The Hired Girl (32 page)

Mimi just left. I feel shook-up. Imagine her coming up to my room and lying in wait for me, nursing her anger all the while! The way she lit into me . . . ! Oh, it’s awful!

It’s close to midnight and I’m tired. The Klemans came for dinner; also the Friedhoffs. Malka was fussy all day, anxious lest something should go wrong when Mr. Solomon’s Intended was coming for Shabbos. She approves of Mr. Solomon’s engagement, because the Klemans are more Orthodox and less Reform than the Rosenbachs. She doesn’t mind that Miss Kleman is Polish, because Malka’s part Polish herself.

I didn’t much care for Ruth Kleman. She is one of those willowy, narrow-faced girls that makes me feel like a big ox. The only time I liked her was when I caught her looking at Solly. Then her mouth softened and her eyes glowed. All the same, Nora Himmelrich is ten times prettier than Ruth Kleman, and nicer, too — Miss Kleman scarcely looked at me when I took her things at the door, and she said
thank you
in a chilly undertone. She’d never shake hands the way Nora did. I’m afraid Mr. Solomon told her the awful thing I did, and now she hates me.

After dinner, there was an avalanche of dirty dishes. While I was tackling them, little Oskar came downstairs and asked me to tell him a story. I couldn’t sit down, but Malka pulled him into her lap and gave him a jawbreaker to suck. Oskar wanted a story about snakes and a choo-choo train, so I invented a circus train full of deadly cobras and man-eating tigers and terrible bears. Of course all the dangerous animals got loose, and only the little boy Oskar kept his head and coaxed them back into their cages. I’m afraid it was a very tangled-up story, but it’s hard to keep your mind on snakes and
kashrut
at the same time. Once I almost used the wrong dish towel, but Malka stopped me.

It was past eleven by the time I scalded the dishcloths and trudged up to bed on my aching feet. When I got to my room, I saw that my door was shut. That puzzled me because I always leave it open, so the room will cool off. I went inside and there was Mimi, sitting in the middle of my bed (she didn’t bother taking her shoes off, the little slob) and glaring at me like a regular spitfire.

“I came to tell you I’m not going to be your friend anymore,” she announced, “and what’s more, I wish I never had been. Just because of you, Papa took me to the ophthalmologist”— her voice caught on the hard word —“and from now on, I’m going to have to wear glasses, horrible glasses,
all the time.
And Papa says it isn’t my fault I read so badly, but he’s going to arrange for me to have extra tutoring, so I can catch up with my schoolwork.
Extra
tutoring!” she wailed. “And he said I should be grateful to you. But I never, never will be!”

I set my chamberstick by the mirror and went to sit by her. Even by candlelight, I could see how red her eyes were. Malka had told me that Mr. Rosenbach has a friend on the school board who’s an ophthalmologist. The friend agreed to see Mimi this very morning. Malka said her little Moritz was never one to let the grass grow under his feet.

I searched for the right words. “Oh, Mimi, it won’t be so bad.” I put my hand on her shoulder, but she dashed it away and scowled through her tears. “Once you learn to read —”

“I already can read,” she said petulantly, “and I don’t
like
it. I don’t even
want
to like it. I don’t want to be a goody-goody like you, reading Plato and Louisa May Alcott and all that. And you were a sneak, to go to Papa and tell him my eyes are bad. He says I’ll get used to wearing glasses and won’t mind. I
will
mind. How could I not mind looking frightful? There’s a girl in my class — Ethel Marx — she wears glasses, hideous thick things, and you know what we all call her? Grasshopper. Her eyes bulge like a bug’s eyes.” She crooked her thumbs and forefingers into circles and framed her eyes with them.

It was downright eerie, because she
did
look like a bug. I believe that child could mimic a crocodile if she set her mind to it. I said soothingly, “
You
won’t look like a bug.” And I’m sure she won’t. Somehow Mimi will manage to look fetching in eyeglasses. Now that I think of it, I ought to have said that, because it might have mollified her.

“How do you know I won’t?” demanded Mimi. “I was
so
looking forward to growing up, and having boys fight over who gets to carry my books, and wearing a beautiful dress at the Harmony Debutante Ball. I had everything planned. Now it’s spoiled, because I’ll look a fright, and none of the boys will dance with me, and the girls will tease me — and Ethel Marx will be the worst of all, the mean thing, because I was the one who started calling her Grasshopper.”

