The Hired Girl (37 page)

And I wonder about the whole history of the world. Governments and courtrooms and steam engines and combines — all necessary inventions, but how did men come up with them, when they could have been kissing? I think about the conquistadors and how they left off kissing their wives and went sailing across the ocean to conquer a lot of innocent natives who would probably have preferred to stay in their hammocks and kiss
their
wives. It’s hard to fathom.

Of course there are other things that married people do. You can’t grow up on a farm without knowing about those things, and I’ve always thought they seemed clumsy and a little strenuous, but perhaps they might not be so bad if David — oh, David! I am sure David could do nothing ungraceful. Why, when he put peroxide on my neck, it was like being anointed with spices in the Song of Solomon.

All I can think of is David. I wash dishes and knead the bread and scrub the sinks and run the carpet sweeper over the rug, and I am happy, because I am reliving his kisses, and longing — fiercely but dreamily — for the day when he will kiss me again. I am so
happy.

But my happiness is no longer a child’s. Now that David’s kissed me, I shall never be a child again. My happiness is not contentment, but longing, incessant, passionate
longing.
. . .

Tuesday, September the nineteenth, 1911

Last night I had a dreadful dream. I think it came because I’ve been worrying about Belinda. Once or twice I’ve had a notion that Mimi’s been in my room; I’ve fancied I smelled that lilac perfume of hers. But nothing has ever been touched, and Belinda is safe in the back of the drawer.

In my dream I was back on the farm. I came into my old bedroom and saw the floor littered with scraps of cloth. It was Belinda I saw first; Belinda, torn to shreds: her wig clipped, her stuffing dragged out, her flowered dress cut to ribbons. But it wasn’t just Belinda; the floor was covered with relics of cambric and lace, tattered bits of petticoats and nightgowns, all pure white and fine enough for a bride.

And Ma was there. She wore her old dress with the faded blue triangles on it. Her face was haggard and she gazed at me without love, almost without recognition. I didn’t know if she was the one who had torn my things to shreds, or if Father had done it; I had a nightmarish sense that I might have done it myself, without knowing it. I cried, “I’m sorry, Ma, I’m sorry!” but her face was implacable.

That’s when I woke up.

I’d overslept, and Malka was annoyed. When I made Mr. Rosenbach’s toast, I cut the bread too thick, and it got stuck in the toaster and filled the kitchen with smoke. I burned my fingers trying to get it out. By midmorning I had an awful headache.

But at last it was time for my afternoon off. As I dressed to go out, I remembered that this time last week I was getting ready to see David. He took me to
La Traviata,
and he bought me my red umbrella. Two nights ago, he kissed me. It seems a hundred years ago. I recall Miss Chandler once read me a poem with the line in it:
Ah, love, let us be true to one another!
I don’t recollect the rest of that poem, but I’ve always remembered that line. As I walked to church, I whispered it over and over, like a prayer.

Then I felt bad, because it was almost as if I didn’t trust David. It must be the bad dream I had, because I’m sure I do. Only, the way things were, there was no time for us to swear fidelity to each other. We kissed and I am bound to him forever. But we didn’t have time to talk about what might lie ahead.

I went to see Father Horst, and he was kind but I felt too dull-witted to pay much attention to him. While he droned on about the suffering souls in Purgatory, I remembered Ma. I thought of what I wrote in this book about kissing, and it struck me that Ma never kissed Father, not once that I recall. Marriage doesn’t always mean kissing and happiness. Ma understood that. She wanted me to be a schoolteacher, not a wife; she saved the Belinda money so I could escape from all that, but here I am, thinking of marrying David Rosenbach, who isn’t even a Catholic. No wonder she was angry in my dream.

But Ma never met David, and not
all
marriages go bad, I’m sure. I blurted out, “Father Horst, isn’t marriage a sacrament?”

He looked astonished and well he might, because I’d veered away from the poor souls in Purgatory. I tried to explain. “I mean, if marriage is a sacrament, it’s holy, isn’t it? So if someone tried to warn a girl never to get married — I don’t mean warning a girl against any particular man, but saying that marriage was a bad thing for a woman — why, that would be a mistake, wouldn’t it?”

Father Horst took off his glasses. The way he did it, I wondered if he had a headache, too. He rubbed his closed eyes with his fingertips. “Miss Lovelace, are you thinking of getting married?”

