Chapter 13 In Which I Do It All Wrong
IN WHICH I DO IT ALL WRONG
The first person to appear was a teenaged girl. As long-legged and gawky as a baby colt, her brown curls held back with a blue ribbon that matched her dress and her glasses flashing in the light as she clattered down the stairs. She shouted, “Joe!” and he dropped my hand to hug her.
“I’ve missed you so much!” she said, stepping back. She had a most charming gap between her front teeth and that half-a-child, half-not air about her, for she was fourteen.
Joe said, “Have some manners, kiddo, and let me introduce Marguerite.”
The winning smile turned on me, then faltered. She glanced at Joe, then back at me. Why? I put out my hand and said, “You must be Sophie. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“Gosh,” she said. “What’s— I mean, that’s a very nice dress.” She was staring at my face. Was the bruising so obvious?
“Thank you,” I said, feeling rather self-conscious. I was wearing my Chanel-inspired white jacket and full black skirt, along with my black hat and white gloves, and had felt quite glamorous. “You look lovely as well. How pretty your dress is.”
Sophie made a face. “Oh, sure. That’s Mom, though. She still wants me to wear these things with smocking and puffed sleeves, like I’m ten. Why can’t she see that I’m nearly grown, and how unflattering this style is? The woman really has no dress sense.” She gave an exasperated sigh.
“Mothers can be very trying in this way,” I agreed, laughing.
“They want to keep their daughters young and innocent, I think, while the daughters wish only to go out and explore the wide world. For me, it was the circus. The Sarrasani Circus, you know, with beautiful white horses and elephants and lions and music and wonderful performers from all around the world—tightrope walkers, acrobats, trapeze artists, jugglers, and many others. How I wished to see them for myself!”
A younger man and woman came out of a doorway, and I broke off, but the man said, “Oh, go on and tell us the rest.” He had glasses, too, and pale-brown hair swept back over a bony, distinguished sort of face. I was sure he smoked a pipe. He seemed that sort of man.
“It was a schoolgirl dream only,” I said, “for I never saw the circus. My mother said it wasn’t appropriate.
My schoolmates had all been, though, and as Sophie and I know, one always wishes to do the exciting things others have done.
Na ja, it was very sad.” I smiled and put out my hand.
“Good afternoon. I am Marguerite, and you must be Barbara and David.”
David smiled still, but his gaze was sharp on me, and beside me, I could feel Joe stiffen.
I’d covered my injury by wearing much more pancake makeup than I normally would, plus a liberal amount of powder to set it.
Joe had said he could barely see the dark bruise that spread over my cheekbone and along my jawline, so how could it be that?
I’d thought I looked rather glamorous, and flattered myself that I bore a slight resemblance to Marlene Dietrich, with my hair and brows and makeup styled just so, and dressed in my most modish costume and Joe’s pearls.
But perhaps I appeared overdressed? Barbara was in a tailored gray flannel dress with a black velvet collar, though, and wore pearls as well, so I couldn’t be too far off.
The next to arrive were Mr. and Mrs. Stark. Mrs. Stark air-kissed my cheek—I winced a bit despite myself when she touched the left one—and Mr. Stark shook my offered hand, though he looked bemused by it. I said, “Does one not shake hands, then? I do wish to know how to go on.”
“You’re fine,” Barbara said. “A lady offers her hand to a gentleman if she chooses to, but he doesn’t offer his first. Women don’t shake hands much with each other, though.”
Another sigh from Sophie. “All these old-fashioned rules. Honestly, Barbara, you’re practically an antique!”
“That’s enough, Sophie,” Mrs. Stark said.
“Let’s not stand around in the hall. Come into the living-room.
We just have time for a cocktail before dinner.
” She led us into a large, tastefully decorated front drawing-room, with a small chandelier, wall sconces, and a fluffy sort of carpet that was new to me.
It reached into all the corners, but was absolutely plain, entirely unlike the elaborate Oriental carpets of the palace.
The carpet was very soft underfoot, though, which was pleasant, and would be cozy if the weather ever got cold here.
“Don’t forget lighting the menorah,” Sophie said. “Come sit by me, Marguerite.”
“Yes, of course, the menorah,” Mrs. Stark said, as I sank onto the sofa and Joe took a seat on my other side, sandwiching me between friendly bodies. “We’ll have to explain our customs to Marguerite.”