I was reminded of Lucy Watkins and Hazel Fry calling me Greasy Joan. The memory smarted. “Then it serves you right,” I said. I was on the side of Ethel Marx.

I think those words hurt Mimi’s feelings, because she leaped off the bed like a little Fury. She dashed to my dresser, pulled out the top drawer, and dumped the contents onto the floor — then the second drawer — and then the bottom one. All my things flopped out: my nightdresses and my aprons and my petticoats and my stockings — and Belinda, who lay facedown on the floor.

“There!” hissed Mimi. “I learned that from one of your horrid
books
! And that’s just the beginning of how I’m going to get back at you — you false friend, you snake in the grass —”

I didn’t care what she called me. I rushed forward and caught up Belinda, because Belinda was the one thing that couldn’t be replaced. I didn’t want Mimi to spoil my beautiful clothes, but if worse came to worse, I could buy new ones. But Belinda, my darling Belinda —!

Mimi’s lip curled. “You’ve got a
doll,
” she said scathingly. “I knew you weren’t eighteen. You say you’re eighteen, but you’re a baby!”

“My mother made this doll for me,” I said. “It’s all I have left of her. You touch this doll, and I’ll slap your face — and I’m bigger than you are!”

It was childish of me to say that. And I guess I looked more threatening than I realized, because Mimi burst into fresh tears and ran out of the room.

I stood there, hugging Belinda. Then I set her on the bed and put the drawers back in the bureau. My clothes weren’t hurt a bit; I’d swept that morning, and the floor was as clean as could be. I wrapped Belinda in my old nightgown and hid her at the very back of the bottom drawer. You can’t see her unless you open the drawer all the way. I would have liked to lock the drawer, but though there’s a keyhole, there’s no key. Hired girls don’t get much privacy.

I’ve written this by candlelight, which goes against what I promised Mr. Rosenbach, but I don’t want to leave the room, in case Mimi comes back. I hate it that I’ve lost a friend. Of course Mimi’s younger than me, but she was funny and fun and clever. She wasn’t a bit of a snob. She seemed to forget I was the hired girl, and I liked how bold she was. I admired the way she always looked so pretty, even if she isn’t really, and I liked talking to her about clothes.

It strikes me how few friends I have in Baltimore. During the week, I’m busy with the work I have in hand, and Mass takes my Sunday mornings, and instruction takes my Tuesdays. I’ve been to Druid Hill Park, and Rosenbach’s Department Store, and the markets where we buy food, but I haven’t seen a library or a picture gallery, and I haven’t made friends, unless you count Nora Himmelrich, who probably doesn’t like me anymore. Unless you count David —

I feel very lonely tonight.

Sunday, September the tenth, 1911

It’s past midnight and I’m in the library, hoping that David might surprise me with a visit. I tried to read
Theaetetus,
but I couldn’t keep my mind on it. That’s not Socrates’ fault. I believe philosophy is very fascinating and lofty, and I know I’m going to like it. But you can’t read philosophy if you’re listening for the sound of an opening door. After I failed with
Theaetetus,
I tried learning my catechism, but that was no better. In fact, it was worse.

He won’t come. Why should he? I’ll see him on Tuesday; that’s plenty soon enough. I’m busy with my diary. It’s just as well he won’t come.

This morning I wore my fawn-colored suit to Mass. When I was halfway to church, I heard running footsteps behind me. It was David, and he was calling my name. “I’ve caught you!” he said, and captured my fingers in his. “Don’t go to Mass! Come back with me! I’ll fetch my drawing things, and we’ll go to the park. There’s not a moment to lose! Come on!”

I wanted to go. There’s a kind of momentum about David; it’s as if he were a strong wind that could sweep me off my feet. But I’m not a feather to be tossed about. I was on my way to Mass. I wanted to see Father Horst.

So I said, “I can’t. I have to go to Mass.”

“Skip it,” he said. I think something in my face told him I wasn’t going to be as biddable as that, because he switched his tone from breezy to coaxing. “Can’t you miss it just this once? I wouldn’t ask, but time is of the essence — I need you; I really do. Walk with me, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

He swung about and began walking as if he expected me to follow him. But I didn’t, and after a moment he turned, ran ahead of me, and walked backward. “You’re mad because I asked you too late. I don’t blame you. Honest to Mike, I didn’t know before this morning! We don’t open mail on Shabbos, and I didn’t see the letter. I only just opened it. Madame Marechaux likes your face!” He spoke the words as if he expected a trumpet fanfare. “The commission’s almost mine, don’t you see? Only Madame Marechaux wants you facing out, not seen in profile, so I’ve got to send her more sketches —”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I complained. “What commission? Who’s Madame Marechaux? Why should I care if she likes my face?”

