A Fair Maiden

by Joyce Carol Oates

  "Katya? Is something wrong?"

  Nervously Mr. Kidder knocked on the bathroom door. Katya had locked it behind her, and now she opened it, furious. In that instant Marcus Kidder must have seen the shattered crimson rose on the tile floor and the wadded red silk lingerie on the floor and, in Katya Spivak's face, a look of hysterical fury. "Let me go! Don't t-try to stop me! I—I shouldn't be here! I'm going now." Rudely Katya pushed past the startled man, her lips moving in a furious mutter: Dirty old man, what right d'you have, like the Engelhardts what right, damn you, hate you. Katya snatched up her straw handbag and headed for the door. In distress, Marcus Kidder followed after her, apologizing: "Dear Katya! What on earth has happened? This was just a—an experiment, in vivid colors and in silk. Silken cloth and silken skin. Like Renoir—" Katya was thinking, I can walk out of here, I won't come back. 1 don't need this man's money, yet—so strangely!—as if this were a dream in which she were trying to make her way through a dense, clutching substance like muck, she paused at the door, paused panting and trembling at the open door, feeling again that choking sensation in her throat, which made her want to cry; and perhaps Katya was crying, for how could she behave like this to Marcus Kidder, who was so kind to her, and such a gentle man—so much nicer to Katya than her own grandfather had ever been, and seeing in her such promise, such worth and such specialness, which no one in Vineland had ever seen in Katya Spivak, including even her father. Katya stood in the doorway at the rear of Mr. Kidder's studio and could not seem to step out onto the terrace and run away. Panting like a dog that has been trained by his master and can't break out of his training, though his training has hurt, humbled, humiliated him and enslaved him.

  And so Katya stood in the doorway of Mr. Kidder's studio looking out toward the Atlantic Ocean, where agitated white-capped waves were just visible in the waning sunlight, and quietly Mr. Kidder came up behind her, knowing not to speak at first, for speaking to Katya would only arouse her further. Gently, Mr. Kidder stroked her hair, as you might stroke the fur of a frightened animal; Mr. Kidder stroked her shoulder, and her arm; Mr. Kidder circled her wrist with his long, elegantly shaped fingers, but very lightly. For Marcus Kidder was always gentle with Katya, in his formal, gentlemanly way. And Marcus Kidder would not fail to pay her, she knew.

  "Katya, I will never make such a request of you again. I've hurt you, I can see."

  Mr. Kidder turned Katya, gripping her shoulders, gently gripping her shoulders and holding her firmly. And her eyes lifted to his and she saw that he was genuinely repentant. And had he hurt her, really? Not really. The red silk lingerie was a joke, nothing more. Katya Spivak was tough, and Katya Spivak was smart. Like all the Spivaks, Katya was expecting to be paid.

  Mr. Kidder took Katya's hand and unclenched her fingers so that he could press into her hand a wad of neatly folded bills. "You know that I adore you, Katya. I seek only your perfect likeness—to ennoble you. Have faith in me! You will see."

  Katya's stiff fingers closed about the bills, as always Katya's fingers did. Good! There was this payment, at least.

  "And I think that you have some feeling for me, Katya? Am I mistaken?"

  Marcus Kidder's backward way of speaking! Katya stood silent, gnawing at her lower lip. The choking sensation returned in her throat. She could hardly bear to look at Marcus Kidder's handsome ruined face, those eyes that were so beautiful to her, so filled with love for her, pouched in darkish crinkled flesh.

  "Forgive me, Katya! Next time will be very different, I promise."

  Katya stiffened against Mr. Kidder's embrace but did not resist. And his lips against the side of her head, his warm breath in her hair, against her cheek; slowly, hesitantly, moving against her mouth.

  And then suddenly Mr. Kidder was kissing Katya. And Katya, dazed, scarcely knowing what she did, stood still and childlike as if in obedience, in his arms, and, in the surprise of the moment, responded to his kiss, as she might have responded to the kiss of any man, or boy, for whom she felt a strong emotion; for Mr. Kidder's lips were so warm, so soft and comforting, and made no demands upon her, and Katya was so lonely suddenly, and close to tears.

