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 guessI’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
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 guessI’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
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