decided to learn more of this if he could. He brought the car about, returned to the last intersection, and turned north.
Tappy's head now faced straight ahead; there was no doubt she was orienting on something, and it was independent of the motion of the car. What could it be?
He followed the direction of her gaze until it turned to the side. There was now no road where she looked, but her excitement suggested that the thing was fairly close.
At noon he pulled into a motel consisting of a row of ramshackle cabins. He thought it was deserted, and he only intended to search for some fresh water for lunch, and perhaps to see exactly where Tappy's fascination lay. But presently a man ambled out. He was dressed in high-fronted jeans, a style Jack had thought only picture-book farmers affected. They were in the hinterlands now!
"Don't get much business hereabout, this time o' year," the man remarked amiably. He spoke with a rich backwoods accent that also caught Jack off guard. "I'm the caretaker, but I can fix you up with a cab'n if you like."
"Two, if you please," Jack said. After all, he couldn't drive forever. Tomorrow was time enough to deliver Tappy. "There's a girl with me."
"Ay-uh," the man said affirmatively. "Saw her. Two'll cost you double, you know. Don't have to spend it."
Jack smiled at his candor. "It isn't my money," he said, as though that made everything all right. He accepted the keys to the two cabins. Then a thought gave him pause. "Do you have any books? I mean simple ones, to be read aloud? Like a children's book, or--?"
The man scratched his hairy head. "Well, now. There's some things the tourists forgot." Evidently the two of them didn't rank as tourists, which was probably for the best. Jack no longer detected much accent in the caretaker. The man wandered into a back room while Jack waited at the door, and sounds of rummaging drifted out. At length he emerged with a slim volume. "Don't know about this one," he admitted. "First I come to. If it don't suit, there's others."
Jack read the title: The Little Prince, by one Antoine de Saint-Exupery. He had never heard of the man. "I'll give it a try. What do I owe you?" The man declined money for the book, to his surprise, and he went to escort Tappy to her cabin.
They had sandwiches on a wooden table outside the cabin. Tappy made them up with a certain finesse, and he was reminded again that she was used to doing for herself. It was a mistake to think of her as clumsy; of course the other senses had been stimulated to make up for her blindness. Touch and memory, sound and smell: these she possessed. And feeling.
The day clouded over. It wasn't really cold, but he wrapped Tappy in a voluminous quilt, set her on the cabin's sagging bunk, and read to her from The Little Prince. It was a curious story, a mixture of childish fantasy and adult perception, with appropriate illustrations. There were hats and boa constrictors and elephants, and confusions between them; there were gigantic bottle trees growing on pea-sized planetoids. Jack didn't know what to make of it, but Tappy seemed interested, and he continued to read all that afternoon. He took time to describe all the illustrations as they appeared.
When he came to the part about taming the fox by following the fox's own instructions, Tappy smiled. Jack could not honestly claim it was like a ray of sunshine. It was not poetic. It did not erase the terrible scar across her face. He was not about to use it as a model for a contemporary Mona Lisa portrait. It was simply a faint, frail, rather human smile. But it was the first, and his heart jumped that moment.
When he read the soliloquy to the field of roses, Tappy cried. But it was the tear of a woman at a wedding, incomprehensible but not miserable. The Little Prince had a cherished single rose, then was confronted by an entire field of roses, each as pretty as his own. But he had learned a lesson from his taming of the fox. "No one has
Tappy's head now faced straight ahead; there was no doubt she was orienting on something, and it was independent of the motion of the car. What could it be?
He followed the direction of her gaze until it turned to the side. There was now no road where she looked, but her excitement suggested that the thing was fairly close.
At noon he pulled into a motel consisting of a row of ramshackle cabins. He thought it was deserted, and he only intended to search for some fresh water for lunch, and perhaps to see exactly where Tappy's fascination lay. But presently a man ambled out. He was dressed in high-fronted jeans, a style Jack had thought only picture-book farmers affected. They were in the hinterlands now!
"Don't get much business hereabout, this time o' year," the man remarked amiably. He spoke with a rich backwoods accent that also caught Jack off guard. "I'm the caretaker, but I can fix you up with a cab'n if you like."
"Two, if you please," Jack said. After all, he couldn't drive forever. Tomorrow was time enough to deliver Tappy. "There's a girl with me."
"Ay-uh," the man said affirmatively. "Saw her. Two'll cost you double, you know. Don't have to spend it."
Jack smiled at his candor. "It isn't my money," he said, as though that made everything all right. He accepted the keys to the two cabins. Then a thought gave him pause. "Do you have any books? I mean simple ones, to be read aloud? Like a children's book, or--?"
The man scratched his hairy head. "Well, now. There's some things the tourists forgot." Evidently the two of them didn't rank as tourists, which was probably for the best. Jack no longer detected much accent in the caretaker. The man wandered into a back room while Jack waited at the door, and sounds of rummaging drifted out. At length he emerged with a slim volume. "Don't know about this one," he admitted. "First I come to. If it don't suit, there's others."
Jack read the title: The Little Prince, by one Antoine de Saint-Exupery. He had never heard of the man. "I'll give it a try. What do I owe you?" The man declined money for the book, to his surprise, and he went to escort Tappy to her cabin.
They had sandwiches on a wooden table outside the cabin. Tappy made them up with a certain finesse, and he was reminded again that she was used to doing for herself. It was a mistake to think of her as clumsy; of course the other senses had been stimulated to make up for her blindness. Touch and memory, sound and smell: these she possessed. And feeling.
The day clouded over. It wasn't really cold, but he wrapped Tappy in a voluminous quilt, set her on the cabin's sagging bunk, and read to her from The Little Prince. It was a curious story, a mixture of childish fantasy and adult perception, with appropriate illustrations. There were hats and boa constrictors and elephants, and confusions between them; there were gigantic bottle trees growing on pea-sized planetoids. Jack didn't know what to make of it, but Tappy seemed interested, and he continued to read all that afternoon. He took time to describe all the illustrations as they appeared.
When he came to the part about taming the fox by following the fox's own instructions, Tappy smiled. Jack could not honestly claim it was like a ray of sunshine. It was not poetic. It did not erase the terrible scar across her face. He was not about to use it as a model for a contemporary Mona Lisa portrait. It was simply a faint, frail, rather human smile. But it was the first, and his heart jumped that moment.
When he read the soliloquy to the field of roses, Tappy cried. But it was the tear of a woman at a wedding, incomprehensible but not miserable. The Little Prince had a cherished single rose, then was confronted by an entire field of roses, each as pretty as his own. But he had learned a lesson from his taming of the fox. "No one has
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