The Inn at Lake Devine Part 5

SEVEN.

It was generally a.s.sumed, because I didn't talk about the painful parts, that I'd had a lovely week at Lake Devine. My parents darted into the street to greet me as if the Fifes' Chevy needed flagging down, then invited my hosts to stay for dinner, for tea, for coffee. The Fifes said, "We'd love to-great little girl you've got there-but at this rate the boys will beat us home." My father produced our thank-you gift: a basket of fruit with a pineapple, a box of stationery, and a roll of pastel mint patties straining against pink cellophane. Trying to speed up their retreat, I thanked the Fifes repeatedly. Finally, parents and daughter piled into the front seat, but not before Mr. Fife grasped my hand and shoulder in a meaningful shake: I had, he a.s.sured me, enriched everyone's week.

My father repeated an earlier offer. "I wish you'd let me cover-"

"I wouldn't hear of it," boomed Mr. Fife. "Natalie was our guest."

"Then Robin has to come stay with us."

My parents waved good-bye, both sorrowfully and enthusiastically, as if the Fife station wagon were carrying their last child off to college.

Dinner was ready-my mother's sweet-and-sour meatb.a.l.l.s, which I had requested as my welcome-home meal from camp the month before. My parents wanted to hear about the hotel, the clientele, the activities, the food, and what they called "the climate."

I said my favorite meal had been roast beef au jus with popovers on the first Sunday.

"Who cooked?" my father wanted to know.

I told him a woman, the cook, Mrs. Knickerbocker, Mrs. K. And my favorite part was that she came out of the kitchen after dessert and people would applaud. Every night, even when it wasn't so great. She took a bow. If she didn't appear at her usual moment, people would clap until she did. It was a hotel tradition. She'd been there for a long time, as long as the Fifes had been going there.

"You applauded even when it wasn't good?" asked my mother. "Isn't that a little insincere?"

I repeated that it was a tradition at this hotel. Perhaps at all hotels with dining rooms. I was an expert on such things now.

"What else did you have besides roast beef?" my father asked.

I said, squinting into s.p.a.ce to recall my seven nights, "Chicken croquettes, baked stuffed sole with Mornay sauce, Yankee pot roast, Irish lamb stew, New England boiled dinner, turkey pot pie, meatloaf surprise."

My mother made a face: ordinary.

"Fresh vegetables or canned?" my father asked.

I said both. And good bread.

"What kind of bread?" he asked.

"Rolls."

"Rolls every night?" my mother asked. "Those soft white ones?"

"Good, though. Homemade ..." I moved the subject out-of-doors; my mother held no strong opinions on nature. "Remember the raft?" I began. "We swam out there and sunbathed all afternoon."

"Did she do the desserts, too?" my mother asked.

I said I thought so. Here, look at my tan.

I knew I was close to blurting out something that would put Mrs. Berry on the anecdotal hot seat: the pork at Lake Devine. It appeared more and more frequently during my stay, until it seemed that every dish left the kitchen scrambled with ham or garnished with bacon.

So I asked, incapable of leaving it unsaid, "Do most restaurants put ham in everything?"

"You like ham," my dad said.

I told them it wasn't a problem, just a question.

"Ham at every meal?" my mother asked.

I said no: sausages, bacon, ham steaks, B.L.T.s, pork roasts, the pale goyishe frankfurters of sporting events, meatloaf crisscrossed with limp strips of bacon, deviled-ham sandwiches on a picnic lunch.

"That's how the goyim cook," said my mother.

"I hope you didn't complain," said my father.

I said no, I had not complained. I had thought of mentioning it to Mr. Fife, but I didn't know what people outside Irving Circle put on their table, and I didn't want Mrs. K. to think that Jews were difficult.

"I think you used good judgment, Nat," said my dad. "I'm sure it wasn't any different from what they usually served."

I said, Maybe. But ham on salad?

"That's a chef's salad," said my father.

"Bacon on turkey sandwiches?"

"You've had club sandwiches," said my mother, "and you loved them."

I said they must be right. Once I had gotten the idea in my head that Mrs. Berry was testing me, I must have tasted ham everywhere. But it couldn't have been the case, because other people would have noticed, people who didn't like pork for their own reasons. Yes, I was mistaken, I could see that now. Grown women don't pick on little girls. Mrs. Berry had better things to do than send a message to me personally with every meal.

Robin wrote me letters in the off season that sounded like someone had forced her to. Her pale personality faded even more on the page: "Dear Natalie. How are you? I am fine. How is school? What are you doing this weekend? Maryellen is coming over for a sleepover. I have Mr. Souza for math." As if I knew who Maryellen was, or Mr. Souza, or as if I cared to discuss ninth grade with someone in eighth. I did write back, dashing off one side of a page of notebook paper, "School is fine. Judy and Donna and I saw Lord of the Flies on Sat.u.r.day. I have Mrs. Polga for English. I'm in study hall now. My cousins from Swampscott are coming here for Thanksgiving."

