“You bet,” he said, and got up. I heard him heading up the stairs, because we were sleeping in his childhood bedroom tonight and staying for breakfast in the morning. Which was a verymarriedsort of thing to do.
“You know,” I said, in a possibly rash burst of confidence fueled by that martini, plus a glass of wine with dinner and the desire to talk of something a daughter-in-law might safely mention, “this is the first time I’ve eaten a meal in a house thatis … that is only a house. It’s lovely, isn’t it? Your furnishings, and the house itself, and the meal, as I said. Very comfortable. This is an acceptable compliment? Better than discussing history?”
“I’d say it’s a pretty nice compliment,” Mr. Stark said. “Wouldn’t you, dear?”
“Thank you, Marguerite,” Mrs. Stark said graciously. “That’s very kind of you.”
“How can you not have been in ahouse?”Sophie asked. “Don’t they have houses in Germany?”
“Oh, yes.” I was a bit flustered now. Why was I comparingagain,instead of leaving well enough alone? Mrs. Stark was never going to consider me an acceptable wife at this rate.“There are many houses, although many flats also, especially in the center of the city. When I met Joe, I lived in a flat over a bakery, and then in a much smaller flat with a friend, and so forth. I hadn’t stayed in a hotel before, or eaten on a train, or in a restaurant, either, so you see …”
“So you grew up in an apartment, too?” Sophie asked. “Some of my friends live in apartments. I think they offer a rather glamorous lifestyle.” Again, as if she were quoting from a film.
“No,” I said, “not precisely. But also not precisely in a house.” Why,whyhad I said all of this? I’d drunk more than I was used to—I’d drunk more thantwicewhat I was used to—because I’d been nervous, and because my face hurt. And I still had to navigate breakfast in the morning! I must,mustbe silent, however difficult I found it. I’d never been allowed to speak my mind since I could remember, though, outside of conversations with my English governess, when I was too young to have much of a mind to speak, or with my parents, and being able to do so now, just when my reading and my travels had opened up so many new vistas, was too heady a brew to resist. Even knowing Mrs. Stark disapproved wasn’tenough to shut me up. It was a good thing Joe and I lived so far away, or shewouldhave dropped a pot on my head by now.
Fortunately, Joe came downstairs at that moment and handed me my brown paper bag. I stood and did my best to make a little ceremony of handing it to Mrs. Stark. “For breakfast, perhaps. I hope it’s right. I followed a recipe.”
She opened the bag and pulled out a loaf of challah, the braided bread that was a special Jewish treat. I said, “I’d never made it before, because we had no eggs and little oil. It’s nearly like a brioche, isn’t it?” Then subsided, because I was chattering nervously again and I knew it.
Mrs. Stark hefted the shiny golden-brown loaf in her hands and said, “Youmadethis? Yourself?”
“Yes,” I said, a little proudly. “I was a baker, as Joe has said. I can’t cook as well as I would like yet, but bread, I still know how to make. I suspect this bread would taste delicious if spread with real butter? And honey, perhaps?”
“You bet it would,” Mr. Stark said. “Now, that’s a beautiful thing. Normally, you know, we’d eat it with dinner, but?—”
“Oh,” I said. “I should have remembered I had it, then.”
“It’s lovely,” Mrs. Stark said. “Thank you.” And cleared her throat. “Well. If you and Sophie will help me with the dishes, Barbara, we can show Marguerite how to play dreidel.”
Joe said, “You should let Marguerite and me do the dishes, Mom. We have a pretty good system worked out.”
“You’ve become a dishwasher?” Barbara said. “Will wonders never cease. I may have to take back all the murderous thoughts I used to have about how boys get out of all the dirty jobs.”
I laughed. “You may have to, for Joe doesn’t just dry. Hewashes.”
Mrs. Stark looked at me disapprovingly once again. Oh, well.
14
MOMENT OF TRUTH
I woke to find myself alone in bed. Had I slept too late? Mrs. Stark would certainly think me a spoiled princess if I lolled about in bed! Why hadn’t Joe woken me?
Oh. My watch said it was not quite six, and the house was quiet. I listened, but could hear nothing. WherewasJoe?
He’d told me that what I’d said at dinner had been fine, and that he loved me, but he’d been restless all night, and he hadn’t made love to me, either, which made the first evening he hadn’t done so, other than duringMeine Tage—my bleeding time. I’d assumed married couples always made love at night—why wouldn’t they, when it felt so lovely?—but he’d said he felt uncomfortable doing it in his parents’ house. He’d held me instead, but I’d felt the tension in his arms. Had I embarrassed him after all, then? Or was he worried about suffering the same outcome as the night before? I longed to address that, but wasn’t sure how.
If he’d woken this early, though … perhaps it was more than the lovemaking? Perhaps he was walking the streets right now, his mind in turmoil. About me? Was he wondering, now that he saw me in his childhood home and realized how poorly I fit here, whether his parents were right?
I lay there a minute more, not sure of what to do, then said aloud, “But this is foolish,” and got out of bed. My makeup gave me a bit of pause—the bruise had fully bloomed now, and it wasn’t easy to cover it well. I looked perhaps a bit artificial in the daylight, but that was better than the alternative.
I headed downstairs—I wasn’t even cold, for the entire house seemed to be heated in some miraculous American fashion, and the warm air was lovely—and moved cautiously toward the kitchen. I’d find Joe, for surely hewouldbe in the house somewhere, and he could help me make a cup of tea, as I was equally sure that Mrs. Stark wouldn’t take kindly to me rummaging about in her cupboards.
I heard voices from the kitchen and stopped, for one of them was Joe’s, and it was raised.
“I told you,” he said, “I don’t need to talk to anybody. I had a bad dream, that’s all. I know you shrinks like to make a federal case out of every twitch, but I’m not one of your patients. I’m not neurotic. I never have been. I’m fine.”
David’s voice, then, for surely it was his, low and patient. “You know your folks are concerned about you.”
