Free American Gypsy by Oksana Marafioti Page B

threw parties on a weekly basis—and once the talk of work turned to politics, I was inevitably ordered out of the room to watch Roxy.
    At one end of the table Roxy and I were listening to Zhanna tell a story about an abandoned church outside Leningrad inside of which people claimed to have heard a woman crying.
    â€œI heard it on TV today,” she said, dipping a chunk of rye bread into the soup. “A man peeped through the boarded-up window, and you’ll never believe what he saw.”
    Seven-year-old Roxy covered her ears. “Don’t tell it if it’s gonna be scary.”
    â€œWell?” I urged.
    â€œA flying apparition of Mother Mary!”
    I lowered Roxy’s hands. “What a fairy tale. Mother Mary’s flying about like she has nothing better to do.”
    â€œI’m telling you, it was on the news,” Zhanna said. “Now people are going to camp out around the place. I bet all of Russia will be there soon.”
    â€œWon’t she get tired of flying?” Roxy said.
    I was going to add something smart-ass when a conversation between Ivan and Dad caught my attention.
    â€œStepan is coming back with the body day after tomorrow. What a tragedy.”
    â€œI had no idea.” Dad pushed aside his bowl. “How did it happen?”
    â€œHow do you think? They caught him alone, beat him, dumped him in the alley. It’s not like the cops are eager to volunteer information.”
    The din around the table softened.
    â€œWhat’s this?” Mom said.
    â€œStepan’s boy was killed yesterday,” Dad said.
    Ivan had only the skeleton of the story. After one particularly explosive demonstration, Ruslan and a few local Romani got caught up in a fight with some gadjee boys. No one knew who instigated the fight, but it ended with the participants scattering to escape the police. Later Ruslan was found dead behind the local pet clinic. He’d been beaten to death.
    Mom’s hand flew to her mouth, but Esmeralda and Zhanna were already sobbing as if someone had turned on a switch.
    Ivan’s hands lay clasped on the white tablecloth as he attempted to answer all the questions. Being the bearer of bad news was never a good thing for the bearer.
    Zhanna hugged me and her sobs filled my ears. But I had no tears of my own. I felt like I’d been given a drug that was slowly pulling me under. I propped up my elbows on the table, rested my chin in my hands, and thought, If I faint right now and my face lands in my mother’s solianka , could I drown in it before anyone reaches me?
    *   *   *
    I refused to go to the funeral.
    â€œI don’t believe you,” Zhanna said to this. “Where’s your soul? I thought you loved him.”
    My parents had had one of those fights that left holes in our kitchen walls, so I was staying at Esmeralda’s for a couple of days, and Roxy was at Grandma Ksenia’s. Earlier Esmeralda had gone to meet with Stepan to arrange the three-day vigil. She was also in charge of the music (Romani often hired small bands to escort funeral processions into the cemetery).
    â€œGo to the vigil at least. We’ll go together after midnight. Stepan’s not even staying home tonight, but he’s leaving it unlocked for visitors.”
    I leaned on the windowsill, stories above the kids playing dodgeball in the yard, where spring blew kisses from tree to tree.
    â€œNo,” I said.
    â€œAre you being such a bitch just to piss me off or what?”
    â€œYou got it. All this is for your benefit.”
    After several very long minutes I felt Zhanna’s arms wrap around me. She rested her chin on my shoulder.
    â€œYou can cry if you want.”
    â€œI am,” I said.
    That night I told Zhanna I was going home—it wouldn’t do to have her think she had swayed me. Since Stepan’s place was an hour away by metro, I took a taxi. As a rule I’d never get into a car