“You are guitar good,” Arturo urged, “and eef I know anything, eet ees guitars.”
“Well, li’l darlin’,” Johnson drawled, swiping the back of his hand across buttered-smeared lips. “What d’ya say? I can have Gideon get the ball rolling.”
“I – uhh – ,” she stalled, “ – I dunna have a way to get to Austin.”
Duke shocked her. “I will get her there. Just let me know when.”
Later, after Johnson and his retinue had departed, she sat on the kitchen stoop and, hands clasping her knees, stared up at the white-hot stars that rivaled candles for romantic display. She should be elated. She had the opportunity to earn extra money. She would be once again in a stimulating environment, as she had once been when roaming with her Gypsy clan through Europe’s capitals.
And Duke had volunteered to help her achieve all this.
Except she had the distinct impression he was making a determined effort to unload her. And once out from under the protective roof of the Jewish Relief Program, she was game for all sorts of predators, including Johnson. That was her preoccupation.
But, too, there was the niggling feeling, that she was not yet ready to be quit of Duke McClellan.
§ § §
At the telephone’s ringing, Romy left off beating the cake batter – it was Bud’s birthday. The kid from New York’s Hell’s Kitchen had never had a birthday cake.
Odd, she knew the ranch hands birthdays now but not Duke’s. She could ask him, of course, but the less she got in his way, the better.
Wiping her hands on a chuck wagon’s grease-stained apron she had scrounged up, she crossed to the far wall to stretch high on tiptoe and pick up the telephone receiver.
“Romy – Mamie here,” the exchange switchboard operator said, “putting through a call for you, hon.”
Several clicks followed, and then, “Romy, Moe. Saw the Austin Statesman – the photo of you with McClellan and Johnson at the Sagebrush and Sidewinders.”
What now?
“Hook me up with Johnson, Romy.”
“Congressman Johnson? I canna do that.”
“Find a way. I want a cushy government position, you understand.”
“I dunna know the Congressman well enough to do what ye’re asking.”
“Then, know him well enough, if you get my meaning.”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. “That . . . could take time.”
“Are you kidding me? We’re talking about Lyndon Baines Johnson, who will fuck anything in a skirt.”
“Moe, this is a party line, for Saint’s sakes!”
“Well, any eavesdroppers offended by my remarks are welcome to hang up now.”
No ensuing clicks. With that, her tone burnt with helplessness. “The Congressman is in Washington.”
“He’ll be back. Everyone between Texas and Kingdom Come knows that family ranch of his means more to him almost than the crown jewel he has his eyes set on – the presidency.”
“And after this, Moe? What next will ye blackmail me with?”
“’Yours is not to question why – yours is but to do or die.’ Well, maybe not you, Romy, but your brother.”
There it was again, the persecution. Did it never end for the poor and the different?
§ § §
“ . . . NEWS AS IT OCCURS, WE SWITCH YOU NOW TO EDWARD R. MURROW IN OUR CBS EUROPEAN NEWS LONDON OFFICE, REPORTING NOW VIA SHORT WAVE RADIO.”
“IT’S EVENING HERE AND IN BERLIN, WHERE CHANCELLOR HITLER HAS ANNOUNCED GERMANY HAS OCCUPIED BOHEMIA, MORAVIA, AND CZECHOSLO . . . “
Duke yanked the radio’s knob to a lower drone and stalked toward the kitchen, only to step on a dog bone and go skidding. A quick snag at the doorframe kept his ass upright.
At the counter, Romy spun, “What – ” A grin broke out on her face, which infuriated him even further.
“Damn’t, Romy, are you deaf or something?” He snatched up the dog bone and flourished it at her. “And are you as wild as a barnyard animal?” Hearing his hurtful words, he cringed. Was he becoming as mean as his old man had been at the last?
Still, there was something of an animal in her, an animal magnetism. Hell, the vexing vixen was three sheets to the wind crazy, but still he had to be crazy the way he let her get to him.
Her chin shot up. “Acting the maggot, are ye?” She turned back to the cake she was icing. It looked pathetically like a collapsed pumpkin, three days after Halloween. “Well, bugger, ye should know Gypsy souls have wild hearts.”
