Rosie said: If you don’t go find him, I will.
They argued about Rosie wandering around at night by herself. Rosie started fighting for us to just go home already. Mama didn’t want to walk the roads by herself. She was still scared of this country, had been since the day she got here. Found the most terrifying man in town to marry, that couldn’t have helped much either.
Mama finally gave in to Rosie, and agreed we should try to find him. I remember this sigh of her shoulder, and then Jeanie nearly rolled off her lap.
She wasn’t pretty anymore then, Mama. Her hair was thin. She pulled clumps of it out, and so did he, when he was mad. She still had the knockout hips though. I walked behind her as we went to find him and I remember those hips, because I have those hips too. A little girl with her arms around her mama, her face sunk in her hips.
Rosie had known where he was all night. Mama did, too. Those two had just been playing a game with each other for hours. Because back behind the big top was an open field lit up with lanterns and white candles, and filled with people dancing in a frenzy. There was a small stage in the middle of it, packed with men playing all kinds of instruments, accordians, fiddles, guitars, a washboard and spoons. A man sang in a deep growl, French, now I know, but I didn’t then. There was a sign at the front of the stage, the Cajun Dancers is what they were called.
The audience was so caught up in the moment, moving faster and faster, laughing and grinning, they were almost hysterical. I could feel the heat coming off their bodies, and then I was nearly hysterical too. The lust of those people is a lust that I hold in my heart. They were gorgeous and free.
Mama put Jeanie down next to me, and we held hands, and then we looked at each other. While Rosie and Mama scanned the crowd, we began to dance our own dance. We were never going to sit still, Jeanie and me. Not like good girls did. I twirled her around until she fell, dizzy, and then I fell, too. The grass tickled the backs of my legs.
I looked up and there was Rosie, pulling away from Mama, and working her way through the crowd. She had found Papa. He looked happy, is what I remember thinking. His eyes were closed, bliss, and his face was relaxed, the lines erased for the moment. He embraced a young, plump, black-haired woman in a long green gown. The dress rose and crashed while they danced. I don’t know if he knew the woman or not, if she was the reason why he was so content, or if it was just the dancing. Maybe he just loved the freedom. More than once I have wondered if it would have been easier to forgive him for all that he did if he had just up and left our home, rather than stayed put and laid his cruelty upon us.
I said: I remember you grabbing his arm, and I remember you pointing to us. You shamed him. You were so bold.
Papa bowed to the woman he had been dancing with, and then walked with Rosie back through the crowd, which somehow managed to keep moving and part for them at the same time. Or at least that’s how I remember it: Everything faded into the background except for Rosie and Papa.
I said: It was a long ride home.
Rosie said: I felt like I aged ten years in that time.
I said: She tucked us in so quietly that night. She kissed every part of our face.
Rosie said: I didn’t get to go to sleep. He took me out back.
I said: I know.
Rosie said: Until I passed out from the pain.
I said: Oh, Rosie.
Rosie said: Was I wrong that day? Did I deserve it?
She was too drunk. She sounded confused.
I said: You were right, and he was wrong.
Rosie said: I’m sorry I left you there.
I said: We didn’t blame you for leaving us. I didn’t, anyway. Jeanie didn’t even know what was happening.
Rosie said: And I came back for you didn’t I?
I said: You did.
Rosie said: I was always trying to do the right thing by us even if she wouldn’t.
I said: You did.
She said: I take care of you, right?
I said: Rosie, we love you. You know we love you.
Rosie said: I’m not bad, am I?
I said: You’re not. You’re a good girl.
We drank until we slept. Rosie more than me. When I woke, there was Jeanie, sleeping between us. I don’t know if she heard us. I wouldn’t want her to hear it. I wouldn’t want her to remember any of it.
Mazie’s Diary, March 1, 1917
The sun was rising when I took off my shoes this morning. Rosie stood at the door and stared me down. I turned my back on her and wrapped the covers around me, put my head on the pillow, and prayed for peace. God heard me.
I don’t know much about praying. It feels like you could be trading on one thing for another, and maybe the thing you’re trading isn’t really yours in the first place.
Rosie just crawled into bed with me. No yelling. We started whispering to each other.
We curled our hands together. They were cold like always. I remember when Jeanie and I were little we used to crawl into bed with her and Louis and rub her blue-tinted fingers and toes, breathing on them with our hot breath. All I wanted was to be warm and close like that forever.
She said: What if you get a baby in there?
She rubbed my stomach. When she touched it I felt ill. The last thing I wanted was a baby to lug around all day. And I’d never fit into my pretty dresses again.
She said: Then no respectable man will ever want to marry you.
I didn’t want nothing to do with marriage with a respectable man or any other kind of man. Not once in my life did I ever dream of my wedding day, no white dresses, no goddamn diamond rings. I only ever dreamed of freedom. The love I have is with the streets of this city.
Mazie’s Diary, March 20, 1917
Oh, Rosie. My poor, dear Rosie.
This morning she took us girls to a dusty little gypsy parlor on Essex, empty except for a few plants and a folding table and chairs and a vase with a peacock feather in it. I didn’t want to be there, and neither did Jeanie. Golly, Jeanie’s so pretty now, skinny and pretty, with her pale skin and puffy lips and moony eyes. I swear she floats when she walks. Still she had a sour face, just like I did. After being sweet for so long, turns out she’s a Phillips girl, after all.
The gypsy pushed aside some curtains and came in from the back room. She was wearing a chain of thick gold coins around her neck, and the coins clinked together as she moved. Dark hair, dark skin, her skirts flowing around her. Some people find that glamorous. To me it’s just another gypsy, but Rosie has always had a thing for them.
At first she acted like we weren’t there. We could have been ghosts. She lit some incense on the table in front of us, watered some plants in the front window. Then I noticed the plants were dead, gray leaves, stems tipped over. I felt like I was nowhere all of a sudden.
The gypsy sat down at the table with us, told us her name was Gabriela. She smiled at Rosie, and Rosie smiled at her. There was a love there. She looked into my eyes and held them there. The long stare. Searching for something, but I didn’t give her a damn thing. Then she looked at Jeanie’s eyes, and then back into Rosie’s eyes. We were just sitting there waiting, all of us. All right already, is what I was thinking. We get it. You know how to hold a room.
She told us we were there for our sister, like I needed to be reminded Rosie existed. How can I forget?
She didn’t have an accent, like other Roma I’d met. She had thick eyebrows, and they made her look serious. She could have been old, she could have been young, I couldn’t tell.
She said: I needed to meet you in order to help your sister. You are all in the same home. You are living one life together. You are family. You are sisters. You are connected in this life, and the last one, and the next one, too.