The Hired Girl (36 page)

Monday, September the eighteenth, 1911

How strange to recall how I felt when I broke off this narrative! How sorrowful I was, and how anxious! Today my heart is singing with joy, though David has gone. He’s back in New York, showing the new sketches to Madame Marechaux. All day long, I’ve been praying and praying that he’ll get the commission. I’ll be ironing a pillowcase or slicing a tomato, and like a flock of homing pigeons, my thoughts fly to David. Then I close my eyes and pray for him — only I scorched a pillowcase, and Malka was sarcastic at my expense.

I don’t care what Malka said. So long as I can go on thinking about David, I don’t care about anything.

I will take up my tale where the last entry ended and relive every second.

I knew it was David on the other side of the door — David, rapping very gently, using the tips of his fingers. He has such beautiful hands: real artist’s hands, tapered and strong and long fingered. Just thinking about his hands makes my skin feel warm. I’m blushing as I write this, I know.

I rushed to the nearest bookcase and stowed my diary behind a row of volumes — I would
die
of mortification if David read my diary. Then I tiptoed to the door. “Who is it?”

“It’s David. I want to show you my latest sketch. Stand aside and I’ll slide it under the door.”

I stood back. There was a crackling, rustle-y sound, and the paper slid toward my feet. It was a copy of the sketch he’d made at the opera: my face in profile, looking rapt. The way he’d done it was clever, because he used a pinkish-buff paper and three kinds of chalk: black, red, and white. With three colors he was able to suggest the colors of my skin and eyes and hair.

I thought it was beautiful. That sounds conceited, but I don’t mean
I
was beautiful. A portrait can be a beautiful portrait even if the sitter isn’t good-looking. In the sketch, my eyes looked clear and thoughtful, and my lips were parted. I didn’t look stupid at all. And I didn’t look like a big ox.

“Do you like it?” whispered David.

I did, and I wished I could keep it. Then it struck me as strange that we were talking through the door. “Why don’t you come in?”

There was a low laugh. “I thought you might be in your nightgown.”

I made haste to open the door. I wanted to laugh, but I was exasperated, too. All these past nights, I’ve waited up for him, fully dressed, with my hair up — why, sometimes I’ve done up my hair three times, just to get it right. And all the while, he was afraid to come in, because he might catch me in my kimono!

“Tell me how you like the sketch,” he begged, and though his eyes sparkled, it really was an entreaty; he cared about what I thought. So I told him how beautifully he drew.

He listened very attentively. Of course I don’t know anything about art except what I’ve learned seeing Miss Chandler’s pictures on the stereopticon and what I’ve been able to glean from Mr. Rosenbach’s books. But even I can see that he is very, very talented, perhaps a genius. I told him it was like magic, the way he could catch my likeness and make my common face seem noble and eloquent. And I praised his sense of line. I’m not entirely sure what that means, but it’s what Mr. John Singer Sargent said, so it must be all right.

He went on listening. So I said some more things. I asked why he copied the opera sketch, instead of the sketches he’d done of me in the park. He explained that he thinks the opera sketch best captures my character and was therefore the most beautiful.

I felt almost dizzy when he said that.
Beautiful.
Could he really be saying that about me? I ducked my head; I could feel that I looked downright silly with happiness.

He asked if I’d used the sketchbook he gave me and how I was getting on with my drawing. I showed him my drawing of a cup, and he got very excited, because it was so bad. He said the handle was well observed, but the rest was wrong. “You’re using your mind instead of your eyes. You think the cup is round, so you draw a circle at the rim.”

“But the cup
is
round,” I objected.

“Yes, but not at the rim,” he said. “You’re drawing what you know instead of what you see.” He strode over to his father’s whiskey tray and took up a glass. He held it in front of me, level with my chin. “What shape is the rim?”

“Round,” I said, baffled. “It’s a circle.”

“Is it?” he asked. “Trace it with your finger. No, don’t touch it. Outline the shape in the air.”

