A Fair Maiden

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Girls who knew that Lorraine Engelhardt was a mean-spirited woman, and cheap. (The sheets on the nanny's bed and the towels in the nanny's lavatory were frayed and thin from numerous launderings. Even the light-bulb wattage in the nanny's quarters was low.) And Max Engelhardt after a few drinks had a way of looking at you with a slovenly, damp smile, his eyes crawling over you like ants. Could give you a good time, baby. You know that, eh!

  Max Engelhardt steering the noisy Chris-Craft bouncing and bucking through the choppy waves off the Jersey shore, and Katya had to take him his drink in a plastic cup and stand beside him listening to him talk boastfully as a chilly wind whipped at her hair and made her eyes water, and in her loneliness Katya was thinking of Marcus Kidder prying open her fingers, pressing bills into her hand (for he would always pay her, he had promised); Marcus Kidder saying he adored her and would "ennoble" her; painting her portrait, which would be seen and admired by strangers; kissing Katya's mouth so warmly, gently, as Katya had never been kissed before, and how strange and wonderful it was, how she'd begun kissing Marcus Kidder in return, and had lifted her arms to embrace him.

  On the floor of the yacht at her feet Katya later discovered a pair of dice that had fallen out of a board game called Casino. Katya shook the dice in her hand, thinking, If it comes up six or more, I will see Mr. Kidder again. If not, I will not.

  Tossing the dice, and up came nine.

  23

  "WHY, KATYA! You've come."

  It had been arranged: Mr. Kidder's driver would pick Katya up a half-block from the Engelhardts' house, to take her in the long black Lincoln Town Car to the rear of the beautiful old shingleboard house at 17 Proxmire Street. And at the rear of the house, beneath a shadowy wisteria arbor, there stood Marcus Kidder, leaning on his cane, awaiting her.

  It was late, past 11 P.M. Finally the Engelhardts' house had darkened; and at 17 Proxmire, Mr. Kidder's house, seen from the street, appeared to be darkened.

  Nervously Katya greeted her elderly friend. Her elderly lover, she had to think of him. Though in the half-light, smiling so warmly at her, and so very tall and straight-backed, Mr. Kidder could have been mistaken for a much younger man.

  They greeted each other by clasping hands. Mr. Kidder brushed his lips against Katya's cheek and embraced her, causing Katya to stagger off-balance, nervously laughing, resisting the instinct to lift her elbows against him. She smelled a familiar sweetly sour odor on his breath. He's been drinking, Katya thought. He's afraid of me.

  "Dear girl! I am so happy to see you..." Mr. Kidder began kissing Katya's hands in an exaggerated way, making wet smacking noises as you might with a child, to make the child shiver and laugh. For always Marcus Kidder had to exert control by such clownish behavior. Katya hoped that his driver, Juan, parking the limousine inside the garage, hadn't noticed.

  His arm around Katya's shoulders, Mr. Kidder led Katya into the house. Through a dark maze of a garden where rose thorns pricked her, to the flagstone terrace at the rear of the house, where only a solitary outdoor light was burning, and into Mr. Kidder's studio, with its comforting smell of paints. Katya was startled to feel how familiar this room had come to seem to her, a kind of refuge, a secret place which no one except Mr. Kidder and Katya Spivak knew of. It did not cross her mind to wonder if the other girls and women whose portraits were hanging in shadow, on the wall, had come to feel the same way, in their separate times.

  "Welcome back! I haven't been able to paint—I've hardly been able to sleep—since ... last week." Another time Marcus Kidder brushed his warm, dry lips against the side of Katya's face, in a restrained and unthreatening manner. The thought came to Katya, This man loves me! In this room it happened.

  There was magic in this revelation. Katya felt her throat constrict with the need to cry.

  Mr. Kidder hadn't turned on the bright studio lights but only smaller lights, from table lamps. Above the fireplace mantel was a mirror reflecting the young blond girl and the older white-haired man as if through a scrim, with no sharp edges. On the mantel a jewel-like old-fashioned clock that Katya hadn't seen before was ticking with comforting authority, flanked by vases of fossil flowers, which gleamed and glittered like winking eyes. And in the background, a fluid dreamlike music of exquisite beauty, like water rippling gently over stones.

  Briskly Mr. Kidder rubbed his hands together. In a deadpan voice, he informed Katya that "ever-busy Mrs. Bee" had gone away for several days, leaving him quite alone: "Unless Mrs. Bee is horribly trapped in an attic room of this vast old house, buzzing and hurtling herself against an unyielding pane of glass."

