Darlin' Gypsy: Part 3

Jeudi1

One particular Thursday, the day of Thor–God  of Thunder and son of Odin–proved to suit its name.  The morning came with clouds and rain.  The rain came with lightening and clouds.  The lightening came with rain and thunder.  I was startled to consciousness by a sudden and especially loud clap of thunder.  I peered out my window, still half-asleep, to assure myself that nothing irregular had happened.  It hadn’t.  The wind wasn’t high, which made me happy–as I was easily scared by abnormally high wind, and despite the bad weather, which in my opinion wasn’t bad at all, I was quite pleased to be alive and awake. 2

I stumbled out of bed, rubbing the back of my head as if I had been struck in that general area, though I had not.  When the telephone rang, I took an unusually long time to answer it.  This was a care-free day for me, though I had not officially decided that.  On the fifth ring, I picked the receiver up and greeted my caller.3

“Hello,” I said with a certain curiosity.  I was not used to telephone calls that early.  After all, who is awake at 4:30?  4

“I’ve horrible news,” said a quivering voice.  “Paul has passed.  He is no longer with us.”5

“Oh God!” I replied astonished, but relatively quiet.  “How did this come about?  When is the funeral?  Oh God!”6

“The funeral is today.  I tried to phone you yesterday but that bitch operator said the line was disconnected.  I figured it was worth one more try.  I’m glad I got you.”7

“Well, how did it happen?” asked I with much angst.8

“Brother, Paul was never quite right you know.  Manic depressive, he was.  Bipolar is what the doctors call it I believe.  During a very depressive episode, he finally lost control of his own body and mind, and got terribly drunk–more so than ever.  In his reckless stumble from Thorazine, he managed to pass out on a railroad track.  Needless to day, he could not have been saved by doctors.”9

“That is terrible.  I feel undescribably horrible at this point.  But how could that be?  He didn’t seem depressed to me.  I just saw him a couple of weeks ago...on a Wednesday.  We were laughing and happy.  Especially himself.”10

“Yes.  That was a manic episode.  That is part of manic depression.  Some times you’re up, and some times down.  You just happened to catch him while he was up.  The steam engine caught him while he was down.”  There was a long pause.  I was never uncomfortable in these silences–especially when communicating with my blood relatives.  My brother was closer to me than anyone.  He was there when no one else would be.  I appreciated him.11

“The funeral is today?”12

“Yes.  Ten o’clock.” said my brother.13

“One question: what are you doing up at this hour?”14

“You know me, Brother.  Never was much for sleep.”15

“Well.  Anyway, I shall see you at ten,” I concluded as we hung up.  I sat around in my pajamas, which were actually the clothes I had worn the day before and tried to pull myself away from the television long enough to take a shower.  Paul’s story was on the news at six o’clock.  16

Once I had seen all I wanted to see, I jumped through the shower and put on my nicest, blackest clothes.  I have to admit–I looked quite stunning, though this was not the time for such matters.  I walked out the door and started for the town’s only cemetery.  17

I approached the moist, hollow ground dotted with tall, cross-shaped stones when my brother saw me and met me half-way to the gathering.  18

“How are you?” he asked.  19

“I am well.  It isn’t as if he was my mother or something.  A dear friend, but time heals I suppose.”20

“I agree.  Let us join the congregation.”  We stepped up the hill a piece to a crowd of black-clad mourners.  When I saw the box in the ground about to be covered with a mixture of red clay, mud, and loose stones, I wept momentarily, but my weeping went  unnoticed.  When the ceremonies were over, my brother and I went down the hill.  21

“I do feel terrible about this.  Perhaps, had I caught him as he was leaving my house the other week, I could have persuaded him to stay with me for a while.  I’m in need of company anyway.  Then I’d have been with him that day.  But, I suppose nothing can be done now,” I said.22

“I know what you mean.  And about your need for company–If I weren’t married with two children, you’d have a room mate.  I promise you that.”23

“Thanks, Brother.  That means a lot,” I concluded.  We never said goodbye.  When we did it was not formal.  So, I simply walked off, and he did, too.24

I spent the rest of the day as I had spent the greater part of my morning.  Listening to rain hit the roof and watching “mind-rotting” television.  I removed my zombie-like body from the couch long enough to retrieve eatable material from the refrigerator, and then I returned to the comfort of my living room.  Once unconscious upon the couch, I dreamed.  In my dreams I drank alcohol and frolicked between-sheets with a young girl.  I appeared in the streets of my town with a dark man towering over me.  The man had long, dark hair and spoke softly.  25

My eyes shot opened instantly as if out of instinct.  There standing above my exhausted body was the gypsy woman yet again.  26

“You’re sad,” she began.27

“Why do you bother me so?” I asked pleadingly.28

“I worry about you.  You wept today.  I saw you.  I was the only one.  I want to return to you,” spoke the Darlin’ Gypsy softly.29

“That cannot happen.  It must not.”30

“But it can...and it will,” she said.  I picked up the television controller and hurled it at her head.  She dodged it and turned to leave.  “It will happen,” she said as she turned to me one last time before making herself scarce.31