I did. I started at the left end of the glass, and my finger dipped and rose to the right, and humped back to the beginning. I saw he was right: the shape I traced was a shallow oval, like a saucer. I exclaimed in surprise, and David nodded energetically. “You
see
now! That’s it! You’ve got to
see
when you draw, and what you see —”

“Shhh!” I hissed, not because he was too loud (though he was; we’d forgotten that the house was asleep). “I heard something! Be quiet!”

I flew to the open window and stuck my head out, looking out and down. A shadow moved in the yard below.

David followed me to the window. “What is it?”

“I think it’s Thomashefsky!” I said. “I heard his meow! Oh, David! He’s been missing for five days and Malka’s heartbroken. Quickly!”

I reached for his hand as if we were children. As soon as I touched him, I remembered we weren’t. It means something when a girl lets a man hold her hand, but I didn’t have time to think about that. I was (well, mostly) thinking about Thomashefsky.

I dragged David down the back stairs to the kitchen. The front part of the kitchen was well lit because of the streetlamps, but the back was shadowy. I didn’t turn on the lights because I had an idea that if I did, Thomashefsky might run off again.

David started for the door, but I held him back. “No, no, not yet! I’ll get him something to eat.” I went to the refrigerator and filled the cat dish with herring. “Let me go to the door.”

David stood back and I stepped out into the night. “Thomashefsky? Good boy, sweet boy, want-a-little-fishy?”

No shadow stirred. My heart sank. Then I heard an accusing
miaow —
the sound a cat makes when he’s impatient for his meal. I saw him crouched amid Malka’s sorry tomato plants. “Good boy, sweet boy!” I wheedled. “Are you hungry, Thomashefsky? Do you want a little fishy?”

He meowed urgently. I retreated one step at a time, squatting and holding out the dish so he could smell the herring. Slowly he pursued me, writhing against my skirts.

I lured him inside and David shut the door. Thomashefsky sniffed the dish, his tail lashing and then swinging. He crouched down low, extending his tail straight behind him, with just the tip twitching. That’s the sign that his food is acceptable.

I hunkered down and watched the cat gobble his supper. I was so happy. I knew Malka would be overjoyed, and I couldn’t wait to surprise her. It seems to me now that I felt the last happiness of my childhood. It was simple and peaceful, nothing like the rapturous tempest that surges in my bosom as I pen these lines.

I got up and filled two more dishes for the cat: one with water and another with milk — Thomashefsky likes his little lap of milk. I glanced at David and saw that he was watching me with an odd smile on his face. I would say it was a tenderhearted smile, except that seems presumptuous.

An idea came to me. “Let’s slip upstairs and shut the cat in Malka’s room!”

David tilted his head skeptically. “Do you really think you can carry that beast up all those stairs? He always bites me.”

I expect this is true, because Thomashefsky doesn’t like David. He likes Solly the best, Malka says. But I liked the idea of surprising Malka, and I wanted to show David how well Thomashefsky and I get along. So I reached down and scooped up the cat, but that was a mistake, because he hadn’t finished eating. He said,
“Mrrroww!”
He struggled — writhed in my arms — clawed my neck — and escaped.

David came to me. “Did he bite you?”

I touched my neck and found it sticky. “He scratched me.”

David threw up his hands as if to say,
Of course.
“I’ll get the peroxide. Cat scratches can be nasty.” He went without hesitation to the cabinet where Malka keeps her medicines. I guess Malka must have doctored him when he was a little boy. “Come along! I’ll tend to you.”

I went to him and stood still. My heart raced. Maybe I should have said, “I can put the peroxide on myself.” Maybe that’s what a pure and proper young girl would have said. But I guess I’m not very pure or very proper, because I wanted him to touch me. I forgot to write that we hadn’t turned the kitchen lights on. Our eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness; I could almost have read a book in the front part of the kitchen. But where we were, next to the medicine cabinet, it was dim.