  She pushed herself away. She ran along the flagstone path, clutching her straw bag, clutching the bills in her clenched fist, before Mr. Kidder could follow after her and say goodbye to her at the front gate.

  Blocks away Katya opened her fist, paused to count the bills in the reflected light of a drugstore window: five twenty-dollar bills. Five! Crisp and stiff as if freshly minted.

  19

  NO KISS IS FORGOTTEN; it resides in the memory as in the flesh, and so Katya many times felt the press of Marcus Kidder's warm mouth on hers in the days and especially in the nights following. And her heartbeat quickened in protest: How could you! Kiss him! That old man! Kiss him! Let him put his arms around you and kiss you and kiss him back! The old man's mouth and Katya Spivak's mouth! How could you.

  The five twenty-dollar bills Katya hid away carefully with the other bills her friend had given her: two hundred and sixty dollars.

  20

  "WHO'S IT? Oh, Katya! Honey, hello."

  Finally Katya's mother answered the phone. How many times Katya had dialed her number. At last Essie Spivak answered the phone.

  At first she sounded hostile. And groggy, as if Katya's call had wakened her from sleep. But she didn't sound drunk, or seriously angry. In fact, Essie was sounding cheery now, as if happy to hear from Katya, as if someone was nudging her, saying, This is your daughter! Your daughter who did you a favor! C'mon, Essie, be nice. Though Essie hadn't taken time to call Katya, she seemed genuinely pleased to have a call from Katya, though in the middle of the day (at 3:30 P.M.? was this possible?) she did sound as if she was just waking up. Katya saw her mother dazedly smiling and running quick fingers through her spiky dyed-beet hair as she asked Katya, how was she? How were the Eggensteins treating her? How many more weeks before Katya would be back home? Only then remembering the check that Katya had sent several weeks before and thanking her profusely for it: "That was sweet of you, Katya! My sweet girl. I'd about given up hope, and there's my best girl, my sweet Katya, coming to her mom's rescue. Your snotty sisters—know what? Wouldn't even answer my calls."

  Uneasily Katya waited for her mother to become suspicious and ask who Marcus C. Kidder was, who'd made out the check, but to her surprise, her mother took up another topic, how her luck had changed in Atlantic City, where she'd won big at the Taj, where she'd always had good luck, or mostly good luck. She'd met this "sweet, really decent guy," an "actual doctor"—"gasto-intesticular specialist"—from Morristown, who'd staked her at blackjack and helped with the down payment on her new 1989 Mercury Grand Marquis ... Katya pressed the phone tight against her ear as her mother's excited voice wavered in and out of earshot; there was static, and Essie's voice was raised. "Katya? You still there? Know who wants to drive up there and see you? Roy Mraz—your crazy cousin Roy? He's through rehab and more grown-up, kind of a sweet kid, or can be ... Want me to give him your number there, Katya?" And quickly Katya said no, the Engelhardts didn't want her to take personal calls, especially from guys; and so Katya's mother said, "You could reach him at Fritzie's garage, I guess. Call him."

  After Katya hung up she felt dazed, disoriented, realizing that she'd forgotten to ask her mother about repaying the three hundred dollars, for hadn't it been a loan?

  Had it been a loan, from Mr. Kidder? Or a gift?

  21

  I will not.

  Wasn't going to call Roy Mraz, and wasn't going to see Marcus Kidder again.

