A Fair Maiden Page 6

  She heard the death bell knelling.

  And every stroke did seem to say,

  Hardhearted Barbara Allen.

  8

  SHE CALLED THE MAGIC NUMBER. On the back of Mr. Kidder's card.

  She had not thrown the little white card away. She'd kept the little white card, knowing it might be precious.

  Thinking, Momma would approve. Momma would be impressed!

  It was a shock to her that her mother had returned to Atlantic City, as she'd promised not to do; yet it was not truly a surprise. You did not want to inquire too closely into what Essie Spivak was doing in Atlantic City, but there was no doubt: the raw appeal in her voice, her fear, her terrible need, could not be mistaken. Katya smiled to think how, in Atlantic City, if you didn't have money yourself, the next best thing was to be connected with someone who did.

  The phone rang. There came a woman's voice: "Hello. Kidder residence."

  Katya had an impulse to hang up quickly. This would be the housekeeper, Mrs. Bee. But she said, "Mr. Kidder, please."

  "And who shall I say is calling?"

  "Katya."

  A brief, chill pause. Invisible Mrs. Bee frowned. "Katya who?"

  "Just Katya. Mr. Kidder expects me to call, and he will know who Katya is."

  And this turned out to be so.

  9

  IT WAS ARRANGED: Katya would go that night to 17 Proxmire Street, to Mr. Kidder's studio at the rear of the house. She was not to ring the doorbell—"Mrs. Bee need not be involved, dear!" She was to go to Mr. Kidder at dusk—that is, as soon as she was free of her obligations to the Engelhardts, and free of their scrutiny. After the children were safely in bed for the night.

  Nearly 11 P.M. when at last Katya slipped away from the Engelhardts' house, from her ground-floor room that opened onto New Liberty Street. In stealth she slipped away. There were lights in the Engelhardts' bedroom, but they would have no idea that their hired girl was gone from the house. Half walking, half running to Proxmire Street, thinking with a thrill of dread, No one will know where I am. Except Marcus Kidder.

  On the phone, he'd been immediately sympathetic. Katya had told him it was a "family emergency," a "medical emergency," and there was a tremor in her voice he could not have doubted.

  At this hour Proxmire Street was quiet, mostly darkened. Behind the ten-foot privet hedge the large old oceanside houses of the wealthy were near-invisible. At 17 Proxmire, Katya hesitated before pushing open the wrought-iron gate. Almost she wished the gate might be locked: she would turn away then, and go back to the ground-floor nanny's room. But the gate swung open at her touch, for it was a gate that was never locked. He will help me, Katya thought. Her heart beat wildly in anticipation.

  Here, so close to the ocean, the air was balmy and windy and smelled of rain. The large shingleboard house loomed up before Katya like a great sail-ship becalmed on land. Most of the house appeared to be dark; only a wan light glowed at the rear. Katya followed the flagstone path toward the front stoop and then walked through the thick damp grass to the rear. How quiet it was! If someone saw her! In Bayhead Harbor there were security patrols, local police in squad cars cruising Ocean Avenue and the secluded tree-lined streets of the wealthy. If Katya were sighted making her way through the grass like this ... But no one saw, no one stopped her. At the rear of the house she saw Mr. Kidder in the lighted room, standing at a rear door looking out. At once the scene was comforting to her: a secret place, a haven. On the flagstone terrace where they'd had "tea-time," an outdoor light shone. There was no moon; the sky was oppressive and opaque. The ocean, which should have been visible on the far side of the dunes, had vanished, except for the heavy sullen slap-slap-slap of the surf. Katya hesitated, feeling a strange thrill of excitement, seeing white-haired Mr. Kidder another time before he was aware of her.

  She liked it that he was so tall. That he carried himself with dignity. From this distance he was a handsome man, you would think: you could not see the fine creases and lines in his skin. And how thoughtful he looked, standing in the doorway. When Katya stepped forward breathlessly into the light, Mr. Kidder was roused from his dreamy mood, came quickly to seize her by the hands and draw her into the house with him. "Dear Katya! You've come."

  Warmth lifted from his skin. There was a fragrant scent of cologne, a smell of something tartly sweet on his breath as he stooped to brush his lips against her cheek.

  Katya stiffened involuntarily. This was not a kiss exactly—was it? In her agitated state, she did not want to be touched.