It was all the effort it took to keep the correspondence alive. I was surprised that Robin still liked me after my summer's mental cruelty, though I suspected that, when compared to her brothers, I was the best friend she'd ever had. With her in another state, I selectively remembered the tolerable parts of Robin-how she rarely got mad at anyone for anything, and would defer to my preferences in sports and games. She liked to read, although I found most of her books woefully babyish. When I read aloud to her from The Fountainhead, she promised she'd find a copy in Farmington.

My family received New Year's greetings from Robin's family on Rosh Hashanah. Three months later, a big Hanukkah card arrived on the dot of the first day, signed individually by every Fife, including Jeff and Chip. My parents asked why I thought the Fifes were so keen to acknowledge Jewish holidays, and I said, "They have a lot of Jewish friends."

"How do you know that?"

"Mr. Fife told me all his Jewish stuff."

"What Jewish stuff?" asked my mother.

I said, "You know-like he teaches with fine Jewish teachers. Plays golf with Jewish golfers. Reelected a Jewish senator."

My mother made a face.

My father said to her, "That's okay. He was trying to make Natalie feel more comfortable. He wanted us to know they like Jews."

I said, "They meant well sending us cards."

"That's right," said my father proudly. "Nat's right."

My mother stood the Fifes' Hallmark menorah up on the kitchen table without a word. I knew she thought my father was too uncritical ("Name one person you don't like," she would challenge him from time to time) and that I was too much my father's girl to have noticed the earnestness of the Fifes' every act.

"Maybe I'll make them up something," said my father.

I said, "You already did, remember? With stationery and mints?"

"You don't have to send them anything," my mother said. "I'll put them on our Christmas list."

There was a quarterly newsletter in the off season, The News of Lake Devine, which I had signed up for in the clearest possible handwriting before I left. The first one I received was the holiday issue, which had a black-and-white photo of the staff, Nelson included, surrounding Mr. and Mrs. Berry, who were sitting in matching wing chairs.

I spent at least fifteen minutes poring over a Christmas tree formed by the typed names of the Inn's guests. It was labeled "The 1964 Season." Long names made up the diagonals of the tree, while shorter names formed the horizontal cuts of the branches. I found "Fife," at the very bottom, the base of the stump, and, on further study, "Stewart" and "Rice," fellow sunbathers. I didn't expect to find "Marx" as part of the framework, but I felt a stab of hope when I saw that the pile of presents under the tree had guest children's names crisscrossing each package in lieu of ribbons. I found Chip, Jeff, Robin bisecting one side of a box but, after a futile examination, no Natalie.

I read "Chef's Secrets," which revealed that Mrs. K. basted her turkey with Crisco every thirty minutes for the entire length of the roasting; that she put her piecrust dough in the freezer for ten to fifteen minutes before rolling it out between two sheets of waxed paper; that she saved the wrappers from sticks of margarine to grease her baking pans.

"Next issue," the last line promised in bold type: "Mrs. K's raisin-and-vinegar pie."

"Buildings & Grounds" announced that Mr. B., in consultation with the pro at the public golf course, was going to install a putting green around the flag pole. Also, new gutters, a color TV in the public room, and an aluminum canoe by the summer of '66.

"What's New with You," reported two births, one thirty-fifth wedding anniversary, one successful cataract operation, one engagement sp.a.w.ned at the Inn, one change of address, one Eagle Scout induction, one midyear college graduation, one early admission to Clark. "We'd love to hear from each and every one of you," the Berrys added.

"Mushroom Musings" carried Mr. Berry's byline. "The woods around the Inn have given me a new hobby," he wrote, "something I have more time for now that our guests have departed and our children are back in school. I set out with my field guide, a knife, and sometimes with Mrs. B., who carries a basket in the crook of her elbow a la Little Red Riding Hood. A recent foray into the state forest (off Routes 7 and 125) turned up a 20-lb. Hen-of-the-Woods in perfect prime condition on the stump of an ancient oak. (It is pale gray with a ruffled, feathered appearance, and is considered a delicacy in Italy, where it's known as 'Griffo,' and in France, where it is called, not surprisingly, 'Poulet de Bois.') We also came upon several gorgeous fruitings of red caps, which we promptly sauteed in b.u.t.ter and ate on toast for lunch. (Remember, never pick every mushroom in an area.) Let me know if you liked the column, or the 'boss editor' may yank it! Karl B."

Within a week, I sent a note to Mr. Berry, reporting that I had enjoyed "Mushroom Musings" and hoped to see more FUNgus columns in the newsletter. He didn't write me separately, but quoted my pun with attribution in the next issue ("Mushrooms belong to a group of organisms called 'fungi,' " he explained), and credited me with an interest in horticulture beyond my years.

