A Fair Maiden (5 page)

4

H
ERE WAS A SURPRISE
: Mr. Kidder was not only an artist but a writer. Of children's books, at least.

Only after they'd returned from their tea-time at Mr. Kidder's house and Katya had found time to sit down with Tricia and read
Funny Bunny's Birthday Party
to her did she discover that Mr. Kidder had given Tricia his own book: that is, Marcus Cullen Kidder was both the author and the illustrator.

Katya was embarrassed. She hadn't so much as glanced at the name on the colorful book cover when she'd taken it from Tricia. It was like Mr. Kidder—modesty and vanity so mixed, you could not distinguish one from the other—not to have hinted that the book was his. Katya turned to the title page, where in a flowing script in purple ink Mr. Kidder had inscribed the book
To Tricia, in the fervent hope that she will never change.
Mr. Kidder's signature was such a flourish of the pen you'd have had to know that the scrawled name was Marcus Cullen Kidder to decipher it.

Tricia adored
Funny Bunny.
Tricia could not get enough of
Funny Bunny.
Tricia insisted that Katya read it to her again and yet again. The best part of being a nanny, Katya thought, was reading children's books aloud to enraptured children like Tricia, for no one had read such books aloud to her when she'd been a little girl. There hadn't been such books in the Spivak household on County Line Road, nor would there have been any time for such interludes. Katya had to concede that Funny Bunny was a wonderfully cuddly plump white rabbit with upright pink ears, a pink nose, appealing shiny brown eyes. As the artist depicted him, Funny Bunny was funny without knowing it; you could laugh at Funny Bunny, though not meanly. Funny Bunny had many worries and all of them were imaginary. His greatest worry was that everyone had forgotten his birthday, but in fact all of his brothers and sisters and animal friends in the woods had prepared a surprise birthday party for him which left Funny Bunny with many wonderful gifts (among them—Katya smiled; Marcus Kidder was so clever—a magician's top hat, for Funny Bunny to disappear into when he wished to hide) but, more important, made him realize that he had many friends who cared for him. The final drawing showed Funny Bunny at bedtime in a drowsy tangle of brother and sister bunnies: "And so Funny Bunny knew he was never alone for a minute, even when he thought he was."

Katya thought,
Whoever wrote such a story has a beautiful soul.

"Katya, what is this? This—
Funny Bunny's Birthday Party?
" Mrs. Engelhardt had discovered the book and was leafing through it, frowning. "Where did Tricia get this book?"

Carefully Katya explained that the author himself had given it to Tricia; that was his signature inside. He lived in Bayhead Harbor.

And Mrs. Engelhardt turned to the title page and read the inscription and puzzled over the wild scrawl of the signature. "Kidder! Kidder is a prominent name in Bayhead Harbor, I think. Isn't there a Kidder Memorial somewhere—the library? Isn't it named for that family? Where did you meet Mr. Kidder—at the library?" It was like Mrs. Engelhardt to speak rapidly, to ask and to answer her own questions, but Katya said, "In Harbor Park. We were feeding geese ... Mr. Kidder is a white-haired old man, and very sweet."

Distractedly Mrs. Engelhardt leafed through the picture book, examining the highly detailed, striking drawings of Funny Bunny and his companions. If Mrs. Engelhardt had not been expecting houseguests within the hour and been involved in preparing a dinner party for ten that evening at the house, she might have had more than a vague interest in Bayhead Harbor resident Marcus Kidder and exactly how he'd come to give her daughter the book. "Signed with the author's signature—this might be a collector's item one day..." Ordinarily Mrs. Engelhardt was given to suspect that her good nature and her trust were being subtly betrayed by persons in her employ, unless she was vigilant; she had to keep a sharp eye on both her live-in housekeeper and her live-in nanny. But she was pleased with Katya now, and smiled at her with such genuine feeling, Katya felt a thrill of affection for her employer, who was not so bad after all and with whom she might—almost, in another context—be friends. Here was a triumph for Lorraine Engelhardt: a beautiful children's book signed by the author, inscribed to her daughter. In weeks to come, frequently Katya would observe Lorraine showing
Funny Bunny's Birthday Party
to visitors, proudly opening it to the title page.

