Now Mr. Kidder spoke urgently, sincerely. Holding both his hands out to Katya, palms up in a gesture of appeal. Still Katya stood unmoving, gripping her bag. She could think of no way of replying to Mr. Kidder that would not have struck a clumsy note: her instinctive reaction was to laugh nervously, stammer something stupidly adolescent, back away ... It was an extraordinary sensation, to be looked at by a stranger, as if he were peering into her very soul.
"Well. I don't mean to frighten you, dear. I am perfectly harmless, I promise! This mission is not now ... will not be revealed for a while—we need not think of it now. We have other things to think of now." Mr. Kidder smiled, and lightly touched Katya's wrist as if to break the spell. "Before you leave, dear, let me play something for you. Some music I hope you will like. A young relative of mine, a tenor..."
Mr. Kidder removed a record from one of the shelves, placed it on a turntable. Such antiquated things! Katya sat in one of the white wicker chairs, at the edge of the brightly colored cushion, uneasy. She thought, This is a test. He is testing me, thinking how badly she wanted to flee this house, how distrustful she was of Marcus Kidder really.
A young man's voice sounded suddenly, high, pure, beautiful. As intimate in Katya's ears as if the singer were in the room with them.
In Scarlet Town, where I was born
There was a fair maid dwelling.
Made every youth cry well-a-day!
Her name was Barbara Allen.
All in the merry month of May
When green buds they were swelling,
Young Jeremy Grove on his deathbed lay
For love of Barbara Allen.
He sent his man unto her then...
Closely Katya listened, scarcely daring to breathe. The singer had such a pure voice, beautifully modulated yet masculine. The words of the song seemed to pierce her heart. An old song, a song of long ago—a song Katya's friends in Vineland would have sneered at, as, in their company, Katya herself would have sneered at it.
So slowly, slowly, she came up
And slowly she came nigh him.
And all she said when there she came,
"Young man, I think you're dying."
As she was walking o'er the fields
She heard the death bell knelling.
And every stroke did seem to say,
Hardhearted Barbara Allen.
Hardhearted Barbara Allen! Katya felt a thrill of cruel satisfaction. She liked it that Barbara Allen had told the sick/weak young man to die; and what exhilaration, to realize such power.
Yet the song continued; the young male singer had not yet finished his tale. Katya sat now tensely at the edge of her seat, gripping her hands together on her bare knees. Shadows through a latticed window moved restlessly against a wall, appearing, disappearing. Distractedly, Katya thought there must be birds in the shrubbery just outside.
"Oh Mother, Mother, make my bed
Make it long and narrow.
Sweet Jeremy died for love of me,
And I will die of sorrow."
They buried her in the old churchyard
Sweet Jeremy's grave nigh hers.
And from his grave grew a red, red rose
And from hers grew a cruel briar.
This was a surprise. Katya listened anxiously, not wanting the song to end. Yet the young singer concluded, in a voice of melancholy authority:
They grew and grew up the old church spire
Till they couldn't grow any higher.
And there they twined in a true love knot,
The red rose and the green briar.
There was a final refrain, purely music. Until now Katya had scarcely been aware of the musical accompaniment, a delicate-sounding stringed instrument. And the record was old, marred with scratching.
Her eyes stung with tears. This was ridiculous. It was only an old song, and yet Katya was close to crying.
Mr. Kidder rose and removed the record from the turntable. He regarded Katya with mild surprise, as if he hadn't expected her to listen so closely to the song, or to be so emotionally engaged.
Katya wiped at her eyes and asked brightly, "Who is the singer? Someone in your family, you said?"
"Yes. Did you like his voice?"
Katya nodded. Emphatically: yes.
"Would you like to meet him, dear? Someday?"
More guardedly, Katya nodded. For this might be one of Marcus Kidder's little jokes, she knew.
Gravely he said, "And the singer would like—would have liked—to meet you. In the recording, he is twenty years old."
Katya could not bring herself to ask when the recording had been made. Clearly it was old, of another era, before CDs and iPods. Mr. Kidder said, "In 1945."
