Dreaming Jewels by Theodore Sturgeon

utter naturalness, a girl midget. It was Zena who made him belong, and his starved ego soaked it up. She read to him, dozens of books, dozens of kinds of books, in that deep, expressive voice which quite automatically took the parts of all the characters in a story. She led him, with her guitar and her phonograph records, into music. Nothing he learned changed him; but nothing he learned was forgotten. For Horty-Kiddo had eidetic memory.
    Havana used to say it was a pity about that hand. Zena and Kiddo wore black gloves in their act, which seemed a little odd; and besides, it would have been nice if they both played guitar. But of course that was out of the question. Sometimes Havana used to remark to Bunny, at night, that Zena was going to wear her fingers plumb off if she played all day on the bally-platform and all night to amuse Horty; for the guitar would cry and ring for hours after they bedded down. Bunny would say sleepily that Zena knew what she was doing—which was, of course, perfectly true.
    She knew what she was doing when she had Huddie thrown out of the carnival. That was bad, for a while. She violated the carny’s code to do it, and she was carny through and through. It wasn’t easy, especially because there was no harm in Huddie. He was a roustabout, with a broad back and a wide, tender mouth. He idolized Zena, and was happy to include Kiddo in his inarticulate devotion. He brought them cookies and cheap little scatter-pins from the towns, and squatted out of sight against the base of their bally-platform to listen raptly while they rehearsed.
    He came to the trailer to say goodbye when he was fired. He had shaved, and his store suit didn’t fit very well. He stood on the step holding a battered straw “keyster” and chewed hard on some half-formed words that he couldn’t quite force out. “I got fired,” he said finally.
    Zena touched his face. “Did—did the Maneater tell you why?”
    Huddie shook his head. “He jus’ called me in and handed me my time. I ain’t done nothin’, Zee. I—I didn’ say nothin’ t’ him, though. Way he looked, he like to kill me. I—I jus’ wish…” He blinked, set down his suitcase, and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “Here,” he said. He reached into his breast pocket, thrust a small package at Zena, turned and ran.
    Horty, sitting on his bunk and listening wide-eyed, said, “Aw… Zee, what’s he done? He’s such a nice feller!”
    Zena closed the door. She looked at the package. It was wrapped in gilt gift paper and had a red ribbon with a multiple, stringy bow. Huddie’s big hands must have spent an hour over it. Zena slipped the ribbon off. Inside was a chiffon kerchief, gaudy and cheap and just the bright present that Huddie would choose after hours of careful searching.
    Horty suddenly realized that Zena was crying. “What’s the matter?”
    She sat beside him and took his hands. “I went and told the Maneater that Huddie was—was bothering me. That’s why he was fired.”
    “But—Huddie never did anything to you! Nothing bad.”
    “I know,” Zena whispered. “Oh, I know. I lied. Huddie had to go—right away.”
    Horty stared at her. “I don’t understand about that, Zee.”
    “I’m going to explain it to you,” she said carefully. “It’s going to hurt, Horty, but maybe that’ll prevent something else happening that will hurt much more. Listen. You always remember everything. You were talking to Huddie yesterday, remember?”
    “Oh, yes. I was watching him and Jemmy and Ole and Stinker drive stakes. I love to watch ’em. They stand around in a circle with their big heavy sledgehammers and each one taps easy—plip, plip, plip, plip—and then each one swings the hammer right over their head and hits with all their might—blap, blap, blap, blap!—so fast! An’ that ol’ stake, it jus’ melts into the ground!” He stopped, his eyes shining, hearing and seeing the machine-gun rhythm of the sledge crew with all the detail