Miracle (8 page)

“You’ve been out in the heat too much,” he said seriously, as he drove back through the field to a paved road. “You’ll be all right.”

“S-sure. Sure.”

At home she squeezed his hand in farewell and walked
quickly indoors. Before she could reach the sanctuary of her bedroom Pop came out of the living room, where he had set up his canvas and paints and gin bottle for the night.

“I’ll be needin’ you this weekend,” he told her. “Gonna work a festival up in the mountains. Maisie’s sewing you a costume for it.”

Amy gasped for air. “Why?”

“It’s one of those medieval fairs. I’m gettin’ paid to do a routine. I need you to drive. And I want you to work the routine with me. Go change out of your Jesus clothes and come back. I want to practice what we’ll be doing.”

“Oh, Pop, please, I don’t mind drivin’, but don’t make me perform—”

“The least you can do is help me when I tell you to.”

“But I’m terrible at it. All you do is get upset every time I work with you. I never do anything good enough for you!”

“The only thing I know to teach you is how to work your ass off and not look for sympathy. Now get the lead out. I’ll be waitin’ in the living room.”

She gazed at him with simmering hostility, a new and daring reaction. Her sense of being trapped grew into a hard knot that made her stomach hurt as she went to change clothes.

The fair was set in a community park in the midst of the woods. Around the perimeter was a recreated medieval village that looked to Amy as if it had been built with cheap plywood and a loose regard for historical detail. The village housed artists and craftspeople, along with a number of food concessions controlled by the local organizers. The village’s “residents” were a troupe of seedy-looking actors, singers, puppeteers, and other entertainers.

Pop was a big hit as the rat-juggling man. And she was the rat-juggling man’s sidekick. As usual, she was nervous.

“Oh, yes, oh, yes,” Pop bawled in a wonderfully absurd Cockney accent. “I juggles the little varmints, I does. Watch ’ere, now, take a look-see.” He was dressed in a tunic of grubby rags cinched with a wide leather belt; his lanky legs
were covered in black tights and his hair was shoved under a shapeless leather cap. He had wrapped his old tennis shoes in rags, so that he shuffled around like an old man. With aplomb he went into a comic routine that was heavily dependent on the acrobatics of six black bean bags adorned with whiskers and tails. The rats tended to go flying with madcap uncertainty into the audience that had gathered around; escaping, they were, Pop complained.

Amy’s job was to scurry after the wayward rats calling, “Hey, you little da-vils, come back ’ere!” After wrestling them into submission she tossed the rats to Pop again, for more acrobatics. At the end of the performance she pulled a leather bag from her belt and begged the audience for “a few coppers to help w’the upkeep of such fine, trained ani-muls.” She wore the outfit Maisie had put together with musty scraps—an off-the-shoulder blouse made from a faded muslin sheet, a ragged skirt that dragged the ground in back, and one of Pop’s old belts with the money bag tied to it. She had decided to go barefoot, and by midday her feet were filthy. She felt very much in character.

“You’re doing a good job today,” Pop told her when they finished with the crowd. Then he chucked her under the chin and nodded with satisfaction.

Ecstatic, Amy kissed him on the cheek. She relaxed a little as the two of them walked around the grounds looking for another good spot to perform. Pop milked the strolling crowd for laughter and money, barking corny jokes in his corny English accent and doing sleight of hand for charmed youngsters. Every time he introduced her as the rat-juggler’s daughter he clapped a hand to her shoulder and squeezed affectionately.

This was how he’d been before the back injury, the retirement, the drinking, the dope. She remembered him from those times in her early childhood with adoration. Today he loved the crowd, and when he loved the crowd, he loved her. She hurried along beside him, grinning.

At their next performance Amy dove into the audience with gusto, wailing at a rat and pouncing on it like a deranged monkey. The silliness was exhilarating; Pop’s good mood made her feel bold. People were guffawing at
the grimy rat-juggler, not at her. She tossed the black bean bag to Pop and he caught it with a flourish, then completed his juggling act by heaving all six rats into the air and catching them one by one in his cap.

