A Fair Maiden Read Free Page B

the playful dignified gentleman of the other day, who had so impressed Katya? In khaki shorts worn without a belt, in a wrinkled white cotton shirt with short silly boxy sleeves, and with sandals on his bony pale feet, Mr. Kidder could have been any older man at whom a sixteen-year-old girl wouldn't have so much as glanced. Accustomed to dark-tanned men and boys in Bayhead Harbor, as in Vineland, Katya saw with particular distaste Mr. Kidder's naked feet and thin legs, lacking in muscle and near hairless.
    Quickly Mr. Kidder said, "Come in! Come in. In fact, I was eagerly awaiting you—the trio of you."
    "Were you!" Katya laughed, just subtly sneering.
    "I was. Indeed I was. 'Tickling the ivories'—playing piano to evoke a lyric mood. In fact"—repeating in fact as if he were trying to cast a spell on Katya, who continued to stare at him—"it was my magical piano-playing, the first dreamy movement of Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata,' that drew the trio of you here."
    Katya laughed, this was so fanciful. Very likely Tricia would believe what Mr. Kidder was telling them.
    "You are just in time, my dears. Katya, do come in. For everyone else in my life seems to be gone. "
    "Gone? Where?"
    "Oh, nowhere! Everywhere. Wherever people disperse to, like milkweed fluff, when they go."
    Katya wasn't sure that she liked this. Gone? Everyone?
    Gaily Mr. Kidder ushered them into the house. Firmly Mr. Kidder shut the door.
    A heavy oak door. Katya wondered if it automatically locked, inside.
    As Mr. Kidder chattered, a flush rising into his cheeks, Katya smiled uncertainly, gripping Tricia by the hand. Maybe this was a mistake and she was putting these helpless young children at risk ... With a flurry of his hands, as if to dispel such ridiculous thoughts, Mr. Kidder said, "My fickle houseguests have departed for the city just this morning, you see. Not that I wanted them to stay, nooo! For I knew that Katya, Tricia, and Ke vin were imminent. And so the house looms large and empty as a—we will not say mausoleum. No, no! We will not. And Mrs. Bee—dear Mrs. Bee—has Mondays off and has quite buzzed away. "
    Houseguests? Mrs. Bee? Katya knew what mausoleum meant and hoped that Tricia wouldn't repeat the word later that day, as children of her age sometimes did, like parrots. So far as she could see from the foyer, the enormous house did appear to be empty: rooms opening onto rooms, hallways leading into hallways, as in a maze of mirrors infinitely reflecting. "I had not expected visitors this afternoon," Mr. Kidder said somberly, "though last night there was a moon, and this moon peeked into my bedroom window and said, 'Whatever you do, M.K.'—for, from the lunar perspective, we are no more than our initials—'do not eat up all those delicious strawberries in the refrigerator,' and I asked why, and the moon winked and said, 'You will see, M.K.' And now my special visitors have arrived, I see."
    This spirited little speech was delivered for Tricia's benefit, but it was Katya for whom Mr. Kidder was performing, she thought. By quick degrees he was becoming increasingly confident, like an actor now recalling lines and no longer flailing about, blinded by the spotlight.
    "This way! We will have tea on the terrace."
    The first thing you saw, stepping into the living room of Mr. Kidder's house, was the far wall, entirely glass, overlooking the ocean in the near distance. For at this elevation on Proxmire Street you couldn't see the beach; if anyone was on the beach below, you couldn't see them; you saw only dunes, dune grass, the choppy ocean, the distant horizon. You saw the sky, which was a faint, misty blue, and a sickle moon just visible by daylight.
    Katya felt something turn in her heart: a stab of hurt, envy. "This is so beautiful, Mr...." She seemed to have forgotten Mr. Kidder's name. She could not help it that the flat nasal accent of south Jersey had an accusing tone even when meant to be admiring.
    Graciously Mr. Kidder said that