Katya tried to smile. "Who—?" and Mr. Kidder said with a little grimace, "Moi." Again Katya asked, "Who?" and Mr. Kidder said, "Marcus Kidder, promising young tenor, 1945. You have heard both his recording debut and the pinnacle of his career." Mr. Kidder bowed his head playfully, hand to his shirtfront. The pale green shirt was unbuttoned at the throat; in the V a swath of thin silvery gray hair bristled.
Quickly Katya said, "The song is very beautiful, Mr. Kidder. You had—you have—a beautiful voice." She was trying to keep shock and disappointment off her face.
Mr. Kidder laughed. He returned the record to the shelf, shoving it into a crammed space. "Had, dear. Not have. That hopeful young tenor is long vanished. If I tried to sing 'Barbara Allen' now, I would sound like an aged crow."
Katya was on her feet, desperate to leave. She thanked Mr. Kidder for playing the record, stammered that she had to go, someone was waiting for her at the beach ... Such pity she felt for Marcus Kidder, a physical revulsion for him, she could hardly bear to meet his eyes. She allowed him to squeeze her hand in farewell, then pulled from him.
At the door he called after her, "Katya, wait. Your little gift from Prim Rose Lane—I promised it would be waiting for you, and so it is. If—"
But Katya was walking quickly away. Called back over her shoulder that she didn't want it. Half ran to the little gateway in the privet hedge and along Proxmire Street. The public beach was a ten-minute walk, and by the time Katya got to it, she was breathless and indignant. Asshole! Playing one of your damn tricks on me. She pulled off her T-shirt, her shorts. In a red-striped bottom and halter top, she strode along the beach, into the surf. Just to get her legs wet felt good. The breezy ocean air felt good. And there on his lifeguard perch was darkly tanned Doug, a local guy she'd hoped would be on duty again this week who would call out to her with a shark-flash of a smile, "Katie! Hi."
6
FROWNING, MRS. ENGELHARDT said, "A call for you, Katya."
In apprehension Katya took the phone, for the caller could only be her mother. Katya had given the Engelhardts' number to no one else, and she'd asked her mother not to call her except in an emergency, so she steeled herself now for bad news. In an alcove off the Engelhardts' kitchen, she heard her mother's aggrieved and reproachful voice on the line without grasping at first what she was saying; she was demanding to know why Katya hadn't called for so long. And Katya protested that she had called only a few days ago, and Katya's mother said suspiciously, "Can't you talk? Is someone listening?" and Katya said, "No! I can't talk now because I'm working, Momma," and Katya's mother interrupted, saying, "Is something going on up there? What is going on up there?" speaking rapidly and not very coherently, and Katya stammered, "What do you mean, Momma? You know I'm working, I'm working as a nanny, I have two small children to look after—" and Katya's mother said sharply, "Don't talk to me that way, Katya! I'm calling to ask how those people are treating you. Eggenstein—that's a Jewish name, right? Are they paying you what they promised? Are they paying you on time?" and Katya, pressing the receiver tight against her ear in fear that her mother's voice might be overheard by Mrs. Engelhardt, only a few yards away in the kitchen with the Hispanic housekeeper, weakly protested, "Momma, look, I can't—can't talk right now. We're going to the b-b
each—" and Katya's mother laughed harshly. "Going to the beach—la-di-da! Last time it was going out on the yacht. Some of us have to work at this hour of the morning," and in some desperation Katya asked if there was any special reason for her to be calling, and Katya's mother said furiously, "Special reason—goddamn, yes. I am your goddamned mother, and I am concerned about you, for Christ's sake. How do I know what the hell you're doing there in Bayhead! You're too damned trusting, too good-looking for your own damned good, and underage, which means you can get picked up for drinking. Don't try to tell me you don't smoke dope, I know you do, don't lie to me. Remember Yvette, what happened to her—" And so Katya had to steel herself for a grim recitation of what had happened to her mother's younger sister at the age of eighteen, waitressing at a resort hotel in Cape May, saving to go to nursing school, but she got involved with a young man who was a student at Rutgers in New Brunswick, "got pregnant and got dumped," as Katya's mother never failed to recall in harsh staccato disapproval mingled with satisfaction—"people like that, they treat you like shit"—and Katya said, "Right, Momma—yes, I know. You've told me plenty of times, I know. But right now—" and Katya's mother said, "Can you swear they're not cheating you? These Eggensteins," and Katya said, lowering her voice, "Engelhardt, Momma. I wrote the name down for you—you have all the information," and Katya's mother said, "You! You don't have good judgment. Look how trusting you were with Roy—damned lucky you didn't get in serious trouble with that bastard," and Katya swallowed hard and did not speak, would not speak. "D'you know Roy is back in Vineland? Working at the garage. I ran into him the other night and first thing he says is, 'Where's Katya?'" and Katya's heart kicked, a sick-sinking sensation in her gut, but she was determined not to inquire about Roy Mraz, never would she inquire about Roy Mraz, fuck Roy Mraz; and Katya's mother was asking about the Eggenstein children, how was Katya getting along with them, and Katya said that she was getting along very well with them, with all of the Engelhardts, this was the best summer job she'd ever had, the little girl was so sweet, only just a little spoiled but sweet, and the little boy was just a baby; and this provoked Katya's mother to flare up indignantly, saying, "Didn't I tell you, Katya—don't get attached to people like that, that is a terrible mistake to get attached to somebody else's children when your own goddamned children are enough to break your heart."
