access road. I said, “You know, every time I drove this road with the Fifes, we had to count down from sixty to one.”
“Why?”
“They liked to.”
“How perfect,” said Kris. “How exceedingly … cheerful.”
I wondered how he knew he could say this in front of me. I said, “It was awfully nice of them to invite me.”
“Oh, they’re the nicest,” said Kris, and laughed. “Nobody’s nicer than our soon-to-be-related Donald and Sissy and Miss Robin.”
A Yiddish word came to mind, the collective noun my mother applied ironically to the O’Connors. I had the urge to pronounce it, to unfurl the banner that advertised my team. I wavered for a few seconds, then said, “The
mekhutonim
.”
He repeated the strange syllables.
“It means ‘in-laws, the extended family,’ in Yiddish.”
Kris asked me if I was Jewish.
I said I was: Natalie Marx. M-A-R-X.
“Cool,” said Kris. “Any relation to Karl?”
I said, Maybe; who knows?
“I, of course, am an offspring of the famous Karl-with-a-K
Berry
,” he added.
“Famous mushroomer,” I said.
“You know about that?”
I said I had corresponded with him a few times over his column in the newsletter.
“I think I knew that,” Kris said vaguely, then grinned. “I knew some little brown-noser was writing to him about her science projects.” He began moving his lips without making any sounds until he murmured, “
Oy gvald
.”
I asked where he had picked that up.
“My college roommate.”
“Was he Jewish?”
“He wasn’t, but he was from Brooklyn, so he pretended to be.”He said he knew a few more words, but they weren’t for mixed company. “What’s the in-law word again?”
“
Meck-oo-tun-im
.”
“Too bad the Fifes aren’t Jewish. Then I could really impress them: ‘What time will the
mekhutonim
be arriving, Mrs. Fife?’ ‘How are your
mekhutonim
enjoying the amenities of the Inn?’ ”
“Excellent,” I said.
“
Shmuck
, I know,” mused Kris. “And
tush
, of course.”
I said, “Who doesn’t?”
“What does
shlep
mean again?”
I said, “Drag. Go somewhere unwillingly:
shlepping
to the bus station to pick up wedding guests.”
“Not at all,” he said.
Suddenly we were at the lake. A new circular driveway took us right up to the steps of the main building, where shaggy pine, red-ribboned wreaths hung on every window and electric candles flickered on every sill. Kris said, “My mother goes a little crazy with the Christmas decorations.… Hope you don’t find it a bit too much.”
I said most of the world decorated for Christmas, and I looked forward to it. I liked blue lights best, or white when they outlined a house and all its shrubbery. No, I said, it wasn’t too much at all: It was beautiful.
P eople looked up from their eggnog and their sprinkle cookies to view the arrival of the new guest. Ingrid glided over with a smile meant for someone else, easy and gracious. I plucked off my right mitten and extended my hand. “Ingrid. Natalie Marx.”
“Karl!” she called sharply, in a voice that might have been summoning security. That impression passed in seconds, because the next thing Ingrid did was hug me. Mr. Berry hurried to our side with a glass for me and blushed as I kissed him on one cheek. I asked if he remembered me, the Natalie who wrote him those show-off letters about mushrooms?
“You’re so tall,” he said.
“She was always tall—”
“And lovely,” said her husband—which made Ingrid stare at me, evaluating the compliment, and then check her son’s face for signs of confirmation.
I said, “The place looks every bit as charming as I remember it.”
“Does it?” asked Ingrid.
“More contemporary, of course, but just as comfortable.” My hostess waited, unblinking, so I continued. “Love the circular driveway”—then a quick survey of the room—“and isn’t this new furniture?”
“New slipcovers,” said Ingrid.
“And you’ve paved the access road,” I
“Why?”
“They liked to.”
“How perfect,” said Kris. “How exceedingly … cheerful.”
I wondered how he knew he could say this in front of me. I said, “It was awfully nice of them to invite me.”
“Oh, they’re the nicest,” said Kris, and laughed. “Nobody’s nicer than our soon-to-be-related Donald and Sissy and Miss Robin.”
A Yiddish word came to mind, the collective noun my mother applied ironically to the O’Connors. I had the urge to pronounce it, to unfurl the banner that advertised my team. I wavered for a few seconds, then said, “The
mekhutonim
.”
He repeated the strange syllables.
“It means ‘in-laws, the extended family,’ in Yiddish.”
Kris asked me if I was Jewish.
I said I was: Natalie Marx. M-A-R-X.
“Cool,” said Kris. “Any relation to Karl?”
I said, Maybe; who knows?
“I, of course, am an offspring of the famous Karl-with-a-K
Berry
,” he added.
“Famous mushroomer,” I said.
“You know about that?”
I said I had corresponded with him a few times over his column in the newsletter.
“I think I knew that,” Kris said vaguely, then grinned. “I knew some little brown-noser was writing to him about her science projects.” He began moving his lips without making any sounds until he murmured, “
Oy gvald
.”
I asked where he had picked that up.
“My college roommate.”
“Was he Jewish?”
“He wasn’t, but he was from Brooklyn, so he pretended to be.”He said he knew a few more words, but they weren’t for mixed company. “What’s the in-law word again?”
“
Meck-oo-tun-im
.”
“Too bad the Fifes aren’t Jewish. Then I could really impress them: ‘What time will the
mekhutonim
be arriving, Mrs. Fife?’ ‘How are your
mekhutonim
enjoying the amenities of the Inn?’ ”
“Excellent,” I said.
“
Shmuck
, I know,” mused Kris. “And
tush
, of course.”
I said, “Who doesn’t?”
“What does
shlep
mean again?”
I said, “Drag. Go somewhere unwillingly:
shlepping
to the bus station to pick up wedding guests.”
“Not at all,” he said.
Suddenly we were at the lake. A new circular driveway took us right up to the steps of the main building, where shaggy pine, red-ribboned wreaths hung on every window and electric candles flickered on every sill. Kris said, “My mother goes a little crazy with the Christmas decorations.… Hope you don’t find it a bit too much.”
I said most of the world decorated for Christmas, and I looked forward to it. I liked blue lights best, or white when they outlined a house and all its shrubbery. No, I said, it wasn’t too much at all: It was beautiful.
P eople looked up from their eggnog and their sprinkle cookies to view the arrival of the new guest. Ingrid glided over with a smile meant for someone else, easy and gracious. I plucked off my right mitten and extended my hand. “Ingrid. Natalie Marx.”
“Karl!” she called sharply, in a voice that might have been summoning security. That impression passed in seconds, because the next thing Ingrid did was hug me. Mr. Berry hurried to our side with a glass for me and blushed as I kissed him on one cheek. I asked if he remembered me, the Natalie who wrote him those show-off letters about mushrooms?
“You’re so tall,” he said.
“She was always tall—”
“And lovely,” said her husband—which made Ingrid stare at me, evaluating the compliment, and then check her son’s face for signs of confirmation.
I said, “The place looks every bit as charming as I remember it.”
“Does it?” asked Ingrid.
“More contemporary, of course, but just as comfortable.” My hostess waited, unblinking, so I continued. “Love the circular driveway”—then a quick survey of the room—“and isn’t this new furniture?”
“New slipcovers,” said Ingrid.
“And you’ve paved the access road,” I
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