The Cadence of Gypsies

by Barbara Casey

  There was Larry, of course, who was more than a friend. He was the one person she shared everything with and who had been amazingly helpful in her search for the truth. But other than Larry, she didn’t have many friends, certainly not the kind she could ever confide in—at least not about this. And the tenuous connection she had felt with her adoptive parents as a child had all but dissolved once she went off to college. Now, there was only the project. The knowledge that it was a part of her sustained her. It was her mission in life, until, abruptly, one day the real world came into focus.

  Her adoptive parents had been more than generous to see that she got the best education, but now, “We have retirement to consider,” they patiently explained, “and since you are twenty-five years old with a doctorate degree…” She needed to get a job.

  Of course they were right, and Carolina immediately applied for a position with the institution where she had spent the last seven years. Because of her outstanding educational qualifications, she was hired as an assistant professor of psychology with the university, teaching many of the courses she had just completed. Three years later, she learned of a unique employment opportunity at Wood Rose located twenty miles from Chapel Hill in Raleigh, and without a moment’s hesitation she sent in her application and resume. Maybe it was because of her own background and the uncertainty of her origins that she wanted to teach at the orphanage. Or maybe, after spending so many years in Chapel Hill, she simply felt the need for a change. The only difficult part was that now she wouldn’t be able to see Larry on a daily basis. “But we can talk on the phone,” she had told him. “And we’ll have weekends.” He had said that he understood.

  Naturally she was hired. She was young, energetic, highly qualified and trained, and someone, the headmaster hoped, who would be able to handle the FIGs during their final year at Wood Rose. Certainly, no one else had been able to.

  With the time-consuming pressures of adjusting to a new job, and the FIGs in particular, and getting familiar with her different surroundings, Carolina’s personal research project got put aside, temporarily tucked away like a rare, precious treasure to be rediscovered on another day.

  And it was. It was so obvious. The FIGs were the brightest students at Wood Rose; in fact, they were in the top two percent of the entire population according to their intelligence quotient scores. Each girl had unique qualities and talents that would be perfect for what Carolina had in mind. Although the academic program at Wood Rose was excellent, these girls needed more than the education that was being offered to them, Carolina reasoned. They needed a challenge, especially now when they would soon be leaving the protective environment of Wood Rose. Carolina wanted to give them something special that they could take with them. Something that would be a source of strength to them for the rest of their lives. That was when Carolina took out her treasure and examined it to make sure she wanted to share it; and, deciding that she did, started putting together a plan.

  Considering the many implications, analyzing all of the repercussions, anticipating the negative questions she would receive and her responses, she thought she had worked out all of the details and was just about ready to make an appointment with the headmaster to discuss it. As she lay in bed thinking, the early morning light softly filtered through the newly-hung blue paisley draperies she had recently sewn and she was reminded of the Robert Browning poem she had always loved—The year’s at the spring and day’s at the morn/Morning’s at seven’/The hillsides dew-pearled/The lark’s on the wing/The snails on the thorn/God’s in his heaven/All’s right with the world. Presenting her plan would be delicate because it meant doing something totally out of the norm for Wood Rose. It meant breaking with routine, and if she had learned anything at all since arriving at Wood Rose, it was that one did not go against the fixed and steadfast regiment that had been entrenched at Wood Rose ever since it first opened its doors. But if she approached Dr. Harcourt at just the right time, and was able to get approval from the board members, and Miss Alcott, of course, perhaps…Then the phone had rung.

  “Ms. Lovel…I need to see you in my office—immediately.” The sigh had followed.

  She grabbed her appointment diary that she kept on the nightstand next to the bed, almost knocking over the small milk glass lamp in her haste, to see if she had forgotten something. It was Sunday and, therefore, no classes were scheduled. There was only the usual routine: a brisk two-mile walk with her girls at 7, followed by thirty minutes for showers and dressing, and then breakfast at 8:30. Mandatory chapel services for the student-residents would be conducted from10:00 until 11:00; faculty and staff were also encouraged to attend, but it wasn’t a requirement. Carolina chose not to. She preferred to have that time for herself and trying to come up with ways to stay at least one step ahead of her three charges. The rest of the day would be spent in the library helping the girls, not that they needed it, finish up their term paper she had assigned—writing a report on Mary Shelly’s motivation and inspiration behind her character of Frankenstein. It was an assignment the FIGs had enjoyed working on together, and they had uncovered some interesting information. When completed, their report would probably be good enough to get published in one of the literary journals. They would take a break at noon for lunch, and again at 6 o’clock for dinner. Lights were out by ten, even on the weekends.

  A superior academic program, routine, discipline, and the much-maligned code of dress—an assortment of required clothing for outer wear, under wear, and sleep wear appropriate for recreation, classrooms, and chapel which varied only slightly according to the age of the resident—created the foundation on which Wood Rose Orphanage and Academy for Young Women had been built in the capital city of North Carolina. The founding fathers in 1894 had insisted on it, and from then until now it suited those who financially supported the orphanage.

