“Really?” Susie said. “Name one.”
“Well, I …” I cast about. “When I became a daughter-in-law, I said all the wrong things and wasmostdisappointing.”
Fred made a noise like“braccckkk,”which I knew came from the “wrong answer” sound on the radio quiz shows. “Doesn’t count. In-laws are in a whole different category.”
“Yeah, right,” Susie said. “You know my parents love you to death. We’d better never get divorced, because I’m pretty sure they’d pick you and dump me. And your mother only likes me because I’m such a good homemaker. My sparkling personality? Not so much.”
“But of course!” I said. “My cooking was truly very bad. This you must all admit.” Nobody protested, but then, how could they?
“True,” Joe said, in fact. “The Jell-O recipe was my favorite. That last one you tried, the deal breaker. Lemon Jell-O with mayonnaise, mustard, canned pineapple, celery, and tuna. It was supposed to be ham, but I’m Jewish and it was Friday, so it was tuna. A never-to-be-forgotten evening. I wondered if I could accidentally drop the plate on the floor. You refuse to throw food away, so I had to eat that thing for two days straight. I’ll tell you, not even in the Army. No, sir.”
“It was in a magazine!” I said, but I was laughing. It still hurt, but I couldn’t help it.
“That one you did for a party, too,” Fred said. “The split hot dogs that were supposed to look like the outside of a cake, with mashed potatoes mixed with peas inside and parsley around the base. I’m not saying it wasbad—thanks for sparing us the Jell-O with tuna—but it was sure memorable.”
“Because Americans love hot dogs!” I said. “And Joe says that men need potatoes.”
“Hamburgers topped with canned spaghetti and cheese sauce,” Susie said. “I’m sorry, honey, but really?Really?Nothing in you said, ‘Hmm, this may not be the best idea?’ Every single one of us had at least one piece of spaghetti down our front at the end of that night. And Fred said—” She was gasping with laughter now—“‘Does anybody have a bib?’”
They were all falling about laughing now, in fact. I was glad to be providing so much amusement. Joe managed to get out, “The tomato soupshake! Cold condensed tomato soup, half-and-half, and a raw egg. In the blender. In a glass.”
“But this was very nutritious!” I said. “Susie told me that tomatoes have Vitamin C, and you’d been ill!”
“Mom’s chicken soup never sounded so good,” Joe said.
“Never mind,” Susie said soothingly. “You’re much better now. But how somebody who bakes like an angel can cook that badly…Well, let’s just say that Fred’s wrong. You’re not upset with yourself because you normally do everything perfectly. I don’t knowwhyyou’re so upset with yourself, in fact. You’ve forgiven yourself on the cooking, because you were learning. Well, driving’s hard, too. When I was learning? I was out with my dad, and he was teaching me to back up. I backed up, all right. Straight into the ditch. We had to get a tow truck.”
“Then there was the time I took a muddy corner too fast in a Jeep,” Joe said. “Straight into the ditch that time, too.AndIhad my captain with me. The worst part was, he was the one who ended up with his face in the mud. I’m lucky he didn’t bust me down a rank. Fortunately, it was the Army. You just get another Jeep.”
“Speeding ticket,” Fred said mournfully. “Senior year, wanting to be the big man on campus, first date with the girl I’d been sweet on for two years. Pulled over by a cop, after which I got not just the ticket, but also the big lecture about endangering ‘your girl there’ with my carelessness.AfterI’d backed out of the drive-in theater without unhooking the speaker. I had to use half my car fund to pay all that back. Know what I managed to buy instead? A bicycle, that’s what. And the kicker? We missed her curfew. That’s why I was speeding; because the speaker thing made us so late. Her dad was outside on the porch the minute I drove up, just standing there with his arms folded. I thought he was going to shoot me. When she said, ‘We were on time until the police stopped us!’, Ireallythought he was going to shoot me.” He ate a bite of sandwich. “First and last date. Ginger McBride. Only about the prettiest girl in school. That next Monday, it seemed like I saw Ginger around every corner, always in a group of girls, all of them laughing like I was all four Marx Brothers rolled into one. Never even got a good-night kiss out of the deal.” He sighed. “Ah, the good old days.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I feel perhaps a little better. Next time, Joe, I’ll listen when you say we’ve practiced enough.”
“That’s what I like,” Joe said. “An obedient wife.” And at the howl of outrage from Susie, “But I know I’m not getting one, so never mind.”
35
STRAYING FROM THE RIGHTEOUS PATH
It was October, it was Friday evening, and we were back in San Francisco again. Were we here for Yom Kippur? No, we were not. That had been last Sunday.
When we walked into the house, Sophie wasn’t there to meet us. Nor was anyone else. They were all in the living room instead. No Barbara and David and baby Samuel tonight—I felt some brief but heartfelt gratitude for that, for I hadn’t quite been able to overcome my envy of Samuel’s health and baby laughter, or for the care his mother took of him, the pride in his father’s eyes.
Not tonight, though. It was only Sophie, her parents, and another man and woman of about their age.
The man was Rabbi Goldstein, and the woman his wife.
I had a bad feeling.
“Good Shabbos,” the rabbi said, shaking Joe’s hand and then mine.
Sophie was blinking rapidly at me. I looked at her in confusion, and she nodded vigorously and began blinking again, then said, “Does anybody want another drink?”
Joe said, “I’d like a beer, please. Surprisingly hot out there for October, at least in the South Bay.”
I said, “A martini for me, please.” A moment of rebellion, because Mrs. Stark had continued to stare reprovingly at me over every pre-dinner drink I’d accepted. Finally, I’d asked Barbara, who’d said, “Mother’s convinced that mostgoyimare drunkards, for one thing. And she thinks drinking isn’t ladylike, other than a small glass of wine on Shabbos.”
This had puzzled me greatly, for my parents had always served wine with dinner at their parties. My mother had been in charge of the menu, although in truth, Frau Heffinger had done most of the planning, and my father had been in charge of the wine, with the help of Herr Wolmer, the butler, who seemed to have been born with an encyclopedic knowledge of the subject. A different varietal was served with each course, for one could hardly drink the same wine with sole as with venison. There’d been cocktails before dinner as well, and all of it partaken of by both men and women. Yet I’d never heard of any drunkenness, other than among certain of my father’s relations. Not that I knew any of this firsthand, for I’d been too young to attend these dinners, but there was always the perching.
