A Fair Maiden (20 page)

A door softly closed. Katya glanced around and saw that Mrs. Bee had vanished. On a table beside Mr. Kidder's bed was a silver tray holding two tall bottles of champagne and two champagne glasses and, on a gold-rimmed plate, handfuls of pills, capsules, and tablets. Beneath the perfumed scent of the candles was an astringent medicinal smell.

Slowly, barefoot, Katya went forward to the bed, as Mr. Kidder bade her: "Don't be afraid, my darling! You will not be hurt."

Very subtle was the emphasis on
you.
As Mr. Kidder winked and drew back the brocaded bed cover, so that Katya might slip into the bed beside him, Katya shivered, but she was resolved not to turn back. With some difficulty she climbed up onto and into the large wide bed, which had an unusually hard mattress and was made up with dazzling white linen sheets. Mr. Kidder then gently lowered the cover over Katya, who found herself intimately close beside Mr. Kidder, suddenly so very close that she became short of breath. Mr. Kidder smiled and took Katya's hand. "We must warm you, Katya! Your hand is so cold ... This is our wedding night, dear, and this will be our honeymoon, this single night. We will celebrate with a champagne toast, yes?" Now Katya saw that the two tall glasses were filled to the brim with frothy champagne, which Mrs. Bee must have poured before slipping from the room. Gaily Mr. Kidder handed Katya a glass and took a glass for himself; he tapped Katya's glass with his and took a sip of champagne, as Katya did, laughing as minuscule bubbles careened upward into her nose. "Delicious, isn't it! The most delicious champagne I have ever tasted." Katya understood, as Mr. Kidder held out the gold-rimmed plate to her, that she was to feed him the pills, capsules, and tablets, one by one, without haste, placing them on Mr. Kidder's tongue, that he might swallow them down with mouthfuls of champagne. Katya watched, mesmerized. How tempted she was to swallow some of the pills herself! Katya leaned forward and kissed Mr. Kidder's injured face: his forehead, his cheek, his lips, which were unexpectedly warm. Gently Mr. Kidder stroked Katya's hair, and took a strand in his hands to release against his face and against his bared throat. "You must come a little closer, dear. You must be my bride, you know. I will not linger, I promise. I have planned this night for so long, since first seeing you." Katya did not ask when this was, how many years ago. Carefully she took the champagne glass from Mr. Kidder's fingers and lifted it to his mouth, so that he could sip from it even as he was becoming groggy. Liquid ran down his chin; Katya dabbed it away with a tissue. The last of the pills was swallowed, and now came the capsules, and then the tablets. For Katya was Mr. Kidder's bride, but Katya was also Mr. Kidder's nurse. In the Spivak family there were nurses' aides and nurses; when she'd been a little girl, Katya had thought she might become a nurse. It was her task now to replenish the champagne glasses when they were emptied, which Katya did slowly and with care, for she did not want to spill a drop of the precious amber liquid. She had found the champagne taste slightly tart at first but then, by quick degrees, delicious. Of course champagne was delicious. Never had Katya drunk champagne before. There was very little champagne in Vineland, New Jersey. There could not be a wedding, there could not be a honeymoon, without champagne ... On a fireplace mantel was a softly ticking clock, and in the near distance the
slap-slap-slapping
of the waves. Close beside the white-haired old man Katya lay, feeling how his breath came now in long tremulous sighs. His eyelids, which were shadowed and bruised, quivered faintly; the icy blue eyes were shut; more and more slowly Mr. Kidder stroked Katya's hair which he'd twined about his throat. "I love you, dear Katya. You are my..." The canopied bed seemed to be floating, as if they were borne upon a stream; the crimson carpet had darkened and had become a kind of stream; Katya felt her head spin, the champagne was so intoxicating. Here was a sensation of comfort, warmth.
I belong here, here is my place,
Katya thought. And aloud Katya said, "Here I am, Mr. Kidder. I am here." It was a vow, and a promise. Marcus Kidder would not die an ignoble death. Marcus Kidder would not die except in the arms of his bride. In long shudders his breath came now, in erratic surges, gentle as a sigh, then more labored, then softer, as if fading. As the
slap-slap-slapping
of the surf increased, Mr. Kidder's breathing seemed to lessen. Gusty wind off the Atlantic, wind in the trees above the old shingleboard house, yet you could hear the ocean close behind the house, where the beautiful canopied bed seemed to be headed, floating on the stream. Katya had become sleepy, and lay her head on Mr. Kidder's shoulder, which had little muscle to it, was just an envelope of papery flesh; she felt the bone unexpectedly close beneath, and felt a pang of distress. To warm him, Katya wrapped her long blond hair more firmly around his throat and slipped her arm around his narrow body; she would hold him tight, and snug, as at times, when three-year-old Tricia Engelhardt had been frightened of going to sleep, Katya had done; and Katya held Mr. Kidder's fingers, which were long and thin and were growing cold at the tips, the fingernails turning blue. Just when she believed that Mr. Kidder had lapsed into a deep sleep, he whispered, "Katya? Are you here? With me? Katya?" and Katya said, squeezing Mr. Kidder in gentle reprimand, "Mr. Kidder, where else would I be?"

Barefoot, Katya was running in the soft sliding sand behind Mr. Kidder's house. Barefoot on the beach, in the direction of the ocean. It was a morning following a storm; the beach was pocked with small glistening puddles and littered with debris—seaweed, sea kelp, the lacerated bodies of fish, quivering jellyfish terrible to see, repulsive, you would not want to step barefoot on a jellyfish's transparent tendrils, for jellyfish washed ashore on the Jersey coast can sting. But Katya Spivak ran leaping, Katya Spivak avoided the stinging tendrils, as she avoided the lacerated bodies of the dead fish, broken shells, and beach grass; her legs were young and strong and muscled; her legs bore her onward, brimming with life; her heart beat with happiness—such strength, suffused with love. For love is strength, there can be no strength without love—Katya would never forget.

Never, never forget. I am the one who loved you, Katya.

Hours later, Katya woke with a start. Her heart beat rapidly, as if, in her sleep, she'd been running, throwing herself against an invisible barrier. She had wanted to follow her companion but had not been able to follow him, and now she could not see where he had gone, she was left behind, stunned. Except for the tall tapering candle flames, this room was dark. Sunshine had vanished behind the drawn blinds. For a sick-sinking moment Katya could not recall where she was. Very still she lay, scarcely daring to breathe as close beside her, so close that her eyes could not take him in, Mr. Kidder lay unmoving; she could not hear him breathe. Stubbornly her slender girl's fingers gripped the old man's fingers, now stiffened with cold.

Contents

PART I

PART II