The Hired Girl (10 page)

When I stepped outside, the man with the yellow hair was standing under a lamppost. “Look here!” he said. “You’ve been on my conscience, not knowing where you’re going to spend the night and all. Fact is, I’ve thought of just the place for you. It’s four blocks from here. I’ll take you there.”

I was so relieved that I exclaimed, “Oh, that is
so
kind!” but then I remembered caution. So I said, “I mustn’t trouble you to take me, sir. If you’ll just direct me, I can find my way. Is it a clean place, and respectable?” Though at that moment, I really didn’t care about the clean part; I’d have settled for respectable, even if there were mice.

“First-rate respectable,” said the yellow-haired man, “but you’ve got to let me put in a word for you. They wouldn’t take just anyone, that’s the thing. They know me at this boardinghouse. I’m a commercial traveler, you see.”

I said, “Thank you,” and he started telling me about being a commercial traveler, but I didn’t listen very hard. I was worrying about whether the first-rate boardinghouse would be expensive. I walked beside that man all unsuspecting, like a lamb to the slaughter. Now that I write this, I can see how rash I was. But I’m not used to men being depraved, because I never have any nice clothes.

So I let him lead me to a row of houses with steps in front and deep porches. None of them had a sign saying there were vacancies, and that troubled me, but he pointed to one and stood aside so that I could go up the stairs. He followed me. Once we were by the doorway, in the shadows — oh! the horror and shame of it! — he swung me around, seized me in his arms, and kissed me.

Never
could I have imagined such an insult. And the thing itself — the kiss — was
disgusting.
His mouth was wet, and I could feel how hot and sweaty he was under his jacket. But I didn’t say a word. I froze like a rabbit. I was so taken aback — the whole thing was so disagreeable — that it robbed me of my power of speech. And then — between the first loathsome kiss and the second one — he murmured that if I didn’t have that shiner, I’d be a fine-looking girl. And then — oh, God! — he put his nasty hand on the front of my
dress
!

That infamous touch shocked me into action. I remembered that I was as strong as an ox, and I shoved him with all my strength. I kicked him in the shins so hard my boot hurt. He yelped, and tried to grab hold of me again, but I kicked him again, higher up this time, the way I used to kick Luke when I was a little girl and he tried to bully me. And with that kick, I gained my freedom and preserved my virtue.

I fled. It’s a queer thing about cities. If you raced through the streets in a small town, everyone would ask why you were running. But Baltimore’s a big city, and the people I rushed by paid no heed to my flight. I had but one idea in my head — to get away from that awful, horrid, nasty man. I was sure he was right on my heels. So I ran like a deer, never looking left or right, darting across streets at random. I was convinced that if I didn’t run mighty fast, he would renew his horrid attentions.

I ran until I had a stitch in my side. When at last I stopped, I was at the edge of a park: a beautiful park, with a big fountain trickling water, and beds of flowers.

It’s now so dark that I can’t see the page.

I will write more tomorrow.

Wednesday, July the fifth, 1911

I have a candle tonight. I was a little afraid to ask for one — Malka and I have been getting on so well — but I desperately wanted to write this evening. I am so far behind with my diary! New things happen every day, and I can’t write them because I haven’t caught up yet.

So I asked for the candle, and Malka looked at me. Malka’s eyelids come down over her eyes like hoods, but she can work the muscles around them in a way that makes her look more solemn and shocked than anyone I’ve ever met. The first time she looked at me that way, I thought I should turn to stone. Since then, I’ve learned that she gives out that look
all the time.
I can’t say I blame her, because it’s awfully effective.

She said accusingly, “You’ve been going upstairs in the dark?”

I said, yes, I had.

“Take a candle,” she said, and she handed me a china chamberstick. “Matches are in the dresser. There’s a brass box near your bed to keep them in. Don’t burn the house down.”

I promised I wouldn’t — but here I must stop, because I haven’t yet come to Malka. I left off my story in the park of Eutaw Place, only I didn’t yet know it was Eutaw Place.

