Jimmy Boy jerked the pickup sharply off State Highway 90 onto a side road. Other than a white sign with black letters that warned this was private property, there wasn’t any indication where the road might lead. The truck sped along smooth macadam that was maintained better than any laid by St. Tammany Parish. The narrow lane disappeared into dense woods, but the hot sun beat down on the truck again as soon as we crossed through the line of trees into a section of cleared land.
From the front, the Village looked like any other trailer park around this part of Louisiana. A little nicer, maybe, since the doublewides were all in pristine condition, but there wasn’t much to make it stand out from the crowd unless you were really looking. Statues of the Madonna, Jesus, or one of the saints guarded each front yard without exception. The statues varied in size and number, but each one was painted in colors bright enough to make a Mardi Gras float look tasteful.
Every driveway was home to at least one car, usually more, and they were all as bright and new as the statues. A few looked more expensive than the trailers themselves. The wheezing engine under Jimmy Boy’s hood seemed even older and louder in such company, and I mentally rehearsed the speech I’d make to Maggie about why she had to let us buy a new truck this fall.
I squinted against the dusty air that blew through the open window. The Village was alive with activity—not typical on such a hot day when most would rather stay inside and enjoy the bought air. Today, though, the women were going through their return-from-the-road routine, which went far beyond unpacking a few suitcases. They congregated in small groups, updating one another on their family’s latest purchases or comparing the gifts their husbands had bought them while they were away. They chitted like birds over gold and diamond jewelry in voices so loud I could hear them over the noise of the truck. I could almost see them making mental calculations to determine whose husband spent more.
Their younger daughters, dressed like miniature versions of themselves in sequins and beads, hovered outside these little klatches, mothering similarly dressed dolls. The older girls, those closer to their teens, attempted to join the conversations now and then but more often quietly observed in an effort to learn the role they’d be expected to play in a year or two. A few boys who were still young enough to hang around with the ladies chased each other with thumbs and forefingers stretched out, shouting “bang!” at one another and irritating the girls who were unlucky enough to be in the way of their game.
This time of year, the Village would normally only be home to the elderly and a handful of women whose husbands had died or been incarcerated, but the wedding of Pop Sheedy’s daughter had brought nearly everyone back from their summer travels to the north and west. Once word had spread about the newly arranged marriage, the men had left their work on the road and brought their wives and children home a full two months before the end of the season. Most hadn’t arrived until late the night before, but Jimmy Boy and I had been back for a few weeks since neither of us were comfortable leaving Maggie on her own for long stretches.
“Think those boys need any help?” I asked as Jimmy Boy snaked the truck around the large pavilion that marked the center of the Village. A group of men dressed in dirt-smudged jeans and plaid button-up shirts rolled large aluminum kegs into the pavilion. Another set of men lifted the kegs into tubs of ice.
Jimmy Boy slowed but didn’t stop. “Nah. Looks like Scrud Daly’s got it under control. Knowing him, he’s probably gone ahead and made those kegs a little lighter anyhow.”
I chuckled. “Yeah. Besides, Bridget’s on a rampage. You better step on it before she sees us.”
I pointed toward the women who were decorating the support posts and roof beams of the pavilion with white Christmas lights and overworked garlands of colored ribbon. In the center of the concrete floor, a flower arrangement stood so tall its highest point scraped the ceiling. Thousands of blossoms spray-painted in awful shades of pink and red were intertwined to form a massive heart. An older woman, her gray-streaked hair tightly wound around plastic curlers, stabbed a bony finger at it, issuing commands. Bridget Sheedy, mother of the bride, had no doubt paid a local florist a small fortune for the flowers, but there was always room for improvement as far as she was concerned.
Weddings took the typical Traveler garishness to extremes, and this one promised to be even crazier than most. The goal of each family was to outdo every other wedding that had come before it, and since the Sheedys were the wealthiest family in the Village, this would be the most elaborate we’d seen. Pulling together such a big event was no small feat when you thought about the fact that Traveler engagements lasted for no more than a week or two.