  In Harbor Park she took out her sketchpad and colored pencils. While Tricia squealed with the other children flinging bits of bread at the excited waterfowl, Katya sat on a bench with baby Kevin in his stroller beside her and sketched the scene: swans, Canada geese, white geese, and mallard ducks in a swarm of squawking and wing-flapping, all of them beautiful birds and yet comical in their behavior. More comical were the actions of sparrows flying
into the melee to dart beneath the larger birds and make off with pieces of bread beneath their very beaks. You had to laugh aloud to see tiny birds flying away with chunks of bread in their beaks nearly as large as their heads ... Katya's fingers didn't move so swiftly or so deftly as Marcus Kidder's fingers when sketching her in his studio, but her drawings weren't bad, Katya thought. The trick was, as Mr. Kidder instructed, to see before you began to sketch; if you tried to sketch too quickly, without seeing, you would mess up. In grade school Katya had been praised by her teachers for her crayon drawings that told little stories, like comic strips, but her sister Tracey disillusioned her by saying that grade school teachers praised anyone who wasn't retarded, practically, and that Katya shouldn't take such praise seriously. But now, since Funny Bunny and the other children's books Katya had been reading aloud to Tricia, she'd begun to think, I could do books like these myself. Maybe!

  In Vineland, in the houses of women for whom Katya frequently babysat, there had been no children's books for Katya to read from, to the children; the TV was always on, whether anyone watched it or not. In Bayhead Harbor, in households like the Engelhardts', all the children were given books, beautifully illustrated storybooks featuring animals like Funny Bunny who could talk and think like people and made you smile. Sometimes the books were scary, but never too scary; always they ended happily. What was surprising to Katya was how expensive the books were. Only people with money would buy them, and though you could take such books out of the public library, only people with money seemed to know or to care about this. In the Vineland households Katya Spivak knew, there were no books, and few newspapers: just TV.

  Katya shivered, thinking of this. She didn't want to return to Vineland! She'd begun to be frightened of Vineland.

  "Excuse me. You are Katya?"

  Out of nowhere he appeared. A soft-spoken man in his late thirties perhaps, in dark jacket, dark slacks, and white shirt open at the throat, wearing a visored cap like a chauffeur and dark glasses. "I am driver for Mr. Kidder. Here is something I am to give you."

  Taken by surprise, Katya could only accept what the man handed her: an oversized envelope made of red construction paper, addressed in tall block letters TO KATYA.

  Katya opened the envelope, removed a folded sheet of stiff construction paper, and read:

  Dearest Katya,

  I am sorry. Forgive and come today to tea-time on the terrace and bring the children with you. The promise is all fun and no regrets and a short ride with Juan at the wheel.

  Mopey-blue with missing you,

  your friend

  Marcus Kidder

  Mopey-blue. Katya smiled to think of Marcus Kidder as mopey and blue on her account, but quickly she folded up the letter and told Juan the driver, "Tell him—Mr. Kidder—that I can't. Thank him for me but—I can't."

  Gravely the driver said, "Then there is this I am to give you."

  A second envelope? This made of sky-blue construction paper addressed in tall block letters TO KATYA.

  Dearest Katya,

  I understand! In fact, I predicted! On such short notice you can't bring the children of course.

  And so will you come at another time, alone? Tomorrow after dusk? Shall I hope?

  Promise only just fun and no regrets and a very beautiful very special gift awaits my very beautiful very special Katya, you will see!

  Mopey-blue with missing you,

  your friend

  Marcus Kidder

  Katya laughed nervously. Feeling her face heating. Very special very beautiful: Marcus Kidder had such a way of writing, you could hear Funny Bunny in his voice. Katya felt the temptation to give in but again told the driver, "No, thank you—tell Mr. Kidder that I can't. I'm s-sorry." Katya faltered as if her throat were shutting up. "I can't."

  In a gravely formal voice, the dark-uniformed driver thanked Katya and turned away. Katya sprang to her feet and watched him cross a grassy stretch of parkland to the parking lot, where a long, gleaming black Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows was parked conspicuously. Mr. Kidder's limousine! Katya stared in amazement. Mr. Kidder had sent that limousine for her.

  By this time the other nannies were watching her curiously. How strange it was to Katya Spivak, to be so publicly singled out, made to feel privileged, yet uneasy. And now she realized she'd seen that hearselike sedan just recently, on New Liberty Street near the Engelhardts' house, and while walking to the public beach on East Pond Road, which was an unpaved road, with no sidewalk, so that you walked at the side of the road. At the time Katya had taken little notice of the elegant black car that seemed to be following at a little distance behind her; she'd assumed it was a coincidence, not related to her at all. Now she had to wonder if the driver, Juan, had been sent to spy on her, or if Mr. Kidder himself had been inside, in the back seat, behind tinted windows, spying on her.

