The Hired Girl(47)

I wish I had that missal, though. I recognized the sound of the Latin words, but I didn’t know what they meant. The priest was old and his voice didn’t carry. I was wicked enough to be bored. Not the whole time, but every now and then I found myself wondering when the Mass would be over, just as I did when I was a child.

But there was plenty to look at. Above the altar there’s a beautiful, sorrowful Crucifixion, and above that is a great stained-glass window: the Blessed Mother wearing a blue, blue dress. It’s a blue that’s hard to describe, because it’s almost blue-black, but with the sun shining through it, it’s like blue fire. Staring at that color, I felt mystified and at the same time contented, as if all I wanted on earth was to go on looking. When we see God face-to-face, we will be fascinated in just that way; I’m sure of it.

Only, my attention did wander after a while, even from the celestial beauty of that stained glass. I suppose that’s because I’m full of sin. Since I couldn’t follow the service, I silently thanked God for sending me to the Rosenbachs and guiding me to Corpus Christi. I prayed for Mr. Solomon, and in a surge of noble renunciation I prayed that Nora Himmelrich might come to see his worth and love him. I prayed for Miss Chandler, and for Malka’s bunion, and for all the Rosenbachs. I prayed for my brothers. It was a little bit of a wrench, because I’m still mad at them, but I felt better afterward.

I didn’t pray for Father, though. I thought about him burning my books and felt such a surge of rage as I’m sure has no place in a Catholic church. I can’t forgive him. I mean to replace those books as soon as I can, and if I’m lucky, I’ll be able to find the same editions. But the new books won’t have Miss Chandler’s writing inside. They won’t be the same.

After I prayed, I looked around at the church and tried not to notice the ladies’ hats. There were some exquisite hats there, and my mind kept wandering to what they might have cost. I made myself stare down at my hands. Suddenly I remembered Ma. When I was little and sat beside her in church, she’d check my hands, and sometimes she’d see that my fingernails were dirty. She couldn’t stand that. She’d slip off her gloves and seize my hand and dig under my fingernails with her own. It hurt dreadfully, but of course I couldn’t cry out because we were in church. I would twist my mouth and glare at her.

I felt a great wave of love and grief when I remembered that. Dear Ma! She wanted everything fine for me: religion and clean fingernails and a good education. I still can’t see how she managed to save up all that money and hide it from Father. She must have known that one day I would need to escape from him. Even after her death, she provided for me.

When the service was over, the priest said that anyone who wanted to stay could pray the rosary. I don’t have rosary beads, but Ma taught me how to say the rosary on my fingers, so I stayed. I especially love the mystery of the Coronation of the Virgin, because I imagine the saints in colorful robes, and a blue starry sky, and Jesus smiling tenderly as He crowned His Mother’s brow with roses.

After the rosary I knelt in the Lady Chapel and lit a candle and said a prayer for Ma, not that she needs it, because I am sure she’s in heaven, not Purgatory. But I sent her my love. I imagined her looking down, tickled pink because I was in a real church and have a job that pays six dollars a week.

When I rose from my knees and started to walk out, I saw the priest. He’d changed from his vestments, but he nodded and smiled at me. Such a kind smile! I felt so happy as I left the church — happy and purified. I didn’t even mind about my awful hat. (But I’m still going to replace it, because it really is too small and beat-up.)

It occurs to me that one of the best things about my new servitude is that people are pleased with me, and say so. Malka says I am a good, hardworking girl, and Mimi wants to be friends, and today the priest smiled at me. In my old life, nobody ever praised me except Miss Chandler. I hope this craving for approval doesn’t mean I’m as vain as Gwendolen in Daniel Deronda. But even the Thomashefsky cat likes to be told how handsome he is — you can tell by the way he purrs and flexes his paws — and I sometimes wonder if every living thing doesn’t need kind words as much as sunshine and water.



Monday, July the seventeenth, 1911

I’m sure I’m the unluckiest girl who ever lived! I’m so frightened and anxious — I’m writing this by moonlight — I won’t be able to read a word of it, but I daren’t light another candle. I can’t sleep — I must pour out my feelings in this book. And oh, Malka is furious with me, and tomorrow Mr. Rosenbach will shout at me, and after that, what can I expect but to be sent away?