As we continued toward the back of the Village, mobile homes were replaced by new-ish houses set back at the furthest end of the clearing. Travelers jumped on any opportunity to display their success to one another but didn’t look kindly on drawing the attention of outsiders. If country people saw all these fancy houses, it wouldn’t be long before questions would be asked about where we got all that money, and questions like that were usually followed by visits from the cops.
Around three-dozen houses had been built over the past 30 years, and like our weddings, they were each larger and more elaborate than the last. One house, the largest mansion in the Village and home to the Sheedys, had a façade of bright red brick interspersed with chunks of black coal that glared in the sunlight.
There were still trailers in this part, but these were usually reserved for in-laws or elderly parents, purchased as a sign of devotion by successful children. They sat scattered around the mansions like foothills at the base of mountains, attached to the larger buildings by the power lines that stretched between them.
I looked away from the window when the truck slowed a second time. A small trailer sat off to the side of the clearing, like it was ashamed to be seen in broad daylight. And it was right to try to hide itself away. Even the most modest mobile home was a palace compared to this tiny travel trailer with its hitch propped up on a pile of cinderblocks. Several yards away was a seafoam green house, larger than some but humble compared to the ones built in the last ten years. The same umbilical lines of power connected this house to the tiny trailer. Even though Jimmy Boy and I tried to keep the exterior of the old place in good condition, its bare lawn and empty flowerbeds were as good as a neon vacancy sign flashing outside a motel.
We pulled to a stop next to an old picnic table. When I was a kid it had been bright red, but the sun had bleached it to a faded brick color and no one had taken the time to do anything about it. I swung the door open and climbed down from the cab. Jimmy Boy made a beeline for the trailer, the door banging shut behind him. That morning, the leg of our foldout table had thrown in the towel and collapsed under our breakfast dishes. I’d hoped the mess would finally convince Maggie it was time to move back into the house and have some real furniture, but she’d just set herself to cleaning up and shooed us off to the hardware store.
Instead of going inside to help, I settled myself on the faded red bench and rested my back against the picnic table’s edge. I stretched my legs out across the patch of grass in front of me and tried to imagine what tonight’s party would look like. In years past, the bride’s family would rent a fire hall or hotel ballroom for the reception, but that was before the clan’s reputation as “a bunch of rowdy gypsies” got us banned from every rental space in St. Tammany Parish.
“Back so soon?”
I turned, startled by the voice behind me. It was all brogue without a hint of slow, Southern drawl. Maggie emerged from around the side of the trailer. Our massive wolfhounds, Yeats and Beckett, flanked her, obediently keeping pace as she strode across the lawn. Their wiry coats were a gleaming variety of blacks and grays, but each had a twin patch of white at his chest as if they’d lain down in a puddle of bleach. The mud on Maggie’s long skirt and the basket of lavender she carried on her wrist told me she’d been digging in her garden out behind the trailer.
My mam was different from the other women in the Village—really from any woman I’d ever seen. To be honest, I’d never been certain of her age, but the skin of her face was still as smooth as it had been when I was small enough to sit in her lap and tangle my fingers in the charcoal curls that hung loose around her shoulders. She seemed older and wiser than any woman in the Village, but still as young and spirited as any girl. She paused and turned her face up to the sun. When she looked at me again, something flashed in her green eyes, and I was immediately suspicious. It was a look I’d become familiar with; it meant she had a secret she was anxious to reveal that I might not be thrilled to hear.
In spite of my sudden discomfort, I smiled at her. “Hey, Maggie.” I almost never called her mam anymore. She was simply Maggie to everyone who knew her. “Just got back. Jimmy Boy is already inside working on the table.”
“And you’re out here lazing around instead of helping.”
I shrugged. “There’s hardly enough room for both of us to sit at the table, let alone work under it.”
