The Hired Girl(55)

The truth is, I felt this wild longing to have nothing but new clothes. I wanted them right away: crisp, clean, fresh things, all the way down to my skin. I lost my head. When I put down my money, my hand was shaking, but I bought the outfit.

While the saleslady was wrapping everything in tissue paper, Mimi jogged my elbow and said, “Look, that’s Nora Himmelrich!” and I turned and saw the girl who captured Mr. Solomon’s heart.

It was almost a shock, because I’d imagined her wrong. I thought she would be tall and slender and haughty. But this girl was like a girl on a Valentine: fresh and soft and sweet as a puppy. She has fawn-colored curls and big brown eyes and pink cheeks. She looks like the kind of girl who would teach Sunday school — the children would all fall in love with her, but she wouldn’t be able to get them to behave.

What she doesn’t look like is the kind of girl who would break Solomon Rosenbach’s heart.

Mimi introduced me with her usual aplomb: “This is Janet, our new hired girl. It’s her afternoon off. She’s eighteen, too.”

I could see that Miss Himmelrich was taken aback, being introduced to the hired girl. She looked at me anxiously. Then she put out her hand, and said, “How nice of you to spend your day off giving Mimi a treat!”

She smiled at me. Of course she has dimples. I could tell she meant to be friendly, but she was nervous, and so was I. I’ve never met an heiress before. I said, “It’s nice of Mimi to show me around. I’ve never been in a department store until today.”

“Really?” she said breathlessly. “Do you like it?”

“I certainly do,” I said, and I guess that broke the ice, because we laughed.

After that, we were almost like three girls together — I mean, three girls the same age. It was such fun, going through the store and pointing out things we admired, and giggling together. Nora — I mean, Miss Himmelrich — saw my hatbox, and Mimi made me open the box and try on my hat for her. Miss Himmelrich says my eyes are the same color as the cornflowers. That is the prettiest compliment I ever had. I always thought I had plain blue eyes, but maybe I was mistaken. At any rate, it’s astounding what a difference a good hat makes.

Then Nora said she wanted a new hat, too, so we went back to the hat department to help her choose. She bought a five-dollar hat covered with pink roses, not a bit nicer than mine, I thought. The store was warm, and Mimi announced that she wanted an egg cream, and we went to the soda fountain across the street. There isn’t any egg, or any cream, in an egg cream. There’s fizzy water, a little bit salty, chocolate syrup, and milk. I don’t think I ever tasted anything better. I felt so happy and festive.

Afterward I thought a good deal about Nora Himmelrich and Mr. Solomon. I see now that Mr. Solomon would never have done for me: he’s too old, for one thing, and too tame for my impetuous nature. But he and Nora might be very happy together. And perhaps I could help him to win his true love. Sooner or later, I’m bound to see Nora again, and perhaps I can persuade her to confide in me. I could tell her what a true gentleman Mr. Solomon is, and how he rescued me, and how he always wipes his feet before he comes into the house. Or perhaps I could carry messages between them; that would be very romantic.

At any rate, I hereby renounce all claims to Mr. Solomon myself. And if there is any way I can help him to prosper in his suit, I vow I will do it.



Monday, July the twenty-fourth, 1911

It’s a hundred and two degrees today. Last night the attic was so stifling that I slept on the library sofa, which was probably taking a liberty of some kind. Luckily no one found me out, because I woke before dawn and crept back to my own bed.

I’m in a bad mood because of Mrs. Rosenbach. She’s still after those oyster patties for her bridge ladies. Last week she made Malka go to the market on Lexington Street and talk to the fish seller, who’s a Gentile. He said he didn’t get much in the way of oysters this time of year, and frankly, ma’am, he didn’t recommend them, not in this heat. Malka was triumphant. This morning, when we went upstairs to discuss the week’s meals, Malka told Mrs. Rosenbach what the fish seller said, but I don’t think Mrs. Rosenbach believed her. Mrs. Rosenbach thinks Malka won’t serve the oysters because they’re treif — which is true. But Malka wasn’t lying about what the fish man said, and I spoke up and said so.

They argued back and forth about what to give the bridge ladies. Malka suggested a nice cold chicken salad, but Mrs. R. said she was tired of nice cold chicken salad. So I said if she was tired of Jewish food, I could fry up some pork chops. The look she gave me! Malka, too! It was as if I’d proposed to give the bridge ladies a dead man’s hand, or some kind of cannibal feast — though that is the sort of metaphor that Miss Chandler never favored. She once told me that my metaphors were too forceful and that I should try to quiet them down.