In order to make that false statement true, I took two books out of the library with chapters on mushrooms. Neither triggered any sincere interest in the subject, but they dovetailed nicely with a science a.s.signment-any topic in the physical world, three to four typewritten pages. I wrote on Amanita, the most famous poisonous mushrooms, and made a cover out of construction paper, showing a carefully rendered human skeleton (5 points extra credit I wasn't even fishing for) eating a chalky white specimen. I found an Amanita in the woods off Jolson, or at least something that matched the ill.u.s.tration in the book, and brought it in for the oral presentation, peat clinging to its poison cup. The girls wouldn't touch it; the boys pa.s.sed it around and faked bites to its cap. Everyone loved the description of death by toxic mushroom-the illness, the apparent recovery, then the violent relapse and ultimate organ failure. Mr. Noonan gave me an A+. My foray into mycology was my excuse for writing a second letter to my summer ally: "My science paper this marking period was on North American Amanita. I found out they're everywhere, like loaded guns lying in the woods. Hope you don't saute any of them in b.u.t.ter for lunch!"

Immediately, Mr. Berry sent me a book from his own library on toxigenic fungi, with a note on Lake Devine white stationery, with its unchanged green pointillist etching, saying that he was glad I was aware of the dangers; here were some other killers for me to study; no hurry; keep the book until I came up for my next visit.

The night his letter arrived, my parents asked at dinner-a dinner at which I had picked the canned gray b.u.t.ton mushrooms out of my mother's pot roast-what it was that was making me and Mr. Berry such fast friends.

"Mushrooms," I said.

"You hate mushrooms," my sister noted.

I explained that this was the science of fungi, not the eating of mushrooms. Mr. Berry and I shared a pa.s.sion for mycology.

"Since when?" said Pammy.

"She did a paper on it," said my father.

I said, "Mr. Berry writes a mushroom column."

My mother postulated that I was quite taken with the hotel owner, her voice and eyebrows signaling to Pammy that little Natalie had her first crush.

I said, "Mr. Berry was very nice to me."

"They usually are," my mother said, "to your face."

My father rebuked her. "You don't send someone a book and say, 'Bring it with you when you come back' if you're just being polite." It was meant to shush her and elicit some backpedaling where she'd admit that Natalie was right about Mr. Berry: He was a fine man and the world was, after all, a benevolent and open-minded place.

"Are you going back?" Pammy asked, as if parents didn't exist, as if I were in charge of my own vacations.

I said yes, someday.

"I think you're nuts," she mumbled.

My father stabbed the unwanted mushrooms on my plate with his ever-roving fork and popped the yield into his mouth. It was a display of table manners, I thought, that was unsuitable for public dining. I said, "Can't you eat off your own plate, or at least ask me before you eat off mine?"

"Yeah, Dad," said Pammy.

He laughed good-naturedly, as if we couldn't possibly be finding fault with an honored custom. "Oh, of course, Miss Marx," he said, mushroom flecks dotting his gums. "I beg your pardon."

"They're right," my mother said. "It's a disgusting habit. One day you're going to do it to some stranger in a restaurant-reach over and stick your fork in his french fries."

Rising to walk his plate to the sink, he asked happily, his spotted napkin billowing from the neck of his sweater vest, "What kind of a lout do you take me for?"

On a Friday afternoon the following April, I came home to find the house spotless, my room tidy well beyond what my mother usually accomplished in one of her bursts of irritation. My eyelet bureau scarves had been starched and pressed, and my stuffed animals were lined up like prizes at a shooting gallery. Inspecting the refrigerator, I spotted a white frosted oblong I knew to be her chocolate icebox cake. I asked what was going on. She said airily, "Nothing. I was in a cleaning mood."

"Is someone coming tonight?"

She looked at the stove clock and said-cleverly, she thought-"Tonight? No."

"What did you make for dinner?"

"Spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s."

Normal food, except that on Friday nights we had chicken, an echo of my parents' childhood Shabbat dinners.

"How was school?" she asked.

"Fine."

"Did you get back your algebra quiz?"

I said not yet. Mr. Hogan was out, so we had had a subst.i.tute, who didn't do any math with us.

A car turned onto Irving Circle and drove slowly, as if the driver were reading house numbers. I went to the picture window in the living room: An olive-and-ochre Chevy with blue license plates came to a full stop in front of our house. Robin Fife bounced out of the pa.s.senger side, a blue-and-green kilt visible below her short Tyrolean jacket.

I whipped away from the window and flattened myself against the wall like a parolee on the lam.

"What's the matter with you?" my mother asked, untying her half-ap.r.o.n from behind her waist.

"It's Robin," I hissed.

My mother said, "I know. She's spending the weekend."