“Great Jakes, haven’t I told you?” All at once he was serious. He fell into step beside me. “Madame Marechaux’s name is
Shon.
” I must have looked blank, because he repeated it. “
Shon.
That’s French for Joan. Joan of Arc is
Shon Daar.
Madame Marechaux grew up near Orléans, and Joan of Arc was her heroine. Two years ago, Joan of Arc was beatified, and Madame is praying that the Church will make her a saint. She’s very devout, Madame Marechaux — and very fashionable; her husband’s just rented a splendid house on Fifth Avenue. She wants a picture of Joan of Arc to hang at the top of the stairs — a big canvas, almost life-size. Madame has asked all the up-and-coming artists in New York to submit sketches, and she said I might, too. She likes me — the other fellows are more experienced, and two of them are almost famous, but she likes me — and now she likes your face. It’s the chance of a lifetime. So you see, I’m not just flirting with you — well, I’m flirting a
little,
can’t help myself! — but I really do need you, don’t you see? I have to draw you as soon as I can and send the drawings to Madame Marechaux!”

I pondered this. It was interesting to find out who Mimi’s mysterious
shiksa
was. She was a wealthy lady who wanted a painting, not a sweetheart. So that was good. But I was piqued, too, because I’d thought that David chose to paint me as Joan of Arc because I was
like
her, not in order to please a lady of fashion. It made the whole thing less romantic.

“Can’t you?” pleaded David. “Won’t you?”

Oh, but I wanted to skip Mass and go with him! I reckon he saw me weakening, because his face lit up with mischief, and he made a dash at me — feinting, as if we were playing that old school game Steal-the-Bacon. He sprang to one side of me, dodged to the other, and snatched my missal out of my hand. Then he retreated, holding the book high in the air and laughing.

I forgot I was a young lady going to Mass. I went after him. I jumped for the book, and at that moment we were quite close, and I saw his hand, silhouetted against the morning sky, and his face — David, with his untidy curls and masculine throat — how different men’s throats are from ladies’! — and his whole frame charged with vitality and something else. . . . I don’t know what to call it, but I know that I’m drawn to it. I wonder if that’s what it’s like to be in love, to be drawn like iron to a magnet, without thinking, almost without consent — oh, I
won’t
be in love with David Rosenbach, I won’t! He’s a flirt, and he’s a Jew, and I won’t be like that silly fool Isabelle Gratz!

Here’s the queer thing: that moment — tussling with David over my prayer book — is lodged in my mind like a framed snapshot. I don’t know why. Once when I was a little thing, I watched the sun rise on Easter morning. I had it in my head that it would be holy to watch the sunrise. But I watched too closely, because the image of that tiny orange sun got burned into my eye. I saw it for an hour afterward. I was afraid I’d go blind, but I was too scared to tell Ma. I ought to have known better than to stare at the sun.

Anyway, for some reason, the moment with David was like
that.
Not that time stood still, or anything, because it didn’t, and neither did we. He frisked in a circle and I revolved around him, leaping and grabbing. “Give me back my missal!”

“Promise me you’ll come,” teased David.

Then a gentleman and a lady passed by, ever so beautifully dressed. I recognized their faces from Corpus Christi. I realized that I wasn’t acting like a lady or a good Catholic, and that people could see. I remembered the passage in
Jane Eyre
where the moon says, “My daughter, flee temptation!” and Jane says, “I will.” It seemed to me that this was a temptation, if there ever was one.

I planted my feet and repeated, “I have to go to Mass.”

“You can’t,” said David, grinning. “I’ve got your prayer book.”

I wasn’t going to knuckle under to that. “I don’t need my prayer book.” And I turned on my heel and walked away.

I thought he would follow me, but he didn’t. I went on walking. He didn’t follow. At last I turned back. “You could draw me tonight, in the library. I’m always there. I mean, most nights I’m there, between ten and midnight.”

He gazed at me despairingly. He stood with one hand entwined in his curls, as if he was about to tear his hair out. It was kind of theatrical. “I can’t draw you in the library. I need the sunlight. Besides, there’s a dance at the Phoenix Club tonight, and I promised to go. What about Tuesday? That’s your afternoon off, isn’t it?”