The Watermelon Feast

"GILBERT! BETTY ANNE!"

The high-pitched call comes pealing through the window from our kitchen. My cousin Gilbert's mother and mine are canning peas together. Gilbert and I have been half-listening to them talk about gypsies as we play on the dirt driveway of our house.

We ignore the call, sprawled out in the hot sun, playing marbles. I have just won his favorite, a steelie, and he's mad because I won't give it back. He's going after the beautiful clear one of mine that is swirled with red and green. I am anxious about being called, knowing that if we have to stop playing now, he'll grab all the remaining marbles in the circle and claim them for his own, including that one.

I hear my mother say, "Yeah, I heard they're around here somewhere. Peoples' chickens are missing, clothes from the clotheslines. They even steal children. Nobody's safe with those gypsies around."

I relax for a minute, thinking our mothers will be distracted long enough by their conversation so we can finish the game.

"COME IN HERE RIGHT NOW, YOU CHILDREN!" This time it's Aunt Ruth and she means business.

"BETTY ANNE, GET IN HERE RIGHT THIS MINUTE!" My mother brooks no disobedience.

"We gotta stop," I whisper to Gilbert fiercely. "Keep the ones you won and pick yours out of the circle so we can go see what they want." He glares at me and carefully aims. He knocks my marble out of the circle and grabs it: "Mine!" he crows. My six year old heart sinks. My favorite marble.

He scrambles up and yells, "COMING, MOTHER!"

Quickly I stuff the marbles I've won and all the rest from the circle into my small leather pouch, including his. Gilbert doesn't notice as he starts for the screened door. I follow him, tossing the pouch by the bush beside the steps, and catch the door as it swings almost shut. I run inside behind him.

The kitchen is hot and steamy. Clear jars fill the kitchen table and all the counters. A box with metal rings and lids sits in a chair. My mother is at the sink running water over a huge colander of just-shelled peas, while Aunt Ruth, Gilbert's mother, stands at the stove where steam rises in clouds from a large metal pot. A small drop of perspiration sits like a diamond in the vertical groove above her upper lip. She is dark-eyed and dark-haired, and I think she is beautiful. Well, so is my mother, also dark-eyed and dark-haired. Neither one has reached her 30th birthday yet.

"Here," says my mother, handing me a dollar. "You take these," she says, handing Gilbert a cardboard carton with six empty Pepsi bottles in it. "Go to the gas station and get some cold drinks. You two can have one, too, but not until you get back home."

Gilbert nods and we run back through the kitchen door into the heat of the July afternoon, yelling like Indians.

"Don't you children dawdle," Aunt Ruth yells to our departing backs.

We are sweaty and barefoot. To get to the gas station, we have to cross the dirt road that runs by our house, cross a field, make our way through a wooded area, and go through another field to reach the gas station on the highway. It is familiar territory to Gilbert and me, a world that is ours alone. We've never seen anybody else in these places.

The field is large, overgrown with weeds and bachelor buttons that are white and blue and purple and rose-colored feathered flowers. We run in angled lines to places we've cleared or sat or laid on so often that the weeds are flat. I hold on tightly to the dollar bill.

At the first flattened spot we stop and look up. We've arrived at our cloud-watching den. Not many clouds are in the sky, so we decide to go on.

The next spot is where we bring food to eat sometimes. In the afternoon it is shaded by a scraggly tree, and we have set up a shelter made of some sticks and tree-limbs that we cover with a filthy old pillowcase that we found. We like to huddle under it when it rains or to tell stories to each other. The shelter is usually toppled flat every time we visit it. This spot is surrounded by "sour-weed", a kind of plant that makes the salivary glands spurt painfully when chewed. The tough stems are green and red-streaked. There are large grasshoppers everywhere in the sour weed. They leap wildly sometimes, whirring, and if they land on you, their feet cling tightly for a few seconds. If squashed, they ooze an ugly brown goo that smells strange.

Continuing our run through the field, we avoid a large patch of poison ivy, having learned our lesson the hard way earlier in the summer. We used it for toilet paper in a friendly communal bathroom stop. Two nights later our mothers sat us each in the bathtub as we sobbed. They poured calamine lotion on us from head to toe, mostly on our privates! I could hear Gilbert yelling all the way from their house as I bawled with pain myself.

Gilbert and I finally reach the wooded area. We call it our thicket. It is filled with old fruit trees that still bear apples, peaches, apricots, and pears. We often have stomachaches because we eat them green.

We also know where all the bird nests are. One that had blue robin eggs two days ago is now full of pink, naked and blind baby birds who sense us as we climb the tree. They eagerly peep in chorus, opening their beaks wide for food.

"They need worms," Gilbert whispers to me as we watch them with our heads together. "Wanna get some and feed 'em?"

"I don't wanna go down yet. You go get 'em," I tell him.

