The Cadence of Gypsies

by Barbara Casey

  And outside, on the little plot of land which her house squatted, she added to the boxwood hedges and single camellia bush already planted those things she knew would thrive in the Piedmont soil of North Carolina: daffodil bulbs, azaleas, and forsythia bushes in anticipation of spring; hydrangeas and pyracantha with its red berries for the hot summers and autumn. It was her own touch, and it gave her bungalow a slightly different appearance from the others; better attended.

  Landscaping was something the previous tenant had neglected either out of laziness or because his interests took him elsewhere. She guessed the latter since she had been quietly informed by one of her colleagues, Dr. Frank Sturdavant, professor of math, calculus, and statistics, that the man had been released from all duties a short two months after he had been hired. Apparently his lifestyle was in direct opposition to the morals and teachings Wood Rose was trying to instill in its all-female students. This last bit of information had been revealed through a twitching lip and one profound snort.

  Carolina owned a white Honda Civic, but she rarely drove her car unless it was to go into town to shop for incidentals like fabrics for sewing, or a few groceries for those times when she needed a break from cafeteria food, or if she felt the need to explore somewhere beyond the walls, in which case she usually took the FIGs with her. Everything that was both necessary and important in her life existed within the walls of Wood Rose. Her project, of course, was a different matter; its boundaries were still undefined.

  The administrative building was an unadorned three-story stone behemoth centered on sixty heavily-wooded acres of donated land. Radiating from the administrative building in a semi-circle, much like the ribs of a fan, were two, two-story buildings, also built of stone. One contained the classrooms accommodating grades one through twelve. The other was the dormitory where thirty-eight orphans lived, ranging in age from 5 to 18. Each floor was divided into several spacious multi-roomed suites, the residents assigned according to class: elementary, grades one through six; middle, grades seven through nine; and high, grades ten through twelve. Located in perfect juxtaposition between these two buildings and completing the semi-circle, were three, single-story stone buildings that housed the library, the cafeteria, and the infirmary.

  Beyond the stone buildings, located on the perimeter of the property were various maintenance buildings. And scattered amidst the bucolic, pine-wooded landscape were the individual bungalows where the full-time faculty lived, one of the contractual requirements that went with teaching at Wood Rose. Faculty members had to live on the orphanage property in the housing provided. All staff, however, lived off the orphanage property except for the dorm mother, Ms. Larkins, and Mrs. Ball. She had moved into her bungalow only a few years earlier, shortly after her husband died, with the full approval of Dr. Harcourt, the board of directors, and Miss Alcott.

  There were ten bungalows in all, each constructed in white clapboard with gray slate roofs, with a comfortable layout that gave the on-campus residents the option of cooking in their own kitchens or eating in the cafeteria. Dr. Harcourt and his wife lived in the largest bungalow, of course, which had two bedrooms. Other faculty members with spouses also lived in two-bedroom bungalows, although theirs didn’t have as much square footage as the headmaster’s or as much landscaping. The single faculty members and Mrs. Ball were given the smallest of the bungalows that had one bedroom. And Ms. Larkins, a single woman, had a private suite in the dormitory building.

  “Did you see it?” Elizabeth Humphry, professor of English literature, Romance languages, and art history, practically knocked Carolina down rushing out of her single-bedroom bungalow to meet Carolina as she passed.

  “See what?”

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened to the extent that they emerged above the round, black-framed glasses she wore to correct a bad case of stigmatism and near-sightedness. Shaking her head in disbelief, she hurried back into the safe environment of her bungalow, closing the door with exaggerated determination.

  What could they possibly have done now? Even though Dr. Harcourt hadn’t revealed his reason for summoning Carolina, it never even occurred to her that it was anything but something her girls had done. Last month, they had wrapped Dr. Harcourt’s pristine office in aluminum foil. Everything—pens, sheets of paper, curtains, desk, rugs, telephone, computer—was covered in silver. Even the paperclips piled in the black-veined onyx bowl, a gift from another graduating class, were each individually wrapped. Nothing had escaped.

