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 bei
ng 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?”
“I can do card tricks, and juggle, and make balloon animals. Pop taught me how, so I could help him at kiddie parties.” Inspired by his attention, she flipped the token and caught it on the tip of one finger. “It’s easy stuff.”
“I can’t imagine such skill coming easily. Teach me.” He leaned forward eagerly and held out his hand.
Amy placed the token on his fingers and then, cupping his hand in both of hers, showed him how to maneuver it. He bent his head close to hers and she thought her heart would stop. Dazed, she knew only that touching him created an obsession to touch him all over.
They sat there for nearly an hour, their conversation low and private and laced with laughter, the tokens becoming graceful in his hands as she showed him how to make them obey. Pop came back from lunch and stared at them approvingly, then went into his rat-juggler voice and told her, “Come along, luv, n’ leave the young lord to his business.”
Dr. de Savin became brusque and reserved again. “You haven’t eaten yet,” he noted, gazing at her untouched food.
“Neither have you. Here. Take mine. I’m not hungry.”
“No. I have to get back to Atlanta. I’m on duty at the hospital tonight. I told the people I’m with that I’d meet them at the gate after lunch.” He stood and held out a hand. Amy took it, and he helped her to her feet.
“Anytime you want help with your magic tricks, you can find me at the winery,” she said, trying not to sound too desperate. “Here. Take this video token so that you can practice.” She brought it to her lips with a flourish and kissed it. “I give it my magic blessing. It won’t let you down.”
He took the token solemnly. “Thank you.”
She looked into his eyes and forgot shyness. For the first time she studied them long enough to know that they were golden brown with black rims. The brows over them were dramatic wings. His eyes were very private, but startling in the depth of emotion they could express. Right now they were somber, almost sad. He stepped closer to her and murmured, “You have a way of making a person feel happy. It’s a very great talent, and one that you should cherish. Adieu.”
Amy watched him leave. I love you, she thought with the deep, perfect conviction of a lost soul who had finally found the way home.
Sebastien thought about Amy Miracle often over the next few days, remembering her charm when she performed with her father and growing increasingly suspicious that her father was responsible for draining every bit of her self-confidence. The girl’s natural ability as a performer was obvious; her appealing, comical voice and gamine face could make a stone wall laugh.
After his rounds one day Sebastien took the token she had given him—he had tucked it in a compartment of his wallet like a good luck piece—and returned to Tom’s cubicle. Propped up on pillows and surrounded by medical equipment, the boy looked forlorn. But his eyes widened with curiosity when Sebastien pulled a chair to his bedside and sat down. “More stories?” Tom whispered eagerly.
“Look.” Sebastien held the video token in front of him, passed a hand over it, then presented both hands to Tom to show that the token had disappeared. “Magic.”
“Neat!”
“I learned this trick from a girl who plays with rats,” Sebastien told him solemnly.
“Oh, bullshit.”
“Such language! I think we’ll have to give you a new tongue as well as a new heart.”
Tom giggled a little, the sound barely audible. “Tell me what she did with rats.”
Sebastien described last Saturday’s events in great detail, and as he did he again felt the peacefulness that had fallen over him as he sat with the girl. He could easily recall the gentleness of her hands on his as she guided the tokens between his fingers, her head so close to his that her hair had brushed his cheek. He could hear her voice as she relaxed and it became husky, with a pleasing and sultry tone to it.
He told himself that his fascination with her was merely vanity; when she looked at him he saw the yearning in her eyes. He told himself that he would like to indulge her yearning out of pure masculine lust.
He talked to Tom until the boy fell asleep, glanced through the cubicle’s glass wall to the nurses’ station beyond, and when no one was looking he held the boy’s thin, unfurled hand for a moment. He left the token in it, the same token Amy Miracle had given him.
Sebastien was the son of a woman who had prayed to the Catholic saints but had kept a keen eye tuned to the more ancient reassurance of her Celtic heritage. Mysterious forces worked in her world, swirling around people and changing their lives. He honored her memory by choosing to believe that he had given Tom a bit of Amy Miracle’s magic.
Amy knew there was trouble when she got home from work one afternoon and Pop was wide-awake, waiting for her in the kitchen. She was tired and covered in the fine red dust of the vineyard. Laying her sweat-stained straw hat on the kitchen table, she waited nervously. Maisie stood in the corner, her back against her homemade ceramic chickens on the wall. Pop slumped at the kitchen table, one hand clenched and the other wrapped around a can of beer.
“Charley came by,” he said slowly.
Amy stiffened. “I guess he told you.”
“That you’re not gonna see him anymore.”
“Yeah. That’s right.”
“You think you’re gonna live off me the rest of your life?”
“No. I’ll get a job over in Athens. And I’ll find someplace to live there.”
Pop lifted his hand from the beer, made a fist, and flattened the can with one violent smash. Foam spewed in all directions. “What the hell kind of job can you do? You only open your mouth when somebody forces you to. You’re so damned lazy—”
“I had a paper route from the time I was eight till last year. I’ve been a baby-sitter more nights and weekends than not since I was old enough to get the jobs. I’ve found summer work ever since I turned fifteen. I do everything you tell me to do around here. That’s lazy?”
“You think any of that counts for shit? You gonna pay your bills over in Athens with that kind of work?”
“I’ll find jobs. I’ll work twenty hours a day if I have to.”
“You’ll end up broke and begging me for help! I won’t be responsible for you! To hell with it! You get your ass over to Charley’s tonight and make things right!”
Amy began to tremble. “No.”
He leapt to his feet. Veins stood out in his neck. Maisie clasped her chest. “Do it, Amy, please!”
Gripping the edge of a counter for support, Amy shook her head. “No.”
Pop’s face contorted with a fury she’d never seen before, because she’d never had the nerve to back-talk him before. “You’re outta here! You’re out today!”
“Please, Zack, don’t do this,” Maisie whimpered.
“You promised that I’d have a year after I turned eighteen,” Amy reminded him, horrified.
“I didn’t think you were gonna go piss-head crazy on me! What’s happened to you? Get out on your own and see how you like it! You’ve got a little money in the bank! Go live on it!”
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