"Nah," he says. We watch a while longer and scramble down the tree and continue through the shady thicket.

Toward the other side of the thicket is our place of magic. A small clear stream makes its way over a bed of small rocks and pebbles. We often drink the cold water directly from it. There is one place just upstream where the water runs over large flat sheets of mica. Gilbert and I are convinced that it's silver and have collected large amounts of it that have chipped off. It is hidden in a bag under the steps of his house.

The water burbles and murmurs a small journey-song that pulls at something deep within. We stop to play a game we've created called "Where the Water Goes". We sit side by side and choose a large rock in the stream. We agree about who's going to say "Now," and at that command, we identify the water patch just above the rock and watch it move on. We excitedly talk about all the places our water-patch in the stream can go, out of Raleigh, maybe over to Cary, past other towns and pastures with goats and cattle, through the eastern swamps with their trees draped with long gray ragged sheets of Spanish moss, back out into the sun, past people and dogs and cats, maybe children who would be our friends if they knew us. We always end at Wilmington with our water reaching the ocean, which we've never seen, a vast unknown. Our parents have promised to take us to see the ocean soon and we can hardly wait. We wish we could go to the moon or travel in space, too.

We've just completed our fantasy-journey to the ocean when we hear a sound. Something close-by is whining softly.

Gilbert looks at me, startled. "What's that?"

We get up and look around. We hear it again ahead of us on the other side of the stream.

"It's a dog," I tell Gilbert, recognizing the sound.

We find him. It's a Yellow Lab. He's lying on his side under a tree panting and bleeding. His tail wags slowly as we approach, softly hitting the ground.

"Oh, look," Gilbert says with a quaver in his voice. "He's hurt real bad."

He whines again as his tail continues to wag. I can hardly bear to look at him but cannot tear my eyes away. His left front leg is broken at an impossible angle, and the left side of his face is smashed, bloody and horrible. He has whiskers above his eyes that move, cocking one way or the other. His nose is moist and strands of bloody saliva drip from his mouth to the ground.

"Come on," Gilbert says. "We've gotta get help. Maybe the man at the gas station."

I stuffed the dollar bill into my shorts so I could climb the tree and check now to make sure it's still there as Gilbert grabs the carton with the empty Pepsi bottles. We run as fast as we can along our small path out of the thicket.

We skid to a stop at the edge of the field, stunned and unbelieving. We recognize them immediately. Gypsies! Looking just like they do in books.

The field is filled with wagons and horses and trucks and people. They are dark-haired and dark-eyed. There are several striped watermelons on the ground, and a boy about our age waves to us. Several men are setting up sawhorses.

The gas station lies just beyond their camp, facing the highway.

We shyly make our way around the edge of the camp, awed and curious about these people, who keep glancing at us.

Breathlessly, we sprint toward the gas station when we have passed them and run inside, slamming the door.

I put the dollar on the counter, and Gilbert puts the carton of empties beside it.

"Refill?" says Mr. Raeford.

We both nod, shy in his presence.

"Joo see them gypsies?" Mr. Raeford says as he put a full carton of cold Pepsis on the counter and makes change.

We nod again.

"They come by here and asked real polite if they could make camp for a couple of days, so I told 'em okay, just not to make any trouble for anybody. Anything else?"

We shake our heads, and he carefully watches to make sure I get the change safely in my pocket.

We mumble our thanks and leave with the drinks.

As we approach the camp again, we are met by a gypsy man. He is tall and dark, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a red shirt that is stained with sweat under the arms. He reminds me of my uncle.

"Have you children seen my dog?" he says.

Gilbert and I start, having forgotten to tell the gas station man about the dog. The gypsy man stoops in front of us. "He's yellow and friendly with children. I haven't seen him since yesterday afternoon. I'm afraid something has happened to him."

"He's in the thicket," says Gilbert, shifting the Pepsis to his other hand. "And he's hurt real bad," he blurts miserably. "He's got blood all over him and can't move. Something bad happened to him. Can you help him? He's by the stream in there." Gilbert points to the path leading into the trees.

I remember the sound of the dog's whining and his tail that wags and start to cry.

The man says through clenched teeth, "A car," and then gestures to the boy who had waved at us earlier. He comes running in response.

"My son, Hesh," says the man. "You two children stay with him for a while. We're going to have a watermelon feast, and you're invited. I'll go find my dog."

"Take them over to the others," he tells Hesh. He quickly walks over to a wagon and enters it.

Hesh looks curiously at me and I wipe away my tears, embarrassed. He is dark-haired, and the curve of his lips reminds me of hawks that I've seen soaring in the skies. He's barefoot like Gilbert and me, and his eyes sparkle with a freedom I've never known. I feel funny looking at him.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hesh's father exit the wagon and put something up his sleeve. It looks like a knife. I feel hollow in the pit of my stomach as he heads toward the small path into the woods.