“Because you’re not Jewish,” Sophie said to me in a stage whisper. Mrs. Stark pretended she hadn’t heard, and I kept my smile determinedly polite rather than laughing. I was quite proud of myself, actually, because Joe grinned.
“Well,” Mr. Stark said, rubbing his hands together, “who wants a martini? I’ve got a shaker in the freezer all set to go.”
“I do!” Sophie said.
“I’m not going to dignify that remark with an answer,” Mr. Stark said, but he smiled. “Stay my little girl a year or two longer, would you?” Upon which Sophie sighed again and muttered, “Hopeless.”
“That’s a ‘yes’ from Marguerite and me,” Joe said. “At least I assume so, Marguerite.”
“I’ve never had this drink,” I said, “but I saw it in a film once. It looked very glamorous. I’ll try it, please.”
David said, “You know I can’t pass up your famous martinis, Father Stark.” I was rather startled by this, but then, I had no idea how Americans commonly addressed their in-laws. I didn’t think Mrs. Stark was going to ask me to call her “Mother” anytime soon, though.
Barbara stood. “Do you need some help in the kitchen, Mom?”
“That would be lovely, dear,” Mrs. Stark said.
They both left the room with Mr. Stark, and Sophie said, “They’re going in there to talk about you, you know.”
“A person could think,” Joe said, “that you’re out to cause trouble.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “It’s completely obvious, unless Marguerite’s stupid, and she doesn’t seem stupid. Terrifyingly glamorous, though.”
She tossed off that last bit as if she’d seen it in a film, which she probably had, and I smiled and said, “Well, we can hardly expect your parents to be dancing in the streets at the thought of me. I can win them over by my love for their so wonderful son, perhaps.”
Sophie snorted and said, “Right. Like that’s going to happen.”
David said, “Do me a favor, Sophie, and go get me a glass of ice water. Ask your father for a twist of lemon to put in it, will you?”
“Sure thing,” she said, and bounced up again.
When she was gone, David said, “I didn’t want to ask in front of the others in case it was something you didn’t want to discuss, but are you all right, Marguerite?
Did you have an accident? Don’t worry,” he went on when I must have looked shocked.
“I’m a doctor. Trained to notice, you know.
Can’t leave the job behind.” He smiled as he said it, but his eyes were grave.
“You’re a psychiatrist,” Joe said.
“I still went to medical school,” David said. “And I didn’t need to do that to recognize a bruise of that size.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “I bruise rather easily, that’s all.”
“Hmm,” David said. His eyes were on Joe, not me.
Joe said, his color rising, “All right. I had a nightmare last night and started thrashing around, and accidentally popped Marguerite in the face.”
“Accidentally,” David said.
“Absolutely accidentally,” I said. “He was asleep, and I was shaking his shoulder, trying to wake him. The funny thing is,” I went on, aiming for gaiety, “that I had a nightmare at the same time, no doubt because I could feel Joe’s distress in my sleep.
In my dream, he was in great danger, and it was most upsetting.
Of course, that was mostly because he’d taken all my blankets and I was cold.
I dreamed him in the icy water, you see. ”
“You could come in and talk to somebody about that, Joe,” David said. His voice was gentle. Too gentle?
Joe’s color was higher than ever now. “I don’t need to talk to anybody. I had a bad dream, that’s all. I’m fine.”
Mr. Stark came back at that moment, carrying four martini glasses on a round tray. Sophie was right behind him, saying, “Who’s talking to somebody?”
“Nobody,” Joe said. “Nobody’s talking. Come sit down.”
“You don’t have to bite my head off,” she said, handing David his ice water and then plopping down beside me again. “I was only asking.”
“Sorry,” Joe said. “I’m a little jumpy today, I guess.”
The dinner was excellent, although the amount of meat was rather astonishing, as before.
We ate brisket with gravy, which reminded me of Rinderrouladen, though without as many of the lovely savory flavorings: the mustard and pickle and bacon, the carrots and celery and leeks.
Accompanying it was potato kugel, which was a sort of cake made of shredded potatoes and onions and many eggs, with a wonderfully crispy top—heavenly despite the potatoes, and very German in flavor—and a cabbage salad full of vinegar that cut all the richness most satisfactorily.
It was the meal Joe had said was his favorite, and for dessert, Mrs. Stark brought out what looked and tasted exactly like Berliner, the jam-filled doughnuts of my youth, explaining that fried foods were traditional on this occasion.