The Hired Girl(106)

And then it was over. I could have kissed him all night long, but he stepped back, deliberately. He took my hand in his. “We’d better stop,” he said. “I shouldn’t have kissed you — but I’m glad I did.” He raised my hand to his lips and kissed it — like a cavalier in a story; it was so romantic I couldn’t breathe. Then he whispered, “Good night, Janet,” and went up the stairs, leaving me with the cat.

“Good night,” I whispered after him. I didn’t follow him. I knew our perfect interlude was over, just as I know when Mrs. Rosenbach dismisses me, though of course this was entirely different.

I think I’m glad that I didn’t chase after him, because it would have been unmaidenly. But even if we hadn’t done any more kissing, I wish we’d had time to talk about what had happened and what I felt and what he felt and how things are going to be from now on. I know there are things we’ll have to face together — my position in this household, and my humble rank, and whether he will tell his parents now or wait until later, and of course I am a Catholic and he is a Jew, which is the knottiest problem and will have to be thought through.

But I can’t think through it now. I’m too happy. I’m blissful, even though David went back to New York on the morning train. He’ll be back for the High Holy Days — oh, they will be holy to me, because David will come back and kiss me again! All I can think about are his kisses.

Now I understand why people get married. Once you’re married you can kiss as much as you like. I wonder why married people don’t spend more time at it. I wonder how married men go off to work every morning, when they could stay home and kiss their wives. I wonder how married women set about cooking meals and supervising the servants when they must be thinking of the hour when their husbands will come home and kiss them.

And I wonder about the whole history of the world. Governments and courtrooms and steam engines and combines — all necessary inventions, but how did men come up with them, when they could have been kissing? I think about the conquistadors and how they left off kissing their wives and went sailing across the ocean to conquer a lot of innocent natives who would probably have preferred to stay in their hammocks and kiss their wives. It’s hard to fathom.

Of course there are other things that married people do. You can’t grow up on a farm without knowing about those things, and I’ve always thought they seemed clumsy and a little strenuous, but perhaps they might not be so bad if David — oh, David! I am sure David could do nothing ungraceful. Why, when he put peroxide on my neck, it was like being anointed with spices in the Song of Solomon.

All I can think of is David. I wash dishes and knead the bread and scrub the sinks and run the carpet sweeper over the rug, and I am happy, because I am reliving his kisses, and longing — fiercely but dreamily — for the day when he will kiss me again. I am so happy.

But my happiness is no longer a child’s. Now that David’s kissed me, I shall never be a child again. My happiness is not contentment, but longing, incessant, passionate longing. . . .



Tuesday, September the nineteenth, 1911

Last night I had a dreadful dream. I think it came because I’ve been worrying about Belinda. Once or twice I’ve had a notion that Mimi’s been in my room; I’ve fancied I smelled that lilac perfume of hers. But nothing has ever been touched, and Belinda is safe in the back of the drawer.

In my dream I was back on the farm. I came into my old bedroom and saw the floor littered with scraps of cloth. It was Belinda I saw first; Belinda, torn to shreds: her wig clipped, her stuffing dragged out, her flowered dress cut to ribbons. But it wasn’t just Belinda; the floor was covered with relics of cambric and lace, tattered bits of petticoats and nightgowns, all pure white and fine enough for a bride.

And Ma was there. She wore her old dress with the faded blue triangles on it. Her face was haggard and she gazed at me without love, almost without recognition. I didn’t know if she was the one who had torn my things to shreds, or if Father had done it; I had a nightmarish sense that I might have done it myself, without knowing it. I cried, “I’m sorry, Ma, I’m sorry!” but her face was implacable.

That’s when I woke up.

I’d overslept, and Malka was annoyed. When I made Mr. Rosenbach’s toast, I cut the bread too thick, and it got stuck in the toaster and filled the kitchen with smoke. I burned my fingers trying to get it out. By midmorning I had an awful headache.

But at last it was time for my afternoon off. As I dressed to go out, I remembered that this time last week I was getting ready to see David. He took me to La Traviata, and he bought me my red umbrella. Two nights ago, he kissed me. It seems a hundred years ago. I recall Miss Chandler once read me a poem with the line in it: Ah, love, let us be true to one another! I don’t recollect the rest of that poem, but I’ve always remembered that line. As I walked to church, I whispered it over and over, like a prayer.