ND YOU DIDN'T ask her? Where she'd been all that time she'd led you to believe she was at work?"
"No. I never did."
Her answer was unexpected. Her answer was perverse. Mr. Kidder regarded her with sympathetic eyes. He'd been listening to her so attentively, as Katya spoke in a flat, bemused voice, relating this story she'd never told anyone else, even her sister Lisle; she was in danger of bursting into tears. And she did not want to burst into tears, not here. Not in Mr. Kidder's studio, as Mr. Kidder was sketching her portrait. Yet when someone is kind to you, you are most vulnerable. And there was such shame here, such petty shame. Katya knew that a man like Marcus Kidder had to pity her. Katya Spivak from Vineland, New Jersey, who was a hired girl here in Bayhead Harbor, a nanny living with the rich Engelhardts. She said, "I didn't ask my mother because I knew that she would have slapped my face, for 'spying' on her. And then she would know that I knew, but I would never know the truth anyway, because she wouldn't have told me."
It was Sunday afternoon, one of Katya's half-days off. She'd come to Mr. Kidder's studio to pose for him, at his request. And now Katya was crying, as she'd vowed not to. Hiding her warm flushed face in her hands. For she did not want Marcus Kidder, who believed that she was beautiful, to see that in fact she was ugly.
"Why, Katya. Please don't cry, dear." Laying down his pastel chalks, quickly stepping from the easel to come to her where she sat in her stiff pose, now hiding her face from him. He said, "You may have been deceived by your mother, Katya, but I'm sure that she had her reasons for deceiving you. She didn't want to worry you, maybe. I'm sure that she cares for you very much. And please know that Marcus Kidder cares for you, too." It was the kindest thing anyone had ever said to Katya, and so gently uttered. It was not a statement that made a claim upon her, just a statement of fact. And Mr. Kidder embraced her, as you'd embrace a weeping child, to give comfort. And Katya held herself rigid at first, not wanting to be touched by the white-haired old man, for there was the faint fragrant smell of his cologne, and a drier smell of his skin, or his hair, that she did not like; a smell of his breath, a very slight smell, as of something dry and chalky, like the inside of a skull, which is desiccated and mere bone. Yet she was lightheaded, dazed, for no one had held her like this in a long time, no one had spoken so tenderly to her in a long time; and so Katya ceased resisting, slid her arms around Mr. Kidder, and hugged his lean body in return, hiding her warm weeping face in the crook of his neck.
"Dear Katya! No one will hurt you again."
16
"E YES HERE, KATYA ! Your beautiful eyes."
It was early August. Following an overnight squall, the Jersey coast was littered with seaweed, sea kelp, rotting fish, and hundreds—thousands?—of jellyfish washed ashore half-alive, transparent tendrils quivering with venom. In Mr. Kidder's studio, Katya posed for the artist, seated in a straight-backed stool facing him at the easel a few feet away. It was then Mr. Kidder would tell her in the calmest, most matter-of-fact voice that he was a perfectionist in his art, if not in his life; he sought Katya's "perfect likeness," for it was a likeness he'd glimpsed many years ago, before he had seen Katya on Ocean Avenue.
Katya laughed uneasily. Was Mr. Kidder joking? Or was Mr. Kidder serious? He'd seated her so that she faced a sliver of light that seemed to pierce her very brain. She couldn't see the expression on Mr. Kidder's face.
Soul mates. At once you know. Born at the wrong times. One so old, the other so young ...
What would her Vineland friends think of this? Katya wondered. Wanting to laugh—how they'd have reacted. Some old guy hitting on Katya, disgusting old granddaddy, should be ashamed of himself.
And then, maybe Katya loved him. Maybe.
For Marcus Kidder was so kind to
"No. I never did."
Her answer was unexpected. Her answer was perverse. Mr. Kidder regarded her with sympathetic eyes. He'd been listening to her so attentively, as Katya spoke in a flat, bemused voice, relating this story she'd never told anyone else, even her sister Lisle; she was in danger of bursting into tears. And she did not want to burst into tears, not here. Not in Mr. Kidder's studio, as Mr. Kidder was sketching her portrait. Yet when someone is kind to you, you are most vulnerable. And there was such shame here, such petty shame. Katya knew that a man like Marcus Kidder had to pity her. Katya Spivak from Vineland, New Jersey, who was a hired girl here in Bayhead Harbor, a nanny living with the rich Engelhardts. She said, "I didn't ask my mother because I knew that she would have slapped my face, for 'spying' on her. And then she would know that I knew, but I would never know the truth anyway, because she wouldn't have told me."
It was Sunday afternoon, one of Katya's half-days off. She'd come to Mr. Kidder's studio to pose for him, at his request. And now Katya was crying, as she'd vowed not to. Hiding her warm flushed face in her hands. For she did not want Marcus Kidder, who believed that she was beautiful, to see that in fact she was ugly.
"Why, Katya. Please don't cry, dear." Laying down his pastel chalks, quickly stepping from the easel to come to her where she sat in her stiff pose, now hiding her face from him. He said, "You may have been deceived by your mother, Katya, but I'm sure that she had her reasons for deceiving you. She didn't want to worry you, maybe. I'm sure that she cares for you very much. And please know that Marcus Kidder cares for you, too." It was the kindest thing anyone had ever said to Katya, and so gently uttered. It was not a statement that made a claim upon her, just a statement of fact. And Mr. Kidder embraced her, as you'd embrace a weeping child, to give comfort. And Katya held herself rigid at first, not wanting to be touched by the white-haired old man, for there was the faint fragrant smell of his cologne, and a drier smell of his skin, or his hair, that she did not like; a smell of his breath, a very slight smell, as of something dry and chalky, like the inside of a skull, which is desiccated and mere bone. Yet she was lightheaded, dazed, for no one had held her like this in a long time, no one had spoken so tenderly to her in a long time; and so Katya ceased resisting, slid her arms around Mr. Kidder, and hugged his lean body in return, hiding her warm weeping face in the crook of his neck.
"Dear Katya! No one will hurt you again."
16
"E YES HERE, KATYA ! Your beautiful eyes."
It was early August. Following an overnight squall, the Jersey coast was littered with seaweed, sea kelp, rotting fish, and hundreds—thousands?—of jellyfish washed ashore half-alive, transparent tendrils quivering with venom. In Mr. Kidder's studio, Katya posed for the artist, seated in a straight-backed stool facing him at the easel a few feet away. It was then Mr. Kidder would tell her in the calmest, most matter-of-fact voice that he was a perfectionist in his art, if not in his life; he sought Katya's "perfect likeness," for it was a likeness he'd glimpsed many years ago, before he had seen Katya on Ocean Avenue.
Katya laughed uneasily. Was Mr. Kidder joking? Or was Mr. Kidder serious? He'd seated her so that she faced a sliver of light that seemed to pierce her very brain. She couldn't see the expression on Mr. Kidder's face.
Soul mates. At once you know. Born at the wrong times. One so old, the other so young ...
What would her Vineland friends think of this? Katya wondered. Wanting to laugh—how they'd have reacted. Some old guy hitting on Katya, disgusting old granddaddy, should be ashamed of himself.
And then, maybe Katya loved him. Maybe.
For Marcus Kidder was so kind to
Similar Books
