Before I met Harold, I used to walk through the Barnes Bridge subdivision with my dog. The lawns were green and manicured, the flowers and plants were pieces of art, the houses looked somehow warmer and more appealing than mine. The people came in couples. In the years, after my Father died I grew old and alone and afraid. I was just the spinster lady that lived on Oak street. So when I met Harold, and he wanted to marry me it was a miracle.

Harold and I enjoyed the residuals from Daddy's screenplay. Just a year before he died, he had finally written the ultimate cult classic hit. He became semi-famous and semi-rich with that one. It was a silly piece of work really "Dinner with Dudley." But somewhere, at midnight, every Friday, it showed to packed theaters. New fans were born with each showing and the video sales were continuing to roll in. With my investments (carefully hidden away) I would always be OK.

Harold and I married, late in life. I was just over the line of forty when I fell in love with him. We met at the A & P, where he was an assistant manager. I fell hard. It was that kinda madness that is blind to all reason. For the first time in my life I felt hope. Unfortunately, it faded quickly after the wedding. Maybe it was finding out he married me for Daddy's money (which he told me in a drunken rage). Or maybe it was the first time he hit me (another drunken rage). I never expected that he loved me. No one ever said I was beautiful or funny or even interesting. My belated dreams of writing were shattered with my marriage. Harold quit his job when we had been married a week. He was a drinker, a womanizer, and he was gambling away my future at an alarm rate. There were no options left. Even though Harold lived with me now, I still lived alone. My anger was under the surface and simmered on a low burn.

I guess you could say I was surprised when Mrs Brown and Mrs Stevenson wanted to take me to brunch at the Eclipse Roadhouse on Sunday. "You get to know your neighbors, well in this small town environment." suggested Mrs Stevenson, over lattes. "Vera, we just want to make sure he is treating you right my dear," interrupted that sharp little Mrs Brown. It would have been more embarassing, but it was the first time I had seen the two women in action. Pale and tall, Jane and her new best friend, the dark gypsy Gia Brown, were an unlikely combination.

Jane Stevenson and Gia Brown were an alliance, formed on a bus one day. Apparently, an escaped convict had tried to hijack the Number 50 to downtown. The story went, that the driver and the two ladies sitting so close to me now, had overpowered the convict. For a moment, I knew how he felt. They were overpowering. I could see where they could be a little dangerous. If these two ladies, were Sherlock and Watson, I thought maybe Sherlock was the short one. If they were Sonny and Cher, I was pretty sure that Sonny was the tall one. I stopped short of laughing.

Then it sunk in. People knew. My sunglasses and the extra make up had not protected me from prying eyes and nosy neighbors. I almost cried with shame and relief. I had always been a solitary woman. I had never had to live with secrets. Jane patted my hand and Gia looked at me with a strange intense appeal.

It seems their unusual friendship was spilling over to me. I was not sure if I should be offended, or touched at their concern. Mrs Brown looked hard at me. "Divorce would not be a problem. the alternatives would not be so good" she raised her eyebrows. My God, people really did know. At that moment, I decided not to kill Harold. The plan, had after all, been contingent on not having witnesses. So I went home, and unloaded the shotgun.

On Monday, I filed for divorce. It is funny how the lonliness and fear faded away. I still live by myself on Oak Street. Every Sunday, I have brunch with my friends. Someday, I will have to thank them, but not today. Today I will share my latest manuscript. My friends will laugh and talk. Their light and dark contrast will startle me as it did the first time I saw them together. Jane will update us on the local gossip, and ever once in awhile Gia will interrupt. She will be sharp and perceptive. Today I will celebrate the fact that I am not alone.

My name is Gia. My people are wanderers. We were originally from India, the land of divination and enchantment. Throughout hundreds of years, we have been chased, persecuted, and sold into slavery. It is no surprise, that in the end we became nomadic. My tribe came to America from Europe. The laws of every nation were against us.

I am a Rom Gypsy and my grandparents hid in the forest to survive Hitler's mobile killing machines and the Reich's final solution. My parents were part of a tribe that were arrested in 1976, entering Washington County from neighboring Pennsylvania. Since one of them was suspected of stealing "a few hundred dollars" from a Pennsylvania gas station, all the band's property was confiscated and sold, even though the charge was never proved. I was conceived in Washington County during the time our assets were being taken.

It is sad, that in the United States, Gypsies remain the only ethnic minority against whom laws still operate, and who are specifically named in those laws. It is not so different here. We are outsiders, scattered to survive. But our roots run deep and true to each other. We do not assimilate, we may live among you, as I have chosen to do. We may hide in plain sight as a means of self preservation. But a drop of Romany blood will always separate us from our neighbors. I will never be a "Gorgio", a non-Gypsy. And my children, when they come, even mixed with the sturdy Brown stock of my husband will always be true to their roots.

