clanking until he was almost directly behind her, but this time he was well out of the way of her paring knife, as she whirled at the sound of her name.

  His brows lowered over puzzled eyes. “You didn’t hear me, did you.” It was a statement, not a question. “And you don’t have the radio booming.”

  She shook her head and with an improvisation that surprised even herself, rebutted, “Nay, I suppose ‘tis its loud street music all these years that has deafened me ears.”

  He blinked. “But you are only . . . what? Twenty? Twenty-one?”

  Her shrug was negligent, despite the giddiness that besieged her. “Ye wanted something?” Of course, she was not what he wanted. At least, not for a lifetime’s span.

  “Johnson will be here today – to breed his prize bull with one of my heifers, before he returns to Washington. Is there any hope in hell that you’ll behave yourself? All I am asking is for a decent New Year’s luncheon spread – and to keep your carcass out of his lecherous sight.”

  Well, that was an interesting request. And the way he was staring down at her, she could not mistake the hunger in his own eyes. A grin threatened to tilt the ends of her lips. �
��And that bothers ye? The congressman’s sights on meself?”

  “Damn straight. I have enough to handle here without wrangling with hanky-panky.”

  “Hangkeypainkey?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, you know . . . . ”

  She sat aside the paring knife, and, hands on hips, head cocked, said, “Nay, I dunna know. This is a word I dunna understand. Hangkeypainkey.”

  His gaze lifted to the ceiling plaster, as if studying its smoky splotches of soot her cooking had silhouetted. “You know. Like, well . . . ” his campfire eyes found hers, “hell, like kissing . . . and stroking. . . fondling. That sort of thing.”

  Fondling. That word held a wealth of meaning. “Ahh, like when you are courting yuir woman. That kind of hangkeypainkey?” She could have continued to play her teasing game, to make the sweat bead even thicker on that luxuriant, soft mustache of his, but she said quietly, “And which of the two have ye decided on, Duke – the one ye will take to wife? Charlotte – or Sally?”

  She waited in breathless anxiety to hear whom he preferred. Because with either, it would mean, most likely all too soon, the death knell for herself. She would no longer be needed once he wed.

  As if in disgust, he shook his head. “No hanky-panky has gone on with either of them.”

  The relief she felt galvanized her to blurt, “I think that sort of thing – this hangkeypainkey is what ye want to do with me, Duke McClellan.”

  The temperature in the kitchen surely shattered the mercury’s thermometer. His head jolted back. He glared down at her. “Are you out of your crazy-loving mind?!”

  Her relief metamorphosed into mirth. “Nay, Duke, I am not. But ye are. Ye’re wanting crazy loving from meself, aye?”

  His hands grabbed her shoulders, as if to set her from him. But he didn’t. His mouth hardened. Those generous lips parted, apparently in repudiation of his feelings, but it was as if he could find nothing with which to counter her assertion.

  Palms splayed on his chest, she stood on tiptoe and barely reached high enough to brush her lips against his.

  He was as stiff as a medieval suit of armor. With an inward sigh, she drew her lips away from his. “Tis a strong will, ye have. If only me own was as strong.”

  “I’d sooner jerk off than bed some – ”

  “ – than bed me?” she completed his falsehood of a statement. Foolish and shameless she was to offer her kiss so freely when she should play the demure young lady. Yet, she strained against his clamped hands and kissed him again, this time her lips lingering. Bloody blooming saints, she would best him yet.

  Below his raffish mustache, the easing of his obdurate mouth signaled she was in for the ride of her life. He swerved her toward the long plank table and boosted her onto its edge and wedged himself between her thighs. Bracing himself over her, his mouth took possession of hers. The shock of his conquering tongue immobilized her. That primordial kiss wiped all fantasy kisses from her mind. Wiped everything from her mind.

  He jerked his head back, his heated breath fanning her swollen, wet lips. “Damn you, Romy! You’re asking for pure trouble.”

  She sensed she was damned anyway. This craving of him with no release would be an eternal, earthly hell. “Then give it to meself.”

  His hands cupped her buttocks and yanked her pelvis toward his crotch. “Is this what you want?” he growled.

  For answer, her hand tangled in his hair, tugging his head back; her other splayed on his chest, her fingers clumsily, frenziedly working the top snap of his shirt, and all the while her lips scaled the muscle that was a live wire flicking in his thick throat. His guttural utterance, her gasping moan, proclaimed that yet another ritual, the mating ritual, was under way.

  The saints, karma, or maybe even pure dumb luck saved them both, as first the porch screen door and then next the front door banged open, and Bud bellowed, “Duke, the Congressman’s here!”

  Duke blinked glazed eyes and stared at her as if trying to refocus, then he levered his hammering weight away from her.

  Gawking at one another, both their mouths opened, as if to excuse what had transpired.

  Wordlessly, rebuttoning his shirt, he stalked from the kitchen to greet outside the arriving Johnson and staff.

  With shaking hands, she went back to making sangria with some overripe oranges and shriveled lemons and mixed with a cheap wine Arturo had procured from God knew where.

