Read Online A Fair Maiden by Joyce Carol Oates - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joyce Carol Oates
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good idea in any case, and I'm surprised that your mother would ask such a favor of me—she has never even met me—and of you, a minor. Your mother must have many other sources to borrow from, I would think—relatives? neighbors? I'm sure you understand and that this was not your idea, Katya." And so Katya had no choice but to smile numbly: "I guess so, Mrs. Engelhardt. You are right. I'm sorry for asking..."
Katya went away shaken, shamed. A flash of disgust for both her mother and for smug Mrs. Engelhardt left her weak. A vision came to her of the showy split-level house on the channel bursting into flames ... The Engelhardts would be trapped in their bedroom and could not escape. But the children would be trapped, too. And the Hispanic housekeeper. Not just the Engelhardts, whom she hated, but these innocent victims, too, and so Katya relented, the burning house vanished and was gone. And yet a cruel smile distended her face, which felt masklike, brittle. For such power lay within her if she wished to execute it.
She heard the death bell knelling.
And every stroke did seem to say,
Hardhearted Barbara Allen.
8
S HE CALLED THE MAGIC NUMBER . On the back of Mr. Kidder's card.
She had not thrown the little white card away. She'd kept the little white card, knowing it might be precious.
Thinking, Momma would approve. Momma would be impressed!
It was a shock to her that her mother had returned to Atlantic City, as she'd promised not to do; yet it was not truly a surprise. You did not want to inquire too closely into what Essie Spivak was doing in Atlantic City, but there was no doubt: the raw appeal in her voice, her fear, her terrible need, could not be mistaken. Katya smiled to think how, in Atlantic City, if you didn't have money yourself, the next best thing was to be connected with someone who did.
The phone rang. There came a woman's voice: "Hello. Kidder residence."
Katya had an impulse to hang up quickly. This would be the housekeeper, Mrs. Bee. But she said, "Mr. Kidder, please."
"And who shall I say is calling?"
"Katya."
A brief, chill pause. Invisible Mrs. Bee frowned. "Katya who?"
"Just Katya. Mr. Kidder expects me to call, and he will know who Katya is."
And this turned out to be so.
9
I T WAS ARRANGED : Katya would go that night to 17 Proxmire Street, to Mr. Kidder's studio at the rear of the house. She was not to ring the doorbell—"Mrs. Bee need not be involved, dear!" She was to go to Mr. Kidder at dusk—that is, as soon as she was free of her obligations to the Engelhardts, and free of their scrutiny. After the children were safely in bed for the night.
Nearly 11 P.M. when at last Katya slipped away from the Engelhardts' house, from her ground-floor room that opened onto New Liberty Street. In stealth she slipped away. There were lights in the Engelhardts' bedroom, but they would have no idea that their hired girl was gone from the house. Half walking, half running to Proxmire Street, thinking with a thrill of dread, No one will know where I am. Except Marcus Kidder.
On the phone, he'd been immediately sympathetic. Katya had told him it was a "family emergency," a "medical emergency," and there was a tremor in her voice he could not have doubted.
At this hour Proxmire Street was quiet, mostly darkened. Behind the ten-foot privet hedge the large old oceanside houses of the wealthy were near-invisible. At 17 Proxmire, Katya hesitated before pushing open the wrought-iron gate. Almost she wished the gate might be locked: she would turn away then, and go back to the ground-floor nanny's room. But the gate swung open at her touch, for it was a gate that was never locked. He will help me, Katya thought. Her heart beat wildly in anticipation.
Here, so close to the ocean, the air was balmy and windy and smelled of rain. The large shingleboard house loomed up before Katya like a great sail-ship becalmed on land. Most of the house appeared to be dark; only a wan light glowed at the rear.
Katya went away shaken, shamed. A flash of disgust for both her mother and for smug Mrs. Engelhardt left her weak. A vision came to her of the showy split-level house on the channel bursting into flames ... The Engelhardts would be trapped in their bedroom and could not escape. But the children would be trapped, too. And the Hispanic housekeeper. Not just the Engelhardts, whom she hated, but these innocent victims, too, and so Katya relented, the burning house vanished and was gone. And yet a cruel smile distended her face, which felt masklike, brittle. For such power lay within her if she wished to execute it.
She heard the death bell knelling.
And every stroke did seem to say,
Hardhearted Barbara Allen.
8
S HE CALLED THE MAGIC NUMBER . On the back of Mr. Kidder's card.
She had not thrown the little white card away. She'd kept the little white card, knowing it might be precious.
Thinking, Momma would approve. Momma would be impressed!
It was a shock to her that her mother had returned to Atlantic City, as she'd promised not to do; yet it was not truly a surprise. You did not want to inquire too closely into what Essie Spivak was doing in Atlantic City, but there was no doubt: the raw appeal in her voice, her fear, her terrible need, could not be mistaken. Katya smiled to think how, in Atlantic City, if you didn't have money yourself, the next best thing was to be connected with someone who did.
The phone rang. There came a woman's voice: "Hello. Kidder residence."
Katya had an impulse to hang up quickly. This would be the housekeeper, Mrs. Bee. But she said, "Mr. Kidder, please."
"And who shall I say is calling?"
"Katya."
A brief, chill pause. Invisible Mrs. Bee frowned. "Katya who?"
"Just Katya. Mr. Kidder expects me to call, and he will know who Katya is."
And this turned out to be so.
9
I T WAS ARRANGED : Katya would go that night to 17 Proxmire Street, to Mr. Kidder's studio at the rear of the house. She was not to ring the doorbell—"Mrs. Bee need not be involved, dear!" She was to go to Mr. Kidder at dusk—that is, as soon as she was free of her obligations to the Engelhardts, and free of their scrutiny. After the children were safely in bed for the night.
Nearly 11 P.M. when at last Katya slipped away from the Engelhardts' house, from her ground-floor room that opened onto New Liberty Street. In stealth she slipped away. There were lights in the Engelhardts' bedroom, but they would have no idea that their hired girl was gone from the house. Half walking, half running to Proxmire Street, thinking with a thrill of dread, No one will know where I am. Except Marcus Kidder.
On the phone, he'd been immediately sympathetic. Katya had told him it was a "family emergency," a "medical emergency," and there was a tremor in her voice he could not have doubted.
At this hour Proxmire Street was quiet, mostly darkened. Behind the ten-foot privet hedge the large old oceanside houses of the wealthy were near-invisible. At 17 Proxmire, Katya hesitated before pushing open the wrought-iron gate. Almost she wished the gate might be locked: she would turn away then, and go back to the ground-floor nanny's room. But the gate swung open at her touch, for it was a gate that was never locked. He will help me, Katya thought. Her heart beat wildly in anticipation.
Here, so close to the ocean, the air was balmy and windy and smelled of rain. The large shingleboard house loomed up before Katya like a great sail-ship becalmed on land. Most of the house appeared to be dark; only a wan light glowed at the rear.
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