  The Methodist Church was one of the largest supporters with an annual contribution that more than adequately took care of 35 percent of the administrative costs. A representative from the Methodist Church sat on the Board of Directors along with eleven other members from the community—successful business leaders for the most part—whose combined donations totaled another 14 percent. This group of twelve, reverently referred to as the twelve disciples by those who lived and worked at Wood Rose, also organized an annual Christmas fund-raising charity ball from which all proceeds were donated to the orphanage for expenses not covered in the budget, such as landscape beautification or local field trips when deemed appropriate.

  In addition, there were several State grants earmarked for special educational programs awarded to Wood Rose each year, as well as the occasional donation from individuals who wanted to “help the poor little dears.”

  Finally, there was Miss Edna Grace Alcott, the feisty eighty-seven-year-old great niece of Horace Alcott, a tobacco farmer who had originally endowed the orphanage in the late nineteenth century. She contributed the remaining funds necessary to keep Wood Rose running successfully. In recognition of her continued philanthropy and generous spirit, the chapel had been given her family name: Alcott Chapel. A large portrait of Miss Alcott hung next to an equally large portrait of her uncle, both done in oils, in the vestibule above a Queen Ann console table. Centered on the table where it could be observed each Sunday before services was a Waterford crystal vase filled with pink roses, something Miss Alcott had requested since the pink roses complimented the pale pink color of the garment she wore in the portrait. These roses were replaced with fresh ones every Saturday morning, without fail; another request.

  Dr. Thurgood James Harcourt had served as headmaster at Wood Rose for twenty-seven years. During his tenure, enrollment had remained fairly constant, ranging between thirty-eight and forty residents, as it had since the beginning except during the height of the Depression when enrollment skyrocketed to over one hundred. For the first twelve years as headmaster, he proudly maintained the proper image of Wood Rose that was expected of an institution with affiliations to the Meth
odist Church, and even though nothing remarkable occurred during this time, nothing improper occurred either. Then the first two FIGs arrived. Adjustments had to be made; certain challenges met. The newest young residents had difficulty fitting in with the other, already-established residents; therefore, it was determined soon after their arrival that the FIGs would be happier if their rooms were located near one another in the same suite. An extra floor monitor was assigned to help watch after the high-spirited girls with exceptional minds. Then there was the ongoing challenge of developing an educational program above and beyond what was offered the other students their same age in order to meet their intellectual needs. Often this extra work created discontent among the faculty along with feelings of inadequacy.

  Negative press, which had never been a problem prior to the girls’ arrival, now seemed to be a constant threat. This could result in smaller donations which would mean the difference between either meeting budget needs or having to reduce the already limited number of faculty positions. When the third FIG arrived only a few weeks before Carolina assumed her new post, other adjustments had to be made and different challenges met causing Dr. Harcourt to question whether it was worth having three intellectually superior residents who were full of joie de vivre if they were going to cause so much unneeded upheaval and distraction—as well as the uninvited interest among members of the local and regional press. All of the effort he had expended over the years to maintain a positive, dignified image of Wood Rose with the press and the community at large now occasionally took on a carnival atmosphere.

  However, at age fifty-nine, slightly stooped, with gray thinning hair, but otherwise healthy and with no desire to retire early, he had managed to keep the reputation of Wood Rose unsullied, and he did so with firmness and decorum. No one was more dedicated or intimately involved in the detailed operations of the orphanage than Dr. Harcourt; and no one took greater interest in its success. The dark gray suites he wore, the conservative gray-striped ties which might give way to a smidgeon of maroon on special celebratory occasions, and his stern demeanor were a reflection of the rules of strict discipline and unwavering routine that had been passed down to him from previous headmasters suited his nature.

  The way Dr. Harcourt had emphasized each syllable in the word “immediately” when he called Carolina, however, and, of course, that sigh, suggested that the routine was going to be changed on this particular Sunday morning, and that “all was not right with the world,” the reason undoubtedly being that the three young women Carolina was personally responsible for, her FIGs, had once again done something unbelievably disrespectful, impertinent, unmindful of authority, border-line destructive—and utterly amazing.

  Chapter 3

  Milosh prepared the bundle, the single word gold scrawled on a sheet of paper wrapped in a square of green cloth his mother gave him and tied with a length of red wool. He rapidly repeated the words, “I have you, I hold you, I keep you,” until he grew weary. Lyuba had said he must put the bundle in a box and repeat the words for seven days. He wouldn’t wait. Instead, he shoved the bundle to the back of a drawer and went outside. It was getting dark and already the elders were sitting around the campfire. Milosh’s friends were seated there as well, only just behind the elders in the shadows, where they could listen but not be observed. He sat down next to one of the boys, pushing a younger boy out of his way. The younger boy did not challenge him.

  As usual the talk began of incidents that had occurred that day.

  “There have been many changes since the last time we passed this way.” The Bandoleer opened the conversation.

  There were murmurs of agreement. “It is no longer a small village,” one of the women said who had spent the day in Frascati.”

