The Hired Girl(104)

“Tell me how you like the sketch,” he begged, and though his eyes sparkled, it really was an entreaty; he cared about what I thought. So I told him how beautifully he drew.

He listened very attentively. Of course I don’t know anything about art except what I’ve learned seeing Miss Chandler’s pictures on the stereopticon and what I’ve been able to glean from Mr. Rosenbach’s books. But even I can see that he is very, very talented, perhaps a genius. I told him it was like magic, the way he could catch my likeness and make my common face seem noble and eloquent. And I praised his sense of line. I’m not entirely sure what that means, but it’s what Mr. John Singer Sargent said, so it must be all right.

He went on listening. So I said some more things. I asked why he copied the opera sketch, instead of the sketches he’d done of me in the park. He explained that he thinks the opera sketch best captures my character and was therefore the most beautiful.

I felt almost dizzy when he said that. Beautiful. Could he really be saying that about me? I ducked my head; I could feel that I looked downright silly with happiness.

He asked if I’d used the sketchbook he gave me and how I was getting on with my drawing. I showed him my drawing of a cup, and he got very excited, because it was so bad. He said the handle was well observed, but the rest was wrong. “You’re using your mind instead of your eyes. You think the cup is round, so you draw a circle at the rim.”

“But the cup is round,” I objected.

“Yes, but not at the rim,” he said. “You’re drawing what you know instead of what you see.” He strode over to his father’s whiskey tray and took up a glass. He held it in front of me, level with my chin. “What shape is the rim?”

“Round,” I said, baffled. “It’s a circle.”

“Is it?” he asked. “Trace it with your finger. No, don’t touch it. Outline the shape in the air.”

I did. I started at the left end of the glass, and my finger dipped and rose to the right, and humped back to the beginning. I saw he was right: the shape I traced was a shallow oval, like a saucer. I exclaimed in surprise, and David nodded energetically. “You see now! That’s it! You’ve got to see when you draw, and what you see —”

“Shhh!” I hissed, not because he was too loud (though he was; we’d forgotten that the house was asleep). “I heard something! Be quiet!”

I flew to the open window and stuck my head out, looking out and down. A shadow moved in the yard below.

David followed me to the window. “What is it?”

“I think it’s Thomashefsky!” I said. “I heard his meow! Oh, David! He’s been missing for five days and Malka’s heartbroken. Quickly!”

I reached for his hand as if we were children. As soon as I touched him, I remembered we weren’t. It means something when a girl lets a man hold her hand, but I didn’t have time to think about that. I was (well, mostly) thinking about Thomashefsky.

I dragged David down the back stairs to the kitchen. The front part of the kitchen was well lit because of the streetlamps, but the back was shadowy. I didn’t turn on the lights because I had an idea that if I did, Thomashefsky might run off again.

David started for the door, but I held him back. “No, no, not yet! I’ll get him something to eat.” I went to the refrigerator and filled the cat dish with herring. “Let me go to the door.”

David stood back and I stepped out into the night. “Thomashefsky? Good boy, sweet boy, want-a-little-fishy?”

No shadow stirred. My heart sank. Then I heard an accusing miaow — the sound a cat makes when he’s impatient for his meal. I saw him crouched amid Malka’s sorry tomato plants. “Good boy, sweet boy!” I wheedled. “Are you hungry, Thomashefsky? Do you want a little fishy?”

He meowed urgently. I retreated one step at a time, squatting and holding out the dish so he could smell the herring. Slowly he pursued me, writhing against my skirts.

I lured him inside and David shut the door. Thomashefsky sniffed the dish, his tail lashing and then swinging. He crouched down low, extending his tail straight behind him, with just the tip twitching. That’s the sign that his food is acceptable.

I hunkered down and watched the cat gobble his supper. I was so happy. I knew Malka would be overjoyed, and I couldn’t wait to surprise her. It seems to me now that I felt the last happiness of my childhood. It was simple and peaceful, nothing like the rapturous tempest that surges in my bosom as I pen these lines.