Into the Free by Julie Cantrell Read Free Book Online Page A

coop and managed his garden, kept up my studies and taken care of Mama, the gypsy boy has become my secret. But he is not the only secret I keep. Every year I watch the caravans of color weave their way through Iti Taloa during the gypsies’ annual pilgrimage. And every year, their music triggers thoughts about that wooden box Mama buried under the sycamore tree when I was just a little girl. I have never dug it up again, believing that the box is not mine to touch. Nor have I ever told a soul about it. Instead, I have watched the ivy swallow it whole.
    I have tried to forget the box. To set my sights on the gypsies and the boy. But I’m sixteen now and craving a change. I wonder if today is the day.

     
    When Jack finally leaves, I climb back down and go inside. I stand over Mama’s bed and tell her to listen. “The gypsies are coming,” I say, but she doesn’t answer. She’s back in the valley, and as always, there’s no telling when she’ll come out.
    Last week, she spent two afternoons planting daisies, even though I warned her that a cold front was coming. I could feel it in my bones. Mama put both hands on her left hip, cocked herself to the side like a banana, tilted her narrow chin with a quick nod, and said, “You got that from your father. Listening to the wind like that.”
    Even though I warned her, she kept planting daisies. And sure enough, a late freeze came and got them all.
    “They’ll grow back. Daisies always do,” I said.
    But Mama couldn’t take the hit. “Not this time,” she said and went to bed. She’s been there for nearly a week, wouldn’t even get up to cook for Jack. So I’ve done it for her. But she isn’t willing to eat what I cook, or wear what I set out for her, or go to the market with me. She’s locked in again, back in the valley, where nobody can reach her. Not even me.
    I barely remember the years when she still sang and laughed and danced. Truth be told, I hardly remember the last time she looked up. She spends more and more time looking down. Down at the ironing board. A book. The stove. Down at the floor. Sometimes, I feel like the only thing that can snap her out of it is one of Jack’s punches. I hate to admit it, but sometimes I think about hitting her myself. Get her to come back to life. I wonder how it would feel to flash my fist into Mama’s sallow cheek. Give her one quick slap. Snap her back into my world.
    But, of course, I’d never hurt Mama.
    Instead, I’m here. Taking care of her. Jack has packed his bags and driven away again, and now it’s just the two of us. The afternoon sun shines bright through Mama’s window, so I adjust her pillow to turn her face from the light. I pull up a chair next to the bed and I sit, holding Mama’s hand. I just want to rest for a minute before I start lunch. I smooth her hair back from her face and I watch her breathe, swallow, blink. Part of me is sinking with the sounds of her. I’m tired of her diving deep into nothing and leaving me on the surface. Waiting for her to come back up for air.
    Then it happens.
    Out the window, streaks of yellow fly by. Followed by red and purple and green. A rainbow has formed just outside our worn-out cabin, and I want to dive right in. I peel back the flimsy cotton panel hanging crooked over Mama’s bedroom window. Wiping a layer of dust from the pane, I tell Mama, “Look.” The rainbow is a batch of silk scarves waving in the wind.
    At its end is the happy old woman I see every year. The one who caught me spying in the graveyard when I was a little girl. “Look, Mama,” I say again. I try to prop her up to see the traveler and her dancing scarves, but she just stares down at her hands and resists my attempts to reposition her. So I leave Mama in her bed and go out to the porch, hoping the gypsy boy will be here too.
    The woman is surrounded by children, both gypsies and locals. It’s Friday, but school was canceled today. Something was wrong with the plumbing, so the