  “There are more people, but fewer want to buy,” said another who had also spent the day trying to sell her services, but had little to show for it.

  “We must be patient,” said the Bandoleer. “There are many who don’t know we are here yet. When they find out, they will want what we have to offer.”

  Lyuba remained silent. She hadn’t wanted to come back to Frascati—not yet. There were too many unhappy memories here. But it hadn’t been her decision to make. More often than not they were getting turned away by the settled population. There were fewer places for them to go. Estrangement was causing distrust, and distrust fear of the travelers. “They are from the lost continent of Atlantis,” some of the settlers said. “They are the last of the priestly caste of the old Egyptian religion, forced out by the New Order,” said others. There had even been an archaeological study done linking the DNA between present-day European gypsies to the ancient tribes from India. The settled people didn’t understand what the gypsies knew: That there have always been the travelers since the beginning of time, and there would be travelers until the end of time, no matter what the gorgia believed.

  Lyuba had been especially watchful since their arrival, anxious that she might be punished for her actions of so long ago. It was the one time she used the dark magic. Even now, after more than twenty-five years, she didn’t regret it. She reached into the fold of her skirt and felt the small stone worn smooth by the river. It had a tiny, natural hole in it; it was her lucky charm. That morning while she had been digging roots, she had made a small offering—a hair pin—in the nearby stream before returning to camp. She asked for the blessing of good fortune in this place that caused her so much pain.

  * * *

  “It sure didn’t take long for him to notice.” Jennifer flipped off the hair dryer, quickly brushed her long blond hair, still slightly damp, and pulled it back into a ponytail. Dara and Mackenzie were already dressed in their uniforms appropriate for Sunday services—dark blue skirts, yellow blouses, black pumps and blue tights—and were sitting on Jennifer’s bed. “What do you think he’ll do?” She walked toward the door as she tied a dark blue ribbon around the rubber band holding her hair in place. The other two followed.

  “Not much,” said Dara. “What can he do? We will be out of here in a few weeks.”

  “He might decide not to let us graduate,” said Mackenzie.

  Dara raised her eyebrows. “Not likely. Do you really think Thurgood wants us around any longer than necessary?”

  The three girls skipped down the flight of stairs and hurried out of the building. It was just a few minutes past 7 that morning when Mrs. Ball, Dr. Harcourt’s administrative assistant, had called to tell them the headmaster wanted to see them. They had showered and dressed in record time. No need to make him wait any longer than necessary. Outside they crossed the lawn, ignoring the “Do Not Walk on Grass” sign, and paused briefly in front of their artistic creation from the night before, silently paying homage except for Mackenzie who giggled, before entering the administrative building. Mrs. Ball was waiting for them when they got to her office located just outside the headmaster’s. As before on similar occasions, she offered nothing either verbally or physically that would reveal what they were in for.

  “You girls may be seated. Dr. Harcourt will be with you momentarily.”

  The three girls sat in the same chairs they had sat in the previous times they had gotten called to the headmaster’s office. Dara sat closest to the wall, both feet firmly planted on the floor, knees together, looking straight ahead. Mackenzie sat next to Dara, pulling at her skirt as she crossed her legs. And Jennifer, turning at an angle toward Mackenzie and Dara, moved her chair ever so slightly, scraping the floor when she did. Mackenzie fluffed her short brown hair and giggled, and then coughed in an attempt to cover up the act of slight injudiciousness. Dara simply continued to stare straight ahead. Mrs. Ball frowned at all three of them and then continued sorting through the paperwork on her desk.

  “She has the hots for Thurgood,” Dara whispered to the other two.

  Once again there was the scrapping of the chair and a spasm of coughing until, under the pointed glare of Mrs. Ball, all became quiet.

  * * *

  Carolina
quickly showered and dressed. As a member of the faculty, she lived within the stone walls, on the orphanage property, in her own one-bedroom bungalow, something for which she gave thanks every day. Before coming to Wood Rose she had lived near the university campus in an efficiency apartment with shared walls, shared noises, and shared smells. Now she only had her own walls, her own noises, and her own smells which was a combination of fresh citrus and herbs, and whatever was in bloom which she had brought indoors. She loved her little house—having her space—and the privacy and independence it afforded even if it was a bit like living in a fish bowl. After all, the distance between the dormitory and the bungalows wasn’t that much. On more than one occasion since her arrival to Wood Rose she had sensed that she was being spied on, and even thought she saw binoculars poking out of a second-floor dormitory window—where the upper-class residents, ages 15 through 18, lived—aimed in her direction.

  Still. She took special pride in her bungalow, lovingly and with a great deal of thought decorating each of the small rooms—Italian provincial, and happy colors of blue and yellow with splashes of burnt orange. The bungalow had come sparsely furnished, but Carolina, using the sewing machine borrowed from Dr. Dolores Smythe, expert in international affairs, geography, and politics, in no time or effort at all had worked wonders with slip covers and cushions, a few throw rugs and, most recently, draperies for her bedroom.