“If this is going to be another conversation about living in that house, Shay, you might as well save your breath.”
She walked to the table and set her basket down. Shadowing her every movement, the dogs sat. Even in that position, they were impressive animals. Their long, narrow heads reached the height of Maggie’s ribcage.
“It’s hot today.” I scratched Beckett behind the ear, and he inched forward, nuzzling his head into my hand. Drops of saliva from his panting tongue dripped onto the knee of my jeans.
“Aye,” she said, swiping the back of her hand across her forehead. “It certainly is. It’ll be hard for those lasses to stay looking their loveliest when they’re melting in their fancy gowns.”
I chuckled at her. Though other Traveler women reveled in the opportunity to put on expensive dresses and decorate their hair with jeweled ornaments, Maggie had far simpler tastes. She preferred light cotton dresses, and she only ever wore one piece of jewelry: a silver pendant with three interlocking spirals hanging from a leather cord.
If she were any other member of the clan, her tendency toward simplicity would’ve been looked down on—might’ve even gotten her dragged—but Maggie was special. She was a Traveler in the truest sense—born in Ireland and still clinging to the oldest traditions of our kind.
I appreciated that she wanted to honor the old ways, but I never understood why that meant we had to live in a tiny trailer while my father’s house sat empty next to it. Still, when my father’s people had fled Ireland during the Great Famine, Maggie’s had stayed behind and struggled through it. The same strength that allowed her people to survive such a nightmare had been passed down to her.
“Speaking of the wedding,” Maggie said, drawing my attention back to the conversation. She took a seat next to me and inclined her head slightly. Both dogs stood and ambled to the shade of an oak, then collapsed with a thud at its roots. Yeats, the larger of the two, stretched his jaw in a whining yawn and settled his head on Beckett’s back.
“Yeah?” I asked cautiously.
“Little Rosie Sheedy stopped by here this morning, just after you left.”
I turned to look at her. “Yeah?” I said again, though now curiosity replaced concern. “Looking for me?”
“I believe she was, though she knew better than to say so.” Maggie wrinkled her nose. “She asked me for a love charm. Said now that her sister’s getting married, she’d like to attract her own husband.”
Maggie’s connection to the old ways meant her handcrafted charms for luck, love, fortune, or health and her herbal teas to calm nerves or promote fertility were highly coveted in the Village. It wasn’t unusual that a young woman would stop by seeking such a thing, but apparently Rosie wasn’t such a welcome visitor.
“You’d better watch your drink tonight, boyo,” Jimmy Boy said from the steps of the trailer. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to mix up a love potion of her own after Maggie turned her away. You could end up with lavender and Clorox in your Guinness.”
Both dogs raised their heads. Their bodies remained motionless, though the fur at their necks bristled and their ears perked. Maggie lifted her hand without looking at them, and both dogs lowered their heads but continued to keenly observe the scene.
Maggie cocked an eyebrow at Jimmy Boy as he crossed the lawn to join us. “And who says I turned her away?”
“You did, didn’t you? You know what kind of trouble Shay could get into messin’ around with the clan leader’s daughter.”
Maggie stared at him for a moment, a curious expression crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Sit down, lad,” she said.
After a moment, Jimmy Boy plopped heavily onto the bench next to me and crossed his arms over his chest. We both looked up at her, waiting to hear what she’d say next, and it occurred to me that my brother and I both yielded to Maggie almost as obediently as the wolfhounds. She stood back to take in both of us for a long moment.
Due to decades of intermarriage, everyone in the Village vaguely looked alike, but somehow this hadn’t extended to us Reilly boys. Jimmy Boy and I hardly appeared related at all, let alone brothers. He had a stocky build with hair the color of a rusty tractor wheel, which I assumed he’d inherited from our Da, though I’d never seen more than a grainy picture of him in the twenty years I’d been alive. Jimmy Boy’s eyes were a dull gray-blue that looked downright colorless compared to the emerald green eyes I’d inherited from Maggie, along with her tar-black hair. I was lean and at least an inch taller, despite him having three years on me.