And now, belatedly, Katya was made to realize that her mother was drunk, and in no mood to be contradicted or even reasoned with; and Katya was anxious, seeing that Mrs. Engelhardt was peering out at her through the kitchen doorway. Mrs. Engelhardt was naturally suspicious of any employee receiving telephone calls during the day, during her "hours," for she was being paid to work for the Engelhardts during these "hours," though at least the caller was the girl's mother and not a boy or a man—that, Mrs. Engelhardt would not allow. (And disapproving this morning of Katya, who'd returned to the house after eleven o'clock the night before, letting herself into her room on the ground floor with her key, quietly, it might've been stealthily, as Mrs. Engelhardt lay upstairs in her bed listening closely to determine if the nanny from south Jersey was bringing anyone back to the house with her, a boy, a man—any stranger was forbidden on the premises—but Katya was alone, Katya was defiantly thinking, It's my half-day off, I have a right, though knowing that Mrs. Engelhardt disapproved of her staying out past 9 P.M., imagined her drinking, smoking dope, partying with boys. How much more Mrs. Engelhardt would have preferred a hired girl who didn't attract boys or men and who stayed close to the house even on her days off, watching late-night TV movies with Mrs. Engelhardt weeknights when Mr. Engelhardt was in the city working.)
"—listening, Katya? You're so quiet! Why I called, it is an emergency. Can you send me a money order for three hundred dollars? I need it by—" and Katya was too stunned to follow this, asked her mother to repeat what she'd said.
"You must have some money saved by now, Katya, it's been two weeks, two weeks' pay, you could ask those people there, Eggensteins, for the rest of it, explain it's a family emergency, honey, which it is."
Katya stood listening in dismay to her mother's pleading and yet reproachful words, through a roar of blood pulsing in her ears, for as her mother continued to speak, it developed that she wasn't in Vineland but in Atlantic City and Katya would have to mail the money order to her there. She was in the Silverado Motel on Eleventh Street, where she'd gone with "my friend Ethel"—unless it was "my friend Edsel"—and there was some misunderstanding about the motel bill, and "wear and tear" to the room, and the manager she'd thought was her friend was now threatening to call the police, and if so, Essie Spivak would be arrested and get prison time, and Katya couldn't let that happen to her mother, could she? "Honey, I'm desperate. It was a mistake to come here, but I got talked into it and now, this motel bill, it's a mistake but what can I do, it's like blackmail, honey, I'm fucked if they call the cops, you know that—"
When Katya was twelve years old her mother had been arrested for forging checks. Essie and certain of her friends had fallen into the habit of borrowing from Pay Day Loans, which charged such high interest rates, crazily high interest, like 11 percent? 12 percent? This was when Essie worked weekends at the Mirage Casino in Atlantic City as a blackjack girl; she developed a drinking habit, a codeine habit, borrowed money from men friends and from Pay Day Loans and then more money to repay the high interest and at last, in desperation, she forged checks. She was immediately caught at a 7-Eleven in Vineland and arrested, taken away to jail, booked, and she pleaded guilty and was sentenced by a county judge to eighteen months' probation. But now, if Essie Spivak was arrested again, her old record would be held against her, she'd be sent to Glassboro State Facility for Women.