  This was funny! Katya had to laugh at the spectacle of Mrs. Bee reduced to bee size, buzzing and hurtling herself against an attic window.

  "A drink, Katya? Must have a drink, to celebrate the prodigal model's return."

  As if Katya had stayed away a very long time, instead of less than a week.

  It had been five days. To one who loves, a lifetime.

  It was clear: Mr. Kidder seemed edgier, more excited than usual. His fingers trembled just slightly as he poured wine into two long-stemmed glasses: a nearly full glass for himself, and for Katya a precisely measured one third dark red wine mixed with two thirds sparkling water from a tall green bottle with a French label.

  "I can drink wine straight, Mr. Kidder," Katya objected. "I'm not ten years old."

  "Indeed you are not, dear Katya. You'd quite prepared me, when first we met, by declaring that you had 'bad habits'—of which in the intervening weeks we have seen little, to my disappointment. Yet for all your charming 'bad habits,' you remain but a minor in the vigilant state of New Jersey."

  Nonetheless, Mr. Kidder raised his glass in a toast—"To the 'perfect likeness,' and to her pursuer"—clicked his glass against Katya's glass, and drank. And Katya drank.

  What a dark, feral taste this wine had, a surprise to Katya, who'd expected something like the sugary-sweet local wine she'd been given at parties. Even diluted with sparkling water, this drink made her mouth pucker.

  Gently Mr. Kidder chided, "Wine is to be sipped, Katya. Not drunk. If you're thirsty, dear, now or while you're posing for your portrait, please drink sparkling water."

  So there was to be another modeling session, that night. Katya had assumed this would be so. But not in the ridiculous red silk lingerie tonight!

  Since she'd seen him waiting for her beneath the wisteria arbor, like a gentleman lover in an old storybook illustration, Katya had felt a thrill of warmth for Marcus Kidder; such strong affection, maybe she did love him. Yet her Spivak soul stood detached, calculating, If he paid me one hundred dollars last time, he will pay me more this time...

  He'd have found the torn, mangled, wadded red silk lingerie on the floor of the bathroom where Katya had kicked it. He'd have known how Katya had hated posing in such a costume, how she'd abased herself only for him.

  "Mr. Kidder—"

  "Marcus, please call me. Mr. Kidder is—was—my elderly father, a businessman of such limited imagination and verve, he scarcely deserves you. "

  "M-Marcus." Katya spoke uncertainly, feeling suddenly shy.

  "Mar-cus. Best pronounced as a spondee, dear."

  Katya had no idea what a spondee was. Mar-cus: equal stress on both syllables.

  "The music you are hearing, Katya—it's the music of Ravel, transcribed for harp. Do you like it?"

  "It's beautiful, Mr. Kidder." Politely Katya spoke, and then amended: "Mar-cus."

  "It is indeed beautiful. It is specially chosen for tonight. You might study harp, you know, Katya—and let your hair grow long, glimmering and wavy down your back."

  There was a strange excitement between them. A kind of electrical tension, as in the air before a storm. Katya wondered if Mr. Kidder had not expected her to return to him, and if this might be turned to her advantage.

  "Will you sit down, Katya? I assume that you've been working much of this day, for Mrs. Mayfly and the children. And what a good little nanny you've be
en, like Cinderella—who never complained either, though her wicked employer made her sleep in the ashes."

  Katya sat, on the sofa. Mr. Kidder sat close beside her, but not unnervingly close. You could see that he was trying not to upset his young-girl visitor; he was determined to remain a gentleman, that she might come to him. Katya had many times imagined that as soon as they were alone together, Mr. Kidder would kiss her, as he'd kissed her five days ago; yet he'd only just brushed his lips against her face, and now just touched the back of her hand as he spoke, and lightly stroked her wrist. His breathing was quickened, urgent. Katya could see that he'd prepared for this evening: his long, lean, clean-shaven jaws seemed to glow, and gave off a sharp wintergreen scent; his very white hair was neatly combed, and seemed to spring back from his forehead with vigor. How bright, alert, and intelligent the vivid blue eyes, and how warmly flushed his skin! In the lamplight Katya could barely discern the network of lines in his face, furrows in his high forehead and strange vertical lines in his cheeks, like rivulets of tears, which imparted an air of sculpted dignity. Mr. Kidder was wearing summer trousers with a sharp crease and a cream-colored dress shirt left unbuttoned at the throat to display a swirl of glinting hairs. In an impassioned voice he was saying, "I've been concerned that I might have lost you, Katya. That I'd said—and done—unforgivable things, and you would not want to see me again. After I'd declared myself so frankly to you—when your lovely portrait is at last emerging out of the chaos of empty canvas..."