It was there that I stopped running. I’d imagined that a big city like Baltimore would be row upon row of houses, all squeezed together; I’d never pictured a park. This park was sandwiched between two broad avenues, so that on both sides of the street, the houses overlooked the garden. Even in the dark — and it wasn’t altogether dark, because of the streetlamps — I could see how fine the garden was.

I looked at the houses. They were row houses, but they looked more like palaces — tall and spacious, with balconies and porches and great bay windows to let in the light. Some of them had turrets and panes of colored glass over the doors. Wealthy people lived there, I could tell; it was no place for the likes of me. But the great houses and the tended garden made me feel a little safer. It seemed like a place where criminals wouldn’t feel at home.

I glimpsed an iron bench under a tree and sank down upon it. I knew I didn’t have time to waste: it was near nine o’clock, and the boardinghouses would be shutting up. I promised myself that after I’d rested a minute, I’d find a place to spend the night.

But I didn’t keep that promise. I knew I ought to go back to the train station. This neighborhood wasn’t the kind of place where I’d find a boardinghouse. But I was afraid that awful man might be lurking by the station. The thought of running into him again — and him thinking, maybe, that I’d come back for more — oh, I just couldn’t bear it! I felt like Thumbelina after she’d been carried off by the ugly toad.

The truth is, I didn’t have the gumption to carry on. It makes me feel bad to reflect upon that, because I want to be noble and courageous. On the other hand, it
had
been a long day. Even during the good parts of it — having breakfast in the dining car and seeing
The Spirit of Transportation
— I’d been frightened underneath. And that man had scared me right down to the bone.

So I stuck to the bench. After a while I realized that I was going to spend the night there. I felt sheltered by the big tree over my head. The night was warm, and I was in a respectable part of town. I put down my suitcase to serve as a pillow and curled up on the bench.

It was horribly uncomfortable. The bench wasn’t as long as I was, and the suitcase mashed my ear. I thought of all the comforting things inside it — Jesus and Belinda and Ma’s money and Miss Chandler’s handkerchief — and I started to cry. I was frightened because I was sleeping outdoors like a tramp, and I didn’t know a single soul in Baltimore, and I didn’t know how I was going to find a job. It seemed to me that Baltimore might be full of wicked men who would force their attentions on me, and I was no match for them. I even thought about going back home.

Then I saw — oh, so clearly! — that I couldn’t go home, no matter how bad it was in Baltimore. At home, there’s no hope. Father will never change, and he’ll never let me have anything. I covered my head with my arm and began to pray.

It had been a while since I prayed. I’d been feeling a little disappointed in God, because I’d asked Him not to let Father be rude to Miss Chandler — but Father
was
— and then I’d prayed that my strike would succeed — but it
didn’t,
because Father burned my books. I know God can’t answer every prayer exactly the way you want Him to. But I couldn’t help thinking that He hadn’t been doing very well by me lately.

Even so, I prayed. It wasn’t a proper prayer, just a cry for help, but I felt He was listening. I recited Hail Marys. Then I recommenced crying. All of a sudden — I’d sobbed so hard I never heard him approach — a voice said, “Please let me help you.”

I sat bolt upright, ready to jump up and run away. But I didn’t — I guess because the man who’d spoken wasn’t looming over me. He was hunkered down in front of the bench, balanced on the balls of his feet. It was such a precarious position that I could have stuck out one foot and knocked him over. He was holding his hat in his hands — he’d taken off his hat to show respect. I thought that was nice.

He had a beard, and that surprised me because it’s usually older men who have beards, and he was young. His beard was dark and curly and so was his hair. He was solidly built and his shoulders were broad, and he had a large head — not too large, but the kind of head that reminded me of Jupiter, the Roman god. His clothes were handsome and he was well-groomed. In short, he didn’t look like the sort of man a girl has to run from — I mean, the sort of man from whom a girl has to run.

“Can I be of any use to you?” he said.

If I am to write the truth — and I vowed that I would when Miss Chandler gave me this book — I wanted to say
yes
right away. I wanted him to take care of me. Then I remembered how stupid I’d been with the yellow-haired man, and I saw I was in danger of being stupid again. So I didn’t answer. He took a clean handkerchief out of his coat and offered it to me.

