“It’s not a suitable climate, but that’s not what I was trying to… You see, sir, you said lemons don’t growgoodhere. You should have said they don’t growwell.And whileain’twas once an acceptable word, it isn’t any longer. Oh, and you’ve a fondness for using double negatives.”
“That so?” He moved his chaw of tobacco to the hollow of his other cheek. “You from England?”
“England, sir?”
“You talk like them London folk. You a teacher over there? Can you speak in them furrin tongues?”
“I am not from England, sir, but from Boston. Nor am I a teacher. My brother-in-law, Upton Peabody, however, is a professor at Harvard. I have been under his tutelage since I was five years old, and yes, he has given me extensive instruction in many languages.”
“Harvard, y’say?” Rubbing his grizzled chin, the barkeep nodded slowly. “That’s somewhere in Floridy, ain’t it?” He paused to glower at a man demanding service a short distance away. “Shet your trap, mister! I’ll git to ya when I’m damn well ready to git to ya!”
Theodosia’s eyes widened. “The man is probably as thirsty as I am. I’ll have a glass of cold tea and leave you to attend to the rest of your customers.”
The barkeep retrieved a glass from a shelf beneath the bar and began wiping it with his apron. “I had me a teacher when I was a young’un, but she packed up and moved on when me and Gubb Siler filled her desk drawer with a mess o’ jest-hatched rattlers. I ain’t had much schoolin’, but I ain’t dumb. No, siree, I’m smarter’n most folks figger. I once readed a whole book from back to front. Won’t never do it again, on account o’ all that readin’ give me a headache that liked to never go away. Ain’t got no tea, ma’am. Bugs got in it. I usually jest pick them bugs out and serve the tea right up, but this time there was jest too many.”
Theodosia glanced at her watch and realized it had taken him almost three whole minutes to address the subject of the tea. Interested in such oral meandering and knowing that Upton’s interest would equal hers, she withdrew her writing materials from her reticule and jotted down a reminder to contemplate the possible reasons behind the man’s digressive discourse.
“Whatcha writin’, ma’am?”
She slipped the paper and pencil back into her handbag. “A note. Sir, plain water will do, thank you.”
He poured her a glass of water. “Ain’t cold. I had to give my ice to Doc Uggs on account o’ ole Sam Tiller’s got him a fever that won’t git brung down fer nothin’. Doc Ugg’s got Sam packed in ice. I don’t reckon Sam’s got much of a chance, though. If the fever don’t kill him, he’ll freeze to death. Purty bird ya got there, ma’am. What with his gray body and bloodred tail, he looks like a piece o’ fire embers. Howdy, bird.”
“Ole Sam Tiller’s got him a fever,” the parrot declared. “Howdy, bird.”
The barkeep’s mouth dropped open; his wad of tobacco fell out and hit the floor with a loud splat. “He—hetalks!And I’ll be damned if he don’t know ole Sam Tiller!”
Warming to the friendly man, Theodosia smiled. “He doesn’t know Mr. Tiller. He merely repeated what he heard you say about the man. His talent is extraordinary, even for a bird of his species. Most of them must hear a word or statement many times before they are able to repeat it. Of course, I’ve worked with mine for incalculable hours.”
The barkeep gave a slow nod. “What kind o’ bird is he?”
“APsittacus erithacus.”
“Piss what?”
“APsittacus erithacus,which is the scientific name for an African gray. Of all the species of parrots, African grays are quite the most impressive mimics.”
“Uh, yeah,” the barkeep mumbled. “I think I readed that somewhere.” He stuck his finger into the parrot’s cage.
“Be careful,” Theodosia warned. “The sharp angle of his jaw muscles on the bones that close his bill combine to create one of nature’s most powerful crushing mechanisms.”
“What?”
“He can bite your finger off,” she translated, collecting her belongings. “Good day to you, sir, and thank you ever so much for the highly interesting conversation and the water. I feel totally refocillated now. That is, I am completely refreshed,” she added upon seeing his frown of confusion. “Say good-bye, John the Baptist.”
The parrot flapped a wing. “I’m smarter’n most folks figger. Say good-bye, John the Baptist.”
Theodosia left the astonished barkeep and crossed to the ticket window, determined to begin an intense search for Roman Montana. “Sir,” she said to the ticket clerk, “I am to meet a man by the name of Roman Montana. He’s tall and has long black hair and blue eyes. Have you seen anyone fitting that description? Perhaps he has inquired about my whereabouts? My name is Theodosia Worth.”
The clerk pushed his spectacles back to the bridge of his nose. “Welcome to Oates’ Junction, Miz Worth. Name’s Tark. You from England?”
“Boston. Mr. Tark—”
“I thought England. Y’talk kind o’ funny, like them London furriners. It’s fancy talk, though. Meant that as a compliment. Tark’s my first name, Miz Worth. Damn flies.” He reached for a stack of papers, rolled them into a tube, and began swatting flies. Only after he’d killed about a dozen did he speak again.
“Last name’s Krat. Tark, ya see, is Krat spelled back’ards. Mama figgered that out when I was two days old and thought it was right cute. Ain’t that funny? So y’say you’re lookin’ fer Roman Montana, huh?”
Theodosia felt more eager than ever to discover the reasons behind this circumlocutory conversation.