"Come on," says Hesh. "We got tubs for you, too."

"Tubs?" asks Gilbert. "What for?"

"Us children have to sit in them when we eat watermelon," Hesh answers. "We're not supposed to leave any seeds on the ground because they grow sometimes and make people mad." He throws his arms up in a gesture of perplexity.

Gilbert looks at me and we silently agree to go. Hesh has started to run toward the milling crowd of people, and the Pepsis jostle noisily as we run after him.

The sawhorses have been set about three feet apart and boards have been placed across them, making narrow tables. Three women are cutting the watermelons, and we hear a satisfying crunch as the knives part the heavy fruit. Inside, the bright ruby-red flesh is neatly pocked with small black seeds in regular patterns. I see an occasional white or transparent one.

Hesh gestures to us and we watch amazed as he removes all of his clothes except his underpants and puts them on a bare sawhorse table. He points impatiently at us and says, "Take off your clothes so you don't get them dirty."

He steps grandly into a washtub, sits, and arranges himself in a lotus-position.

Gilbert sets the Pepsis on the table and we quickly follow suit. There are about ten washtubs set out for the children, and he and I choose the tubs closest to Hesh. Soon the other tubs are filled with children who watch us curiously, whispering among themselves. I notice other empty tubs scattered around the camp.

Gilbert and I are served first by the women. Long narrow slices of cold watermelon are given to us. We have been taught to be polite, so we thank them. We are rewarded with friendly smiles and laughs. Then the other children are quickly served before the adults begin taking pieces from the tables. We are all silent as we eat. I watch Hesh and do as he does. I blow the seeds from my mouth into the tub where I sit.

The adult gypsies are talking and laughing together, clustered around the other tubs that are scattered around the camp, spitting seeds into them.

By the time we have eaten our portions, I am sticky with sweet juices that have dripped onto my legs and stomach and have run down my arms. I am also speckled with seeds. Gilbert is just sticky; there's not a seed to be seen.

Gilbert has always swallowed watermelon seeds, though my uncle and father tell him that the seeds will sprout and grow out of the top of his head if he does that. They also tell him that if his stomach hurts sometimes, it's because all those seeds are trying to grow. Gilbert and I don't believe them: we've seen them horse around enough to know they joke a lot.

Suddenly, Hesh's father appears. I did not see him emerge from the thicket. He tells us to brush off the seeds and go dunk ourselves in another tub that is filled with water. When we are dressed, Gilbert and I realize that our mothers are not going to be happy because we have taken so long. And our underpants are wet from the dunking.

"We better go," Gilbert says unnecessarily. Then to Hesh's father, "Did you help the dog? Is he all right now? Where is he?"

Hesh's father turns aside for a moment. Then he says, "Come, children, I'll walk you to the path back home." Gilbert grabs the Pepsis, and we follow him.

When we reach the path, the dark man stops and kneels before us.

"Thank you for caring about my dog. His name was Jack. I found him where you said." His face grows still, his eyes far away. Then he goes on. "He is not hurting anymore, children."

I feel very strange, as though the world has suddenly tilted for a moment.

He continues, "I buried him in the sun."

I am afraid, but not of the man before us.

The gypsy-man reaches into his pocket. "You'll find him again. Take these; they're watermelon seeds left from today. When you find his grave, plant them there. He liked watermelon, too. And oranges and apples. He was a funny dog, thought he was human." He hands Gilbert a small bag. "Go now, children. I heard someone calling beyond the woods, and I think it was for you. Don't forget us. Hesh won't forget you, I know. He is usually afraid of children like you."

We pass the grave at the edge of the thicket, not far from our eating place, and I think of Hesh being afraid. Gilbert leaves the packet of seeds under the shelter, and we continue silently toward home, taking the same steps together, left, right, left, right. We walk with our shoulders touching, so close that I can smell Gilbert's unique boy odor. The Pepsi bottles chink softly against each other, and soon we can hear our mothers calling. We walk faster.

The late afternoon sky is beginning to cloud up.

Our mothers are frightened and angry, waiting on the road beyond the field of bachelor buttons. We are hauled back home and tell them the tale of where we've been and what we've been doing. They scold us and make threats about spankings if we EVER have anything to do with gypsies again. Or if we ever take off our clothes away from home again. We are punished by being forbidden to drink any of the Pepsis that we have brought back, and we cannot leave the yard for the rest of today or tomorrow.

We are obedient children for the most part. We go outside, chastened and confused, and sit on the steps, not talking. Gilbert finally nudges me and whispers, "Look!"

I turn to him and he's looking upward.

"What?" I say.

"There he is. Don't you see him?"

Gilbert points, and I do see. There's a cloud that looks just like a dog over to the right.

And I see a hawk sailing far above in the sky.

Anne Yohn
January 2001