When I met Bradley Brown I knew that my path would be difficult. He was a "Gorgio" and could not understand my Gypsy traditions and calling. His world held little interest for me. But I could not escape my love which claimed me like a hot brand on my soul. All grand passions come at a price, and mine was no exception. We met and married in Las Vegas and made Texas our home. By instinct and inclination I will always be an outsider. My soul may seek the truths of others with or without my permission. But the beginning of my journey home started when my love took me to live in the Barnes Bridge subdivision. This is where I started to learn great truths about myself.

Although he was involved in the Austin music industry, my Brad was just a "good old boy" at heart. It is an irony and a strange twist of fate that he lived a "gypsy" life on the road and I stayed in the village of Barnes Bridge. The old men of my people, used to joke that "Rom" meant we were born to roam. It is well known that the surest way to kill a gypsy is to "tie his feet to the land" or "cut his roots".

My people have learned that certain death comes painfully slow to those whose feet are tied. There are countries in Europe, where the decendants of Gypsy kings live in poverty and pain, where they are forbidden by law to roam and "resettled" by governments. It is much harder to cut our roots. A band of gypsies can disband and drift apart for years and emerge whole within weeks at the call.

Gypsies are fatalists. Our life force flows through the places we have been, and touches the natives. Through time, we have joined our old convictions, with these places. I knew at once that my presence in Barnes Bridge would impact my neighbors. My will was for balance, but my life force, with the strength of my heritage, could not be denied.

I lived in limbo, ever mindful that I must maintain and blend in. I will never sacrifice my self respect to survive. My blood calls from deep down my line and reminds me that I am descended from the stars. Given time at the end of my lifeline, I shall return to the stars. No one can translate the gypsy magic, music, and memory. It lives in the Rom in a safe place. It remains with me in this comfortable little corner of the city, and pulls gently at my heart.

Bradley loved Barnes Bridge, because it reminded him of his Texas upbringing. I think his roots were well nurtured here. Well kept homes, were tucked into the winding neighborhood. It was once a place for growing children, and it had somehow transformed into a retirement community. The homes were filled with respectable people. Everything in it's place, and no place for Gia.

I was restless in Barnes Bridge. My home was beautifully decorated, but empty without children, or my traveling husband. Brad, who never knows why, but always knows what I need, got me a car. Not just any automobile, but a big, bright Cadillac, with a loud horn. Driving fast through the countryside became my pastime and my passion. I traveled for miles, without a map, and always found my way home. It was on one of my trips that I found the truckstop on Interstate 76. It was at CJ's on a warm winter afternoon that the tarot came back to me like a distant uncle for an extended visit.

The tarot is a blessing on my gypsy soul. When I was a child my Mother would smooth my forehead and explain that having a third eye allows us to see other people. It was a calling of the women in our tribe. A calling and an avocation, like the shadow music and pure joy of our Rom dance, my gift of divination could not be contained.

In the language of Romany, (my parents native tongue) the word tarot comes from "tar" which means cards. The legend goes, that in an attempt to save their tradition of mysteries and magic from extinction, the Hierophants, (priests of the Eleusinians) passed them down, to the eternally wandering gypsies. Other occult groups followed the Eleusinian lead. The gnostics, the Montanists, Manichaeans, Albigenses -- varied groups of the Cathari -- and Jewish mystics all utilized the nomadic gypsy culture to transmit information to escape the Inquisition. The Rom, the dancing gypsies, were in reality, the most trusted messengers.

The gypsy could not read or write. We communicated person to person through our oral tradition. In order, to share the magic secrets, we created the Tarot, with the truths in images. Beautiful images we carefully hand painted on round pieces of mother-of-pearl or leather.

Eventually, the Rom themselves became the mystics. And the gift of soultelling was given to us by the stars. We became the foretellers and the "fascinators" when the secrets we carried got too large for a deck of cards. The sacred trust we were granted, in ancient times, became the burden of our blood. I may not know my secrets, but I know the secrets of strangers that pay my $20 to hear their life.

We are an ancient people. A people who has no need to prove anything. We are the sacred messenger for many. We were trusted by the most high mystics of ancient times. Our friendship has always been extended but not returned by the world. A people who flows in and out of the mold. We cannot escape our gift and I no longer try.

