The Hired Girl (28 page)

Father Horst said coldly that he would inform Mrs. Possit that I had declined to accept her kindness. Oh, but he was cross! I fear he will never like me again. I felt dreadful as I walked home, because if Father Horst doesn’t like me, he won’t instruct me, and I’ll never be able to take the Sacrament. I do so long to take the Sacrament. I imagine it will feel like receiving the kiss of a lover — only more ineffable — sweet and welcoming and restoring the soul.

When I got home, I didn’t know what to do I was so agitated. I hate it when something ruins my afternoon off, because I have only one a week. I set to mending my torn petticoat, but sewing was the wrong thing to do, because the quarrel kept running through my mind.

I wondered if I was doing wrong, staying with the Rosenbachs, and if this house is a house of
fleshpots.
It does seem to me that since I became a hired girl, my mind is very much set on worldly things. Lately I’ve been thinking of buying a new dress for Sundays. I like the dresses I have, but they’re both blue and I’m tired of wearing blue every single day.

When I finished the petticoat, I knelt down and asked the Blessed Mother what I should do. And she answered me in Ma’s old voice. She said there was no sin in being loyal to people who have been good to you. It’s disloyalty that’s a sin. And she reminded me that pink doesn’t wear too well, so if I buy a new dress, I should take into account how it will look once it’s faded.

I felt better after that. Now that I write this, I am struck by a new idea. I think Father Horst’s idea that the Rosenbachs are trying to make a Jew out of me is crazy. But what if God placed me here so that I might lead
them
to the Church? God must love the Rosenbachs, because they’re virtuous. And since they’re virtuous, He might want them to be Catholic instead of Jewish. It would be a
mitzvah —
that’s the Jewish word for a good deed — for me to tell them about the True Faith.

It seems as though it might be presumptuous, though, converting them. They might not like it, and I’m not a very good Catholic. I’m not even a real Catholic, because I haven’t been confirmed. But then, the Bible says that God chooses the foolish to confound the wise, and I certainly am foolish. So maybe I was sent to bring light unto the Rosenbachs.

Though perhaps converting them would be meddling, which I promised myself I wouldn’t do.

I thought about this so long that I fell into a kind of reverie and was late helping Malka with dinner. She was very sarcastic at my expense, but I apologized very sweetly, because if I
am
to convert the Rosenbachs, I shall have to be very meek and humble of heart.

Wednesday, August the thirtieth, 1911

I forgot to write that I believe Mr. Solomon has been successful in his suit. Of course this is none of my business, but the morning after that terrible Thursday, I found a yellow rose on his dresser. The stem was the right length for tucking into a buttonhole, and I wondered if Miss Kleman gave it to Mr. Solomon as a lover’s token. I didn’t clear it away, though it was limp and bruised. I left it on the dresser. The next day, it wasn’t on the dresser and it wasn’t in the trash bin, either.

I pondered the matter and concluded that the rose must have been a love token, because otherwise, Mr. Solomon would have dropped it in the bin. I imagine he’s pressing it in a book to keep forever. He’s been in very good spirits of late. I haven’t seen him face-to-face, but I’ve heard him humming, and his step is light. Mrs. Rosenbach has
not
been in good spirits, and I’m thinking maybe she doesn’t like Mr. Solomon marrying a Polish girl. I wonder what’s wrong with the Poles. But I’m not going to try to find out anything more, because a good hired girl is supposed to be discreet and not stick her nose in her master’s business.

David will be home for Shabbos this week, which means nothing to me except that preparations for Shabbos dinner will be more elaborate than usual. He will want ice cream and he likes it homemade, so I’ll have to turn the crank.

Malka’s bunion seems to be on the mend.

Saturday, September the second, 1911

Oh, I feel so wicked! I know Father Horst would be shocked, and Mrs. Rosenbach would disapprove. And yet — oh, and
yet
! I’m sure I won’t sleep a wink tonight — but I must sleep, or tomorrow my eyes will be red. How I wish I’d bought a new dress last Tuesday! There would have been time, if I’d boarded the streetcar right after my quarrel with Father Horst.

I wish I had. But I’ll wear my Cheyenne hat. David’s never seen me in that.

I was doing the dishes tonight — Saturday night is the tiredest time for me, because Thursday and Friday are a flurry getting ready for Shabbos, and on Saturday I’m the Shabbos goy. This week was especially busy, because we had company Friday night — sixteen people at table — and today the Friedhoffs came for Saturday lunch. Malka came down with a dreadful headache. I could tell it was bad because she didn’t grumble. I told her I could clean up the kitchen by myself and that she ought to go to bed. She didn’t even argue with me: poor thing, she must have been in agony! She limped upstairs, leaving me with the dishes. I wasn’t too unhappy, because Shabbos was over for another week, and there was a sweet breeze coming through the window.

Then I heard footsteps coming down the stairs — not Malka’s uneven, bunion-y footsteps, but swift footsteps. And there he was: David.

He leaned over the stair railing and said, “Where’s Malka?” and I said, “She went to bed early,” and he said, “Good.” Just like that. Maybe I’m conceited, but I can think of only one reason for him saying
good
like that. He was glad he’d caught me alone.

His nose is more crooked than I remember. Whenever I’ve dwelt on his image — not that I have
;
it’s just that once in a while he crosses my mind — I’ve tidied up his nose. It really is too big and too crooked. All the same, there’s something about him — the way he loped down the staircase and sat on the kitchen table instead of one of the chairs. He’s like his father; he has a way of bounding and darting and pouncing, as if he expects something exciting to happen and can’t wait for it.

He said, “I’ll come straight to the point. I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind.” Oh, for one moment, how my foolish heart raced! But then: “I want you for my Joan of Arc. Will you come with me to the park tomorrow, so I can draw you with the sheep? I want to, awfully.”

