“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. Likethat’sgoing to happen.”
David said, “Do me a favor, Sophie, and go get me a glassof 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, “thatIhad 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 ofRinderrouladen,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 likeBerliner,the jam-filled doughnuts of my youth, explaining that fried foods were traditional on this occasion.
The Hanukkah legend, as explained to me during the lighting of the menorah, seemed to be another tale of Jewish oppression, but also, to my surprise, of great resistance. The sacred temple in Jerusalem had been desecrated by a foreign conqueror, but had been retaken by a group of valiant warriors. The warriors had defeated and driven out the enemy and rededicated the temple by lighting the sacred flame, but had had only a single jar of oil, enough for one day. Instead, the flame had lasted for eight full days, until more oil could be procured. “The Miracle of the Oil,” it was called; hence the lighting of candles for eight days, and also the fried doughnuts.
I said, as I nibbled my doughnut, which was lovely and light, “This seems a most sensible way to represent thedesirability of oil and help children remember the legend, for what child doesn’t enjoy doughnuts?”
Mrs. Stark said, her tone sharp, “That’s a rather frivolous way to discuss a miracle, dear.”
