The Hired Girl(72)

I didn’t mind waiting on the bridge ladies because I thought it might be interesting to hear them talk. One of them is Miss Himmelrich, who is an old maid but related to Nora Himmelrich. Another is Mrs. Schoenberg, whom I like because she dresses so stylish and always greets me at the door. I don’t like Mrs. Mueller because she’s prissy and has a mean little mouth. I don’t think Mrs. R. likes her much either, because Mrs. Mueller is never invited here except for bridge. The ladies need her for bridge. You have to have four people to play bridge, no more, no less. I don’t know how to play bridge, but I think it must be very exciting, because the ladies play all day long, from morning till late afternoon. They never get tired of it.

We always serve special food to the bridge ladies: dainty things that don’t take long to serve or eat. The china is so thin you can see the shadow of your fingers through the teacups. Everything has to be just so, from the flowers on the sideboard to the little napkins Mrs. R. embroidered with hearts and clubs and diamonds and spades. Usually Malka makes chicken salad, but today Mrs. R. wanted cucumber sandwiches (I never had them before but they’re good) and corn oysters, which aren’t really oysters but fritters. For dessert there were cold berries with sugar syrup and almond cookies and little orange tartlets. The only things served hot were the fritters, so I kept everything in the refrigerator until Mrs. R. rang for me. Then I fried the corn oysters and brought everything upstairs.

I divided the corn oysters between the four plates and gave each lady two tiny sandwiches and a green glass goblet with berries in it. It all looked so pretty. Then I poured iced tea and set out sugar and lemon slices. The ladies were upset because Mrs. Schoenberg is going to the Catskills to get away from the heat, and that means no bridge for three weeks. There was a flash of a moment — I can’t believe how naive I was — when I thought of opening my mouth and saying that I could learn to play. I know I could. Miss Chandler always said I was quick to learn. But of course they would never play with the hired girl, no matter how much they wanted their fourth (that’s the term they use).

Then old Miss Himmelrich said her great-niece Nora could play. The other ladies didn’t seem too crazy about this idea. I was arranging the dessert things on the sideboard, and I could see Mrs. Mueller’s petulant look in the mirror. Malka told me Mrs. Mueller is the worst gossip in Eutaw Place, and I bet she didn’t want a young girl around at bridge, because she’d have to watch what she says.

Then Mrs. R. said graciously that it would be delightful to have Nora.

Of course I thought of Mr. Solomon. His fragile nymph would be right under his roof. I wondered if there was some way to make sure he knew Nora was coming. If he did, he might seize her in his arms and reveal his faithful passion. Maybe she would yield to him and promise to be his wife. I was so deep in thought that Mrs. Rosenbach said, “Thank you, Janet,” and I looked down and saw that I’d set the cookies in a little wreath with the tartlets in the middle, and I’d run out of things to do.

I said, “Yes, ma’am,” in that bland submissive way that’s right for a housemaid, and went outside, taking care not to flounce. I shut the door. Then Mrs. R. called, “Leave the door open, please,” because in this heat, you have to keep the air moving. There’s a little bit of a breeze today.

I propped the door open with Mrs. R.’s bronze pug dog, and I started down to the kitchen. I had reached the top of the back staircase when I heard Mrs. Schoenberg say, “Your new girl seems to be working out nicely.” That’s when I made my fatal mistake: I stopped to listen.

Mrs. Rosenbach said, “Janet’s a good girl. A little rough, but very hardworking.”

“She certainly looks hale and hearty,” said Mrs. Mueller. (How I detest that woman!) “Is she honest?”

“I’m sure she’s honest,” said Mrs. R., “though she may have fibbed about her age. She says she’s eighteen.”

Old Miss Himmelrich said, “With that figure and that height, she might be twenty.”

“If she is, she’s very backward,” retorted Mrs. R. “Of course, she was brought up in the country”— she made the country sound like some kind of Home for the Hopelessly Backward —“but even still, she’s rather childish. You should have seen her when I told her she couldn’t keep a kitten! But she works like a horse — Malka says she’s never had a harder worker, and she gets along beautifully with Malka, which none of the others could. Naturally, Malka’s taught her to keep kosher. Last week I asked for oysters and Janet looked me straight in the face and said, ‘Now, ma’am, you know Malka thinks that treif isn’t good for you.’”