A Fair Maiden

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Two Caucasian males. Strangers!

  There was Marcus Kidder on TV in closeup, in film footage of some years ago, being honored at a local gathering. Through the roaring in her ears Katya could barely make out the newscaster's words. How youthful Mr. Kidder was looking, graciously shaking hands with a female librarian who was presenting him with a plaque of some kind; how tall he was, how dignified his posture, how beautiful his head of snowy white hair ... Katya stared, entranced, a spoonful of baby food in her hand, until the husky Engelhardt baby began to rock dangerously in his highchair and flail his little fists in hunger.

  In this way Katya Spivak was given to know that Marcus Kidder had forgiven her.

  28

  IT WAS TWO EVENINGS before Katya's departure from Bayhead Harbor, the day before Labor Day, just twelve days following the assault on Marcus Kidder, that Mr. Kidder's driver came for her.

  Katya was in Harbor Park with the Engelhardt children. Feeding geese for what would be the final time that summer.

  How melancholy Katya was feeling. How heavy-hearted, on the eve of her departure. She would never see the Engelhardts again, she knew; her mother had warned her against becoming attached to strangers' children, and yet it had happened, Katya felt almost a kind of love for three-year-old Tricia, who had nearly learned to read under her tutelage, or at least to read certain of her picture books, and for Tricia's baby brother, who fussed and fretted less in his nanny's arms than he did in his mother's. For Katya knew that children inhabit a heightened present tense: they forget quickly. Within a day or two the baby would have utterly forgotten Katya Spivak, who'd fed, bathed, dressed, and cuddled him all summer; within a few weeks Tricia would have forgotten the girl who'd introduced her to Funny Bunny and his friends and had encouraged her to draw with colored pencils.

  With her own colored pencils and sketchpad, Katya was trying to capture a poignant scene in the park: young children, geese with wide flapping wings and outstretched necks, the placid surface of the small lake nearby ... But there was too much commotion and noise; Katya couldn't concentrate. One after another of the sketches Katya tried were disappointing to her; she tore out the pages and crumpled them in her hand. Why had Mr. Kidder encouraged Katya Spivak to think that she had talent? Without Mr. Kidder, I am nothing.

  The most recent news was that Marcus Kidder had returned to Bayhead Harbor. He'd been discharged from the hospital into the care of a private nurse, unless the "private nurse" was only Mrs. Bee. For all Katya knew, Mrs. Bee was in fact a private nurse. Katya would never see Mr. Kidder again, and Katya would never see Roy Mraz again. (A few days after the beating, when she'd been waiting for Bayhead Harbor police to arrest her, Katya had called her sister Lisle to ask about Roy and been told that so far as Lisle knew, Roy Mraz had moved away from Vineland. He'd stopped work at Fritzie's garage, and no one seemed to know where he was, not even the young divorced woman with the two-year-old son whom Roy had been seeing for much of the summer.)

  Katya was thinking these thoughts, which made her colored pencils falter against the stiff white paper, as if they'd lost all their magic, when there came to her, quietly from behind, Mr. Kidder's driver, Juan. "Miss, you must come with me. Mr. Kidder is awaiting you now."

  Katya, astonished, turned to see the driver. For here the man stood in his dark chauffeur's uniform, white shirt and dark tie, dark visored cap, dark-tinted glasses. Politely he spoke, with the barest hint of a smile.

  Katya stammered, "No! I can't. I have the children..."

  And politely again Juan spoke, in his soft, lightly accented voice: "Mr. Kidder wishes to see you, miss. You will come with me now, please."

  There was another nanny seated on a bench close by, a friendly young Hispanic woman who cared for the children of a neighbor of Mrs. Engelhardt, whom Katya had come to know from the park and the beach. Apologetically Katya asked the woman if she would do Katya a favor and take the Engelhardt children back with her to New Liberty Street, to Mrs. Engelhardt, and the young woman said, surprised, yes, of course she would.

  Seeing how Juan stood a few feet away from Katya Spivak in his black chauffeur's uniform, waiting.

  In this way Katya was taken back to 17 Proxmire Street.

  On this warm, gusty day in late summer, in Bayhead Harbor.