  Punishment had been light, considering it was their latest “creative expression” as it was referred to around campus, in a long line of inappropriate, disruptive behavior they had subjected Dr. Harcourt to over the years, probably because he realized they would be graduating soon, leaving Wood Rose, and he wouldn’t have to be concerned with them any longer. They were ordered to unwrap everything and then confined to their dorm rooms for two weeks other than going to the cafeteria for meals, or the chapel for Sunday services, which was pretty much their usual routine anyway.

  The month before that, it had been the discovery of unauthorized reading material—or, more explicitly, magazines revealing male nudes—in the FIGs’ rooms. Contraband of this nature was totally unacceptable, stringently opposed to the morals and teachings at Wood Rose, and an extreme violation of the rules. For that, they had been assigned kitchen duty for two weeks—washing dishes and cleaning up the dining room after each meal. The symbolism in this punishment had not gone unnoticed by the FIGs or Carolina.

  There had been many other expressions of creativity over the years at the place where the FIGs called home, deeds that had been dutifully recorded in the historical archives at Wood Rose; but lately these expressions seemed to have taken on what most of the faculty and staff considered a more menacing tone of a sexual nature.

  Carolina hurried along the brick pathway, bordered by late-blooming tulips and early-blooming peonies, that snaked between the library and infirmary toward the administration building. Up ahead she saw several other faculty members, the early-morning walkers and joggers, standing in a group whispering among themselves. They were all facing in the same direction and appeared to be staring at something. Carolina felt her heart quicken. It was the end of April and already the temperatures had reached summer temperatures. Even so, Carolina felt a chill. This was not good. She took a deep breath trying to prepare herself and get control of her emotions.

  As she approached the others, someone noticed her and, like in the biblical story of Moses parting the Red Sea, everyone silently stood aside making room for her to pass. There, in front of the administrative building, or to be more precise, in front of Dr. Harcourt’s large, multi-paned window overlooking the grounds, the dormitory and classroom buildings, the library, the cafeteria, and infirmary, the bungalows, and the maintenance buildings beyond, the headmaster’s prize red-tip bush, his Photinia frasen that stood over 14 feet high and had a circumference of 32 feet wide; the bush that he had personally fertilized and watered, treated for a rare mold disease, nursed back to health from an equally rare fungus, and hand-trimmed weekly since first planting it when he was named headmaster at Wood Rose, was now pruned to a magnificent, perfectly shaped, 14-foot-tall phallic symbol. A few of the red tips had been left at the top, delicately snipped to create the appearance of a slight red blush.

  Carolina’s first reaction was to laugh. After all, it really was quite amazing. Just the idea of the difficulty in accomplishing such a feat was something to admire. How on earth had they been able to trim the top like that? How did they even get up there? But she soon came to her senses; after all, she was being observed by her peers. She had already been introduced to the hidden jealousies, petty competitions, and downright mean-spirited actions of some of the faculty; she couldn’t be too careful on how she conducted herself. She hadn’t been at Wood Rose as long as the other faculty members, and she could very easily find herself dismissed just as Dr. Frank Sturdavant, professor of math, calculus, and statistics, had been fo
r inappropriate behavior. She still might be dismissed if Dr. Harcourt held her responsible for this latest violation against him personally, and Wood Rose in general. And just when she had wanted to discuss her plan with him. There was no doubt as to who had committed the sacrilege, and the timing of the thing couldn’t have been worse.

  Not wanting to make matters any more difficult by delaying the inevitable, she made her way unhindered through the heavy double-wooden doors leading to the headmaster’s office.

  The FIGs were already there, neatly dressed in their uniforms, seated in the three chairs lined up against the far wall, just as they had been arranged at previous times. Each of the chairs was touching the other, as though linking them would give the girls additional strength. Only Jennifer’s chair was slightly off kilter, not quite in line, but touching nonetheless. Like before, Dr. Harcourt would deal with them after he had dealt with Carolina.