“Thank you, luvs, thank you,” Amy said to the group of about two-dozen people who were applauding. She went through the crowd holding out her money bag to receive tips. “Now if you could just spare a few coppers to keep these here fine ani-muls in training—”

She looked up into Dr. de Savin’s dark, amused eyes and dropped her money bag. “Hello, mademoiselle ratcatcher,” he said.

Amy fell to her knees and began retrieving a few coins that had spilled. Humiliation burned in her veins as she saw the scene from a horrible new aspect—herself dirty, silly, and begging for money—not fake money but the real thing. When he knelt beside her she couldn’t meet his gaze.

“We seem to have a knack for finding each other under unusual circumstances,” he added politely.

“Yeah.”

She stood quickly and focused all her attention on brushing dirt from her skirt. He stood also. By darting quick glances at him while she dusted herself she saw that he was dressed in topsiders, casual slacks of a light camel color, and a white golf shirt with the collar turned up and the tail out. It had a fancy emblem on it—oh, God, it was probably his family crest.

He put out a hand and picked a twig from her skirt. She noticed the heavy gold watch that gleamed on his wrist. He was as stylish as a model in a magazine, but she couldn’t imagine that big, angular body standing patiently to be photographed. He always seemed ready to move.

“You’re very entertaining,” he told her.

“Yeah.”

“I’m here with friends, but they’ve gone over to watch one of the other acts. I’ll tell them that they should have seen yours.”

“Thanks.” What could she say to him? What did a person say to a fantasy?

She turned toward Pop and saw the grim set of his mouth. Her dawdling had let part of the paying audience escape. Amy’s heart sank. “Pop, this is Dr. de Savin—”

“Who’s this ‘Pop’ bloke?” he parried quickly. “Me name’s Willie. Willie the Rat Juggler.” He came forward and stuck out one sweaty hand. “Pleased to meet you, m’lord.”

Dr. de Savin shook his hand and nodded, his bearing so polite and gallant that Amy sighed. Being around him caused her pulse to race and made her acutely aware of being too young, too ignorant, and too plain.

“Dr. de Savin’s family owns the winery,” she told Pop. “You know, the place where I work—”

“Now, m’gurl, my little ratcatcher, what do you mean? And what’re you talkin’ in such strange English for?”

Amy shifted in silence and stared at the ground.

“What do you have to say, ratcatcher?” Pop prodded.

She turned wearily to Dr. de Savin. In his expression Amy found compassion.
He understood. God, he understood
. Her chin lifted. She was willing to die for him at that moment. In her best English accent she said, “It was nice seein’ you again, m’lord.”

He took her hand and bowed over it. Then he kissed it. His lips felt warm and firm on her skin. Weak-kneed, she smiled at him. He said solemnly, “You’re a very fine ratcatcher, but you have to stop wearing that strange greenery behind your ear.” He reached beside her head, brushed her earlobes with his fingertips, and drew his hand back holding a twenty-dollar bill clasped lightly between his fingertips. Slowly he tucked the bill into her money purse.

“That’s a nice bit of work you do there, m’lord,” Pop commented eagerly. “You could be one o’ the finest pickpockets in the village.”

“It’s just a little hobby I acquired to keep my hands limber.”

Dazed, Amy didn’t know whether she felt embarrassed for taking his money or elated over his attention. A little of both, she finally decided. When he nodded to her one more time and walked away, she thrust the money bag toward Pop and kept her eyes trained on Dr. de Savin. He
melded with the crowd around the food concessions, but he was so tall that she could easily catch glimpses of him.

“Hey. Hey. Dammit. Kid, get your thumb out of your ass.”

Pop’s sharp voice drew her back to reality. “Yes, sir?”

“What’s the deal with that guy?”

“No deal, Pop. I hardly know him.”

“Get to know him better. He’s loaded.”

She scowled at the ground, hating the way Pop could take the shine off of a wonderful moment. “You goin’ to lunch, Pop?”