  The studio was as Katya recalled it from her first visit: the lattice windows, crowded bookshelves, brightly colored sofa and chairs. On the walls, Mr. Kidder's portraits; in vases, glittering and gleaming like sparks of fire, Mr. Kidder's fossil flowers. At night, by lamplight, the space looked larger, more mysterious; the artist's easel and art things were obscured in shadow in a far corner. There was the smell of paint and turpentine, which made Katya's nostrils pinch.

  A private room; no one would intrude. Mrs. Bee had very likely gone to bed.

  "Dear Katya! You sounded so upset on the phone. Some sort of family emergency—what is it?"

  Katya had prepared a story of medical bills, hospital bills, health problems, but as Mr. Kidder regarded her with his sympathetic blue gaze, the admonition came to her: Can't lie to this man! He sees into my heart. "My mother owes someone money. She's in Atlantic City. I hadn't known that. She's terrified. She asked me to borrow money from Mrs. Engelhardt, but Mrs. Engelhardt refused. My mother used to work at a casino in Atlantic City—she was a blackjack dealer. That's where she met my father. Sometimes I hate her, Mr. Kidder, I wish she would die! Then I'm so afraid for her, that something will happen to her and she will die. She needs three hundred dollars right away, and I have seventy dollars saved, so I only need to borrow..." In dismay Katya heard her voice, faltering, flat, the nasal Jersey accent that rendered even these heartfelt words unconvincing as if fabricated—and yet she was telling the truth.

  Mr. Kidder listened gravely. As Katya continued to speak, words spilling from her, angry half-sobs, quietly Mr. Kidder went to a desk, took up a checkbook, and asked her to spell out her mother's name. The check was for three hundred dollars.

  Three hundred! Katya had asked for less.

  With childlike gratitude she squeezed his hand and leaned on her toes to brush her lips against the man's dry, just perceptibly wrinkled cheek. "Mr. Kidder, thank you! You are so—so wonderful! I will pay this back, I promise. I will pay it back with interest."

  Mr. Kidder laughed, pleased. He indicated that Katya should sit down. "I'm sure you will, Katya. In time."

  Now she had the check, a slip of paper magically containing the wholly unlike names Esther Spivak and Marcus C. Kidder, Katya would have liked to leave. But how could she say no to Mr. Kidder's hospitality after he'd been so kind to her? She could not.

  She sat on a sofa with chintz-covered pillows. She supposed that Mr. Kidder would offer her something to drink—he'd been drinking wine, she guessed—but instead he sat facing her, somewhat distractedly, in a straight-backed chair; he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He was wearing an expensive-looking linen shirt in a pale lavender shade, and dark purple summer trousers with a sharp crease. Katya did not want to think that the white-haired old gentleman had changed his clothes, combed his hair, and shaved, just for her. (Maybe he'd had other guests at the house earlier? Maybe he'd gone out with friends?) In the warm lamplight Katya could see the crinkled skin beside Mr. Kidder's eyes, from so many years of smiling; she could see stray wirelike white hairs protruding from his eyebrows and from his ears. Katya smiled, thinking, Those hairs would tickle! and Mr. Kidder asked what she was smiling at, and Katya blushed and said she didn't know.

  "Maybe you're happy, Katya? That's reason enough."

  Katya agreed, it was.

  "You are a happy person, I think? You seem to have the gift of joy." Mr. Kidder spoke lightly, as if "gift of joy" had quotation marks
around it. "Except for your concern for your mother, which is altogether natural."

  Katya agreed, it was.

  "Or are you just agreeing with me, eccentric old Marcus Kidder, in order to be, like any clever child, agreeable?"

  Katya laughed, blushing. The check was in her straw bag and the straw bag on her knees, and in a fleeting fantasy she saw herself raising both elbows, employing her sharp elbows like weapons if Mr. Kidder moved toward her.

  But this was a shameful thought, and a ridiculous thought: Mr. Kidder was not that sort of man, you could tell.

  "Do you believe in soul mates, Katya? That some individuals are fated for each other? No matter the differences between them. No matter the vagaries of external circumstance."

  Vagaries. The word made Katya uneasy; she wasn't sure of its meaning. But soul mate she guessed she understood.

  From a nearby table Mr. Kidder had taken up an artist's sketchbook, to show her a drawing in pastel chalk, which made Katya laugh in surprise. "Mr. Kidder, is that me?" For the softly muted, feathery drawing was of a girl who resembled Katya enough to be a sister, with the Spivak family cheekbones, the set of Katya's eyes, the slant of her eyebrows and the shape of her nose...

