Second Glance: A Novel Read online

  She holds her smile in place. "They know I'm interested in their lives. People who look like me usually aren't. And that's exactly why they talk."

  At one shanty, we stop, and Abigail raps on the support pole in lieu of a proper knocker. "Jeanne is expecting us," she says, and sure enough, the flap that serves as a door lifts open. A small woman not much older than Abigail hesitantly waves us inside, inviting us to sit down at a table that has been cleared.

  The small home is a single room. A bucket near the door is filled with fresh water, and a stack of dirty plates and cups sits precariously balanced on the counter. But there is a sense that the place has been tidied for us, and that is the first note Abigail writes on her pad. "Jeanne," she says, offering a smile that does not reach her eyes. "I'm so happy to meet you. This is Mrs. Pike."

  Jeanne's eyes don't rise above my abdomen. "Your first?"

  "Yes."

  "I have a child, too," Jeanne says intensely. "A boy."

  "Yes," Abigail replies. "Your Aunt Louisa told me quite a lot about Norman."

  "Oho," Jeanne answers, bobbing her head. "He was her favorite. She used to take him out when she went looking for plants in the woods--juniper and black spruce and bloodroot." Over Abigail's shoulder I see the words she is writing on her pad. Bobbed hair--skirt fastened with safety pins. Stockings are rolled below the knee. Seems distracted.

  "Jeanne's son is in the Brandon School for the Feebleminded," Abigail explains to me. "Louisa said you received a letter from him, Jeanne."

  This, at least, seems to brighten her up. As she hurries off to find it for us, Abigail leans closer. "The state was instrumental in having the boy taken away. When the social workers came, they found him sitting here, eating raw meat. Raw meat!"

  A moment later Jeanne returns, proudly holding up the letter. "How old is Norman now?" Abigail asks.

  "He'll be ten this October."

  "Why don't you read me what he wrote?"

  Jeanne falters, but only for a moment. She begins to stumble through the boy's convoluted handwriting, correcting herself as she goes along. Illiterate, Abigail writes. Mother and son. To Jeanne, she says, "Well, he sounds like quite the scholar!"

  Jeanne's eyes soften, thinking she has found a friend in Abigail. "Missus Alcott, you work for the state . . . can you ask them when Norman will be brought back home?"

  Suddenly I see why this woman has been so anxious to invite a stranger into her home. She wants to get as much information out of Abigail as Abigail is trying to get out of her. "If you'll excuse me," I say, "I'm just going to get some air."

  I walk along, letting my boots sink into the soft mud. Boys play a game with a ball made of rags, the right angles of their bony arms rising against the blue of the sky as they reach for a neat catch. If I am to help Abigail, I should be asking questions. I should be learning as much about this family as I can.

  An old woman sits with a pipe in her mouth at the entrance to a tent, her hands flying over a stack of reeds that begin to take the shape of a long-necked basket. I start to approach her with a smile on my face, only to have her raise her head. Although she doesn't speak or move a muscle, the look in her eyes is enough to make me change direction. Instead, I head toward a man who stands with his back to me, fishing. He casts and reels in with timing and grace, as if he is part of an elaborate dance. He wears trousers held up with suspenders, and his black hair reaches halfway down his back, making me sorry to have cut my own short in a fashionable bob.

  Show interest in what they are doing; this was Abigail's first rule. "Hello." I walk all the way down to the water, and still he does not turn around. "I see you're fishing."

  Brilliant, Lia, I think. And will you next tell him he's a Gypsy?

  He turns around and unhooks a foot-long fish from a green-and-black plug. I realize this is the man I saw watching me at the Independence Day celebration. His eyes widen, and move over my face as if he has never seen someone like me before. Maybe he hasn't. Maybe Gypsies mingle with us as infrequently as we mingle with them.

  Uncomfortable, I look down into the basket at his feet. It is full of writhing fish: smallmouth bass, which I recognize, and large needle-nosed speckled ones that I don't. "Hello," I say again, determined to put him at ease. "I'm Cissy Pike." I hold out my hand.

  For a long moment he stares at it. Then he grabs on as if he were drowning. "N'wibgwigid Molsem," he murmurs.

  Illiterate, that's what Abigail would write down. It strikes me, however, that it is not what I would write. "My name is Gray Wolf," he translates.

  "You speak English!"

  "Better than you speak Alnobak," he says.

  He has not released my hand. Gently I pull away, clear my throat, and strike up a polite conversation. "Do you live here?"

  "I live all over."

  "Surely you have a house?"

  "I have a tent." His eyes hold mine, just like they did in the Hall of Mirrors. "I don't need much."

  Whatever civil discourse I have planned flies from my head. "I saw you," I hear myself say. "On the Fourth of July. You were following me."

  "And today?" he asks. "Are you following me?"

  "Oh, no. I didn't even know you were . . . that is, I came with Abigail Alcott."

  At that, his face falls. He starts packing up his fishing gear, his back to me. "Then have you come to take away more of our boys to the industrial school? Or tell us we're going to hell because we pray in a different church? Or maybe to find out who got drunk in town and passed out on Church Street?"

  His comments leave me speechless. I have spent my life hearing of Gypsies, but they are names on pedigree charts, not men who catch fish and whose skin is as warm as mine. "You don't even know me."

  A shadow crosses over his face. "You're right," he admits. "I don't."

  "Maybe I'm not just like Abigail."

  We stand a foot apart. "And maybe I'm not just some Gypsy," he answers.

  Words have built a wall between us, and I can think of no easy way to bring it down other than to remove it, brick by brick. So I point to the water. "What do you call that?"

  "A lake."

  "No," I repeat. "I mean, what do you call it?"

  He looks at me carefully. "Pitawbagw."

  "Pitawbagw." I point to the sun. "And this?"

  "Kisos." Bending down, I pick up a handful of dirt. "Ki," Gray Wolf holds out his hand to help me to my feet. He gently touches his hand to my stomach. "Chijis. Baby."

  "Mrs. Pike!"

  From a distance up on the shore I hear Abigail calling for me. "Sounds like your ride is leaving," Gray Wolf says.

  "Yes . . ." I shield my eyes from the sun, try to find Abigail, but can't.

  "Better go. You wouldn't want to be stuck here overnight."

  "No," I admit, and then realize what I've said. Cheeks reddening, I meet his gaze. "How do you say 'I'll return?'"

  It is a challenge, and he accepts it. "N'pedgiji."

  "Well, then. N'pegdiji."

  He bursts into laughter. "You just told me you'll fart."

  If possible, I blush even harder. "Thank you for the language lesson, Mr. Wolf."

  "Wli nanawalmezi, Lia."

  "What does that mean?"

  He smiles slowly. "Take good care of yourself."

  I hurry up the hill as best I can, lumbering under the weight of my baby. Chijis. On the drive home, I listen to Abigail tell me stories of second cousins who killed others in bar fights, of a rampant outbreak of venereal disease among a strain of Delacours. "Did you learn anything?" she asks finally, when she has run out of things to say.

  How to speak their language. And maybe, how to listen. "Nothing you'd consider important," I reply, and am silent for the rest of the ride home.

  John Delacour, aka Gray Wolf, is of particular notoriety even for this clan. He has a history of heavy drinking, sex offense, nomadism, and criminality, and has been known to change his name several times. He was arrested in 1913 for hitting a man over the head with a bric