Now she said to Katya, "Tricia should write this dear old man a thank-you note. I mean, we should write. Could you take care of this, Katya? Buy a nice card at the drugstore and write a nice note and help Tricia to 'sign' her name. Be sure to include our address and telephone number, in case Mr. Kidder wants to respond. I'm sure that you can find his address in the telephone directory, or from a librarian at the library."

Katya said happily, "Yes, Mrs. Engelhardt. I will."

5

T
HIS TIME KATYA
didn't pause to ring Mr. Kidder's doorbell.

It was Wednesday afternoon, Katya's half-day off. On her way to the beach she was stopping by
17
Proxmire Street to take the thank-you note from Tricia Engelhardt in person. Out of colorful construction paper she and the little girl had made a thank-you card, and in crayon, with Katya guiding her shaky little hand, Tricia had signed her name. Katya was pleased with their work, though on her way out of the house, Mrs. Engelhardt had had time merely to glance at it. Katya smiled, thinking,
I will deliver it by hand.

Vowed she would not return to that house, but now it was happening.
Would not
transformed to
would
as naturally as the happy resolution of Funny Bunny's worries.

As she pushed through the wrought-iron gate, she began to hear a piano being played somewhere inside the shingleboard house. This time the pianist paused repeatedly in his playing, broke off and began again impatiently. Impulsively Katya left the flagstone path, circled the house on the damp grassy lawn, and found herself at the rear, right-hand corner of the house, where, through a screened window, she saw white-haired Mr. Kidder seated at a piano, his back to her. Picking at the keyboard, playing briefly with both hands and then abruptly stopping ... Katya liked it: clever Marcus Kidder had no idea that anyone was spying on
him.

Another roll of the dice—this felt right.

Go with your gut, gamblers know. And this Katya Spivak knew.

She was wearing her swimsuit beneath a pair of white shorts and a blue Bayhead Harbor Yacht Club T-shirt passed on to her by Mrs. Engelhardt because it was too small for Katya's employer's fleshy shoulders and breasts. She'd brushed her streaked-blond hair until it shone, and she was wearing flashy jade studs in her ears. She liked it that Marcus Kidder would be surprised to see her, and that it seemed to be a casual thing for Katya to drop by
17
Proxmire Street, as if the impressive house behind the privet hedge were a natural stop for a nanny from south Jersey on her way to the public beach.

Katya stood in the grass listening to Mr. Kidder at the piano. She was carrying a bulky straw bag, the thank-you note inside. She loved the sensation of being unseen, the thrill of trespassing on a rich man's property without his knowing. Through the window screen she saw how, when Mr. Kidder ceased playing the piano, he leaned forward to scribble something on a stiff sheet of paper. She thought,
He is a composer, too. He composes music,
and the realization seemed wonderful to her, magical.

Softly Katya called to him: "Hello, Mr. Kidder."

Comical to see how surprised the white-haired old man was! Katya laughed as he turned to her, astonished. He was wearing glasses with chunky black frames, which he hurriedly removed. "Why, Katya! Is that you?"

He stumbled to open a door. Katya stood hesitantly in the grass, saying she didn't want to disturb him, she'd brought something to deliver to him.

"Something—for me?" Mr. Kidder stood in the doorway, frowning and smiling, gazing at Katya with that melting sick-sinking look that left Katya feeling faint, lightheaded herself.
He wants me, this old man.
Desire and yearning in Mr. Kidder's startled blue eyes were like nothing Katya saw in the eyes of other, younger men, like Roy Mraz.

But Mr. Kidder managed to compose himself. You could see the transformation as if a spotlight had been turned upon an actor. "You've forgiven me, Katya dear? I was hoping you would."

Katya laughed, feeling a hot, pleasurable blush rise in her face. "No! I have not. I'm only here for a few minutes on my way to..." In the confusion of the moment, Katya had forgotten where she was going.

"Come in! If but 'for a few minutes,' each minute will be precious."

To enter the house, Katya had to brush close by Mr. Kidder, who stood just inside the doorway, holding the screen door open. She was uncomfortably aware of his closeness: his height, the warmth that lifted from his skin, his quickened breathing, a faint scent of cologne. At least, Katya thought the scent must be cologne. As if possibly Mr. Kidder had been expecting a visitor this afternoon, he wasn't wearing beltless khaki shorts but pale beige linen trousers and a pale green shirt of some fine-woven fabric; on his feet, the sporty white yachtsman's shoes. He was cleanshaven; the floating white hair was not disheveled. Katya thought that he might grasp her hands in his, he might try to kiss her, but she slipped past him.