“Yeah. Comeon.”

“I think I’ll just sit out here and watch the people.”

“Suit yourself.” He headed for a tall wooden fence that had been set up to keep people from sneaking into the fair without paying. Amy watched him open a gate and disappear into the area where the actors parked their cars. Pop’s old Buick waited there, a cooler and a picnic basket in the trunk. Pop would enjoy a joint and a six-pack of beer.

She walked to a dogwood tree off by itself and sat down wearily in the shade. The July day was broiling hot, and she pulled her skirt up to her knees. Stretching her bare legs out, she leaned against the dogwood’s slender gray trunk and searched the crowds for Dr. de Savin. To no avail. Amy shut her eyes and tears burned their corners. Stupid daydreams. She was going to marry Charley. She was going to raise Culpepper babies and Culpepper chickens. Each time she and Charley made love she was going to smell like diesel fuel afterward.

“What? She rests? Where are her rats?”

She jerked her eyes open and found Dr. de Savin looking down at her. He knelt, his manner brusque, and handed her a cup filled with ice and a soft drink. From the items balanced in his big hands he gave her a napkin, a roast turkey leg, and a cup of coleslaw with a plastic fork laid carefully across the top. Then he sat down and arranged similar fare on his crossed legs, though his cup contained one of the dark, imported beers being sold at the concession stands.

“You shared your lunch with me the other day,” he explained.

Amy sat forward, tried not to fidget nervously, and smoothed her paper napkin as if it were fine linen. “You’re probably the nicest person I’ve ever met.”

He hesitated over a sip of his beer, watching her closely and with quiet pleasure. Then he put his cup down and said, “I’ve never thought of myself as being particularly likable. Thank you for the compliment.”

She laughed under her breath. “I can’t imagine somebody
not
liking you.”

“Oh, I suppose I’m fit for decent company.” His voice was droll. “But there are a great many ratcatchers who’d turn their noses up at me.”

“Not this one.” She was so flustered that she knew she’d say something
really
dumb if she weren’t careful. She took a swallow of her drink and forced herself to nibble the turkey leg. “Thank you for the … the tip.”

“I hope it didn’t embarrass you. I consider it a fair price for such marvelous entertainment.”

“Pop and I were just doin’ old circus stuff with a new twist.”

“In my country the circus is revered. It’s an art form. You’re an artist.”

“Oh, boy, is
that
what I look like?” She gestured toward her outfit. Her hair, cut in a short, feathery shape with bangs, was wrenched into a queue at the base of her neck. She untied the leather thong that held it and hurriedly ran her fingers through the auburn locks.

“Yes. You look like an actress playing a part. What you do requires a great deal of talent. Didn’t you hear people laughing at you?”

“Aw, they laugh because the act’s so silly.”

“You must set very high standards for yourself, mademoiselle, because you can’t accept a compliment for anything you do.”

She twisted the cup in her hands and pretended to study it. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry for everything!” His voice held gentle rebuke.

She started to speak, then pressed her fingertips to her mouth. “I almost said I’m sorry, again. It’s a habit, I guess
I’m”—she chuckled as he arched one dark brow expectantly—“oh, you’re making me want to say it all the time!”

“Make a promise to yourself. Promise you’ll say it no more than once a day. Perhaps in time you can wean yourself from saying it except when it’s really needed.”

“It’s needed a lot. I’m always in trouble.”

“Oh? What do you do that’s so terrible?”

She thought for a moment. “I’m not sure.”

He studied her with narrowed eyes and frowned. Amy gulped down a piece of turkey without the least notice of how it tasted. Fumbling for something to do, she stuck her hand into a pocket on her skirt and retrieved a video-game token someone had passed off as a quarter. Holding out a hand for his scrutiny, she deftly rolled the token over her fingers and then made it disappear. She swooped her hand forward to his shirt collar and drew it back holding two tokens. “Want to play Space Invaders?”

His serious expression softened immediately. To her utter delight he laughed—a beautiful, masculine sound that made her quiver inside. “What else can you do?”