  Maybe Mr. Kidder had expected Katya to see him? A Funny Bunny kind of thing to do, like playing hide-and-seek.

  He wouldn't want to scare me. Not me.

  This was so, Katya knew. Marcus Kidder would never want to scare her.

  And yet there was a word for this sort of thing: stalking.

  At least two of Katya's mother's man friends had stalked her after they'd broken up. Showing up outside the clinic where Essie had worked at the time, offering her a ride home. In stores, at the mall, on the street, meeting her "by accident." The most persistent of the stalkers had been Artie, who'd called Essie so many times she'd had to have her telephone number changed, and one scary time that Katya was remembering now he'd showed up in his car outside Katya's school to ask if she'd like a ride home...Can't shake the bastards off, Essie said. They have to be the ones to lose interest, not you.

  Eventually Artie had given up, or disappeared. In Vineland, men often disappeared. A certain type of man disappeared.

  But Marcus Kidder was not that type of man.

  "Kat-cha? Is somethin' wrong?"

  There stood Tricia Engelhardt, worriedly sucking at a finger. Tricia had used up all the bread Katya had given her, and still the clamorous waterfowl were hungry. Katya assured the little girl that she was fine, of course nothing was wrong, but it was time for them to get back home.

  Really it wasn't time. They hadn't been in the park nearly as long as they usually were. But Katya clutched the little girl by the hand, pushed baby Kevin in his stroller, in the corner of her eye seeing the sleek, gleaming black Lincoln Town Car pull out of the parking lot and depart, silent and smooth-gliding as an undersea predator.

  Go away! Go away! I don't love you! I hate it that you love me.

  22

  HERE WAS PROOF she could stay away.

  From Marcus Kidder, she could stay away.

  His offers of presents for her, payment for "modeling"—she could refuse.

  And his kisses. And his love. She could refuse.

  "You can come with us Sunday afternoon, to Cape May? On your half-day off?" Mrs. Engelhardt spoke with faint incredulity, as if she hadn't heard Katya clearly.

  Katya said yes, if Mrs. Engelhardt could use her. If there was room for her on the yacht. Katya spoke humbly, as one requesting a special favor, even though she understood—and her employer understood—that her presence on the yacht trip with visiting friends of the Engelhardts who'd brought along two small children would be invaluable.

  Yet canny Lorraine Engelhardt didn't say, Katya! You're a lifesaver but, with a measured smile, "We can't pay you for overtime, though. Just regular time. If you understand that."

  Eagerly Katya nodded. She understood!

  And so Katya accompanied the Engelhardts and their friends on a windblown excursion south along the Jersey coast to Cape May, where they visited relatives; and Katya was enormously helpful, taking care of the restless children and the adults both, serving drinks, mopping up spills, in every way the sweet-smiling hired girl who knew her place; and the Engelhardts were grateful for her presence and seemed to like her again, as they'd seemed to like her b
efore Marcus Kidder. For Katya wanted to be liked, there was this weakness in her: desperately she wanted to be liked, even by people she resented. For these were rich people, the Engelhardts and their flashy friends, and you never knew, as Essie Spivak said, when a person with money might spend some on you.

  Katya's mother meant men. That was the attraction of Atlantic City. A taste for gambling meant gambling of all kinds.

  But no. It was foolish of Katya to imagine that the Engelhardts from Saddle River would do anything for her. What a futile wish!

  Katya knew that she was expendable to these people. They were consumers, users—they used people up and discarded them. No matter if Tricia adored her nanny; Katya Spivak was just a girl hired for the summer who wouldn't be rehired next year. For Mrs. Engelhardt had hired Katya only because other girls had turned her down, girls who'd wanted to be paid more than the minimum wage.