I love Martha, not just as the first person character in this sequel to the story about my birthday present for my sister, but also as an author. Sure, I created her, but her personality evolved during the writing to my liking better than that of some other characters. I have returned to her as the main character in two other series, which may eventually be submitted, which is why this is titled "Martha in America." I expect the other series will be titled "Martha as a Student in Oslo" and "Martha as a Writer, sometimes of erotic Stories."
One tends to assume that only families with small children have an au pair. That is how it started in "my" family in the story, but our parents continued to invite European girls to help in the house after we children were older. This story happens the week following my week on Fire Island with my younger sister, which was my "Birthday Present for my Sister". It is also the first week of my summer job in the City, the beginning of my story "Sandy," although her name is not yet mentioned. Eventually it may have have several more chapters.
After an early supper with my family on Fire Island, I drove home, wondering if my father's stern look when we parted had anything to do with Martha, the Norwegian au pair who had stayed with us all winter. I recalled that she had pronounced her name "Marta" when she had introduced herself. My mother had immediately called her "Martha," so the rest of the family had used the English pronunciation, including me, although I had thought it would have been more appropriate forus to have used her pronunciation, but Mother set the standard for the family. She wasn't really pretty, but attractive, fair skinned with reddish-blond hair. Since I had a room at Columbia, I had only seen her occasionally on weekends and hardly spoken to her.
Then I was home, and no one was there, just a note from her: "Hallo, I shall be back after the movie. Martha" That was nice, but it felt unusual to be at home with no one else there.
I unpacked, and then looked in the fridge hoping to find a beer, and did, wondering a little that it was a six-pack of cans instead of the bottled beer that our family bought. The Sunday New York Times was lying around. I remembered to call my parents and tell them I had gotten home safely. Then I read the paper and sipped my beer - and dozed. And then woke up and repeated the pattern a couple of times finishing my beer. And then, I guess, I really fell asleep.
Her key in the door awakened me, and I tried to look alert, as though I had been reading, when she stuck her head through the door and said:
"Hi, there you are. Did you see my note?"
"Yes, thanks," I replied, and then she went to her room in the back of our large apartment, and I returned to reading.
After a few minutes, I heard her in the kitchen, and then heard her call:
"Did you drink one of my beers?"
Oh! That explained the cans, I thought, embarrassed.
"That's all right," she added before I could reply, but then did:
"Sorry, I wondered about the cans."
"That's all right," she repeated, her slight Norwegian accent still evident.
"Want another one?" she asked.
This was an entirely new impression of her - what little of one, I had. Of course, she could drink beer, but till now it had never occurred to me that she did - or that she would buy herself a six-pack. But why not?
"Yes, thank you. Please," I replied.
I heard the refrigerator door close, and a moment later she appeared in the doorway - in a long cotton nightgown - much to my surprise, but it was certainly modest enough, just very surprising to see her there in it. She paused at the door and asked:
"May I join you?"
"Of course, Martha," I replied, pronouncing her name as she had, and laid my paper aside and then was little surprised at my own formality as I stood up. She must have noticed it too, responding with a soft "oh" as she entered the room and then handed me one of the cans as she remarked:
"Nice, that you said my name like I do, ... like in Norway, though I've got accustomed to the English pronunciation."
We both opened our cans, now smiling a little at the contradiction between the formality of my having stood up and drinking out the cans, and then she looked up at me and said. "Skaal."
"Cheers," I replied, surprised at her saying the first toast, and we drank, as it occurred to me that maybe that was appropriate, since it was her beer.
Since I had been so formal as to stand up, I realized that I would have to make a gesture that we could sit down, feeling a little surprised at myself again as my hand did so. She moved to the neighboring chair, and then we sat down together, and both had another sip.
I said the first thing that came to mind:
"Is that what all girls in Norway wear?"
Immediately, it occurred to me that I could have asked her what movie she had seen, but she looked down at her nightgown and then up at me and answered:
"In bed. A lot of them, ... I think, ... most of the time."
I thought she smiled slightly as I wondered what movie she had seen and what she would have replied to a question about that, and was not at all expecting her question in return: "What do American girls wear?"
"Pajamas," I replied, a little flustered: "... at least my sister does, ... I think."
She nodded with a smile and had another sip, and I did too as she asked:
"And the others?"
"I don't know," I answered, and then immediately recognized that her question could have suggested that I should know from my own experience. From that: nothing; did Norwegian girls wear long nightgowns when they slept with a guy?