“I told Rosie I didn’t have the time to help her, but there won’t be any stopping that girl now she’s got the idea in her head.”
“I don’t know why it’s such a bad idea,” I said, flashing a wolfish grin I hoped would provoke my brother. The swift smack he delivered to the back of my head was totally worth it.
“You don’t think you’ve made yourself enough of an outsider by going all the way through high school? Maybe you’d like to be physically tossed out of the Village by the Sheedy boys, too?”
I ducked my head, rubbing at the back of my skull. “Hey, finishing school wasn’t my idea. You know I’d rather have been out on the road with you.” I hadn’t hated high school if I was being honest, but I had hated the feeling of being different. Going to school past the seventh grade wasn’t done. I’d once heard of a few Traveler boys from another clan who had gone on to play for the LSU football team, but they were definitely the exception and not the rule.
“If it had been up to me, you both would’ve been in school,” Maggie said.
Jimmy Boy snorted out a laugh. “Then I’m glad it wasn’t. What good it do him?” He jabbed an elbow into my ribs. “All that schooling, and he’s still empty-headed enough to go weak in the knees whenever Rosie Sheedy bats her eyes at him.”
“At least I don’t flirt with country girls,” I said and aimed my own elbow-jab in return.
“Stop trying to change the subject. I thought you didn’t even like Rosie.”
“I like her well enough, and she can get me to where I wanna go. Feelings, love, and all that—they just get in the way.”
Jimmy Boy shook his head. “How in the hell’d you get to be so jaded? You tell those mutts over there you love ‘em every chance you get, but when it comes to people, you’re as closed up as Pop Sheedy’s safe.”
“Aww, that’s not true.” I wrapped my arm around Jimmy Boy’s neck and pulled his head down to pin it against my side. “I love you, big brother.”
Jimmy Boy shoved me hard to free himself, then punched my arm for good measure. I lifted my hand to retaliate, but Maggie’s voice stopped me mid-swing.
“That’ll be enough from you two. You’ve got a table to mend, and I need to fix myself up before the women head over to the church.” She took a few steps toward the trailer before turning back to look at me through narrowed eyes. “Your brother’s right, though, Shay. If you don’t watch it, your ambition’s going to get you in trouble.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but her expression warned me that it best remain shut. Maggie gave a curt nod, and a smile brightened her face again. Without a word, she retrieved her basket and marched toward the trailer. The wolfhounds hopped to their feet and followed after her. Maggie stood on the steps of the trailer, patiently holding the door open, then pulled it shut behind them.
Left alone with my brother, I stood so I could face him full-on. Maggie might not understand, but I had to convince someone I wasn’t being a fool.
“If we started working with the Sheedys, think how much more money we’d be bringing in. Our family’d be back on top like before Da went away.”
“Da didn’t ‘go away,’ Shay. He got himself killed because he wanted to be the best, bring in the biggest scores. And you’re picking up just where he left off. You need to learn your place in this clan, and that ain’t beside Pop Sheedy’s daughter. Got it?”
His words stung, and I clenched my fists at my sides. It wouldn’t have been the first time my brother and I came to blows over something, but before my temper reached its boiling point, he stood and gently gripped the back of my neck in both hands. “I know it’s tough. I want a new truck and a bigger place and a pretty girl on my arm just like the next fellow, but it’s just not in the cards. You and I are on our own, and that’s fine. We bring in enough to put food on the table and take care of Maggie, and you getting in over your head with Rosie Sheedy could ruin us. Promise me you’ll stay far away from her tonight.”
“But, Jimmy, I—”
“Promise.”
“Fine.” I jerked free of his grasp and took a step back. “I’ll be sure to keep to myself.”
--
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