By accident one day, I started to read the tarot for the bus drivers wife, Velma Martin. She was a birdlike woman ,with an unsettled nature. I sat at CJ's drinking my weak coffee when she joined me, uninvited. She asked me to read for her, without asking if I knew how. I agreed without resistance, because there is always a reason when they are so desperate, in their search for answers.

My cards felt warm in my hands, when I pulled them from the silk bag. Generations of practice, made me stronger, and wiser, on the day when the wind was warm. Sometimes when the visions start, the gift and this curse become one and the same. The cards told me a tragic secret that only I could change. It would be impossible to share my realization with Mrs Martin. My little life, tucked safely into a Texas subdivision, would never be the same.

Weeks later, I would tell my friend, Mrs Stevenson all the details. But the visions that started from the reading at CJ's were a chill on my heart. Other people's secrets have often invaded my life. Dreams of death and fears of life sourround every soul and they sometimes break free. My protection is only a filter that cannot stop some of the darkness from seeping through. Some Gypsy women have sleepless nights and the haunted look of other people's nightmares.

I decided it was about timing. Mrs. Stevenson was in my vision. Mrs Stevenson did not ride the bus. So I became a watcher. Later my friend and I would laugh at the beginning of our journey. we were like two children playing hide-n-seek. I never let her out of my sight. Like so many, she feared me at first.

I have often wondered, if the "Gorgio" fear our freedom or our magic the most. If perhaps, we were just nomads, with no gift of magic, would Hitler have left us alone? If we wandered the world, without the tarot, would we still be dancing and playing the lovely harps? If people knew Elvis and Michael Caine were in my Roma family tree would I be more acceptable?

Sudenly about Barnes Bridge, where I was an outsider, made me think of home. Something about Mrs Stevenson reminded me of my Mother. These are strange ideas for a fatalist and a Rom with her feet tied and her roots far away. But it was these ideas and my talisman that kept me from losing faith. When Brad came home and found me looking at my crystal ball he was "concerned" and wanted me to go to a 10 day Cowboy tour with him to "clear my head".

I could not go with my love, who left at sunrise, giving me a bearhug and a sideways glance. I was waiting and watching Mrs Stevenson. When she went to the bus stop on Tuesday, my spirit sang. I was ready, determined, and I had all the facts. The incident on the bus was not significant. It was the end of a long wait. Or as Mrs Stevenson, my friend Jane says, the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

My neighborhood is like a small town. Neat and tidy yards surround familar neighbors. Barnes Bridge was a warm and caring place to live. We had raised our families as a community, and now we were growing old together. My son, Stanley Jr was grown, and had moved to Austin. The major events of my life had taken place in the right here. I still love everything about my "hometown". We had lived here for twenty eight years when the Browns arrived.

Brad Brown was a tall strapping man with blue eyes. His cowboy boots, and hat, did seem an affectation to me. Sometimes he had breakfast at the pharmacy. The consensus of the men was that he was a nice guy. Well, he was fairly nice, except when his entourage would appear.

He managed the Cowboy Bartlett band. Some of the neighbors were fans, and they welcomed the local celebrity with open arms. Mr Brown had promised that the Cowboy would stop by at the next block party to sign autographs and meet the neighbors.

Ever so often, on a weekend, the whole band would show up. I was always on pins and needles when the cars started arriving. Too many cars showed a lack of respect(sometimes parked right in front of my house). Then the music would start up. When it got really loud I gave them one warning, after that I used the speed dial to call the local constable. Terry Pike would amble over to the Browns, and I would have sworn, he was joining the party instead of breaking it up.

The Browns refused to keep their yard mowed and edged. As their yard became scruffier, the weeds drifted into mine. I talked to him and he just shrugged. I didn't want to bring it up to Mrs. Brown. She wanted me to call her Gia, and she was too friendly. It seemed like every time I turned around, she was waving, and smiling from next door. To top it off, he bought her an older model yellow Cadillac. It was just awful. I was sure that the car alone would plummet property values.

She drove very fast around the corner and down the street. She was heavy on the gas, and loved the sound of her own horn....Mrs Brown stood out in Barnes Bridge she seemed to be the sore thumb on a perfect hand. And speaking of hands, I thought she had entirely too much free time on hers.

Mrs. Brown was exotic and intense. Perhaps she was a gypsy. She dressed in foreign fabrics and flowing clothes. Her clothes did not really match, they just fit together. She reminded me of a TV actress, just a little too flashy, for my tastes. It was disturbing to watch the men in the neighborhood fawn all over her. Of course, my husband Stanley was not taken in. He never had a bad word to say about anyone. He just smiled and just said "Now Jane you need to: Live and Let Live".

