Chapter 36
JOE LAYS DOWN THE LAW
“But why?” Mrs. Stark asked for approximately the third time.
It was half an hour later, and Joe, his father, and Sophie were eating a very tall and extremely rich cheesecake, along with Rabbi Goldstein and his wife, while Mrs. Stark and I were decidedly not eating it.
When I was nervous or unhappy, my appetite vanished, especially for something as filling and dense as cheesecake.
Joe was made of sterner stuff, for this was his second piece.
I hoped that Mr. Stark’s own cheesecake consumption meant that he was less unhappy than his wife, but it could simply mean that he liked cheesecake.
Joe said, “The answer’s simple, Mom. Real-estate law is interesting—boy, can tempers run high when it comes to property!—and I’ll have a better shot at running my own shop in the future. Marguerite’s an entrepreneurial sort of person—pretty intensely so, in fact—and I guess it’s rubbed off.”
“What you really mean, I think,” his father said, “is that you want to work with her.” He said it neutrally, though.
“Yes,” Joe said, “I do. With her, and on my own, too. Of course, I’ll have to watch for conflicts of interest—can’t represent the other side if she’s involved—but there’s plenty of work down there.
That’s because there’s so much room for growth.
Compare the open land in the South Bay to the City.
No contest. And once the interstate highway system is built, I’ll bet we see even more of a population explosion.
I read an article that predicted population growth in California from 1940 to 1950 could hit fifty percent.
Of course, we won’t know for sure until we see census data, but don’t I want to get in on that?
Don’t we want to, Marguerite and I? Look at Barbara and David, getting that house with four bedrooms.”
“One of them is his study,” his mother said.
“I know that, Mom,” Joe said. “I’m just pointing out that people want houses.
Two bedrooms if that’s what they can afford, and more if they can swing it.
Right now, it’s a lot of new construction.
Pretty soon, though, those returning GIs are going to be having their third kid, and then they’ll be selling that two-bedroom place to somebody else and moving up.
The Korea situation’s heating up, too. If we get involved over there, that’ll be more guys on the GI Bill, and the housing rush will start right back up again. ”
“There’s not going to be a war in Korea,” Mr. Stark said. “We withdrew our last remaining troops months ago.”
“You sure, Dad?” Joe asked. “I guess I read the tea leaves differently. We’ve still got a draft, don’t we? Do you really think the U.S. is going to stand by and let the Communists take over?”
“It’s not our fight,” his father said. “How do you win a civil war? You don’t, not really.”
“I might agree with you,” Joe said, “but I don’t think Truman does. Stopping the Soviets ranks pretty high on his list. In Korea, in Germany … wherever.”
“This isn’t the point,” Mrs. Stark said. “Rabbi, explain to Joe, please.”
“What would you like me to explain?” Rabbi Goldstein asked.
“That family matters!” she said. “Here’s Jacob, waiting since Joe was born for him to join the firm. Has he deserved this? He, who is such a good father? To be met with this … this ingratitude?”
Joe was still eating cheesecake. So was Sophie.
Sometimes it seemed that my husband had some substance in his veins besides the hot blood that filled mine.
He didn’t even say what I would have, something about how grateful he was to his parents.
I suppose he felt it would fall on deaf ears at the moment.
“Of course,” the rabbi said, “Joe isn’t moving across the country. And he is planning to join the Bar.”
“I sure am,” Joe said. “Catch me not using this degree after all the work it’s taken to earn it. I’m an hour and a half away, Mom.”
“And we hardly see you,” his mother said.
“Less than if we lived in San Francisco, yes,” Joe said. “It’s lucky Barbara and David and the baby are here, I guess.”
“But you’re our son,” Mrs. Stark said.
“Oh, great,” Sophie said. “What are Barbara and I, chopped liver?”
“You know I didn’t mean that,” Mrs. Stark said.
“About children,” Rabbi Goldstein said in a contemplative sort of voice.