  Sand was blown along the roadway, against the tinted windows of the gleaming black Lincoln Town Car, stinging Katya's eyes and making them water though the windows were shut tight. The journey from Harbor Park to 17 Proxmire Street could not have taken more than five minutes, and yet it seemed much longer. Katya was having difficulty making out what passed before her eyes as in a film in which action has been speeded up, or slowed to the point of immobility. It seemed as if Juan was driving fast, for Katya had to clutch at the armrest beside her; she felt her head spin, as it had when she'd given in to Roy Mraz, to smoke crystal meth with him; she felt a dazed sense of detachment from her body, as when, as a young child, she'd sometimes awakened to such a sensation in her bed, opening her eyes, panicked, to see the ceiling spinning above her, and she was unable to move or to call for help. A terrible heart-straining effort was required to summon the strength to call for help—Mommy! Daddy! But it was rare that anyone heard.

  As through our lives such sensations overcome us. Springing out of nowhere to threaten our souls with extinction but then, as abruptly as they've appeared, they disappear.

  Or so we wish to think.

  Katya was staring at the tall privet hedge that ran beside the street. Taller than she remembered, as Proxmire Street was wider and more desolate than she remembered, for the mansion-sized houses were barely visible from the street and were at a considerable distance from one another. Katya saw that the privet hedge was the boundary of something: beyond the hedge, you were forbidden entry. You were forbidden to trespass. Yet the gleaming black Lincoln Town Car with its powerful, near-silent engine turned into the driveway at 17 Proxmire Street and approached the house effortlessly, as if floating. And how large Mr. Kidder's house was, how stately and beautiful the old, weathered shingleboard and the slate roof and the several chimneys made of aged, softened brick that glowed warmly in the sun; for though the sky had darkened, as bulbous, rain-heavy cumulus clouds were being blown inland, passing close to the tops of the gigantic plane trees, yet there were bright patches of sunshine that moved swiftly across Katya's field of vision as if by design.

  The flagstone path, the vivid green of the slightly overgrown grass, thistle weeds like spikes sprouting in the flowerbeds...

  "Miss, come with me. Master has been expecting you." There was Mrs. Bee standing on the front stoop of the house in her white nylon uniform, tight-girdled, with a frowning smile and quivering jowls.

  Shyly Katya approached Mr. Kidder's housekeeper. It was surprising to her that the older woman so firmly took her hand, for Katya had always thought that Mrs. Bee disliked her.

  But where was Mrs. Bee taking her? Not to the rear of the house, to Mr. Kidder's studio, but—to the broad front staircase? Up the stairs? Katya protested weakly, "Mrs. Bee, I can't! I can't go upstairs. I've never gone upstairs in this house..."

  Curtly Mrs. Bee said, "Your portrait has been completed, miss. Master is not painting today but will receive you in his quarters upstairs, as you'd agreed."

  "Agreed? When did I ... agree?"

  "Arrangements have been made. Prenuptial documents have been prepared. You will be protected, miss. Master has promised."

  Mrs. Bee led Katya up the staircase and into a room with tall narrow windows overlooking the ocean, at a short distance. So blinding was the sunshine in this room that Katya could barely see the ocean, but she'd begun to hear the slap-slap-slapping of the surf that was a comforting sound. Briskly Mrs. Bee instructed Katya to remove her clothes—"You can't possibly present yourself to Master in such clothes"—and handed her a shawl in which to wrap herself. Weakly Katya tried to protest, but Mrs. Bee paid no heed, helping her pull off her T-shirt and unhooking her white cotton
brassiere; deftly Mrs. Bee loosened Katya's hair and with a gold-backed brush began to brush it vigorously. Katya was mortified by being naked in Mrs. Bee's presence but took comfort in the fact that the shawl was large enough to wrap herself in completely; it appeared to be the identical white cashmere-and-silk shawl that Mr. Kidder had given her when she'd posed nude for him, which Katya had left carelessly behind. That exquisite shawl, which must have been so expensive!

  "Come with me now, miss. Master will find you beautiful enough, I am sure."

  It was like Mrs. Bee to frown even as she uttered these unexpectedly kind words. Katya blushed in surprise, and with gratitude. Thinking, All along, Mrs. Bee hasn't hated me? Is this so?

  The housekeeper's hand gripping Katya's was warm but firm.