  Katya felt the impulse to laugh wildly. Such extravagant things Marcus Kidder said to her! Yet she was deeply moved, too, and wanted to assure Mr. Kidder that yes, she'd returned to him, and would model for him again.

  Katya sipped her drink. The wine taste seemed to be improving. A fizzing sensation rose into her nostrils, making her want to sneeze.

  "This feeling between us, Katya, which sprang into life that morning on Ocean Avenue, and which I'm trying to capture in art—you do feel it, dear, don't you? That we are soul mates, born at awkward times?"

  Katya bit her lower lip, murmuring what sounded like "I guess."

  "You do mean it, Katya? You're not just saying this to humor me?"

  Humor? Katya wasn't sure what this meant. Unless Mr. Kidder was asking if she was lying to placate him. As girls and women do, to placate men.

  "Though surely I can love enough for both of us, dear. If you will let me."

  They sat stricken in silence. Mr. Kidder was stroking the back of Katya's hand, but he did not otherwise touch her. If he had, if he'd embraced her, Katya was thinking weakly that she could not pull away from him; she would lay her head against his shoulder, press her face against his neck ... She could not resist Marcus Kidder in this moment, for there was no one in all of the world who so valued Katya Spivak as Marcus Kidder did. She thought, He would forgive me anything, he loves me so.

  Impulsively then Katya said, "You never told me who Naomi was, Mr. Kidder." In her flat Jersey voice quickly amending, "Mar-cus."

  "Naomi was a very sweet girl of long ago, dear. A lesser Katya—an unrealized and incomplete Katya."

  "Was she related to you? Was she ... your daughter?"

  "No. She was not."

  Though Mr. Kidder had stiffened in displeasure and had ceased stroking Katya's hand, Katya persisted. "Who was she, then? Did you love her?"

  "I advise you to forget about Naomi, dear. There are some very minor riddles never to be solved."

  "But this Naomi was born closer to the time you were born, Mr. Kidder, than I was, wasn't she? 'Nineteen thirty-nine to nineteen fifty-six.'"

  Mr. Kidder stared at Katya, astonished. "But—how do you know that?"

  "I saw the book. The book in the library you'd dedicated to her. The picture book about the little skunk's first day at school, which I've been reading to Tricia Engelhardt. It's a wonderful story, Mr. Kidder. I saw the dedication—'To my lost Naomi.'"

  Now Mr. Kidder drew back from Katya. His smile faded.

  "'To my lost Naomi'—I'd forgotten."

  "Was Naomi your soul mate, too? How could you forget your soul mate?"

  The dark, feral wine beat through Katya's veins, urging her to utter such words. For in that moment Katya was meanly jealous of the other girl, the rich blond girl with the sweet vacant gaze.

  A shrill sort of sex banter, this was. Katya could hear the crudeness of her south Jersey speech, yet could not seem to overcome it.

  Carefully Mr. Kidder was saying, "Naomi belongs to my private life, Katya. My life before you. She was in fact the daughter of Bayhead Harbor friends, and she died young of a wasting disease similar to but not identical with multiple sclerosis. She resides in my memory, but she does not live now as you do, dear Katya. So please drop the subject."

  Still Katya persisted. Her mouth twisted in bitterness, which was also a kind of mockery she'd seen in Essie Spivak.

  "And what about the other girls? The women? That woman with the red, wavy hair"—Katya was pointing at one of the portraits, prominent on the wall—"who was she?"

  "Enough, Katya! It is always risky when a model chooses to speak."

  Mr. Kidder was on his feet. Brisk now, and matter-of-fact. Perhaps he was amused by his young friend's childishness. Perhaps he was dismayed, disgusted. He gave no sign but began to work, switching on brighter lights, bringing over his easel to set in front of the sofa. Katya was feeling remorseful now. Draining her glass and coughing. How crude she was! She knew this. How stupid, to reveal her jealousy. It was a mistake to provoke Marcus Kidder. She'd come to his studio to pose for him, after all, and to be paid. She'd dressed with more than usual care, and she'd even put on lipstick. Slut. Slut! Pay me.

  "Come, Katya. We haven't much time."

  Nearly midnight! Katya felt a swoon of anxiety and remorse.