  "This is Katya-in-memory, not you," Mr. Kidder said, with mild disdain for the drawing, though Katya thought it was amazing, wonderful: her, and yet not her, a younger, softer-featured, prettier, and surely nicer Katya Spivak. "Now that you are here, my vision seated before me, I see exactly where I went wrong. May I—?" Mr. Kidder tore the sketch out of the book and to Katya's dismay crumpled it in his fist as if it were of no worth. He took up a stick of chalk and began sketching, peering at Katya as if taking her measure. "If you aren't tired, Katya, and don't mind posing for me. For just a few minutes."

  Katya was uneasy. She had not expected this. Yet telling herself, How can I say no? Mr. Kidder has been so kind.

  And so Katya posed for the first time for Marcus Kidder. Self-conscious, unsure what to do with her hands. She wet her lips nervously. She felt a sudden itch in her right armpit that she couldn't dare scratch. Mr. Kidder asked her to turn her head toward the light, to lift her shoulders and lean forward, to cross her legs at the ankles, uncross her legs, again cross her legs at the knees ... Over her T-shirt and shorts she was wearing a loose-fitting white terrycloth pullover, which Mr. Kidder asked her to remove, which she did. Yet still something wasn't right. "Too much shadow is being cast onto your face. Come here, Katya—this will be much better." Mr. Kidder switched on lights at the rear of the studio, dragged over a wooden stool with a back and arms of about the height of a baby's highchair for Katya to sit in. He stood at the easel, more comfortable there, and began rapidly sketching, pausing from time to time to adjust Katya's arms, legs, shoulder, head, as if she were a mannequin; he asked her to remove her hair from her ponytail, which she did. "Ah! Such lovely hair, it seems cruel to disguise."

  By degrees Katya began to feel less self-conscious. This was flattering—wasn't it? How many girls, how many women in Vineland, had ever posed for an actual artist? Katya smiled to think how she would show her portrait to her sisters and to her mother; just possibly to Roy Mraz, who might not laugh at her but be impressed. This rich guy. In Bayhead Harbor, right on the ocean...

  Mr. Kidder was saying that he'd known from the first, seeing Katya on Ocean Avenue, that there was something special in her, and something special between them; in the course of a life, there are not really many mysteries, not mysteries you would call profound, but he had no doubt that this was one of them: "The link between us. Which isn't yet evident. But will emerge, I think—like a glass flower taking shape, molten glass at first and then shaped, completed."

  Vaguely Katya nodded, though she wasn't sure that she understood; she did feel, she supposed, some sort of rapport with this man that she'd never quite felt with any other older man, she guessed. Her father had been much younger when she'd last seen him...

  Mr. Kidder paused, lightly chiding her: "Dear Katya! No melancholia, please. The gift of joy is my subject tonight."

  Katya looked up, and Katya smiled. She could almost think that Mr. Kidder had the power to make her beautiful, if he drew her "beautiful." If Katya was beautiful, maybe her picture would be in the newspaper one day, or on TV; her father would see her, recognize her, and return to Vineland...Stupid, Katya thought. You are such an asshole—just stop.

  Mr. Kidder told her that he was by nature a nocturnal being and wondered if Katya was, too, and Katya said yes, she'd always liked to stay up late past her bedtime and read, since she'd been a little girl. And sometimes she would sneak away—not even her sisters would know where she'd gone—out of the house and into a neighbor's old barn that hadn't been used for years but still smelled of hay, and of horses and cows ... Mr. Kidder asked Katya what she liked to read, and Katya said any kind of book, from the public library in Vineland; when she had a book to read, she never felt lonely. Mr. Kidder asked her if at other times she felt lonely, and Katya said "Yes!" Yes, she did. Not meaning to speak so emotionally, but that was how it came out, for Mr. Kidder spoke so kindly to her, Katya was drawn to say more than she meant. And Mr. Kidder paused in his sketching, saying that that was true for him, too: "The more people you know, like me, the vast network of relatives, old, dear friends, business associates—ah, so many of these!—for Marcus Cullen Kidder is, among myriad other identities, a trust-fund child—shamelessly so, at this advanced age yet a child—the lonelier you are."

