“Spell? What do you mean, spell?”
“Outside. In the back.”
“The back?”
“You came out without any clothes on, and then you went stiff.”
“Now really, Francis, do you think you should be so familiar?”
“I put that housecoat on you. I carried you indoors.”
“You carried me?”
“Wrapped in canvas. That there.” And he pointed to the canvas on the floor in front of the sofa. Katrina stared at the canvas, put her hand inside the fold of her housecoat, and felt her naked breast. In her face, when she again looked up at him, Francis saw lunar majesty, a chilling fusion of beauty and desolation. At the far end of the front parlor, observing all from behind a chair, Francis saw also the forehead and eyes of Katrina Daugherty’s nine-yearold son, Martin.
o o o
A month passed, and on a day when Francis was doing finishing work on the doors of the Daugherty carriage barn, Katrina called out to him from the back porch and beckoned him into the house, then to the back parlor, where she sat again on the same sofa, wearing a long yellow afternoon frock with a soft collar. She looked like a sunbeam to Francis as she motioned him into a chair across from the sofa.
“May I make you some tea, Francis?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Would you care for one of my husband’s cigars?”
“No, ma’am. I don’t use ‘em.”
“Have you none of the minor vices? Do you perhaps drink whiskey?”
“I’ve had a bit but the most I drink of is ale.”
“Do you think I’m mad, Francis?”
“Mad? How do you mean that?”
“Mad. Mad as the Red Queen. Peculiar. Crazy, if you like. Do you think Katrina is crazy?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Not even after my spell?”
“I just took it as a spell. A spell don’t have to be crazy.”
“Of course you’re correct, Francis. I am not crazy. With whom have you talked about that day’s happenings?”
“No one, ma’am.”
“No one? Not even your family?”
“No, ma’am, no one.”
“I sensed you hadn’t. May I ask why?”
Francis dropped his eyes, spoke to his lap. “Could be, people wouldn’t understand. Might figure it the wrong way.”
“How wrong?”
“Might figure they was some goin’s on. People with no clothes isn’t what you’d call reg’lar business.”
“You mean people would make something up? Conjure an imaginary relationship between us?”
“Might be they would. Most times they don’t need that much to start their yappin’.”
“So you’ve been protecting us from scandal with your silence.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Would you please not call me ma’am. It makes you sound like a servant. Call me Katrina.”
“I couldn’t do that.”
“Why couldn’t you?”
“It’s more familiar than I oughta get.”
“But it’s my name. Hundreds of people call me Katrina.”
Francis nodded and let the word sit on his tongue. He tried it out silently, then shook his head. “I can’t get it out,” he said, and he smiled.
“Say it. Say Katrina.”
“Katrina.”
“So there, you’ve gotten it out. Say it again.”
“Katrina.”
“Fine. Now say: May I help you, Katrina?”
“May I help you, Katrina?”
“Splendid. Now I want never to be called anything else again. I insist. And I shall call you Francis. That is how we were designated at birth and our baptisms reaffirmed it. Friends should dispense with formality, and you, who have saved me from scandal, you, Francis, are most certainly my friend.”
o o o
From the perspective of his perch on the junk wagon Francis could see that Katrina was not only the rarest bird in his life, but very likely the rarest bird ever to nest on Colonie Street. She brought to this street of working-class Irish a posture of elegance that had instantly earned her glares of envy and hostility from the neighbors. But within a year of residence in her new house (a scaled-down copy of the Elk Street mansion in which she had been born and nurtured like a tropical orchid, and where she had lived until she married Edward Daugherty, the writer, whose work and words, whose speech and race, were anathema to Katrina’s father, and who, as a compromise for his bride, built the replica that would maintain her in her cocoon, but built it in a neighborhood where he would never be an outlander, and built it lavishly until he ran out of capital and was forced to hire neighborhood help, such as Francis, to finish it), her charm and generosity, her absence of pretension, and her abundance of the human virtues transformed most of her neighbors’ hostility into fond attention and admiration.
Her appearance, when she first set foot in the house next door to his, stunned Francis; her blond hair swept upward into a soft wreath, her eyes a dark and shining brown, the stately curves and fullness of her body carried so regally, her large, irregular teeth only making her beauty more singular. This goddess, who had walked naked across his life, and whom he had carried in his arms, now sat on the sofa and with eyes wide upon him she leaned forward and posed the question: “Are you in love with anyone?”
“No, m- no. I’m too young.”
Katrina laughed and Francis blushed.
“You are such a handsome boy. You must have many girls in love with you.”
“No,” said Francis. “I never been good with girls.”
“Why ever not?”
“I don’t tell ‘em what they want to hear. I ain’t big with talk.”
“Not all girls want you to talk to them.”
“Ones I know do. Do you like me? How much? Do you like me better’n Joan? Stuff like that. I got no time for stuff like that.”
“Do you dream of women?”
“Sometimes.”
“Have you ever dreamt of me?”
“Once.”
“Was it pleasant?”
“Not all that much.”
“Oh my. What was it?”
“You couldn’t close your eyes. You just kept lookin’ and never blinked. it got scary.”
“I understand the dream perfectly. You know, a great poet once said that love enters through the eyes. One must be careful not to see too much. One must curb one’s appetites. The world is much too beautiful for most of us. It can destroy us with its beauty. Have you ever seen anyone faint?”
“Faint? No.”
“No, what?”
“No, Katrina.”
“Then I shall faint for you, dear Francis.”
She stood up, walked to the center of the room, looked directly at Francis, closed her eyes, and collapsed on the rug, her right hip hitting the floor first and she then falling backward, right arm outstretched over her head, her face toward the parlor’s east wall. Francis stood up and looked down at her.
“You did that pretty good,” he said.
She did not move.
“You can get up now,” he said.
But still she did not move. He reached down and took her left hand in his and tugged gently. She did not move. He took both her hands and tugged. She did not move voluntarily, nor did she open her eyes. He pulled her to a sitting position but she remained limp, with closed eyes. He lifted her off the floor in his arms and put her on the sofa. When he sat her down she opened her eyes and sat fully erect. Francis still had one arm on her back.
“My mother taught me that,” Katrina said. “She said it was useful in strained social situations. I performed it once in a pageant and won great applause.”
“You did it good,” Francis said.
“I can do a cataleptic fit quite well also.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s when you stop yourself in a certain position and do not move. Like this.”
And suddenly she was rigid and wide-eyed, unblinking.
o o o
A week after that, Katrina passed by Mulvaney’s pasture on Van Woert Street, where Francis was playing baseball, a pickup game. She stood on the turf, just in from the street, across the diamond from where Francis danced and chattered as the third-base pepper pot. When he saw her he stopped chattering. That inning he had no fielding chances. The next inning he did not come to bat. She watched through three innings until she saw him catch a line drive and then tag a runner for a double play; saw him also hit a long fly to the outfield that went for two bases. When he reached second base on the run, she walked home to Colonie Street.