  Briskly Mr. Kidder adjusted the sofa, took away the small pillows, smoothed out the black velvet backdrop. From a nearby table he took up a small white blanket, or shawl, which Katya had been noticing: was this the very beautiful, very special present he'd promised her if she returned to him? It did look beautiful, crocheted and decorated with small white satin ribbons. Casually Mr. Kidder said, "Tonight, Katya, you will remove your clothes."

  Katya wasn't sure she'd heard correctly. Remove her clothes?

  "Your clothes, Katya. You can't seriously think that I would paint you in your summer play-clothes, do you? You can take off your clothes in the bathroom and wrap yourself in this shawl, which is for you. Cashmere and silk, hand-crocheted, from Portugal. For you."

  Seeing how Katya continued to stare at him, so taken by surprise that she wasn't yet upset, Mr. Kidder said patiently, "Don't be a child, Katya. A model models—the human body is the subject, and in serious art the human body is usually nude. Nude, not naked. There is a distinction."

  Slowly Katya shook her head. No.

  "Katya, yes. Go into the other room, remove your silly sport clothes, wrap yourself in this lovely shawl, and come out here like a professional model. You know that I will pay you, dear? Yes?"

  Mr. Kidder was holding out to Katya the white cashmere-and-silk shawl, quite a large shawl, with a delicate fringe, feathery light. It was true, the shawl was beautiful. Casually it might be revealed to Lorraine Engelhardt, drawn over Katya's shoulders on the next windy boat ride on the ocean.

  "I d-don't think so, Mr. Kidder. I guess—I don't want to pose ... nude." Almost Katya choked on the very word: nude.

  Mr. Kidder objected: "Katya, your wants are irrelevant here. We are seeking something beyond mere wants—moods. Think of your soul revealed by way of your body, and the artist is the instrument to make it luminous, as art."

  Yet Katya said, numbly, "I—I don't know what that means, Mr. Kidder. But I don't want to do it. I'm not really a ... model. I'm not even very pretty. I don't have any talent for art." Words tumbled from Katya's mouth; she had scarcely any idea what she was saying. "The sketchpad you gave me, the pencils—I tried to use them, in Harbor Park, drawing
geese, but—"

  "Katya, stop! You're being ridiculous. I will not allow you to denigrate yourself—your beauty, and your talent. I'm sure that if you work hard and use your imagination, you can one day write and illustrate children's books just as well as Marcus Cullen Kidder did in his time. How will you know, until you try? All that lies ahead, dear. Within the scope of my wishes for you. But that is the future, and tonight is now. You will disrobe in the bathroom and wrap yourself in this shawl. Now."

  Katya took the shawl from Mr. Kidder. Light as gossamer in her hands, the most beautiful shawl she had ever held.

  Yet still, with childlike stubbornness, Katya shook her head. No. She could not do this. She wasn't beautiful, as Mr. Kidder said, but ordinary, ugly. Anyone who saw her naked—nude—would laugh at her.

  Exasperated, Mr. Kidder drew down from a bookshelf a hefty book titled The Female Nude, to show Katya. Here were glossy color plates of female nudes by such artists as Titian, Botticelli, Giorgione, Raphael, Ingres, Rubens, Renoir, Manet, Matisse ... Katya stared at the color plates with mounting impatience as Mr. Kidder paged through them, pausing to speak of them. You could see that Marcus Kidder was not a man to be contradicted; his gentlemanly good nature was possible only when he was obeyed in all things. When he encountered opposition, he became infuriated. And this was so, Katya thought, for all the men she'd known, including her father. You do not contradict a man. If you want him to love you, you do not.

  Katya saw that as Mr. Kidder loomed above her, oily moisture gleamed on his high, bony forehead, and he was pressing the heel of his hand against his chest, where you'd expect his heart to be. The expression on his face was both stricken and indignant, as if pain itself were an insult to him. In dismay, Katya thought, Mr. Kidder is not a well man! That is his secret.

  "We're wasting time. For me, a man of my age, precious time. Disrobe, Katya, and wrap yourself in this shawl. Come back out here, and if lying on the sofa you don't feel that you can remove the shawl, or allow me to remove it, that will be all right. It won't be ideal, but I can proceed." Mr. Kidder took up Katya's wineglass, replenished it with a half-glass of wine and a half-glass of sparkling water, and handed it to her, and poured himself another full glass and drank. He was not so agitated now; the pressure in his chest must have faded.