Exhilarated, she thought,
He wants me! Me, me!

Katya found herself in a room of surpassing beauty—a "drawing room"? At its center was a gleaming cream-colored grand piano, the largest Katya had ever seen.

"It's a concert grand, Katya. But I assure you, my playing is far from grand."

Katya laughed. She could think of no reply to Mr. Kidder's remark. In her fevered imagination of the past twenty-four hours, she'd rehearsed what she might say to Marcus Kidder, but in these scenarios only Katya spoke, not Mr. Kidder.

Out of her straw bag Katya took the handmade card. "This is for you, Mr. Kidder. From Tricia Engelhardt, who adores
Funny Bunny
and has made me read it to her a dozen times already."

The envelope of red construction paper was decorated with animal stickers. Mr. Kidder took it from Katya with a perplexed smile. You could see he had no idea who Tricia Engelhardt was. But when he removed the card and read the thank-you note Katya had composed, he was stricken with sudden emotion. "Why, this is a ... work of art. This is"—to Katya's dismay, he spoke haltingly, brushing at his eyes with his fingertips—"very beautiful."

Katya stared. It was weakness in adults she hated, that frightened her.

Her grandfather Spivak had been a prison guard at Glassboro for nearly thirty years. He'd ruined his health with smoking, heavy drinking; he shuffled when he walked, as if broken-backed; but he wasn't weak. Never would he have been stricken with emotion like this, for something so trivial. And Katya's father, whom she had not seen in some time, would never have displayed such weakness before witnesses. She was sure!

Boldly, Katya prowled about the room. She scarcely listened to the white-haired man's halting speech; she'd have liked to press her hands over her ears. Here was a room of surpassing beauty, she thought. Not cluttered and smelling of paint and turpentine like Mr. Kidder's studio but furnished with beautiful things like a show window. The floor was polished hardwood—parket?—
parkay?
—and over it lay a large oval Oriental rug of a dark dusty-rose color. Surrounding the piano were sofas with brightly colored pillows, white wicker chairs, lamps with flaring white shades. On the walls, grass green wallpaper: silk? On the mantel above a wide white brick fireplace were vases containing glass flowers—Mr. Kidder's fossil flowers—of striking colors and shapes. There was a stereo set in a carved mahogany cabinet, and there were shelves of records so tightly crammed together that Katya's head ached to see them. So much music! And none of Mr. Kidder's music, she seemed to know, would be familiar to her.

Solemnly she said, "This is a very beautiful room, Mr. Kidder. I think this must be a special room."

"Yes it is, dear. At the moment."

Dear!
She smiled.

At the Engelhardts' house, Katya Spivak was invisible. Unless Mrs. Engelhardt suddenly spoke to her, with a quick hard smile and a request, or a reprimand. In her own household in Vineland, Katya Spivak was likely to be even less visible, for often there was no one home: her mother's work hours shifted mysteriously. But here in Mr. Kidder's drawing room, Katya Spivak was wholly visible.

Conscious of Mr. Kidder watching her as she moved about the room like a curious child. Conscious at the same time of her ponytail swinging between her shoulder blades, her smooth tanned legs springy and taut as a dancer's legs. In the mirror above the mantel there was a very pretty young girl with streaked-blond hair and a daring red slash of a mouth, thrilling to see. And in the corner of her eye Katya saw, or believed she saw, Mr. Kidder moving toward her. She steeled herself for the man's touch, his embrace; she would push away from him if he tried to embrace her. But she felt instead only a tentative stroke of her ponytail. She did not turn around but moved away as if not noticing. And when she went to peer curiously at a shelf of records (all Mozart? Katya was sure she'd never heard any of Mozart's music), she saw, to her surprise, that Mr. Kidder hadn't moved and could not have touched her hair; he was only gazing at her with a smile of longing. In his hand was the construction-paper card, which he seemed to be taking so seriously. He said, "Of course I remember dear Tricia. And you are Tricia's nanny, and you are obviously the creator of this card for Marcus Cullen Kidder, which he will prize forever."

Now Katya understood that Mr. Kidder was joking: the wistful old-man yearning, the maudlin words, were meant to be funny.