PROMISES
He was a pig of a boy until that rainy night. His mouth was filled with filthy words more often than food. He was careless with people as well as things, seeming to enjoy angering, disappointing and shocking those around him; especially his mom but she just kept trying to love him. That dreadful boy’s name was Denny Michler. Ugh. The name, even now, makes me wince like a mouth full of sour pickles.
Betsy Michler was a sweet, gentle woman worn down by a child she didn’t deserve and a hard life she’d not earned. The father ran away with a woman living an easier life. That weak excuse for a man simply left Betsy with the messes he made—including Denny. She never complained; just kept trying, with a tired smile and sad eyes. When Denny got out of hand, she’d huff, looking to the skies promising that rug rat she’d put him on the next gypsy wagon rolling through town. He usually laughed at her and kept it up. But don’t think for a minute she was a doormat. She punished Denny plenty. Afterward his promises flowed like water from a fountain that he’d change. He never bothered to keep his promises—until that night.
He’d been awful: cursing and swinging. He broke the one special thing Betsy owned: a ceramic angel. It had been her Nanny’s and was one of the few things that made her smile. Well, Denny didn’t feel like doing homework so he smashed that angel to make his point.
Betsy just stood there with her mouth gaping. Deep down, he knew he’d crossed the line but it simply wasn’t in Denny to say sorry. She left him standing there, gently closing the door as she disappeared into her room. Too crushed to cry, she hit her knees while the night sobbed with her and the thunder shared her anger. She said it:
“I wish that gypsy wagon WOULD come”. With that, she jammied up and went to bed, dreaming of her broken angels.
Denny swept up: a first. He pouted in his mom’s chair staring at the empty place on the shelf, waiting for her to come out but she didn’t. He thought he heard crying but this time it didn’t make him feel strong. After about an hour with eyes burning, he drifted off.
The scratching was soft at first. Denny stirred, searching the dark; nothing but rain and thunder. He shook his head.
“Shifting the rocks in there, Boy?” The voice was gravelly and deep.
“Who?”
“Get up.” The tone was flat; dead.
“Where are you?” the boy’s trembling voice tickled the air.
Lightening streaked through the sky showing Denny his company. The man was cleaning his nails with a blade. His hair was long and soaked. His pitted face held wild,deep eyes. The man looked dirty, strong and mean. Denny swallowed hard.
“Let’s go.” He flicked the blade toward the door.
“No way, Man.”
“I’m Sir to you and you’ve no choice.” The man got up revealing a thick frame.
“My mom—“the boy started defiantly.
“—sent me. You’ve earned this.” He grinned making Denny shudder all the way to his soul.
There was another scratch as the front door opened to reveal a hunched woman. She coughed so hard Denny thought she’d thrown up. “Let’s move.” She cracked. The tall man stepped forward herding the boy from his house.
Outside was a large wooden cart piled with stinky, dirty laundry. It whined and moaned as children his age in ratty clothes pushed it. A handful of angry adults barked at them for encouragement. Hollow indifferent eyes looked through the new comer as Denny was tucked between a couple of rickety boys at the back of the wagon.
“Step up. Get busy.” Someone from the dark snapped.
Denny didn’t know what to do. He was shocked that the gypsies had finally come for him. His chest felt heavy. From the window he saw his mother wipe her eyes, reaching out to touch the glass.
“I’ll change. I promise” he cried fearfully.
“No talking!” was shouted. The children around him winced and began to push.
On through the stormy night they trudged. Denny slipped in muck. His shoulders and legs burned. The flesh on his childish hands shredded in blisters. Wood splintered, stabbing his skin and biting under his nails while he tried to hang on. He heard moaning assuming it was his own or from those around him until a stinky blanket in the wagon shifted. Two tired eyes peered out. Denny lowered his head to see in a game of slow motion peek-a-boo.
“Mia” came the whisper
“Denny” he mumbled. The smudged bundle smiled. There were only three darkened teeth left in the small mouth.
“You bad?”She asked.
“The worst.” He confessed to the girl.
