The Inn at Lake Devine Read Online Free PDF Page A

Berry.
    “Wow,” he said.
    “Maybe you could check your guest register,” said my mother.
    “Shoehorn us in,” my father added.
    Mrs. Berry glided around to the other side of the dark wood reception desk. She opened a black-cloth ledger and pretended to inspect handwritten entries every few pages. “Well!” she said after a dry silence.
    “Did you find something?” my mother asked.
    “I have … let me check one other thing …” She opened a wooden filing box and moved deliberately, front to back, through the index cards until she found the object of her search. “Okay. It looks as though we have the last weekend in September open. A family suite, meaning two connecting rooms.”
    “You’re not closed after Labor Day?” asked my mother.
    “We’re open weekends year-round,” said Mrs. Berry. “A two-night minimum.”
    “We were kind of hoping for a summer visit,” said my father. “The girls and I love the water. Our other daughter, Pammy, didn’t come with us.” He added, as if that sounded irregular, “She has the sniffles.”
    My mother said, “Why don’t we think it over. The girls go back to school the Wednesday after Labor Day, so it’s not what we were hoping—”
    “It’s a cancellation,” said Mrs. Berry. “I can’t promise it will be available when you call back.”
    My mother waited a few seconds—probably only I noticed her gathering her will—and said smoothly, “I guess it’s a risk we’ll have to take.”
    “Where do you live?” asked Mrs. Berry.
    “Newton,” said my father, one detail we hadn’t thought to fine-tune.
    I saw something in her gray-blue eyes, a flicker of triumph, as if we had moved our queen foolishly, setting her up for checkmate. “Newton, MassaJewsetts?” said Mrs. Berry softly, sarcastically, the offending syllable almost lost in her 180-degree pivot to the file box. She stayed that way, her back to us, pretending to be doing some critical paperwork.
    “Okay, then. We’ll be in touch,” said my father.
    Mrs. Berry murmured something affirmative, and we left.
    I was the only one who was sure. I insisted for most of the ride around the lake—until my mother forbade me to say another word on the subject—that I had heard “Jew” as plain as day cross the lips of Ingrid Hitler Berry.
    “Nobody would say that,” my father argued.
    “But I heard her.”
    “Natalie,” said my mother. “Someone might think that, butwould never say it to our face. You thought you heard it because you know she’s prejudiced. You were listening for it.”
    “Or maybe she had some kind of Scandinavian accent,” said my father. “Maybe that’s what you heard—‘Massayoosetts.’ ”
    I yelled that Mrs. Berry had no accent whatsoever—none. And why was he sticking up for her?
    My mother said, “Don’t yell at your father.”
    “She didn’t know we were Jewish,” I continued. “She thought we were the Martins who lived in Newton and didn’t like Jews either. She expected us to say something like, ‘Ha, ha, you said it: “Newton, MassaJewsetts.” is right!’ ”
    “She didn’t say anything of the kind,” my mother insisted. “You imagined you heard ‘MassaJewsetts.’ ” And later, as if to herself: “It’s ridiculous. No one would say that kind of thing out loud to strangers. Especially the manager of a resort. Not in this day and age. I don’t want to hear another word.”

FIVE

    I  had stopped dwelling on Mrs. Berry and designing campaigns against her, but suddenly she was back. At overnight camp in New Hampshire the next summer, a bunkmate mentioned that when camp was over, she and her parents and brothers were having their real vacation, a week at a hotel on Lake Devine. Suddenly, Robin Fife in her Bermuda shorts and white camp T-shirt, though a mildly annoying and not very bright bunkmate, represented the ideal Gentile guest. I asked the name of their destination, and she answered, a little off the mark, “The Lake Devine