“Look, can we get this birthday blow-out over quickly.” He must have been loony to let her persuade him to buy birthday candles. Hell, he couldn’t remember his family being able to afford a cake for birthdays. They had never been celebrated. “The hands should be stringing in shortly, but they’ve got their duties to finish, so let’s keep this short and swe – ”
“Tis a whackin’ we gave the birthday boy,” Jock said, tromping through the kitchen back door, “and he’s walkin’ a wee bit whopper-jawed.” He looked from Duke to Romy, and his gray swatches of brows pumped alert.
So, the Scotsman, too, sensed that insistent thrum of energy in the air. Behind him, one by one, filed the ranch hands, the last, Bud, looking sheepish.
“Heard you captured a snake under the sofa with a pillow case,” Glen told Romy.
“Aye, but t’was only a garden snake,” she said, giving Duke a protracted stare, as if he were one.
She shifted her focus to the kid. “Tis your birthday, Bud, and ye have to make a wish. Duke could ye light the three candles, please?”
Repressing his irritation, he dug a matchbook from his back pocket and flipped his thumbnail against the matchhead. She cosseted the kid far too much. At the moment, her small breasts beneath her clinging muslin blouse was the object of Bud’s attention.
And his own.
Behind him, from the parlor’s radio, Kate Smith was belting out “God Bless America’, and all he could think was that right now, here at this saccharine celebration, was the last place he preferred to be. Although, after all those years spent in foreign ports, there was no way he was ever going to leave Texas soil again.
Bud removed his cap and closed his eyes. “I wish . . . I wish to play at Wimbledon, one day.”
“Oh, no,” Romy cried, “ye can never tell yuir wish aloud, or it won’t come true.”
As if anyone sane believed in wishes and fairy tales.
The kid looked lightning struck.
“Nay, but nary ye worry yuirself, Bud. We Gypsies can reverse that curse.” She snapped her fingers several times like castanets and said, “Ádh mór!”
“What ees that?” Arturo asked. “That add more?”
“Gaelic, Arturo, for summoning Irish good luck. Now blow out yuir candles, Bud.”
As the candles poofed out with blown smoke, a burst of uncontainable energy sparked the air. The rest of Duke’s ranch hands applauded and stomped and whistled.
But Duke’s gut knotted. That cold, cynical part of him wanted to sneer. Yet somewhere, deep in that closed off part of him, a counterintuitive part had to acknowledge that most people, himself among them – and forget luck – would willingly settled for contentment.
Still, a few demented spirits went for the gusto – for a happiness that walked the edge of exhilaration and the depths of a despair, the edge that was living life to its fullest.
And this Gypsy spirit he was saddled with seemed to be one of those blessedly cursed.
§ CHAPTER THIRTEEN §
To Romy, the position of ranch cook seemed an easy enough gig to swing. She had cooked for Old Duke most of her life, since she was seven and could stand on a step stool and scorch the food for lack of concentration.
But young Duke was something else.
Not to mention, the kitchen vegetable garden the gig now included. She had not realized Texas’s NYA cook position would also require filling the roles of seamstress, washwoman, and gardener.
Well, she had bartered with Duke
for the additional tasks, but those reading and writing lessons were getting fewer and further between. And she was reluctant to bring them up. It made sense – not to push the issue, or Duke might just well balk and ship her out. Johnson and men like him he did not fear.
But surely he feared something. After all he was mere mortal man.
That frosty February morning, dressed in a thick, faded green cable knit sweater some kind-hearted soul had donated, she harvested onions, radishes, potatoes and several carrots, most so severely stunted that only a farm animal would deign eat them. Which suited her fine. The stunted carrots were a welcome excuse to visit her horse friends.
Other friends – or one of the two a semi-friend, Sally – awaited her within the warm barn. Romy had the feeling that Sally resented her, living in such close quarters with Duke, as she did.
Arturo spotted Romy and called heartily, “Ven y mira! Cactus Jane, soon she ees ready to foal.” He was showing Sally the pregnant mare, whose belly and udder were quite broad.
