Read Online A Fair Maiden by Joyce Carol Oates - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joyce Carol Oates
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Katya followed the flagstone path toward the front stoop and then walked through the thick damp grass to the rear. How quiet it was! If someone saw her! In Bayhead Harbor there were security patrols, local police in squad cars cruising Ocean Avenue and the secluded tree-lined streets of the wealthy. If Katya were sighted making her way through the grass like this ... But no one saw, no one stopped her. At the rear of the house she saw Mr. Kidder in the lighted room, standing at a rear door looking out. At once the scene was comforting to her: a secret place, a haven. On the flagstone terrace where they'd had "tea-time," an outdoor light shone. There was no moon; the sky was oppressive and opaque. The ocean, which should have been visible on the far side of the dunes, had vanished, except for the heavy sullen slap-slap-slap of the surf. Katya hesitated, feeling a strange thrill of excitement, seeing white-haired Mr. Kidder another time before he was aware of her.
She liked it that he was so tall. That he carried himself with dignity. From this distance he was a handsome man, you would think: you could not see the fine creases and lines in his skin. And how thoughtful he looked, standing in the doorway. When Katya stepped forward breathlessly into the light, Mr. Kidder was roused from his dreamy mood, came quickly to seize her by the hands and draw her into the house with him. "Dear Katya! You've come."
Warmth lifted from his skin. There was a fragrant scent of cologne, a smell of something tartly sweet on his breath as he stooped to brush his lips against her cheek.
Katya stiffened involuntarily. This was not a kiss exactly—was it? In her agitated state, she did not want to be touched.
The studio was as Katya recalled it from her first visit: the lattice windows, crowded bookshelves, brightly colored sofa and chairs. On the walls, Mr. Kidder's portraits; in vases, glittering and gleaming like sparks of fire, Mr. Kidder's fossil flowers. At night, by lamplight, the space looked larger, more mysterious; the artist's easel and art things were obscured in shadow in a far corner. There was the smell of paint and turpentine, which made Katya's nostrils pinch.
A private room; no one would intrude. Mrs. Bee had very likely gone to bed.
"Dear Katya! You sounded so upset on the phone. Some sort of family emergency—what is it?"
Katya had prepared a story of medical bills, hospital bills, health problems, but as Mr. Kidder regarded her with his sympathetic blue gaze, the admonition came to her: Can't lie to this man! He sees into my heart. "My mother owes someone money. She's in Atlantic City. I hadn't known that. She's terrified. She asked me to borrow money from Mrs. Engelhardt, but Mrs. Engelhardt refused. My mother used to work at a casino in Atlantic City—she was a blackjack dealer. That's where she met my father. Sometimes I hate her, Mr. Kidder, I wish she would die! Then I'm so afraid for her, that something will happen to her and she will die. She needs three hundred dollars right away, and I have seventy dollars saved, so I only need to borrow..." In dismay Katya heard her voice, faltering, flat, the nasal Jersey accent that rendered even these heartfelt words unconvincing as if fabricated—and yet she was telling the truth.
Mr. Kidder listened gravely. As Katya continued to speak, words spilling from her, angry half-sobs, quietly Mr. Kidder went to a desk, took up a checkbook, and asked her to spell out her mother's name. The check was for three hundred dollars.
Three hundred! Katya had asked for less.
With childlike gratitude she squeezed his hand and leaned on her toes to brush her lips against the man's dry, just perceptibly wrinkled cheek. "Mr. Kidder, thank you! You are so—so wonderful! I will pay this back, I promise. I will pay it back with interest."
Mr. Kidder laughed, pleased. He indicated that Katya should sit down. "I'm sure you will, Katya. In time."
Now she had the check, a slip of paper
She liked it that he was so tall. That he carried himself with dignity. From this distance he was a handsome man, you would think: you could not see the fine creases and lines in his skin. And how thoughtful he looked, standing in the doorway. When Katya stepped forward breathlessly into the light, Mr. Kidder was roused from his dreamy mood, came quickly to seize her by the hands and draw her into the house with him. "Dear Katya! You've come."
Warmth lifted from his skin. There was a fragrant scent of cologne, a smell of something tartly sweet on his breath as he stooped to brush his lips against her cheek.
Katya stiffened involuntarily. This was not a kiss exactly—was it? In her agitated state, she did not want to be touched.
The studio was as Katya recalled it from her first visit: the lattice windows, crowded bookshelves, brightly colored sofa and chairs. On the walls, Mr. Kidder's portraits; in vases, glittering and gleaming like sparks of fire, Mr. Kidder's fossil flowers. At night, by lamplight, the space looked larger, more mysterious; the artist's easel and art things were obscured in shadow in a far corner. There was the smell of paint and turpentine, which made Katya's nostrils pinch.
A private room; no one would intrude. Mrs. Bee had very likely gone to bed.
"Dear Katya! You sounded so upset on the phone. Some sort of family emergency—what is it?"
Katya had prepared a story of medical bills, hospital bills, health problems, but as Mr. Kidder regarded her with his sympathetic blue gaze, the admonition came to her: Can't lie to this man! He sees into my heart. "My mother owes someone money. She's in Atlantic City. I hadn't known that. She's terrified. She asked me to borrow money from Mrs. Engelhardt, but Mrs. Engelhardt refused. My mother used to work at a casino in Atlantic City—she was a blackjack dealer. That's where she met my father. Sometimes I hate her, Mr. Kidder, I wish she would die! Then I'm so afraid for her, that something will happen to her and she will die. She needs three hundred dollars right away, and I have seventy dollars saved, so I only need to borrow..." In dismay Katya heard her voice, faltering, flat, the nasal Jersey accent that rendered even these heartfelt words unconvincing as if fabricated—and yet she was telling the truth.
Mr. Kidder listened gravely. As Katya continued to speak, words spilling from her, angry half-sobs, quietly Mr. Kidder went to a desk, took up a checkbook, and asked her to spell out her mother's name. The check was for three hundred dollars.
Three hundred! Katya had asked for less.
With childlike gratitude she squeezed his hand and leaned on her toes to brush her lips against the man's dry, just perceptibly wrinkled cheek. "Mr. Kidder, thank you! You are so—so wonderful! I will pay this back, I promise. I will pay it back with interest."
Mr. Kidder laughed, pleased. He indicated that Katya should sit down. "I'm sure you will, Katya. In time."
Now she had the check, a slip of paper
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