Burning (9 page)

And as I sat staring at that final card, that bloody, betrayed heart, I found myself questioning everything. Could it be true—might there be magic in this world, in this tent, in this girl across from me? Because it seemed that she knew things about me—about my life, my fears, my desires—that no one else should know. And I made a decision then, as I looked back and forth between the Lovers and the Three of Swords.

It didn’t matter what I had thought before about fate, about God, about magic. Lala White had appeared in the desert for a reason. She was meant for me.

No matter what the cost.

It seemed to me that Ben Stanley did not want to leave the tent after his reading was complete. I gathered up the cards, tapping them into a neat stack and then sliding them into their small velvet bag. I cinched the cord tight and tied a knot. The table was cleared; the cards were put away; our time together was over.

Yet still he sat across from me, his blue-gray eyes stormy with some emotion, one I could clearly read yet hesitated to put into words, even in my own mind.

The other two—Pete and Hog Boy—slid back their chairs and rose, but they did not leave the tent. It was as if they were unsure what moves to make without first watching to see what Ben would do.

I saw this too among my own people, this looking to a leader to determine which course of action to take. In my family, and in my
kumpànya
as well, it was to my father, Mickey White, that people turned for guidance. My father was the
rom barò
of our
kumpànya
. Probably to the
gazhè
he would seem something of a king, but actually
his was an elected position, decided upon by a council of elders.

And they did not choose him blindly, just as these boys in my tent did not look to Ben Stanley for leadership without good cause. A
rom barò
—literally, a “big man”—is chosen for a combination of qualities: He should be wise and experienced, and, of course, clever as well. My father was all of these things, and my people listened gladly to his counsel.

Hog Boy and Pete had chosen well to follow Ben Stanley, I thought. After all, which of the three of them had earned a way out of their failing town, which of these three had an open door in front of him? He was too young still to be considered truly wise, and I gauged by the way he looked at me—desire tinged with flustered embarrassment—that his experience, at least with girls, was not wide. But he seemed clever, and something else—perhaps something I would consider more important than any of these three qualities, though my father Mickey White would disagree, I knew—Ben Stanley was kind.

I knew this was the truth because of the way he tolerated his obnoxious friend. I could read his kindness in his dismay over leaving his family. His kindness infused his desire to be good, good enough for everybody.

Romeo Nicholas would never be
rom barò
. He had some qualities, too, that might recommend him for leadership … but he did not have the makings of a wise man, not even if he was blessed with a hundred years to add to his eighteen. Wisdom, as they say, was not in the cards for Romeo Nicholas.

And yet soon I would be expected to follow him. He
would be my husband, and I would be his wife. He would lead me first to the wedding bed, and when I rose from it after the consummation of our marriage, I would be bound to follow him.

And because I was the daughter of Mickey White, it was that much more necessary that my purity be unquestioned. Never before had that felt like a burden to me; I had been in no hurry to touch a boy before I laid my eyes on Ben Stanley, nor in a hurry to be touched by one. The sounds of lovemaking I could hear coming from Violeta and Marko’s room seemed to me like something from another language, one I did not speak, one I was in no rush to learn.

But Ben Stanley’s appearance in my tent—his gray-blue eyes, his muscular, golden thighs, his gaze upon my face, mingled lust and confusion—these had started a reaction inside me, and the fire I felt raged brighter and hotter with each second we sat across from each other.

More deeply than I ever had before, I understood the meaning of my people’s word
marimè
. Not just dirty, but spiritually unclean—tainted.

I wanted now for the boys to leave. Yet still Ben sat in his chair, as if he waited for something more to happen.

At last I rose. “I wish you luck, Ben Stanley, and safe travels.”

His brow furrowed. This was not what he wanted—a dismissal. He stood, though. “Thank you,” he said. He seemed to consider his next move, and then he motioned with his chin to his friends. They seemed to understand his meaning, for they left the tent.

I heard Hog Boy clearly as he said to Pete, “Ben’s gonna try to score with the Gypsy chick!” Apparently he suffered under the misconception that canvas acted as a sound barrier.

Ben managed to ignore his friend’s comment. He took two steps toward me, around the table. Up close like this it was clear how much taller he was; I am not a big person, just a few inches more than five feet, and standing so close to me Ben looked almost larger than life, filling the tent with his presence.

I heard my sister behind the screen, shifting her weight and clearing her throat. My sister could be silent, when she wanted to be. Clearly, now she wanted me to hear her. I understood her meaning: Get rid of the
gazhò
.

“Lala,” Ben said, and his voice seemed to ache with some of the same fire I felt inside of me. “Thank you for the reading—”

He was about to say more, and it did not take magic fortune-telling skills to see where he was heading. But I intercepted him, cutting him off. “Do not thank me,” I said. “Thank your friends, who brought you here.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Them. I’ll thank them later. But first—I wanted to ask you—is there any way I could see you again? Maybe we could go out … maybe I could drive you into Reno to see a movie, or get a cup of coffee?”

There were of course things I wanted from life. I wanted someday to hold a baby in my arms, to press him to my breast and smell the particular scent that marks a woman’s baby as
her own
, and no one else’s.

I wanted to see my little sister grow into a woman.

I wanted to read all the books in the world, tasting them one at a time like fine chocolates.

I wanted to make my parents proud.

There were other things I wanted, too, though I kept these hidden from my family and turned my own mind away from them as well, as best I could. These desires did not matter—they could never be acted upon.

But never once in all my years had I wanted to date a
gazhò
.