“Duke is over at the south pasture,” Romy told the horseman.
“Oh, I was just checking on Cactus Jane,” Sally said, smiling, and returned her attention to the stall.
Romy stepped up to the its gate and, standing next to Sally, peered between the slats. “Cactus Jane’s been restless,” she said. “Lying down for longer periods, and her udder has begun to drip. T’will not be long now. A day or so, at the most.”
Sally looked askance at her. “You know horses?”
“Ye might say that,” she said, passing a runty carrot between the slats for Cactus Jane to nibble.”
Sally’s deeply etched lips pursed. Then she suggested, “I can offer Duke the services of my veterinarian.”
“Oh,” Romy ventured, “I think Cactus Jane will figure out on her own what she be needing to do.”
Sally nodded, feminine pique clearly warring with grudging respect. “I hear tell you will be performing at Dessau Hall.”
“Aye.” So, word was already out. Had Arturo – or Duke – told Sally?
Gideon’s call had come a couple of days before, at dinnertime; and, taking the call, Romy had turned her back on Duke and the ranch hands. But they had been watching and trying to listen in as Gideon launched into the details.
“The only drawback,” he had told her, “is that that the venue is this next Wednesday afternoon, when few people frequent the hall.”
“And payment?”
“Drinks on the house are served in lieu of payment. Now it is up to you to make sure McClellan gets you there – and on time.”
Sally swung from the stall gate to face Romy. “You realize you should appear for your performance garbed suitably.”
Romy envisioned the cardboard crate containing the meager – and much of it shoddy – donated clothing, and her consternation must have shown on her face, because Sally said indifferently, “Well, I just happen to have charro regalia leftover from my childhood rodeo days that may fit you.”
“Tis still not sure I am that I want to do this.” She felt as if she were jumping from the frying pan into the fire. She should refuse. But would alienating Johnson make matters worse? Besides, maybe getting out of the ranch house would open the pressure lid vent a wee bit for both her and Duke.
“But truly,” Sally continued, unfazed, “I cannot make a silk purse out of a sow – ”
“ – of sauerkraut,” she finished with an arch smile that matched Sally’s.
The horsewoman stiffened straighter than a fence post, then she broke out laughing. “I like you, Romy Sonnenschein.”
After Arturo sallied off to his duties, the horsewoman accompanied her back to the ranch house. These days, Sally seemed less forceful, her voice less strident.
“You know,” she said, linking her arm with Romy’s, “I must confess I feel right badly about my behavior. It’s occurred to me I’ve acted like a horse’s ass. And I see clearly that Duke and I are as mismatched as a mustang with a thoroughbred, but, still, it sticks in my craw, acknowledging it. And when I realized that your presence forced Duke to realize it, as well, I was bitter”
“Me presence? What did me presence have to do with the relationship between you two?”
“Oh, my dear,” she said patting her wrist, “your presence has influenced everyone here.”
And Duke would most likely attest that for the worse, Romy thought despondently.
§ § §
As he drove north toward Austin’s outskirts of Dessau, Duke’s gaze continually swept Highway 20 through the cracked windshield for deer. Normally, they bedded down during the hottest time of day, but it was not unusual for one to bound from the scrub across a highway at any time.
Course, long as he kept his eyes peeled on the hilly highway, that meant he kept them off Romy, scooched against the pickup’s passenger door. She blistered the eyeballs, gussied up as she was in Sally’s Mexican frillery – a flounced red and silver dress, cut low to flaunt small but very feminine mounds.
Oddly, it was the traditional sombrero, with its chin strap and concealing brim, studded with silver braid and conchos, that kept yanking his burning gaze back to her face – to the slope of her nose and the generous sweep of her lower, childlike full lip.
“Ye understand, Duke, that this act pays nothing – and costs ye time and petrol.”
What he understood was that he had to get shunt of her before she wrecked all his plans. Grand ones and small ones. On the small scale of plans, he should be balancing on a twenty-five-foot high windmill platform at that moment, replacing a defective blade.