“Oh, boy, here we go,” Sophie said.
“Having your parents nearby could be useful there, Joe,” the rabbi said. “Grandparents are a gift from God, I’ve heard more than one young mother say. Would one solution be for you to practice real-estate law, but to do it here?”
Joe said, “I’m not— That is, Marguerite and I aren’t going to make any decisions on the basis of grandparent access. We’re not even sure we’re having kids.”
Everyone grew very, very still. Finally, Joe said, “Didn’t the folks tell you about the hemophilia, Rabbi? I assumed you knew.”
“No.” Rabbi Goldstein looked grave. “I didn’t know, but if you’d like to tell me, I’m happy to listen.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. I said, “I carry the gene for hemophilia. Our children could be born with it, or they could not. There’s no way to tell. It’s a most … a most weighty decision.”
“And one,” Joe said, “that Marguerite and I will be making alone.” His mother began talking, but he put up a hand like a traffic policeman. “No, Mom. There will be no pressure. None.”
“But that’s unfair!” Mrs. Stark cried. “I, who would be the only grandmother, can’t even have an opinion?”
“You can have an opinion,” Joe said. “You just can’t share it with us.”
“You can share it with me, Mom,” Sophie said. “Obviously, because I’m going to hear anyway. And I’ll pass it on. I won’t be able to help it, because I never am. How’s that?”
“Nope,” Joe said. “This topic is closed. If—if—it happens, we’ll tell you, and then you can share your opinion. Your joyful opinion. Your optimistic opinion.”
“That’s a lot to ask,” Mr. Stark said.
“I know,” Joe said. “But imagine how much you’d be asking Marguerite and me to bear if you shared your anxieties.
Look.” He’d stopped eating at last. “The closer we get to having to decide about this, the scarier it becomes. For Marguerite, sure, and for me, too. I don’t just have to worry about the baby, I have to worry about Marguerite, too.
So, yes, I’m going to insist. No questions.
No comments. No pressure. No worry. If we get any of that, we walk out the door or hang up the phone. ”
Mrs. Stark had her mouth open, but nothing was coming out of it. The rabbi said, “That’s a strong statement.”
“Yes,” Joe said. “It’s coming from a strong place. I don’t know everything about marriage, but I know this: my first and last job is to protect my wife. And that’s what I’m going to do.”
“From your own parents?” Mrs. Stark asked. She had her hand on her bosom again.
“Yes, Mom,” Joe said. “Even from you.”
“But of course,” I decided to say, “this is a decision we won’t make until Joe is finished with his schooling. We would both wish to be … established, I suppose is the word. Ready.”
“You’re never ready to have kids,” Mr. Stark said. “Even under normal circumstances. You just think you are. In reality, you have them, and then you find out how unready you were.”
“Then,” I said, “we’ll wait until we feel more ready. But I do wish to ask a favor of you, Mrs. Stark.”
“Yes?” Her lips were so tight, they’d nearly disappeared.
But surely this had been helpful, to lay all these things out in the open, and in front of the rabbi, too.
He could—at least I hoped he could—help reconcile the Starks to Joe’s unfortunate marriage.
I had the feeling it wouldn’t be the first time he’d tried to do so.
I said, “I would so very much like you—and Mr. Stark, too—to come see the site we’ve chosen for the new house, and to advise us.
There, we most definitely want your opinion.
You’ve made such a comfortable home here, and I know too little about how to plan such a thing.
We’ll work with an architect, of course, but how to make sure it will be both beautiful and comfortable?
The kitchen, especially; in this area, I would wish your help in particular, Mrs. Stark.
I’ve looked at many magazines and walked through many open houses, but the kitchens don’t vary a great deal, and I’m not convinced they’re right. ”
“Well, of course they’re not right,” Mrs. Stark said. “They were all designed by men. What does a man know about how to set up a kitchen?”