"I will kill myself first, Katya! I promise I will! You won't let that happen, honey, will you? As soon as I'm paid what is owed me—there are people here who owe me—I'll send a check to you right there in Bayhead, honey. I swear I will. Put that Mrs. Eggstein on the phone, let me explain to her, she's a mother like me, it's a family emergency, a medical emergency, which is no goddamned lie, three hundred dollars will be repaid with interest. Honey, help me! I need your help. I love you, Katya"—sobbing now, pleading and desperate and yet still aggrieved, angry—"—my only girl left now, my only baby, the others have grown up and moved away and don't give a shit about their mother, that they have broken her heart—" and Katya said, "All right, Momma. Give me the address there."
Heimweh: was that the word? Homesickness.
In Bayhead Harbor she'd missed home. Yet she was never so homesick as when she was home in the house on County Line Road in Vineland.
She'd have liked to ask Mr. Kidder about this. How you could be homesick when you were home...
For it was an earlier time, before Katya's father had left, that she missed. She'd been only nine when he'd disappeared from their lives, and only vaguely could she remember Daddy lifting her in his arms, laughing at her frightened expression, calling her "Pretty Baby" and kissing her, promising her he'd be back for her birthday, but the worst of it was, Daddy had been so often away, returning and then leaving again, and it was a secret where Daddy was when he was gone—unless Katya's mother blurted out in drunken fury that Daddy was staying with another woman—and then gradually it became a fact that Daddy was gone. And Katya asked, Gone where? and the answer was blunt and ungiving: Gone.
7
SHE KNEW: this was a mistake.
Even before the knife-blade frown appeared between Mrs. Engelhardt's dark-penciled eyebrows.
Katya spoke of a "family emergency," a "medical emergency," and at once her employer became upset, indignant: "Katya, you aren't leaving us, are you? We are counting on you"—for Mrs. Engelhardt was a woman to seize an emotion and wrest it from you and run with it, appropriating it as her own, to intimidate and confound—"at this time in mid-July we couldn't possibly replace you with another girl." So that Katya was forced to say quickly, apologetically, "No, no—I'm not leaving, Mrs. Engel
hardt. Of course not. I would never do that," and Mrs. Engelhardt said, incensed, "Well! I should hope not! That would be highly unethical."
Haltingly, as if Essie Spivak were close beside her, nudging her in the ribs, Katya tried to explain that her mother had called because there was an "emergency situation"—money was needed for medical care—but Mrs. Engelhardt stared at her without evident sympathy and did not speak. Katya said, "I have some money saved. I would need to borrow only two hundred thirty dollars—from my salary, I mean—for the next two or three weeks," and Mrs. Engelhardt said coolly, "'Only' two hundred thirty dollars! Katya, your salary is one hundred eighty-two a week before taxes and other deductions. This is well above the minimum-wage guidelines for minors, and we provide you with what we believe to be quite generous room and board here, as one of our family practically. No, Katya, borrowing from your future salary is not feasible. I know exactly what Max would say: 'What if she quits? We're hardly likely to sue a nanny for unearned wages.' That's how Max is, Katya. So I'm sorry. But borrowing such a sum of money at your age is not a good idea in any case, and I'm surprised that your mother would ask such a favor of me—she has never even met me—and of you, a minor. Your mother must have many other sources to borrow from, I would think—relatives? neighbors? I'm sure you understand and that this was not your idea, Katya." And so Katya had no choice but to smile numbly: "I guess so, Mrs. Engelhardt. You are right. I'm sorry for asking..."
Katya went away shaken, shamed. A flash of disgust for both her mother and for smug Mrs. Engelhardt left her weak. A vision came to her of the showy split-level house on the channel bursting into flames ... The Engelhardts would be trapped in their bedroom and could not escape. But the children would be trapped, too. And the Hispanic housekeeper. Not just the Engelhardts, whom she hated, but these innocent victims, too, and so Katya relented, the burning house vanished and was gone. And yet a cruel smile distended her face, which felt masklike, brittle. For such power lay within her if she wished to execute it.