I waited. He took a clean dish towel out of the dresser and poured peroxide on it. He held my chin while he touched the damp cloth to my neck.

I want to remember everything. His thumb was under my chin, tilting it up. And there were two fingers on my cheek — his two middle fingers, I think. The nerves under my skin quivered, and a thrill coursed through me. He was very gentle. He poured the peroxide and stroked my neck with the wet towel three times — Malka always says you must cleanse the wound three times. The first two times, I didn’t dare look up. But the third time, I raised my eyes to him and murmured, “Thank you.” I wanted to say,
Thank you, David,
but I couldn’t say his name.

That’s when he kissed me.

At first I felt nothing but shock. I’ve always wondered about kissing a man — I mean about what you’re supposed to
do
when you kiss a man, because the two of you aren’t just standing there with your lips frozen together, I know that much. Something happens during a kiss, and I’ve always wondered what the something was. I’ve been worried that if I ever got engaged or anything, I wouldn’t be able to do my fair share.

And that’s just how it was, at first. I felt nothing and did nothing. And then I felt
everything:
bliss so vast and pure that I’ve thought of little else since. My head swam and I swayed toward him and I was brazen; I rested the palm of my hand against his chest. And I kissed him, and I knew how. It was
beyond everything.

He drew back too soon. He inhaled between his teeth and let out a shaky sigh. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

I thought,
Why not?

“I shouldn’t have,” he said again. “It was a caddish thing to do. But for a moment, I thought . . .” He didn’t say what he’d thought, and I wish I’d asked. “Forgive me. It won’t happen again.”

“Won’t it?” I said, dismayed. “But I liked it! I liked it better than anything!”

He started to laugh. In the half-light, his mischievous face was like the face of a seraph (except for his nose). The hollows under his cheekbones were so striking, and his curls were a dark halo. “You’re the limit,” he said. “Janet, you really are —”

I didn’t let him finish. I stepped nearer to him, and I was trembling, but I touched my fingertips to his shoulder and stood there, just stood there, close to him. After a second of terrible waiting, he drew me closer — his hands were on my waist, the back of my waist, and he kissed me again.

He was shaking with laughter, and I felt happiness vibrate between us. The second kiss was better than the first because I didn’t waste time wondering what to do. I kissed him, and after he broke away, I raised my face to his, and he kissed me a third time. Oh, his hands on the back of my waist! I felt a tingle that spread and rushed up my spine, and down to my knees, and down to my fingertips. My scalp crawled and my toes shivered. Every fiber of my being felt that kiss.

And then it was over. I could have kissed him all night long, but he stepped back, deliberately. He took my hand in his. “We’d better stop,” he said. “I shouldn’t have kissed you — but I’m glad I did.” He raised my hand to his lips and kissed it — like a cavalier in a story; it was so romantic I couldn’t breathe. Then he whispered, “Good night, Janet,” and went up the stairs, leaving me with the cat.

“Good night,” I whispered after him. I didn’t follow him. I knew our perfect interlude was over, just as I know when Mrs. Rosenbach dismisses me, though of course this was entirely different.

I think I’m glad that I didn’t chase after him, because it would have been unmaidenly. But even if we hadn’t done any more kissing, I wish we’d had time to talk about what had happened and what I felt and what he felt and how things are going to be from now on. I know there are things we’ll have to face together — my position in this household, and my humble rank, and whether he will tell his parents now or wait until later, and of course I am a Catholic and he is a Jew, which is the knottiest problem and will have to be thought
through.

But I can’t think through it now. I’m too happy. I’m blissful, even though David went back to New York on the morning train. He’ll be back for the High Holy Days — oh, they will be holy to me, because David will come back and kiss me again! All I can think about are his kisses.

Now I understand why people get married. Once you’re married you can kiss as much as you like. I wonder why married people don’t spend more time at it. I wonder how married men go off to work every morning, when they could stay home and kiss their wives. I wonder how married women set about cooking meals and supervising the servants when they must be thinking of the hour when their husbands will come home and kiss them.