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Authors: Elinor Lipman
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to the Inn this year?”
Mrs. Fife murmured, “We’re not sure yet.”
I knew that couldn’t be true: The newsletter announced on every page that guests returning for the summer of ’65 must notify the Berrys, as was their standard policy, on January first.
“Are you?” Robin asked.
My mother said, “It’s awfully hard for my husband to get away in the summer.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Fife gaily. “Your husband is in the produce business. He must wait all year long for summer so he can sell native fruit.”
“You don’t think you’ll be there this summer?” Robin persisted.
“Robin,” said her mother. “You know how far in advance they fill the rooms, don’t you?”
“I bet if you called the Berrys up, or wrote them a letter …”
My mother’s eyes showed that she understood quite clearly what Bunk Eleven had been like, how long seven additional nights of double occupancy at the Inn had felt, and why she’d be making this weekend up to me.
I pointed out to Robin that Mrs. Berry didn’t like to bend any rules, especially where I was concerned. Remember?
Sissy Fife translated with an indulgent smile, “Ingrid Berry can be something of an iron hand in a velvet glove.”
Her own gloves went on, signaling the end of that unpleasantness. Kisses and handshakes all around, and she was gone.
Robin didn’t grasp that we had exhausted the topic of the Inn at Lake Devine. “I had much more fun last summer with Natalie in my room,” she told my mother, “and this year they’re getting a color TV.”
I said, “I can’t go there this summer, Robin. Okay? Your father has the summer off, but not everybody’s father is a teacher. It’s my father’s busiest season, and we all help him out.”
“You do?” said Robin. “You work?”
“That’s right,” I said. “I wipe the fuzz off peaches when a customer wants nectarines.”
Before Robin could express amazement over that piece of science, my mother silenced me. “It’s very nice of you to want Natalie along, but it’s probably not going to happen in the foreseeable future,”she said, holding out the dish of dark chocolate cherries to Robin, who hesitated.
I bit into one and showed her how it worked: See, a whole cherry inside, runny but delicious. I said, “You’ve had cherry pie, right? And you liked that.”
She took a dainty bite, then another, chewing unhappily, as if she’d been instructed to clean her plate while at the Marx house, no matter how exotic the offering.
“Have another,” I said after her pained last swallow. “The pits won’t hurt you.”
My mother said, “Maybe Robin doesn’t want to spoil her appetite,
Natalie
. Why don’t you show her your room now.”
And to me, in Yiddish, “Enough.”
Part Two
EIGHT
I had no nostalgia for Camp Minnehaha, no active curiosity about my fellow Hiawathans, until a mimeographed invitation arrived for our tenth bunk reunion. Suddenly I found the idea irresistible, mythical, the before and after with a flourish: Julia Child bringing the finished product out of the oven—
voilà
—seconds after the raw demo went in. I couldn’t not go; couldn’t not see what kind of adults had sprung from the cheerful and the cranky, the swift and the slow, the pretty and the homely we had been at fourteen.
E very December without fail, the Fifes had sent a card and we had reciprocated—Hanukkah greetings from them with their Lung Association stamps, and Christmas/New Year’s tidings from us—with hopes expressed annually for visits and good health. I had let my friendship with Robin fade to nothing, recognizing that if it weren’t for the artificial bonds formed through my Gentile ambitions, we never would have shared a room or exchanged a word.
The reunion invitation came to Irving Circle, with PLEASE FORWARD stamped on the envelope. In my case, it was hardly necessary. I visited Newton faithfully from eight trolley stops away, often spending the night, usually
Mrs. Fife murmured, “We’re not sure yet.”
I knew that couldn’t be true: The newsletter announced on every page that guests returning for the summer of ’65 must notify the Berrys, as was their standard policy, on January first.
“Are you?” Robin asked.
My mother said, “It’s awfully hard for my husband to get away in the summer.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Fife gaily. “Your husband is in the produce business. He must wait all year long for summer so he can sell native fruit.”
“You don’t think you’ll be there this summer?” Robin persisted.
“Robin,” said her mother. “You know how far in advance they fill the rooms, don’t you?”
“I bet if you called the Berrys up, or wrote them a letter …”
My mother’s eyes showed that she understood quite clearly what Bunk Eleven had been like, how long seven additional nights of double occupancy at the Inn had felt, and why she’d be making this weekend up to me.
I pointed out to Robin that Mrs. Berry didn’t like to bend any rules, especially where I was concerned. Remember?
Sissy Fife translated with an indulgent smile, “Ingrid Berry can be something of an iron hand in a velvet glove.”
Her own gloves went on, signaling the end of that unpleasantness. Kisses and handshakes all around, and she was gone.
Robin didn’t grasp that we had exhausted the topic of the Inn at Lake Devine. “I had much more fun last summer with Natalie in my room,” she told my mother, “and this year they’re getting a color TV.”
I said, “I can’t go there this summer, Robin. Okay? Your father has the summer off, but not everybody’s father is a teacher. It’s my father’s busiest season, and we all help him out.”
“You do?” said Robin. “You work?”
“That’s right,” I said. “I wipe the fuzz off peaches when a customer wants nectarines.”
Before Robin could express amazement over that piece of science, my mother silenced me. “It’s very nice of you to want Natalie along, but it’s probably not going to happen in the foreseeable future,”she said, holding out the dish of dark chocolate cherries to Robin, who hesitated.
I bit into one and showed her how it worked: See, a whole cherry inside, runny but delicious. I said, “You’ve had cherry pie, right? And you liked that.”
She took a dainty bite, then another, chewing unhappily, as if she’d been instructed to clean her plate while at the Marx house, no matter how exotic the offering.
“Have another,” I said after her pained last swallow. “The pits won’t hurt you.”
My mother said, “Maybe Robin doesn’t want to spoil her appetite,
Natalie
. Why don’t you show her your room now.”
And to me, in Yiddish, “Enough.”
Part Two
EIGHT
I had no nostalgia for Camp Minnehaha, no active curiosity about my fellow Hiawathans, until a mimeographed invitation arrived for our tenth bunk reunion. Suddenly I found the idea irresistible, mythical, the before and after with a flourish: Julia Child bringing the finished product out of the oven—
voilà
—seconds after the raw demo went in. I couldn’t not go; couldn’t not see what kind of adults had sprung from the cheerful and the cranky, the swift and the slow, the pretty and the homely we had been at fourteen.
E very December without fail, the Fifes had sent a card and we had reciprocated—Hanukkah greetings from them with their Lung Association stamps, and Christmas/New Year’s tidings from us—with hopes expressed annually for visits and good health. I had let my friendship with Robin fade to nothing, recognizing that if it weren’t for the artificial bonds formed through my Gentile ambitions, we never would have shared a room or exchanged a word.
The reunion invitation came to Irving Circle, with PLEASE FORWARD stamped on the envelope. In my case, it was hardly necessary. I visited Newton faithfully from eight trolley stops away, often spending the night, usually
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