  So spacious and so beautifully furnished was the adjoining room that Katya knew it must be the master bedroom: walls papered in silken ivory with the most minute flecks of gold; a ceiling of elaborately carved white molding; large gilt-framed mirrors; a plush crimson carpet underfoot ... Against the far wall was an elegantly designed four-poster bed with a canopy of gold and white silk and a carved mahogany headboard like an altar-piece, and in this remarkable bed, which was also a kind of hospital bed to be cranked up like a divan, was Marcus Kidder, lying, or sitting propped up against luxuriant goosefeather pillows. "Katya! My darling! Come to me, dear. I have been waiting, you know." Mr. Kidder smiled wanly at Katya, lifting his arms to her. With a pang Katya saw that Mr. Kidder's skin was waxy-pale and that the injuries to his face—bruises, cuts, rashlike scrapes—had not entirely healed; in the crook of his right forearm you could see a butterfly bandage, indicating that he'd been given IV fluids recently; he appeared to be wearing a white hospital gown, of the kind that ties at the nape of the neck. Yet there was Marcus Kidder's beautiful snowy-white hair, looking as if it were utterly natural and not a wig; perhaps in fact this was Mr. Kidder's own hair, which had grown miraculously back in since Katya had last seen him. Mr. Kidder's eyes, which were set in shadowy sockets, were yet kindly and intense, and shone with a rapturous sort of hunger that made Katya's heart quicken. Wrapped in the feather-light shawl, barefoot on the crimson carpet, Katya went forward shyly. There was Mrs. Bee at the tall narrow windows, quietly drawing the blinds. Shadows darted from the corners of the room like swift strokes of a charcoal stick. Mrs. Bee was then lighting candles, several intricately designed candelabra fitted with tall cream-colored candles that burned with unusually high tapering flames that gave off a rich perfumed scent that made Katya's head spin.

  A door softly closed. Katya glanced around and saw that Mrs. Bee had vanished. On a table beside Mr. Kidder's bed was a silver tray holding two tall bottles of champagne and two champagne glasses and, on a gold-rimmed plate, handfuls of pills, capsules, and tablets. Beneath the perfumed scent of the candles was an astringent medicinal smell.

  Slowly, barefoot, Katya went forward to the bed, as Mr. Kidder bade her: "Don't be afraid, my darling! You will not be hurt."