That reminded me of Miss Chandler. I started crying again, and while I cried, the man made noises. They were sympathetic noises, and they were also, somehow, foreign. His voice wasn’t foreign; he spoke like an American. But his sympathetic noises weren’t like anything I’d heard before. And something about them made me cry harder. Oh, I’m like Florence Dombey; I cry too much. After a little, I wiped my eyes and tried to pull myself together. Men don’t like it when women cry, and I wanted that man to like me.

“Won’t you tell me —” the man began, but I interrupted him.

“I’m lost,” I blurted out. “I came to Baltimore to find work as a hired girl, but the train was late, so I didn’t get to town until dark, and I couldn’t find a respectable boardinghouse, and I asked a man who seemed kind, but he —” Then I stopped. I couldn’t tell this stranger what that man did. “He frightened me,” I said pitifully, because that was true, though it wasn’t the whole truth.

He nodded as if he understood. “Is he the one who hurt you?”

I thought for a minute he was reading my mind, because that awful man
had
hurt me. Then I saw that he was staring at my face, seeing the bruises that Cressy gave me. “Oh, no!” I said quickly, and touched the swollen place. “That’s from home. That happened a week ago.”

“Did you run away from home?”

I wished he hadn’t asked me that. I ought to have said
no,
right away, but I didn’t, and that was as good as saying
yes.
“I had to. My father —” I started to say
burned my books,
but my throat closed. It was a moment before I could speak. “I
had
to run away.”

He looked very upset. “What about your mother? Won’t she worry?”

“My mother’s dead,” I said, and he looked downright stricken and made more of those sympathetic noises. I added, “But I’m not that young. I’m eighteen.” I don’t know why I said
eighteen.
I’d meant to lie about my age, of course, but I’d planned to say I was sixteen, maybe seventeen. But for some reason,
eighteen
was what came out of my mouth. “Do you know where I might find a respectable boardinghouse?”

He shook his head regretfully. “I’m afraid I don’t. I’ve never needed one, not in Baltimore. Perhaps tomorrow —” He shook his head again. “That’s no use; you need a place to stay tonight.” He stood up. “I have an idea.”

I waited.

“I live up the street”— he pointed to a place beyond the trees —“in the corner house, with my parents and sister and my brother David, but just now David’s in New York with my father. There are servants’ rooms at the top of the house that aren’t being used. Perhaps my mother would let you stay there. She might be able to help you find a job. There’s even a possibility — but we’ll talk about that later on. Will you come with me?”

I stared at him with my heart in my mouth.

“My mother’s very good,” he said. “She may seem a little brusque at first, but —” He fumbled in his pockets and brought out a card. “I ought to have introduced myself. I’m Solomon Rosenbach.”

I took the card. It was too dark to read it, but I felt vaguely reassured. It didn’t seem like the sort of thing a villain would do — give me his card.

“Will you come with me? You can’t spend the night on that bench. You won’t get a wink of sleep —” His face broke into a smile, and it changed everything. He was such a serious-looking person, but that wide, sweet smile made him look as if he were no older than I am. “And I won’t either.”

He was so
kind,
so truly chivalrous. I could say that he spoke to me with tenderness, except that makes it sound as if he had a particular interest in me, and I’m sure he hadn’t. I believe he would have spoken the same way to a lost child or a wounded dog. And the child — or the dog — would have trusted him and followed him home at once.

But I wasn’t a dog or a child. I’d trusted one man that night, and he’d insulted me
unspeakably.
“I can’t.”

He looked thoughtful, turning the brim of his hat between his fingers. Then he smiled again.

“You’re quite right, you know. It’s dangerous to go home with a stranger. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to walk to my house and hope that you’ll follow me at a safe distance. Then I’ll go inside, and afterward — as soon as I can explain — my mother will come out on the porch and invite you in. Will that suit you better? She’s very respectable, my mother. In fact, we all are, but you’re right not to take my word for it.”

I considered his offer. “Thank you,” I said. My voice creaked a little but I didn’t cry.

“There’s a good girl,” he said, and I guess that was patronizing but I didn’t dislike it. I followed him just as he said. He ran lightly up the porch steps, and when he reached the door, he wiped his feet on the mat.