“Uh …” I said. “No.”
“Do you want me to teach you this stuff?” he asked. “Or would you rather ask Mom to come down?”
“Oh, please, don’t tell!” I said.
He was grinning again. “A blondeshiksaprincess who can’t mop a floor or boil an egg. Yeah, let’s keep that one to ourselves. Now come on, Mrs. Stark. I’ve got a class to get to. Let’s boil some eggs.”
11
ABSOLUTELY
On the following afternoon—another sunny day!—I dismounted from my bicycle, leaned it against the wall of the house, pulled the bag of groceries from the basket, and started up the front steps. I had to dodge, though, as a young woman came pelting out the door. I juggled my bag, and two apples fell out and bumped their way down the steps.
“Oh, dear,” the woman said. She had curly red hair, a snub nose with freckles on it, and a round face. She was all over circles, in fact. “Here, let me help you.” She picked up the apples and made a face. “They’re terribly bruised, I’m afraid. Were they important?”
“Well,” I said, “we were going to have them for dinner, but I suppose we could have an orange instead?”
“An orange instead of, what, baked apples? Is that what you’re asking me? Don’t you know, though?”
“Oh.” I knew I was blushing. “Pardon me. No, I?—”
“Wait.” She peered at me, then snapped her fingers. “You’re the war bride! Joe’s wife, right? Marguerite?”
“Well, yes. I am.” I wished I could shake hands, but I was holding the paper sack.
Oh. I put the sack down on the stoop and put out my hand. “How do you do. I’m Marguerite Glucks— ah, Marguerite Stark.”
She shook my hand firmly—two pumps—but her green eyes were dancing. “How very formal we are. I’m Susie. Susie O’Brien. Hence the red hair.”
I blinked at her, and she said, “Red hair? Irish?”
“Oh!” I laughed, startled. “I see. I haven’t met many Irish people, though there were a few on the ship. I didn’t know that was what red hair signified.”
A wrinkle in her brow now, for her face expressed everything she felt. She would have been mincemeat under Gestapo questioning. “But aren’t you British? And don’t all British know about the Irish? Theyjokeabout the Irish plenty. Red hair? Freckles? Poverty? Too many kids? None of this is ringing a bell?”
I blinked. “But that would be very rude. Who would say such things?”
“You’re not British,” she said. “You can’t be. ‘Marguerite’ sounds French, but your accent is English. Isn’t it? That very upper-class kind? But you’re French? A French Jew?”
I’m afraid I must have looked very surprised. “Ah … no,” I said. “Not French, and not a Jew. I’m German.”
“Oh.” Some dimming of the brightness, and then the smile was back, if not as full. “Won’tthatput the cat among the pigeons.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You don’t realize that the Germans are a bit unpopular right now?”
“Oh. Yes. Of course. Yes, I know. I could say that my family didn’t … didn’t go along with Hitler, my father especially, but every German says that now, I realize.” Nothing for it but to say, “I’m very pleased to have met you,” in my most proper tones, and to pick up my grocery bag again. It was rather heavy. It was the tins.
“Hey,” Susie said. “Wait. I didn’t mean I don’t want toknowyou. Also, I’m desperately curious.” She looked at her watch. “I have a class at three, but I don’t have to leave for a few minutes yet. How about if I come in and you give me a cup of coffee? I’m your upstairs neighbor, and neighbors ought to get to know each other.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Wait, I’d said that before. But she’d startled me. Was this how Americans were? I didn’t really know any yet, other than my in-laws, and Mrs. Stark certainly hadn’t amazed with her frankness. Well, except when she’d been trying to give me the check. But Joe had always been open, so maybe …
I had to give up thinking about it, because Susie was saying, “Here, let me take that. It looks heavy,” and grabbing the grocery bag from me. “Gee, you’re little, aren’t you? About the size of the average twelve-year-old. No milk for strong bones over there lately, I guess.” I didn’t answer—how did one respond to such a statement?—but opened the door, and she went straight to our flat, where I used the key and led the way inside. She set the bag on the kitchen table, dusted her hands, looked around, and said, “It’s not quite the Ritz, is it? Needs some prettying up. Bachelor Joe. Was Myrna ever disappointed when she found out he wasn’t!”
“That he wasn’t what?”
“A bachelor. He’s not exactly handsome, but he’s got something. Sort of a man of the world quality. And that wavy hair! He seems strong, doesn’t he? And a little reserved, too. Mmm.”
