"Don't rush," Sheila guided, her voice soft. "What happened when you did wake up?"
"I'm cold. I'm very, very cold. I think I'm outside, but there's a wall against my back. I can't move much – I don't want to move, anyway, because everything hurts, everything's cold. Somewhere in my mind I think I deserve the cold. Because they said it was a punishment, and in the dark … and after so long … it feels like it might be right. Like I'm being punished, and I deserve the pain, the cold."
"But you know you don't," Sheila said, her words soft as they float across the room to Tricia's ears and land like feathers in her brain, registering only in the vaguest sense.
"I know I don't," Tricia says, almost repeating her therapist's statement. "I don't deserve the pain, I don't deserve the cold. I didn't do anything to deserve it."
"Good. Go on, Tricia."
"Time doesn't mean anything. At some point, the man – the big man – says to the others to go inside and get something to eat. I'm hungry, too, but not as hungry as I am thirsty, and not as thirsty as I am cold. So I don't care. He says that if I'm good, he'll bring me in before the sun goes down. He's not talking to me. He's talking to them. I don't exist. I'm not a real person. They don't need to talk to me, because I'm just an object."
Tricia's brow furrowed as she remembered what came next. For the first few months, she hadn't been able to remember these things. It was only with repeated hypnosis and time – precious, precarious time – that she could recall the events as they happened, remember how she'd felt, how alone and hurt and scared. Her mind had tried to protect her for a long while. Now, though, she knew the only way out was through those memories.
"I hear them leaving. The barn door – creaks. And then – well, I think I fall asleep a little, or maybe I'm still awake but … then I hear him coming in. The big one yells. He sounds confused. He sounds angry and confused. He screams something and then – then the gunshot. It's so loud. It's like hearing the world end. I think I'm dead. I think someone shot me. I'm almost happy for it. I thought it was going to happen anyway so – so sooner the better."
"But you weren't the one who was shot," Sheila prompted when Tricia paused.
"No," Tricia said. "I'm not the one who was shot. I know it's not me when I feel his arms around me. That scares me worse than the gunshot, at first. The feeling like suddenly – I don't know. Feeling trapped in this mountain of warm muscle. But then he starts speaking, and I know him, and I know I'm safe. I feel like my heart is breaking into a million pieces. It's like – I should be so happy, I should laugh, or something. But instead I just want to … "
Tricia's voice dropped off again. Trying to put that into words – that feeling that wasn't a feeling, that sorrow that wasn't sorrow, that fear that wasn't fear – it was daunting. Perhaps impossible.
"Want to?" Sheila goaded again.
" … I want to die, again. I mean – I want to just die, there, knowing in that moment I'm safe. Because the future … .the rest of it … everything after that moment … I don't know what will happen. But in that moment I know. So I just want it to end there. I want that last little bit of … peace. I want that to be the last thing I ever have."
"And do you still feel that way, Tricia? Do you still feel afraid of the future? Do you still feel like you would have been better off dying there, then, in that moment?"
Tricia shook her head. Even in her half-trance, it was fervent.
"No," she said. "No, I'm glad. I'm glad to be alive. I'm glad to be … here. And I'm glad to be … "
Her words trailed away. A clock ticked.
"Glad to be going home?" Sheila asked.
For a long moment, Tricia didn't respond. And then she nodded.
"Yes," she said. "Glad to be going home."
2
The general population of a kumpania, the collection of families and extended families that travelled and lived together, could change from month to month. People came home – wherever home was at the time – and people left, to find their own fortunes, or simply because flying shoes fit them better. Damon Volanis' kumpania had settled in Kingdom a year ago, made it their home, and welcomed their familia to come and go as the spirit called them. This led to a level, steady, manageable population.
But on a Wednesday in early summer, with the sun bright and warm, the trailer park where the Romani lived was full to bursting, with almost everyone who'd ever been a part of the kumpania arriving by plane, train, or automobile for a very special occasion.
Baba Surry – everyone's grandmother or surrogate grandmother – was the guest of honor at the very last party she'd ever attend: her funeral.
The Romani that lived in Kingdom eschewed many old traditions. The reason they no longer bore striking resemblance to their dark-skinned, Indian ancestors was because they didn't believe in arranged marriages or in excluding gaje, non-gypsies, from the gene pool. It was preferable for a Romani to marry a Romani, but love was more important than race, and modern day had made clear the benefits of having a more grab-bag approach to DNA. They didn't make their money in sideshows, carnivals, fortune tellers, or petty scams; they owned legitimate, well-run businesses (most of the time, at least.)
But some things were too sacred to give up, no matter how ancient the ritual, how dated the practice.
The Volanis family: Kennick, Cristov, and Damon, stood in Baba Surry's trailer. Kennick, the rom baro, or "big man", leader, of the kumpania, had stood vigil the previous night with the Surry clan. Candles lighting the main room helped guide Baba Surry's spirit to the other side; white sheets and wildflowers adorned the walls to cleanse the place where she'd died. She had been the group's phuri, a sort of matriarch who acted as the feminine counterpart to the rom baro. That title would be passed down, in time, after the mourning period.
Now, the brothers watched in as the closest members of her family came to leave coins in her over-sized casket, already full to brimming with her personal belongings – anything that might be necessary in the other world, included new dresses, old photos, and jewelry. Each of her sons, daughters, nieces, and nephews bent by the casket and whispered to her, telling her their sins so that her spirit might forgive them.
Notably absent was Jenner Surry, one of Baba Surry's many grandchildren, who was the most in need of absolution from his late grandmother. He wasn't missed, either. The man had long plotted against the Volanis brothers, thinking that the Surry name should be given a place at the head of the kumpania.
The title of rom baro was, traditionally, an elected one; but the kumpania had trusted in the lead of Volanis men for so long, the election had become more of a formality than anything else. The Volanis men trained their firstborn sons to take up the helm. It was how things were. No one thought it would be better otherwise; except Jenner Surry.
He'd gone so far as to burn down one of their own trailers – whether he knew that there was a child inside when he did it was a matter of some debate. And then he'd collaborated with a vicious biker gang, the Steel Dragons, to take down the gypsy's marijuana business. It had resulted in a hell of a lot of trouble for everyone involved – and the kidnapping of Tricia Garland, who wasn't really involved at all.
Jenner had skipped town after that plan fell apart, and now even his own mother spat on the ground when his name was mentioned. The only people who wanted him were the police; there was a warrant out for his arrest, on counts of aiding and abetting, conspiracy, and arson. Even Baba Surry's spirit could not have washed his own soul clean.
Soon, the entire gypsy horde would take to the streets of Kingdom, carrying the casket to its final resting place. The trailer park was barely large enough to hold everyone. The three neat rows of trailers, set near the woods, had turned into a helter-skelter crowd of RVs, trucks, sedans and tents as relatives and kin poured in. Coffee and strong liquor passed amongst the mourners, some of whom elected to follow the tradition of not bathing or shaving during the mourning period – a tradition not well understood by the few gaje in attendance.
Kim and Ricky James stood by their men: Kennick and Cristov, respectively. Damon, standing at a slight distance, admired, not for the first time, the poetry of their differences. Kim and Ricky were sisters, but their similarities ended there. Kim was voluptuous, with light auburn hair, deep blue eyes, and freckles that dotted across her nose like constellations. Ricky's body was long and lean, and her hair was so blonde it almost looked white, while her eyes were so pale blue they could be grey at times. Her porcelain-white skin was clear, like milk.