“No,” I said hastily, but that wasn’t true, because I’d kissed David, and kissing someone and getting engaged are pretty much the same thing. Even Mimi acknowledged as much, when she said that David wasn’t engaged to Isabelle Gratz.

“Has one of your employers told you that there’s something wrong with getting married?”

“No, Father,” I said. I could see where his thoughts were tending. Father Horst is always sure the Rosenbachs are up to no good. “I was just wondering. That’s all.”

“In my opinion,” Father Horst said, “it would indeed be a mistake. Marriage is a woman’s destiny. There can be no higher calling for a woman than to marry a man and bear his children, unless”— a light came into his eyes —“you wish to enter the consecrated life. Is it possible you may have a vocation?”

I was a little slow to see what he meant. “A nun?” I said at last. “Me? Oh, no! I could never be a nun!”

“The calling can be extremely subtle,” Father Horst said pleadingly. “It can be a very delicate thing, that still, small voice that speaks from the soul. Have you heard that voice, Miss Lovelace?”

“No,” I said hastily. It sounded brusque, and I was sorry, because I could see that it would brighten his day if I wanted to be a nun. “I’m sorry, Father, but I’m pretty sure I’m not going to be a nun. I don’t think I have it in me. I just wanted to see what you thought about marriage.”

Father Horst looked at me quizzically. Then he sighed. “I have to admit, I find it hard to imagine you as a nun,” he said, “but God’s ways are often mysterious, and I wouldn’t want to discourage you. Is there anything else you want to ask, my daughter?”

“No, Father,” I said. It was nice of him to be interested, but by then I wanted to get out of there. My conscience is uneasy because I lied to him, and I know he wouldn’t like me kissing a Jew.

After I left him, I went to the church to pray. I lit a candle for David before the statue of St. Joseph, because he is the patron saint of artists. St. Luke would have been better, because he was a painter, but there’s no altar for St. Luke in Corpus Christi. Then I went to the statue of the Blessed Mother.

It’s a fine statue, but I don’t much like the expression on her face. I hope it’s not blasphemy to say that. The statue is white marble, or maybe it’s glazed china; it’s very polished looking, but the face always makes me think of the word
perturbed.
It’s easy to imagine that statue disapproving of me.

I began by praying that David would get his commission. After that, I was tongue-tied, because what I want most is for David to come back and kiss me some more, but I didn’t know whether the Blessed Mother would understand about that. I’m not sure how she feels about me being in love with a Jew. If David and I are going to be together, one of us will likely have to convert. I can see that David might not want to because of the Christians who persecuted and tortured the Jews. But if I convert, I won’t have Jesus and the Blessed Mother any longer. I can’t expect the Blessed Mother to be in favor of that.

I prayed that something would happen to David so that he might see the light and want to be a Catholic. But I didn’t have much faith as I prayed. The day was overcast and the church was dark and my head hurt. At last I just bowed my head and asked God for mercy and forgiveness. Then I got off my knees and left the church. The sky was white and it had begun to drizzle. I didn’t have my red umbrella, which would have raised my spirits. I walked home in the rain and longed for David.

Wednesday, September the twentieth, 1911

We’re almost ready for Rosh Hashanah. I’d thought we’d cleaned everything that could be cleaned, but today Malka remembered the chandeliers. We washed the prisms in hot water and vinegar to make them sparkle. Tomorrow we’ll begin preparing for Friday night’s dinner. There have to be sweet things for Rosh Hashanah, so that the New Year will be sweet.

David will be home on Friday!

Something nice happened this afternoon. While I was pressing the table linens, Mr. Solomon came downstairs. He saw that Malka was dozing with the Prodigal Cat in her lap, and he pointed to the ceiling. I took the hint, unplugged the iron, and followed him up the stairs.

Once we were out of Malka’s earshot, I asked him if he wanted anything. He said he hoped I would grant him my forgiveness. It seems that Rosh Hashanah has a lot to do with forgiveness. Before the New Year, the Jews try to atone for any injuries they’ve done.

I was confused. I said very fast: “I’m sorry I read your poem and sent it to Nora Himmelrich.”

“No, no, no,” said Mr. Solomon, showing the palms of his hands. “I’m not asking you to apologize to me. You said you were sorry. No, I’m asking
your
forgiveness. I shouted at you and made you cry.”

It touched my heart when he said that. Most men don’t give two pins when they make a girl cry. “It was my fault,” I said awkwardly. “Anyway, I forgive you.”

