The Hired Girl (21 page)

Which I thought was better. Then the poem goes on:

Then he crossed that out, probably because he already had
breast
in there. He wrote
tumultuous chest,
and he must have hated that, because he crossed it out so hard I could scarcely read it. Then he had a stroke of inspiration, because he wrote:

And then I guess he got stuck, because underneath he wrote:

And then, up one side of the page he wrote:

There he ended and the envelope was crumpled up as if he’d crushed it in his fist. I sympathized with him because there’s not much that rhymes with
love
except
dove
and
glove
and
the
stars above,
and in my opinion, the stars above are a little shopworn.

My heart beat fast when I read that poem, and divers sensations throbbed in my breast. First there was the sensation of invading Mr. Solomon’s privacy, which was shameful but thrilling. Then I felt envious, because he wrote Nora a love poem, and that’s so romantic. I declare, if anyone wrote a poem and called me a fragile nymph, I would swoon dead away. Though it isn’t likely that anyone ever will, because I’m an ox of a girl.

Then I felt dreadfully sorry for Mr. Solomon. Here he is, head over heels in love with Nora but cruelly separated from her because he wants to study Talmud instead of run his father’s department store.

I can’t help thinking it’s a pity that Mr. Solomon never finished his poem. He should have stuck with it and had the courage to send it. If Nora Himmelrich read his poetry, she might come to appreciate him. I bet she’d like being called a fragile nymph and a blushing rose. Why, even the Blessed Mother must like being called Morning Star and Mystical Rose, or it wouldn’t be in the prayer book.

Faint heart never won fair lady, after all.

Tuesday, August the first, 1911

I am writing this in Druid Hill Park. The sky is clear and last night’s rain refreshed the grass. I’m always surprised by how tawny and brittle it can be, and then how it can come back in a night.

How far I’ve come in this diary! How I’ve traveled since last I sought to capture the beauties of nature in these pages! Nature in Druid Hill Park is vastly superior to nature in the country. At Steeple Farm, there are splintery fences mended with wire, and ugly sheds and manure piles. But here there are great sheets of ornamental water, and majestic oaks, and fountains and promenades.

I meant to begin instruction with Father Horst today, but he left a note at the rectory saying he had been called out by a sick parishioner. So I walked back to Eutaw Place and fetched my journal.

I feel very elegant, sitting in the shade like a lady of leisure. Before I sat down to write, I went for a stroll and admired the splendid panoramas. You’d think I’d be contented, having nothing to do but enjoy myself, but I found myself wishing I had a parasol to carry. I don’t
need
one, because my Cheyenne hat has a wide brim, but the other ladies in the park look so elegant with their parasols. I saw nice parasols in Rosenbach’s for ninety-five cents. Oh, dear, oh, dear, how worldly and covetous I’ve become! I remember Ma telling me always to put money by, and I vow that I will, but I really need new stockings. If I’m going to take the streetcar to Rosenbach’s again, I might as well
look
at the parasols, because —

Later that night

I
hate
Mrs. Rosenbach! She has no heart! I see now that I was deceived by her stylish clothes and refined manners. I thought she was a real lady, but she is only a
simulacrum.
Mimi — slangy, vain little Mimi — is worth a dozen of her. Mimi must get her good qualities from her father.

I’m mad at Malka, too. Who would have thought she could be so unfeeling? Unreasonable, yes; I would expect Malka to be unreasonable, because she generally is. But I never dreamed she could be so callous, especially when I consider how much she loves Thomashefsky.

Here’s what happened: while I was writing, who should come along but Mimi? Her white sailor suit was all grass stained and mussed, and she was swinging her hat by the ribbons. When she caught sight of me, her little monkey face broke out in a smile, and she scampered over to join me. How
can
that child look so pretty when she really is not? It’s partly the way she moves, I guess. She’s so light on her feet; she’s like a bit of bright paper being blown over the grass. I wish I were like that.

She sat down next to me and asked what I was writing. I told her it was my diary, and she asked — just like that! — if she could read it! I said, “Of course not!” Then she tried to nab the book, but I was too quick for her and sat on it.

After she saw I wasn’t going to let her read my diary, she asked why I hadn’t talked to her much since the day we visited the department store. I told her I didn’t think Mrs. Rosenbach wanted us to be friends.

“Did she fuss at you?” Mimi asked sympathetically. “She fussed at me. She said going out together would make you forget your station. It was my fault more than yours, she said. So she shouldn’t have fussed at
you.
”

“She didn’t fuss, exactly,” I said, “but she criticized my deportment.”

“Oh,
deportment,
” said Mimi, rolling her eyes. “She doesn’t like my deportment either. Anyway”— with a wave of her dainty, dirty little paw she dismissed the subject of deportment — “Mama’s not here, so we can talk. What do you write in your diary?”