“Me too. Miss home.” Mia choked.
A stiff bullwhip snapped near Denny’s spine to remind him this was NOT social hour. Mia shrunk away, disappearing in the smelly cloth. Denny stared after her realizing there were bodies in the cart; children. Time crawled. Denny kept on pushing. Every once in a while they’d stop. The pushers rested and ate while the riders that were able got out. They carried clothes, wander off and after a while floated back beginning the process again.
Hours melted into days he thought. He knew it never stopped storming. It was always dark, wet, and raw. Fighting mental numbness, he thought of his mom—of good things she’d tried to d. He regretted his cruelty. Denny tapped the side of the wagon to stir Mia when he wanted company during those lonely hours.
Mia would pop up, her dying eyes staring. Once she was daring enough to show him a crinkled photo of her family. She was the only one not smiling.
“Nice. “He whispered. Mia nodded. The whip cracked and Mia retreated into her cave. She stayed quiet after that.
At one soggy stop “Sir” pulled Denny from his seat in the mud, away from the thick soupy goo served as a meal. Whacking Denny on the back, the hulking man pointed for him to follow the riders. Denny slumped into line behind them as they trudged into the night.
“Stop.” Came the command.
The young ghosts waited silently.
“Dig”
Dropping to their knees, they began to move Earth. When their nails were torn and their bones were about to break, a wad of cloth was tossed into the pit they’d made. Then just as quickly, the riders began to bury it. As the dirt began to claim the bundle, he saw the tiny face-Mia. Tears sprung from his tired eyes. An exasperated moan dribbled from his dry frowning mouth quickly swallowed by the storm. He wretched.
“Move” Sir barked.
Denny tried to hug the little grave.
MOVE!” the man bellowed
Denny slowly got to his feet, dragging his body back to the cart. He drove his forearm across his nose to stifle his sobs when he caught a glimpse of Mia’s picture laying aside the wheel. With a burst of defiant energy, he grabbed it. Slipping and sliding across the swampy ground on his knees, he reached the small mound. It only took a few armfuls of mud to reach her.
“Wait Mia!” he cried, his aching bloody hands clutched the dirty burial shroud. He unfolded his friend’s arms, placing the picture in her lifeless hands. “Now you can be with them. I promise.”
His hair was yanked.
“No!” He was scolded like a dog, dredged through the dark, soupy muck, back to the wagon. With a flip of Sir’s wrist Denny was dropped, his head striking the wheel. Sparks flashed and pain seared behind his eyes.
“Another rider” were the last words he heard.
“I’m dying” Denny thought and fell into a soundless void.
An eternity snuck up on him. He rolled his eyes in closed lids so no one would make him get out and walk. Hearing nothing, he cracked them slightly. Light made him squint. He bolted up and smiled. He was home. He glanced at his hands – red but not shredded. He laughed as the sun peeped above purplish rain clouds shining through the living room window. Birds chirped. A door clicked and Betsy sauntered out with sleepy hair and wrinkled pajamas. The boy rushed her throwing his arms around her. She stood stunned, unable to respond.
“ I’ll change. Be better. This time I promise.” He shook her by the shoulders with every syllable and then kissed her cheek hard. He dashed to his room getting ready for school. Betsy’s son raced to the table, eating enough breakfast for an army. After putting his dishes in the washer, thanking Betsy, he kissed her again bolting down the walk toward school. Betsy stared after the new boy rushing around. She felt compelled to call out “Be Good!”
“I will.” He returned with a wave. “I PROMISE!” he added cheerfully. When he got to my house two doors down, he saw wheel tracks and a small mound. He picked up his pace flipping me a startled look. You’d have thought I was the Devil Himself.
Puzzled, I wiped my hands on my work pants, plopped the shovel back in the wheelbarrow and headed around the corner to finish my planting.
As you know, I have always said I'd throw my kids on the gypsy wagon if it came to town. I simply played on that statement a little. Creepy even for me. Boogity boogity. Hope you liked it. It gave me chills to sit here and type so late at night....I'm such a boob.