  Such a twisty speech, like a pretzel: Katya had to laugh. Mr. Kidder was like no one she knew, both eloquent and comical. He was the most intelligent person she'd ever met, far more intelligent than any of her teachers at Vineland H.S., and yet he was so playful, like someone on TV. Behind the easel he did a kind of shuffle-dance and made a snorting noise with his lips. Katya felt inspired to say, "Mr. Kidder, that can't be right. Anyone would think that a person who lives in a house like this right on the ocean and has a famous name everyone in Bayhead Harbor knows would never be lonely," and Mr. Kidder made the snorting noise again, saying, "'Anyone' is a blockhead."

  Blockhead! Katya had never heard this word before. It made her laugh.

  "I think you're being silly, Mr. Kidder. Like Funny Bunny. You make things up to worry over, then believe them."

  "Do I!" Mr. Kidder paused in his sketching to regard Katya with thoughtful eyes. "But Funny Bunny is cuddly, eh? As his creator, M.K., is not."

  To this Katya made no reply.

  A fair maiden, he'd called her. That other time. When he'd played that beautiful song, "Barbara Allen," for her. Saying she made him think of—what was it?—heimweh, homesickness. She had not understood; she'd have liked to ask but dared not.

  He'd spoken of a special mission for Katya. Not to be revealed quite yet. Handsomely rewarded...

  As if Mr. Kidder could read her thoughts and did not wish to acknowledge them, briskly he told her to "relax, please"—to turn her shoulders just slightly to the left and brush her hair out of her eyes: "We need to see those beautiful if over-wary eyes, dear!" Positioning herself at a new angle, Katya could now see several of the portraits on the wall: women and girls so rendered by the artist's graceful brushstrokes as to bear a family resemblance, especially in their smiles, which were similarly sweet, hopeful. Katya had no way of knowing if Mr. Kidder's subjects really did resemble one another or whether this was the way the portraitist saw them, or wished to see them. Not one of the subjects was less than attractive, and yet not one was glamorous like the women in the framed photographs in Mr. Kidder's music room. Here was a more innocent sort of female beauty, as the ages of the subjects appeared to be generally younger. Katya was most struck by a girl of her approximate age, with pale blond hair arranged in a classically smooth old-fashioned pageboy, and an ethereally delicate face; the girl's eyes were hazel, made to glow with light by the artist's touch, as if alive. Around her slender neck she wore a dark velvet ribbon affixed by a pearl pin. In the bottom right-hand corner of th
e portrait was NAOMI 1956.

  "That girl, Naomi—who is she?" Katya asked, and Mr. Kidder said, frowning, "No one. Now." It was a blunt statement that made Katya uneasy. References to Mr. Kidder's private life that weren't initiated by Mr. Kidder himself seemed to register with him as a kind of affront.

  Whose business? None of your business. Katya knew: you can't push them too far. Adult men, and guys like Roy Mraz, who could turn mean without warning.

  Thinking of Roy, Katya felt suddenly weak, faint. Rarely did she allow herself to think of her "distant cousin," knowing it would upset her. Yet a wave of longing came over her for Roy's rough hands, his mouth...

  Jesus, Katya! Nobody's going to hurt you.

  "Eyes here, please!" Gently Mr. Kidder chided Katya, who turned to him with a pained smile, trying not to squint though there was a piercing light from a high-wattage bulb in her eyes like a sliver of glass.

  As if Mr. Kidder had known where Katya's thoughts had drifted, he became distracted, disappointed with what he'd sketched. "Damn!" He crumpled the portrait he'd been sketching in his fist, tossed it onto the floor; Katya winced as if he'd hit her. Yet did this mean the session was ending? And she could leave? Katya noticed that his forehead was oily with perspiration and his breath was sounding husky, as if there might be something clogged in his sinuses or in his chest. Mr. Kidder wiped his face with a handkerchief, turned aside to press the heel of his hand against his chest, as if to mitigate pain; Katya had seen one of her elderly Spivak relatives make a similar gesture, standing apart from the others at a family gathering. But Mr. Kidder quickly recovered. It did not seem that truly there was anything wrong with Marcus Kidder, who made it a point to stand so straight and to speak so forcibly to his model. Asking her now if she'd like a little break and something to drink—"If, discreetly, I dilute it with sparkling water, a half-glass of wine?"—but before Katya could accept the offer, quickly Mr. Kidder said, "Better not, Katya! Not tonight." He went away and returned with a tall, fizzing glass of what appeared to be club soda for Katya, with a twist of lemon, and for himself a glass of dark red wine.