He smiled when he said “awfully.” That smile would have turned the heads of some girls. But I am made of stronger stuff. And I knew he only wanted me for his sketch. So there was nothing to get excited about.

I said, “I can’t,” though it didn’t come out as forceful as I’d meant it to. I turned my back on him and groped through the dishwater for the knives and forks and spoons. “I have to go to Mass.”

“Skip it,” he suggested, and I looked up, shocked. Skip Mass? I know that’s a sin, and the dreadful thing was, right away I began to imagine myself committing it. Just like that! It shows how weak my faith is. In a flash I thought of how I’d quarreled with Father Horst, and how it would serve him right if I didn’t come to Mass.

But I haven’t skipped Mass all summer. I know it’s a privilege to go to Mass, even though I can’t take the Sacrament. Every week, the others kneel at the altar rail, and I have to stay in my seat. I feel like that woman in the Bible who had to be content with the crumbs under the table. But I love the Mass. And how am I to bring the Rosenbachs to the True Church if I skip it? What kind of example would that be?

So I said, “I can’t skip it. It’s
Mass.
”

“All right,” he said, and I must say I was piqued that he gave up so easily. He jumped down from the table and took a bottle of milk out of the refrigerator. “Would you like some?”

I left the sink. “No, I wouldn’t, and you can’t have any, either. We need it for breakfast, in case the milkman’s late.”

He teased me, holding the bottle out of reach, but I got it away from him without too much of a scuffle. I put the milk back in the refrigerator and shut the door with a good slam.

“See?” he pleaded. “That’s why you’re such a perfect Joan of Arc! So militant! When’s your next morning off? Afternoons won’t do. I want the light. I see you kneeling and gazing up at the morning sky, listening to your saints.” His voice became coaxing. “It’s going to be a religious painting, you know. Wouldn’t helping me be just as good as going to Mass? Just think, if the picture’s a success, thousands of people may see it and be converted.”

I kept a good strong hold on myself. “That doesn’t seem very likely.”

“Don’t you have confidence in me?” he asked, pretending to be hurt. “Come on, now, Janet! You’re not really like that — all sensible and stuck-up. You’re a real Joan — full of imagination and the spirit of revolt. And I’m not such a bad artist, either. John Singer Sargent praised one of my sketches — I met him when I was in Florence. He said I had a good sense of line. Do you really want to wet-blanket a man with a good sense of line?”

That’s when I said — oh, it was daring of me, but I’m not one bit sorry. “I think you have too many lines, Mr. David.” Because a
line
is what they call it when a man is flirting. After I said it, I was afraid he would think I was presuming too much, but he laughed.

“You’re the limit. I knew I liked you.” That way he has of saying he likes me, right out! “Why not come out with me tomorrow? We’ll have a good time. After I sketch you, we can go on the boat lake, or I’ll hire a carriage and take you round the park. Or we’ll go to the drugstore and have ice-cream sundaes. Whatever you like. Won’t you?”

It did sound so lovely. Floating on the water in one of those rowboats — or riding through the park like a queen, as if he were my sweetheart. I couldn’t decide. But I made one more attempt to put him off. “I don’t think your mother would like it.”

“No, she won’t,” he agreed, and looked thoughtful. “But that’s because she’s afraid that I’ll marry a
shiksa.
I’m not planning to marry you; I just want to draw you. What’s the harm in that?”

I couldn’t see any harm in it. But I didn’t say so.

“It’s better if she doesn’t know,” David said firmly, “so we’ll meet in the park. First I’ll sketch you, and then we’ll have our lovely time. What about it?”

I opened my mouth to say I couldn’t, but what I said was, “I have to be home by half past twelve.”

His face lit up, and now that I’m writing this, all I can see is his face at that moment — his dark eyes sparkling with mischief and triumph. And seeing him so, before my mind’s eye, I feel ever so fluttery. But it isn’t my heart that flutters; it’s my stomach. It’s full of cramps and butterflies.

I’m glad my petticoats are all starched. And my blue dress with the white ferns on it is as fresh as a daisy.

If I wash my hair now, it’ll be dry by morning.

Sunday, September the third, 1911

I woke before dawn this morning so that I could say the rosary. I felt dreadfully guilty about skipping Mass, and I begged God for mercy and forgiveness. I prayed to the Blessed Mother to let things go well with David, though I really don’t know what I mean by that. But she will know. And I believe she heard my prayer, and God forgave me, because the day dawned cool and sunny and glorious.

My hair was still damp, but it went up beautifully — I got it to puff the way Mimi taught me. I pinned my hat at its most becoming angle, caught up my parasol, and stole away to the park. It was thrilling to be going to meet David, and I know I looked nicer than usual. But I was so nervous my teeth chattered. While I waited I almost wished David wouldn’t come. Then I thought how horrible it would be if he didn’t.

He was later than I expected, but he grinned at me and I felt better right away. He carries his art things in a wooden portfolio, which doubles as a drawing board. Once we fell into step, I felt happy and not so scared. After all, it was only Mr. David. And my heart soared, because I knew we would have fun.

Only, just at first, we didn’t. He is very serious about this picture he wants to make. First he introduced me to the park shepherd, Mr. Mac, who is a stately old man with a white beard. David says he fought in the Civil War. I would have liked to question him about that, but David wanted to get right down to work. He gave me chopped-up apples so I could make friends with the sheep, and he told me to kneel and feed them. I didn’t want to, because I didn’t want to kneel where the sheep had
been
. I was thinking of my clean petticoats. They didn’t stay clean, and the sheep lost interest in me once the apples were gone. They sidled away. David said something under his breath that I think might have been swearing. Mr. Mac only shook his head and whistled for his dog.