  Finished with the New Year’s Day preparation, she knew she could not hide out. Better to make the best of it. Face Duke and pray they both could pretend as if that flashfire moment had not happened.

  But it was not wining and dining the illustrious congressman that continued to unsettle her and palsy her hands. Nay, what unsettled her was the looming consequences of the solar heated attraction between herself and Duke, which could not continue to be ignored within the confines of the S&S’s small adobe house. They had passed into a danger zone, a point of no return. And she knew she was more responsible than he. She had goaded him.

  Further, she knew he would not stand for any disruption of his goals – and consummation of that hunger he would consider a disruption.

  The jig was up as Jock would say. Sooner or later, she would find herself shipped back to Germany quicker than a ‘euthanasia’ patient to the Nazis’ new gas chambers.

  Outside, she drifted toward the corral where a phalanx of male energy hovered. Apart from the S&S hands, Johnson’s personal photographer and aid were there to ensure Johnson’s virility was captured for prosperity.

  As the Dust Bowl decade had broiled Texas, the extreme weather continued to make for an unseasonably warm New Year’s Day. It was most certainly not the natural breeding season for cattle. But that did not appear to deter Johnson’s prized bull.

  Broad shouldered and slick, black haired, the stout bull approached with swaying testicles the shying, agitated heifer. She switched her tail from side to side over her swollen female part and skittered along the railing.

  And so yet mating ritual, was underway at the S&S.

  “Never you worry, McClellan,” said Johnson, parked atop the railing with Duke, “that young bull will hammer your heifer harder than a hermit will a whore.” He shifted on the railing and stuck out a beckoning arm. “Romy, gal, you’re missing the grand finale!”

  The photographer’s camera clicked away and flash powder flared from the trowel as she laid her palm into Johnson’s paw, assisting her in climbing the slats to sit between him and Duke.

  Johnson’s bull mounted and began plunging into the S&S heifer. Romy’s breath quickened. Her fingers dug into her jeans-sheathed thighs. She could not help but envy the coupling, the completion of the mating ritual that she was denied with Duke. Next to her, he gripped the railing with white knuckles.

  Later as everyone trooped into the kitchen to take their fill of her traditional New Year’s Day supper, her hungering for him continued unabated. She circled the table that she and he had only recently abandoned in their frenetic drive toward completion, satiation, fulfillment, or whatever – and set a heaping plate before each man, including the boisterous congressman, flanked by his aide and photographer.

  “You’ve heard of cow tipping,” Glen asked the officious young aide.

  The suited man blinked rapidly. “Cow tipping?”

  She noted how Johnson and Duke sat back with barely concealed smirks on their faces, prepared to watch the hands gig the citified aide and photographer.

  “Yeah,” Skinny Henry said, “you sneak into a pasture and put a hardy shoulder to a cow taking a standing snooze. The man who tips the most cows wins.”

  “You mean the yokel who believes thees,” Arturo grinned, amid the chuckles.

  She had a strong suspicion that his recent good humor had to do with a speculative exchange of glances she had caught between him and Sally at Christmas the week before. Mayhap, Sally realized that Duke wouldn’t allow her to run roughshod over him; that she needed that position of dominance,
after being dominated by her father all those years.

  If true, that left only Charlotte in the running. For the present, at least. And if not her, if she wasn’t his choice, there would always be other lasses willing to wait in line for Duke McClellan.

  No matter, Romy knew it was time to devise plans for her own future.

  For those few moments, the tableau appeared like the extended family she had yearned for. As she yearned for Ireland, what seemed to her a refuge and familial heritage. Ireland represented security, identity, and the bountifulness of life she has never known.

  If only she could be as bountiful in reproducing. Aye, every couple of months she spotted, as if the blood splotches still served to reaffirm that she was questionably a vital female. But yearn she did for a bairn of her own. Watching Charlotte with Clara at Thanksgiving only emphasized that aching maternal longing in Romy that would never be assuaged.

  Midway through the supper, Johnson turned his ferreting, hooded eyes on her. “Romy gal, bang up supper you did.”

  She smiled obligingly and nibbled on her cornbread while the other men chipped in their praise. All but the stonewall Duke. He was sitting back, guardedly watching the congressman . . . and her.

  “You heard of Dessau Hall?” Johnson asked her. Before she could respond, he went on. “It’s a beer hall in a podunk town outside Austin city limits. But some popular acts appear there – like Glen Miller’s band and Hank William’s Drifting Cowboys.”

  She had never heard of either of them but nodded in worldly wise acknowledgement.

  Johnson leaned over his plate, his large hands grasping an ear of winter corn, dripping with butter. “I have contacts there. I could get you a gig, playing a guitar.”

  Surprise flitted through her, followed by excitement – and, on its heels, serious misgivings. Johnson’s offer would most likely have strings attached.

  She declined with the first inspiration that came to mind. “I seriously doubt me talent is good enough for the likes of them – ” she flicked her hand airily to indicate the unfamiliar names of the other musicians.