“Diaries are private,” I said. “Besides, you don’t like reading.”

“I sure don’t,” agreed Mimi, and sighed. “Papa’s making me read aloud a chapter of
Little Women
every night. I can’t stand those March girls. They’re always trying to be good, the stuck-up prigs. I don’t think Louisa May Alcott understood Jews very well, because there’s a bit in it about
meek Jews.
As if all Jews were the same.” She flashed her dimple at me. “Do I look like a meek Jew to you?”

“Not much,” I said, and she looked smug.

“I’m almost a tomboy,” she confided. “I say almost, because I love frilly clothes and I’m not very good at boys’ games. But I’m very high-spirited. Just now I was trying to play baseball, only when the ball comes at me, I shut my eyes. Did you ever play baseball?”

“Never,” I said. The truth is, I think ball games are unfeminine. I believe ladies should vote and be doctors and maybe even be President, but they should stay tidy and not perspire. Most of my life I’ve had to get dirty and perspire, but I haven’t liked it. If you ask me, it’s silly to run after a ball, and that kind of silliness ought to be left to the men.

Mimi said, “Nora Himmelrich plays.”

“Does she?” I was shocked. Fragile nymphs shouldn’t play ball.

“The girls have got up a team, and she’s captain,” Mimi explained. “Mama says I shouldn’t try to be friends with girls who are older than me, but my two best friends are away. Lotty’s in Paris, and Maisie’s at the seashore. Nora was nice; she tried to teach me how to hit the ball. But then the other girls came by and —” She stopped. “What’s that?”

We’d both heard it: a shrill sound, not the cry of a bird. We listened but it didn’t come again.

I returned to the subject of Mr. Solomon’s beloved. “Do you think Nora likes Mr. Solomon?”

“Oh, she
likes
him,” Mimi assured me. “Everyone likes Solly. But she’s not romantic about him.” She cocked her head, listening. “It’s a kitten! I bet it’s caught in a tree.”

It didn’t take us long to find the tree. Through the broad leaves of a sycamore, we caught a glimpse of a little creature the color of apricot jam. It mewed most pitifully.

“It’s stuck,” Mimi said. “We’ll have to get it down.”

I objected. “If it climbed up, it ought to be able to get down.”

“Not necessarily,” Mimi argued. She curled her fingers like claws and spoke in her know-it-all voice. “The way the claws hook, they climb up easily, but coming down, they slip.” She threw her hat on the ground. “I’m good at climbing trees. Boost me up, and I’ll see if I can catch it.”

I looked up. The lowest branch was high above my head. “Maybe it’ll jump down and land on its feet.”

“It won’t. It’s afraid to jump.” Mimi’s eyes were sparkling; she was enjoying every minute of this. She nipped forward and attempted to shinny up the tree.

I saw I would have to help. The trunk was too wide for her to get much purchase. I set my diary on the grass and laid my hat on top of it. Then I tried to boost her up into the tree.

She was heavier than she looked. I heaved and lifted as best I could, but it was no use.

“Hold on,” grunted Mimi. “If I can get up on your shoulders —” She twisted in my arms and scrambled up. “I still can’t reach!” she complained. “Can’t you jump?”

“With you on my back?” I snapped. “No, I can’t! Get down!”

I let my knees buckle, and we collapsed onto the grass and disentangled. The kitten mewed. “It’ll starve to death up there!” Mimi said despairingly. “Can’t you think of something?”

I looked around for inspiration. My eyes fell on the bench where we’d been sitting. Mimi gasped, “You can’t lift that!” and she was right, because the bench was cast iron and heavy. I
couldn’t
lift it — but I could drag it. There are some advantages to being a big ox.

Hauling that bench was hard work. I was bent double and afraid of stepping on my skirt. I made Mimi hold up my dress and petticoats, and after that we got on better. By the time I got the bench under the tree, the muscles in my arms burned like fire.

“You’re so strong,” Mimi said, her eyes glowing, “and so smart.”

I knew she was buttering me up. I liked it, but I wasn’t going to lose my head. “Take off your boots,” I commanded. “I don’t want any more scuff marks on my dress.”

“All right,” said Mimi. She took off her stockings, too, and unbuttoned the front of her sailor suit. “Once I catch the kitty, I can put him inside my vest. Then I’ll have my hands free to climb down.”

“Good,” I said. All this time, the kitten had gone on crying. I swear the little thing knew we were his best hope, and he wasn’t going to let us forget about him.

I made sure the bench was steady, and then I stood on it. Mimi hopped up on the bench, climbed up piggyback, and from thence wiggled onto my shoulders. She squirmed, braced herself, and leaped for the branch. “Quick, get down!” she directed me. I hopped off the bench and watched her swing back and forth. With a swirl of petticoats and lace-trimmed drawers, she swung herself into the tree.