But here he was playing chauffeur . . . while his body clamored to shove up that sequin-and-lace skirt. God almighty, when he could be covering any number of females who better fit his plans . . . and here he was in midwinter burning up with a fever.
Day and night. And the nights were worse. He was losing precious sleep.
He switched off the heater. “What I understand is that you are not what I agreed with Rabbi Hickman for – when I signed on for a cook.”
“So, tis back to that? The hands seem to like me cooking now.”
He shot her a quick glance. “You know it’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
February, and perspiration dampened the back of his neck. Who would have thought? He rolled down the window a couple of cranks. “Look, you’re a Gypsy. You’ve been around the block.”
“What? Around the block?”
Damn’t! He realized just how little the two of them had in common. “You haven’t led a sheltered life, right?” He glanced over at her to see how she was taking this.
A drollness took control of her mobile mouth. “Ye might say that.”
“Then, it’s got to be as plain as the nose on your face if you stay on at the S&S, we’ll end up in bed together.” There. He had got it out in the open, what bedeviled him.
She tilted her head toward him, eying him from beneath the brim of her hat, and her single pearl earring swung out to glint challengingly. “And that is a problem?”
“You’re goldurned tootin’ it is, ‘cause I am not marrying you.”
Once more, she was looking straight ahead, and that elfish smile graced her profile. “I am not asking ye to.”
He swiped at the sweat rolling down his nape. “Just as long as you got it in your thick skull that come October your term of service with S&S is over, and it’s back to your Gypsy life and all the bull shit you dole out.”
“Aye,” she said airily.
Giving up easily wasn’t in his soul. And didn’t seem to be in hers, either. Still, he would yet be shed of her. “Speaking of the Gypsy life, this gig is right up your alley. Wow the audience, and you are on the road to adventure.”
Her lips lost their usual crimp. “Tis not adventure I want. I have had meself plenty of that, thank ye now.”
The chilling wind whisking through the pickup window’s slot was doing little to alleviate his sweating discomfort. “Well, what in the
hell do you want?”
When she did not reply immediately, he took his eyes off the highway briefly. A wistful smile played upon her lips.
At last, she murmured. “Trees. Grass. Plenty of green grass, mind ye. Water. Clean water. Flowing water. Safety – ye know, security, so ye sleep easy enough. Chil – ” She broke off with a gulp.
Gypsies were known for their dramatic skills at duping their marks, and, God Awmighty, if she did not almost persuade him she was earnest. “Score big at Dessau, and you’re on your way to making all that happen.”
She may have been willing to settle for security, but he had to give it to her – she sure as hell didn’t settle for mediocrity that afternoon in Dessau Hall.
The beer garden was all decked out with velvet wallpaper and crystal chandeliers. Unlike saloons such as Stonewall’s Sawdust, German beer gardens were convivial places that opened their doors only at scheduled times or for familial events like summer concerts. The Germans, not the Mexicans, had been Texas’s predominant population in the prior century.
Granted only a handful of patrons, mostly older folks, had turned out that blustery February afternoon, but they were riveted from her first, “Guten tag,” as she settled atop the stage stool and adjusted her spread of ruffled skirts. Sally’s ruffled skirts, maybe, but he doubted they had ever looked so good on Sally.
At the welcoming applause, Romy gave that goofy grin, which slid away into the solemnness of concentration while she propped Arturo’s guitar upon her lap and tuned the strings.
Duke snagged a table at some distance from the stage and ordered a beer to wet his whistle.
Amazingly, she did not appear nervous. Head cocked to the right in that quaint way she had, she riffed through the strings, then eased softly into a flamenco rendition of what he identified as Malagueña.
When she accompanied her playing with singing, in Spanish, his jaw dropped. He had no idea she had such a rich voice. Her fingers danced over the strings impossibly fast. Hell, he couldn’t even think that fast.
Interspersing the melody with rhythmic flourishes, she suddenly switched to the German lyrics, and the spectators clapped enthusiastically along with her accelerating pace and the staccato thumping of her palm on the guitar. After she finished the piece, they were on their feet.
GYPSIES, TRAMPS, AND THIEVES Page 16