  They each looked up expectantly at Carolina when she entered the office. She winked. Then she turned her attention toward the sweet scent of lavender and quick, capable movements of Mrs. Lilian Ball who was transferring some papers from a desk drawer to the file drawer behind her desk. With the last paper properly filed away, Mrs. Ball turned and noticed Carolina and, without saying anything, critically assessed the jogging shorts, t-shirt, and tennis shoes she was wearing. Carolina had brushed her dark, shoulder-length hair after dressing and twisted it up off her neck with a clip, something she usually did whenever she was in a hurry. The look on Mrs. Ball’s face made her wish she had done more. Mrs. Ball pursed her lips. “Dr. Harcourt is expecting you. You may go in.”

  Carolina had been trying to get into Mrs. Ball’s good graces ever since arriving at Wood Rose. For some reason, she just couldn’t seem to get it right around that woman. Mrs. Ball had been a fixture at Wood Rose even before Dr. Harcourt had been named headmaster. She knew all of its secrets, but Carolina was willing to bet she would never reveal them. Carolina was also willing to bet that if Mrs. Ball didn’t like a member of the faculty, Dr. Harcourt didn’t either. Carolina’s attempt at a confident smile fell a little short, and she entered the headmaster’s office that smelled heavily of wood wax and Mrs. Ball. She heard Mrs. Ball close the door firmly behind her.

  Mahogany-paneled, thickly-carpeted, and enveloped in dark green fabric, the headmaster’s office always made Carolina feel like she should whisper, or maybe bow her head. She wasn’t even Catholic, yet she felt the overpowering need to cross herself and kiss her thumb as she had seen others of the Catholic faith do. Perhaps even genuflect. He remained seated behind his desk and didn’t expend any energy on small talk.

  “I have been more than patient with those girls,” Dr. Harcourt said turning his back to Carolina in order to face the book-lined wall behind his massive desk. “I have tried to take into consideration the fact that they are…different, exceptional.” This time he spoke toward the sofa that was covered in heavy dark green brocade. “I had even convinced myself—obviously a serious lack in judgment on my part—that by making them your responsibility, these acts of abomination would cease.” He shuffled a stack of papers and slammed them down on his desk. “But this is unforgivable!” This was aimed directly at Carolina causing her to flinch. She decided to take the sympathy route.

  “Believe me, I understand. I am just so sorry.”

  He wasn’t finished. “I have never seen such a demonstration of insubordination.” His breathing was rapid and his face—a rosy flush not unlike the top of the Photinia frasen, Carolina couldn’t fail to notice. She tried another tactic.

  “I believe I have read somewhere that it is healthy for large, older bushes to be pruned occasionally. It encourages new growth and keeps them healthy.” She smiled weakly.

  “Pruned?!” He stood up and flailed his arms toward the dark green brocade draperies that flanked the large window now flooded with morning light since the 32-foot girth of leaves and limbs was no longer there to provide protection in the form of shade. “They might as well have dug it up! Burned it! Chopped it down! What were they thinking?” He sat back down, defeated.

  This was getting nowhere. Carolina made a quick decision. She would explain her proposal now and just hope that he would agree. At least it would get the FIGs out of his hair, what little there was of it, for a few weeks. Without waiting to be asked, she eased herself down on the edge of the straight-back chair facing Dr. Harcourt’s desk, knowing if she didn’t she would probably collapse.

  “I think I have a solution. It is educational, it will give Wood Rose a certain amount of international prestige, it might qualify Wood Rose for additional State grants, and it will keep them away from you for the remainder of the term until graduation.” When Dr. Harcourt didn’t say anything, Carolina continued. After the first ten minutes and still no response from Dr. Harcourt, she wondered if he was even listening. When she finally finished presenting her case, he stood, leaned forward, and said two words: “Do it!”

