The Hired Girl(120)

I longed to change into dry clothes, but I had none. I unpinned my sodden hair and let it fall over my shoulders. David likes my hair — at least, he likes it when it’s dry. In the back of my mind was a story from Miss Lang’s book about a girl who was a princess, arriving at a castle during a thunderstorm. In the frontispiece, she was disheveled and driven looking, but she was a real princess, all the same.

I tiptoed up the stairs. When I reached the landing, David’s light still shone. He was awake. With shaking fingers, I rapped on the door. I heard the creak of bedsprings and the sound of footsteps. Then the door opened and David stood before me.

I see him now as I write this. He was — is — so beautiful to me. I can’t believe I ever thought his nose was too large. It is noble in its proportions, and his curls are tumbled and glossy, and his forearms are slender and strong. His cuffs were unbuttoned and his shirttail was hanging out. Even his bare feet were beautiful; they were long toed and supple, like the hind feet of a hare.

“Janet!”

My name on his lips. My mouth opened without a sound and tears began to fall from my lashes. When he saw me crying, he opened his arms, and I fell into them.

If I could have died, right then. He was warm and dry and strong and kind; he looked upon me with tenderness; I swear he did, in spite of what happened after. I lifted my face so that he could kiss me. There were so many things at once: fear and relief and the love that flared up between us like the striking of a match.

“Janet, what is it? You’re soaking wet.”

“It’s raining,” I explained. That’s when he put me away from him. He didn’t give me the kiss I wanted, and he put me away from him quite firmly. I cried harder, from self-pity. He looked around the room — he’d been reading. I saw the book on the bed: The Painter of Modern Life.

He closed the bedroom door. Then he went to the bed and snatched up the counterpane. He draped it around me like a cloak. “Janet, you shouldn’t be here,” he whispered. “What happened? Did Anna send you away? What on earth is this about?”

I felt a chill. “Are you going away to Paris?”

His face lit up. “Yes, on Thursday. Did Anna tell you? I’ll go to New York and spend Shabbos with my mother’s folks. Then next week I’ll take the steamer. It was just as you said, Janet! I talked to Papa, and at first he was angry with me — well, it was a big disappointment for him, me not wanting to take on the store, and I felt like thirty cents. But when I told him how much I want to be an artist, he listened to me, really listened. At first he said I could study here, but when I explained why Paris would be better, he said he’d stake me. He said he’d give me a year — I asked for five, and at last we agreed on three — to find out if I had a future as a painter. If I don’t, I’ll come back and work at the store; I gave him my word. But if my career seems promising, he won’t stand in my way. He was”— he stopped to find the right word —“he was splendid. I have you to thank, Janet. I’ve wanted to talk to him for ages, but I didn’t dare. But you believed in me.”

“Of course I believe in you!” I spoke too loudly and both of us froze, listening to see if anyone had heard. I lowered my voice. “But, David —”

“What is it?”

“You kissed me,” I said. I looked down, because I hated having to remind him. “You kissed me, and now you’re going away.”

I saw the dawning consternation in his face. “Great Jakes. I — Janet, I’m sorry, so sorry. I tried to explain —”

“I can’t marry you,” I interrupted, and I was surprised, because the words came out strong. All night I was like that: weak and strong by turns. “You’re a Jew, and you can’t marry a shiksa, and I’m a Catholic, and I have to go on being a Catholic. If you married me, it would just about kill your father, and our children wouldn’t be Jewish —”

David dug his hands into his hair. He looked utterly lost. “Janet, what are you telling me?”

“I’m telling you that I love you.” Those words buoyed me up; I’d wanted to say them for so long. “I love you with all my heart and I want to be with you.” All at once it was clear what I’d come to say. My words were like bubbles, rising and swelling and catching the sunlight. “Say the word and I’ll come with you. To Paris. I’ll meet you there. I can’t be your wife, but I’ll be your friend. We’ll be happy together, and I’ll give myself to you.”