Why would I? They are not like us; they do not understand the bonds that tie my people together, unseen but potent bonds of tradition, story, and shared suffering. They do not know our hearts; I had always believed that they
could not
know our hearts, even if we tried to share them.

I had watched their movies, their silly romantic comedies in which each heroine found as if by magic the one true love that was out there, as if created especially just for her, as she struggled and suffered and ultimately triumphed, as their faces came together in a perfect kiss, his hand tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck, her eyes closing, her face tilting, trusting, up to his.

And I had always known that it was not for me. That life was not my life. I was the daughter of the
rom barò
. I was the intended bride of Romeo Nicholas, son of Harold Nicholas, younger brother to Marko Nicholas.

I was marked, and not for this.

So why did it feel like something inside me was breaking as I arranged my face into a cold mask, as I told Ben Stanley
with my eyes, with the thrust of my chin and the set of my shoulders, that what he wanted would never be?

“I do not like movies,” I lied smoothly. “And I do not drink coffee.”

His smile slowly slipped away as my refusal sank in. It occurred to me that Ben Stanley was not used to hearing “no” from girls.

“Oh,” he said. “I see.”

“Good luck on your journey,” I said again.

I thought that he might try again. But though he looked deeply into my eyes, so intimately that I felt my cheeks flush, he finally nodded and turned away.

I paid for my refusal, though Ben Stanley did not see the cost of it on my face. As always my features were smooth, unreadable. My job was twofold: to read every secret on the faces of my clients, and to hide all of mine deep within.

I knew everything about Ben Stanley. I knew about his guilt. I had seen his fear and confusion about his brother. I saw how he felt about his father—ashamed, angry, and yet at the same time full of love. I saw how he treated his friends, and how highly he valued those friendships. I felt that I knew him down to the roots of his soul, though we had spent less than thirty minutes inside my tent. If I knew him another thirty years, I doubted that he could surprise me. Yet still it pained me to watch him walk away, to see him duck his head through the canvas slit as he went back into the heat of the desert.

I forced myself to stand very, very still, and I practiced the same measured breaths that I had observed Ben taking.
I let my gaze soften and stared at nothing in particular. I heard the dual slams of truck doors closing; then I heard Pete’s engine hiccup to a start, and then I heard them driving away from me. All of this took eight even breaths. By the eleventh I could no longer hear the rumble of the truck. They were gone.

“That was a lovely reading you gave,” said Violeta. She stood now, from her place behind the screen, wincing a little as she shifted her weight to her feet, her hand massaging her lower back. “No wonder your bride price is so high. You truly are magic, my little sister.”

I forced myself to smile and kept my voice light. “The
gazhò
made it easy,” I said. “He showed so much.”

Of course Violeta was not fooled by my tone. She too was an expert in reading signs. Even heavy with pregnancy she moved gracefully as she halved the distance between us. “You liked the
gazhò
.”

She knew, yet still I lied. “Don’t be silly,” I said. “I hardly noticed him.”

“Ha!” she laughed. “Like a mare in heat, you were.”

Now I felt the anger rising in me and I welcomed it. Somewhere else to channel the fire Ben’s presence had awakened inside of me. “You know nothing,” I said, stepping toward her. “You are a fool.”

Violeta’s laugh was like bells. Despite my venom she was nothing but amused. “I know what I am,” she answered. “And I know the smell of desire. You burn for that boy. I can see it plain as day, though you would hide it from me.”

It was the way she said it—“
You burn for that boy
”—that
caused me to drop my guard. It was exactly right. Perfectly true. I did burn for him.

She saw the change on my face and she smiled, triumphant. “I knew it.”

“How could you tell? Do you think he saw it, too?”

Violeta was dismissive. “No, of course not. You think a
gazhikanò
boy could know your secrets, unless you told them to him? But I know, because I have felt the same fire.”

“Do you mean … you’ve felt an attraction to a
gazhò
?”

Her nose wrinkled with distaste. “Of course not, don’t be ridiculous. My Marko is the only man who has moved me in that way.”

She saw the disappointment on my face, for she rushed on. “You were right to stop the
gazhikanò
boy. It would maybe have been better if you had suggested he come back for another reading … perhaps with more money.…” But then Violeta shook her head. “No. I can see that would not have worked for you. The pull you feel to him, it is too strong. Better, then, not to see him again.” She embraced me, the hard mound of her belly between us. “Do not worry, sister,” she soothed. “Soon enough, Romeo will tend to your fire.”

A shiver went through me, despite the heat, and I felt cold inside.

The evenings in the desert cooled nicely, so we spent them out-of-doors. In our family the division of labor was clear—the women cooked, cleaned, and looked after the children. The men did not.

I imagine for girls not raised among our people, this might be a source of frustration, this inequity of labor. For
me, it had never been an issue. It simply was the way things were. Is there reason to be frustrated because the sky is blue instead of green?

Perhaps it was the heat in the desert that made me irritated on this night. Perhaps it was that I had been reading many books lately, exploring worlds other than my own. Perhaps it was that my thoughts turned to the face of Ben Stanley, a place where they should not go.

My mother was giving Stefan a bath in the inflatable baby pool. He laughed and splashed, rolling onto his stomach and kicking to show off what a good swimmer he had become.

“Oh, my, what a strong man you are!” my mother crooned at him. Violeta stood nearby, watching our little brother with new eyes. All her life she had helped to care for children. Although I was just eighteen months younger than Violeta and she had never assisted in bathing or feeding me, both she and I had tended to the needs of Alek, Anelie, and Stefan. And at times Violeta had complained something fierce about our chores.