“You’re a generous girl, Janet,” said Mr. Solomon, and his sweet-for-a-man smile lit up his face. “Thank you. Now that we’ve forgiven each other, I’ll tell you a secret. Two secrets.”

In a flash, I thought of David. I thought maybe he’d written Solly and sent a message for me. “Oh, what is it?”

Mr. Solomon lowered his voice in a teasing way. “I’ve never been so happy in my life.”

“Are you?” I said. I was glad he was happy, but disappointed because his secret had nothing to do with David.

“Yes, because Miss Kleman has agreed to be my wife, and Father is willing to send me to yeshiva. If you hadn’t sent that sonnet to Miss Himmelrich, those things might never have come to pass. Or they might not have come to pass so soon.”

I think this might be true. I guess Mr. Solomon would have asked Miss Kleman to marry him eventually, but he might have needed a little push. Sooner or later, he would have told his father that he wanted to study Talmud, but it might have been later. Mr. Solomon isn’t a go-ahead like David. “What’s the other secret?”

His smile broadened to a grin. “The part of the sonnet you wrote was better than the part I wrote.”

I was so surprised that I said, “
Was
it?” and he gave a little nod and turned away, because he’d said everything he had to say.

I looked after him, smiling. I do like Mr. Solomon, even though he isn’t David. I don’t always like Mrs. Rosenbach, but she raised good sons. David and Mr. Solomon are the two nicest young men I’ve ever met. Likely they take after their father.

With a peaceful heart, I went back downstairs and finished ironing. Then I took an armful of Mimi’s freshly ironed petticoats and made my way up to her room.

I was lucky to find her in. Mimi’s almost as much of a gadabout as David, but she was sitting on her bed, playing a game of bridge with herself — she told me she’s a demon at bridge, though she’s too young to play with the bridge ladies. I put her clothes in the proper drawers and banged the last one shut. “Rosh Hashanah,” I announced, “is a time of forgiveness.”

Mimi scowled. I noticed she was wearing her glasses. She often “forgets” them when she goes out, but she wears them at home. “I don’t see what that has to do with you,” she said coolly.

“Well, you haven’t forgiven me,” I retorted, “which is mean, because I never meant anything bad by you. I just wanted you to be able to read properly, so you wouldn’t be a dunce. Anyway, your glasses are becoming. If you were a proper Jewess, you’d forgive me, because it’s Rosh Hashanah.”

Mimi’s face was a study. Her mouth looked fierce, but the eyes behind her glasses were thoughtful. The silence between us lengthened.

“It’s Rosh Hashanah,” I repeated, “and I’ve
missed
you. And starting on Friday, God’s going to be making up His mind whether to write your name in the Book of Life. How do you think He’s going to feel when He finds out you haven’t forgiven a poor servant girl?”

Mimi’s mouth quivered. “I don’t believe He’ll mind,” she retorted, “because you’re not a Jew. Rosh Hashanah is a time of forgiveness for
Jews.
You’re not Jewish.”

“You are,” I reminded her.

She frowned again. “You think of yourself as a member of this family,” she said slowly, “as if you’re almost Jewish. But you’re not. You’ll never be one of us.”

She couldn’t have known how those words would hurt my feelings, but they did. I guess it showed in my face, because suddenly she cried, “Oh, poor Janet!” She leaped off the bed, scattering the cards, and hugged me.

I was startled, because I’m not used to people hugging me. There was David, and before that, the awful man on the train, and before that, Mark, when Cressy kneed me in the eye. Mimi must have felt my surprise, because after a few seconds, she stepped back.

“Do you forgive me?” I persisted.

“Yes,” said Mimi. “I’ve missed you, too. It was
abdominable
what you did to me, but it’s Rosh Hashanah, so I’ll let you off.” She flashed me one of her starry-eyed smiles. “It’s been awful dull with David back in New York and that Miss Krumm coming every day. Did you ever see anything as hideous as that suit she wears? I want to show you something.”

She went to her dresser and opened her jewel box. The child is twelve years old, and she really does have a jewel box. It’s ridiculous, but she has a set of real pearls and a necklace of green glass beads that came from Venice. Now she took out a gold filigree chain with a magnifying glass at one end. The glass was enameled with sparkling stones and mother-of-pearl. Mimi looped the chain around her neck and lifted the glass by its stem. “Watch.”