  Very subtle was the emphasis on you. As Mr. Kidder winked and drew back the brocaded bed cover, so that Katya might slip into the bed beside him, Katya shivered, but she was resolved not to turn back. With some difficulty she climbed up onto and into the large wide bed, which had an unusually hard mattress and was made up with dazzling white linen sheets. Mr. Kidder then gently lowered the cover over Katya, who found herself intimately close beside Mr. Kidder, suddenly so very close that she became short of breath. Mr. Kidder smiled and took Katya's hand. "We must warm you, Katya! Your hand is so cold ... This is our wedding night, dear, and this will be our honeymoon, this single night. We will celebrate with a champagne toast, yes?" Now Katya saw that the two tall glasses were filled to the brim with frothy champagne, which Mrs. Bee must have poured before slipping from the room. Gaily Mr. Kidder handed Katya a glass and took a glass for himself; he tapped Katya's glass with his and took a sip of champagne, as Katya did, laughing as minuscule bubbles careened upward into her nose. "Delicious, isn't it! The most delicious champagne I have ever tasted." Katya understood, as Mr. Kidder held out the gold-rimmed plate to her, that she was to feed him the pills, capsules, and tablets, one by one, without haste, placing them on Mr. Kidder's tongue, that he might swallow them down with mouthfuls of champagne. Katya watched, mesmerized. How tempted she was to swallow some of the pills herself! Katya leaned forward and kissed Mr. Kidder's injured face: his forehead, his cheek, his lips, which were unexpectedly warm. Gently Mr. Kidder stroked Katya's hair, and took a strand in his hands to release against his face and against his bared throat. "You must come a little closer, dear. You must be my bride, you know. I will not linger, I promise. I have planned this night for so long, since first seeing you." Katya did not ask when this was, how many years ago. Carefully she took the champagne glass from Mr. Kidder's fingers and lifted it to his mouth, so that he could sip from it even as he was becoming groggy. Liquid ran down his chin; Katya dabbed it away with a tissue. The last of the pills was swallowed, and now came the capsules, and then the tablets. For Katya was Mr. Kidder's bride, but Katya was also Mr. Kidder's nurse. In the Spivak family there were nurses' aides and nurses; when she'd been a little girl, Katya had thought she might become a nurse. It was her task now to replenish the champagne glasses when they were emptied, which Katya did slowly and with care, for she did not want to spill a drop of the precious amber liquid. She had found the champagne taste slightly tart at first but then, by quick degrees, delicious. Of course champagne was delicious. Never had Katya drunk champagne before. There was very little champagne in Vineland, New Jersey. There could not be a wedding, there could not be a honeymoon, without champagne ... On a fireplace mantel was a softly ticking clock, and in the near distance the slap-slap-slapping of the waves. Close beside the white-haired old man Katya lay, feeling how his breath came now in long tremulous sighs. His eyelids, which were shadowed and bruised, quivered faintly; the icy blue eyes were shut; more and more slowly Mr. Kidder stroked Katya's hair which he'd twined about his throat. "I love you, dear Katya. You are my..." The canopied bed seemed to be floating, as if they were borne upon a stream; the crimson carpet had darkened and had become a kind of stream; Katya felt her head spin, the champagne was so intoxicating. Here was a sensation of comfort, warmth. I belong here, here is my place, Katya thought. And aloud Katya said, "Here I am, Mr. Kidder. I am here." It was a vow, and a promise. Marcus Kidder would not die an ignoble death. Marcus Kidder would not die except in the arms of his bride. In long shudders his breath came now, in erratic surges, gentle as a sigh, then more labored, then softer, as if fading. As the slap-slap-slapping of the surf increased, Mr. Kidder's breathing seemed to lessen. Gusty wind off the Atlantic, wind in the trees above the old shingleboard house, yet you could hear the ocean close behind the house, where the beautiful canopied bed seemed to be headed, floating on the stream. Katya had become sleepy, and lay her head on Mr. Kidder's shoulder, which had little muscle to it, was just an envelope of papery flesh; she felt the bone unexpectedly close beneath, and felt a pang of distress. To warm him, Katya wrapped her long blond hair more firmly around his throat and slipped her arm around his narrow body; she would hold him tight, and snug, as at times, when three-year-old Tricia Engelhardt had been frightened of going to sleep, Katya had done; and Katya held Mr. Kidder's fingers, which were long and thin and were growing cold at the tips, the fingernails turning blue. Just when she believed that Mr. Kidder had lapsed into a deep sleep, he whispered, "Katya? Are you here? With me? Katya?" and Katya said, squeezing Mr. Kidder in gentle reprimand, "Mr. Kidder, where else would I be?"

  Barefoot, Katya was running in the soft sliding sand behind Mr. Kidder's house. Barefoot on the beach, in the direction of the ocean. It was a morning following a storm; the beach was pocked with small glistening puddles and littered with debris—seaweed, sea kelp, the lacerated bodies of fish, quivering jellyfish terrible to see, repulsive, you would not want to step barefoot on a jellyfish's transparent tendrils, for jellyfi
sh washed ashore on the Jersey coast can sting. But Katya Spivak ran leaping, Katya Spivak avoided the stinging tendrils, as she avoided the lacerated bodies of the dead fish, broken shells, and beach grass; her legs were young and strong and muscled; her legs bore her onward, brimming with life; her heart beat with happiness—such strength, suffused with love. For love is strength, there can be no strength without love—Katya would never forget.

  Never, never forget. I am the one who loved you, Katya.

  Hours later, Katya woke with a start. Her heart beat rapidly, as if, in her sleep, she'd been running, throwing herself against an invisible barrier. She had wanted to follow her companion but had not been able to follow him, and now she could not see where he had gone, she was left behind, stunned. Except for the tall tapering candle flames, this room was dark. Sunshine had vanished behind the drawn blinds. For a sick-sinking moment Katya could not recall where she was. Very still she lay, scarcely daring to breathe as close beside her, so close that her eyes could not take him in, Mr. Kidder lay unmoving; she could not hear him breathe. Stubbornly her slender girl's fingers gripped the old man's fingers, now stiffened with cold.