  Chapter 4

  The FIGs were the latest in a long line of residents to achieve the enviable status of graduating seniors at Wood Rose, something that would be accomplished on the first Sunday of June, a little less than six weeks away. Excluding the faculty, Ms. Larkins, and Mrs. Ball, and, of course, the headmaster, they were among the oldest residents living on campus; and although there were seven other girls who would also graduate in June, without question the FIGs were the brightest and most promising of any students Carolina had worked with as a teacher. Carolina felt blessed. She knew she had been given an opportunity that few teachers would ever get. It was also a tremendous responsibility.

  There were three of them: Dara, Mackenzie, and Jennifer. Dara and Mackenzie had been living at Wood Rose since childhood. Jennifer arrived when she was 16 years old, shortly after both of her parents had been killed in an automobile accident. She had been at Wood Rose for not quite a year, perhaps considered a short time for some, but not for most who called Wood Rose home due to circumstances over which they had no control, and certainly not for Jennifer.

  Shortly after Carolina’s arrival, it was determined that because of Jennifer’s exceptional musical and artistic talents, she also should be included in Carolina’s small class with Dara and Mackenzie. This decision was reached with full approval and much relief of all the Wood Rose faculty. Each of the girls had an extremely high intelligence quotient, which had been a little daunting to Carolina when she was first given the assignment of looking after them only days after arriving on campus. “They seem to listen to you, Ms. Lovel,” Dr. Harcourt had explained. “For whatever reason, you are able to inspire them where some of the other faculty members have failed. Therefore, I am putting you in charge of these girls. I trust you will not fail them—or Wood Rose.” From that time on, Carolina had defined which academic areas she wanted each girl to focus on, playing on their natural abilities and talents; she arranged their recreational activities, which she involved herself in as well; she made sure that they were eating properly and getting a good night’s sleep; and, in short, she became a big sister to them. Much to the horror of the other faculty members at Wood Rose, she asked them to call her “Carolina.”

  Carolina understood what Dr. Harcourt was saying. She didn’t have the IQ of a genius, but she definitely felt a strong bond with these particular girls. She wasn’t that much older than they were for one thing, an advantage she had over the other faculty. And within a relatively short time after taking on the responsibility of teaching them and being their mentor at Wood Rose, she knew she had gained their respect and, perhaps, affection.

  Part of the reason, Carolina felt, was because she understood what it was like to be different. She also had been brought up by people who were not blood relatives. Growing up, she was given love and comfort and discipline—all of the usual things children need and crave in order to grow into healthy and productive human beings. Yet, from the beginning, she knew—or felt—something wasn’t quite as it should be. Maybe it was the formal way
in which she was treated by the man and woman she called her parents; or maybe it was because there was never any laughter in the place she called home.

  It was the summer she turned eighteen that she learned the truth, or at least some of it. She had been taken from her biological parents just before her fourth birthday and put in a foster home. A short time later, she was adopted by the Bransons. Her biological parents traveled a great deal, she had been told, and were unable to take care of her. She remembered nothing, but suspected there was more to the story. Either no one knew, or they just didn’t want to tell her.

  Carolina appreciated the things her adoptive parents had done for her and the obvious sacrifices they had made on her behalf, but she never felt the bond she imagined children should have with their parents. Now with the knowledge that they weren’t her real parents, what substance there had been in their relationship as parent and child now became more strained. The distance that had always existed between them became greater.

  That summer before she was to start college, her adoptive parents gave her a sealed wooden box to open. Inside were her birth certificate and some other documents, and a black and white photograph of a man and a woman. There was also a small drawstring pouch—a gypsy parik-til or blessing holder she later learned—that contained dried herbs, a small stone, a feather, and a folded piece of paper. Carolina also learned that a savings account with fifty thousand dollars had been set up in her name at the time of her birth. Giving her this information at this time was in accordance to the agreement reached between the adoption agency and Carolina’s birth parents.

  Carolina didn’t do anything with the box and the things in it for the longest time, simply wanting to touch it, hold it close, and take comfort in the fact that she now possessed actual proof of her birth and her real parents’ existence, and that they loved her enough to want to provide for her.