Shameless, if you asked me. She was dark and busy and talked too much. I would never have chosen her for a next door neighbor. At first, I had my suspicians about her visitors. They came at all hours, even when her husband was out of town. One gentleman, in particular, arrived in a limo, once a month. He would scurry in the door and leave in an hour or so. I wasn't really one to gossip or speculate. Stanley warned me to leave it alone, but the words "drug dealer" and "hooker" came to mind.

Our neighborhood was under seige, and the zoning board was well aware of the problem with the Browns. Don't get me wrong, I was not the only one that complained. Over our weekly 42 game, my friends and I talked about the situation.

Bertha Monroe was a retired schoolteacher, Mona Payne was a homemaker, and Peggy Radswell still worked at the city after 25 years. We started our game when our sons had been in boyscouts together years before. Every week with few exceptions we continued to play dominos and visit. We were like a family. There was nothing wrong with that. We had survived disasters and tragedy, surely we could survive Mrs Brown.

It was Peggy, that broke the news that Gia Brown was some sort of medium or tarot reader. Her visitors were apparently paying for her services, all right. Since it wasn't the services I feared, I guess I should have been relieved. But, knowing that a conwoman lived next door was a little hard to take. She had a business license. The situation was unbelievable.

The surgery on my knees was scheduled for March. Time off from work, I was looking forward to, I might add. I was all set to lay back and let Stanley handle all the household chores. The only setback was I couldn't drive for a month. So I determined, I would ride the bus once a week to the library. It was only a few miles. That nice Mr Martin, was the driver. Stanley and I went to church with him and Velma. So it was a mild adventure, but my adventure, nonetheless.

As my knees began to heal, I made my way outside for coffee and to feed the birds. That's when I started to worry. Mrs Brown would peek through the fence. When I went to the front porch, she would appear in her yard. What in the world was going on? I wondered if the little gypsy woman was stalking me.

On Tuesday morning, I hobbled to the bus stop on the corner. Two houses down seemed like miles. Thank God I had brought my little fold out stool. "Always be prepared." I remembered Stanley Jr.'s boyscout years. I smiled at how this motto had stuck with me.

A trip to the library, was going to make my day. At first, I thought I was dreaming when Mrs. Brown stepped off of her front porch. She was dressed conservatively by her standards, but still I was annoyed.

She approached me quickly. "You're taking the bus, Mrs Brown? Is your car in need of repair?" I was trying not to sound annoyed. She raised her eyebrows all the same.

"Mrs Sanderson, I just thought I would take a bus ride with you today." She flashed me a brilliant smile, meant to charm me. But despite her repeated attempts, Mrs. Brown had never seemed charming to me.

My spirits plummeted. Somehow, my little adventure had lost it's appeal. I decided to call it a day. Before I could traipse home in dejection, the bus stopped and Mrs Brown practically pushed me up the metal stairs. It was like she had decided to ruin my day and was trying to do it in a diplomatic way. As soon as I sat down, she slid in beside me. At least she was quiet today. She was not talking too fast in her European accent. Here eyes were darting around as if she was expecting company.

At the intersection of Douglas and Pine Street Mrs Brown nudged me...."I need your folding stool Mrs Sanderson." I bristled, but before I could object she held it in both hands.

Suddenly the bus was swerving. When I looked up there was a man standing over Mr Martin. It was difficult to see what was happening. That nice Mr Martin was holding tight to the steering wheel. I heard a harsh voice, "Drive where I tell you and no one gets hurt."

I looked at my seatmate and Mrs Brown lifted her fingers to her lips requesting my silence. She was only 3 steps from the man with the gun. I had never seen anyone move with such grace. It was like a slow motion event. She raised the stool quickly and brought it down on his head 3 times. The gun dropped right in Mr Martin's hands and the man who had brought it onto the bus appeared to be unconscious.

Well needless to say, I never made it to the library. With the police and the questions and all the hoopla, I barely made it back home in one piece. Mrs Brown gave all the credit to Mr Martin and she patted him on the shoulder and said "Tell Mrs Martin to stop by again sometime."

I determined that I would wait until I could drive, before I would go back to the library. Or maybe Stanley would take me one evening. The police dropped Mrs Brown and I in my driveway. She took my arm and walked me to the front porch. "Sorry about your stool, Mrs Sanderson." The stool had broken on impact with the criminal's head.

Suddenly, I wondered if Mrs Brown was lonely. Her work must be exhausting, and her husband was gone a lot. My heart went out to the woman, "Would you like to come in Mrs Brown, I could make some coffee. It just occurred to me that I never welcomed you to the neighborhood....."