“Exactly,” I said. “You have it exactly right. My friend Susie will also help—she teaches Home Economics and is very knowledgeable in many ways—but you’re such an accomplished homemaker and will know even more.”
“I should hope so,” she said, “after thirty years.” Her lips weren’t nearly as thin now, though.
“The bathroom, too,” I said. “Should we have one, or two? And how should it—they—look? The pictures in the magazines are very …” I paused.
“Very odd. Does Joe want a purple toilet? I think not. And a bathroom with pink tile and paint combined with aqua fixtures is not very masculine, while one with yellow fixtures, red walls, and a floor of black tiles, I fear he would find most unrestful.”
“As would anyone,” Mrs. Stark said. “As I said—men.”
“Fortunately,” Joe said, “I’m not that picky. Any man who’s spent months using Army latrines …”
“Joe,” his mother said. “Some of us are still eating.”
“Whoops,” he said. “Sorry. My sensibilities are cast iron by now. I tend to forget that other people’s are more delicate.”
“But you will help, Mrs. Stark?” I asked.
“Joe’s just been telling us all the ways you don’t want our help,” she said. “Have I been such a bad mother that I deserve this?”
“No, Mom,” Joe said. “You’ve been a great mother. You love me. I know that. I love you, too. But I have to protect my wife. That’s the man you raised me to be.”
She had a hand on her face now, but flapped the other one at him. “You’re just saying that.”
“Nope.” Joe got up, went around the table, and kissed her cheek. “I’m saying what I mean. But if you could help Marguerite with this, I’d be grateful, too. And give her that chicken recipe, will you? I don’t know how you always make it come out exactly right.”
“Years of practice,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin.
“You can’t imagine how bad my brisket and chicken were at first. Your father’s parents came for dinner once, early on, and—well, I wanted to impress them.
I was supposed to tie the chicken’s legs together and sew up the cavity.
All I had was red string, though, and the dye ran.
The vegetables in the pan, the chicken itself—it all looked like a bloody pink mess.
And my chocolate cake! When I went to take the layers out of the pans, they fell to pieces! ”
“I came home to find you in tears,” Mr. Stark said.
“And that was before we realized what had happened to the chicken. You looked at those cake pieces, ran to the bedroom, and slammed the door, remember? And I went to work with a box of toothpicks and the bowl of frosting. Of course, my dad bit straight down on a toothpick later on and practically chipped a tooth, but we had cake! And the toothpick was my fault, not yours, which helped.”
“When I came out of the bedroom,” Mrs. Stark said, “I cried again, just because you’d been so thoughtful. But when the chicken came out of the oven like that?”
“We left the food in the kitchen until the last minute,” Mr. Stark said.
“When it was time to eat, I turned off almost all the lights and lit candles before you carried out the platter. Darkest dinner I’ve ever eaten.
My dad practically put out his eye with a fork.
” They were both laughing, which was wonderful progress, wasn’t it?
“Oh,” I said when we’d all finished laughing, “all this eases my mind so much to know! If you only knew all the terrible dinners I’ve served Joe. I’m getting a little better now, but—”
“You’re getting a lot better,” Joe said loyally.
“Thank you,” I said, “but anybody would say that you’re a too-lenient judge.
If you’d help me set up the kitchen, Mrs. Stark, and give me more of your recipes—the Hamantaschen and Rugelach in particular?
And Kreplach, the so-lovely dumplings, too, and—oh, so many things you’ve made for us.
A really good Reuben sandwich, perhaps, for this is Joe’s favorite, and I believe one can make one’s own sauerkraut? ”
“Well, of course you can,” Mrs. Stark said. “It’s as easy as can be, and when you do it yourself, you can control the level of sourness and crispness. For that matter, you can make your own corned beef, if there’s no deli close by.”
“But this is brilliant,” I said. “If you’ll help me with the design of the house, and also teach me to make these things for Joe, I’d be most grateful.” And smiled sunnily, like a woman with amnesia.
Amnesia is often the best course, I find, with mothers-in-law.