Friday the Rabbi Slept Late (6 page)

“You look very nice, El,” she said. “Something special tonight?”

“No, just a movie.”

“Well, have a good time. You’ve got your key?”

The girl opened her bag to show the key attached to the zipper-pull of the change purse inside. Returning to her room, she closed the door behind her, went down a short hallway, and let herself out by the back door. She reached the corner just as the bus came along, and took a seat in the rear by an open window. As the bus started moving she removed her gloves and searched in her bag until she found a heavy, old-fashioned gold wedding band. She slid it on her finger and then drew her gloves on again.

When Joe Serafino returned to the kitchen, he was shaved and dressed.

“Has the girl gone yet?” he asked.

“You mean Elspeth? Yeah, she left a few minutes ago. Why?”

“I thought if she was going to Lynn, I could give her a ride in.”

“Since when are you going to Lynn?”

“I’ve got to take the car in to the garage. The gadget that controls the top needs adjusting. The other day it got stuck in a rainstorm and went up only halfway and I got soaked.”

“How come you waited until today to have it fixed?”

“I guess the weather has been so good I didn’t think of it,” he answered easily. “But I just heard the weather report while I was shaving and it said possible showers. Say, why the third degree?”

“No third degree. Can’t a person ask a simple question? What time are you coming home, or maybe I shouldn’t ask that either.”

“Sure, go ahead and ask.”

“Well?”

“I don’t know – maybe I’ll stay in Lynn and just grab a bite at the club.” He sounded angry as he flung out of the room.

She heard the front door open and slam closed, and then the sound of the motor starting. She stared at the door of Elspeth’s room and thought hard. Why should her husband, who usually acted as though he did not know the girl existed, suddenly want to be so obliging? For that matter, why did he get shaved at this hour? Ordinarily he waited until just before going to the club. His beard was so heavy that if he shaved earlier it showed before the evening was over.

The more she thought about it, the more suspicious the whole business seemed. Why, for example, did the girl hang around today? Her day off started at noon – why did she offer to feed the kids and then put them to bed? Nobody asked her to. No other girl would do it on her day off. She hadn’t left until almost half-past two. Had she been waiting for Joe?

And that business of bolting the door. Up to now it had always amused her; whenever they had company and the conversation got around to maids, as it usually did, she would mention it. “Elspeth always bolts her door. I wonder if she thinks my Joe might come in while she’s in bed or getting dressed.” She always laughed when she said it as though the idea of her husband’s being interested in the maid was completely ridiculous. But now she wondered if it was ridiculous. Could Elspeth be bolting it against her rather than against Joe? You could enter that room through the back way. Did Joe occasionally come in from the back, knowing that the door to the kitchen was bolted and they wouldn’t be interrupted by his wife?

Another thought occurred to her. Although the girl had been with them over three months, she seemed to have no friends. All the other girls had dates on their days off. Why didn’t she? Her only friend was that big horse of a girl, Celia, who worked for the Hoskins.

Could the reason Elspeth had no dates be that she was making beautiful music with her Joe?

She laughed at herself for her foolish suspicions. Why, she was with Joe practically all the time. She saw him at the club every night. Every night, that is, except Thursday. And Thursday was Elspeth’s day off.

Several times Melvin Bronstein had reached for the telephone, and each time he withdrew his hand without removing the instrument from its cradle. Now it was after six and the staff had all gone home. Al Becker was still there but he was in his own office, and to judge by the books spread out on his desk, he was there to stay for a while.

He could call Rosalie undisturbed now. All week long she did not obtrude on his thoughts, but Thursdays when he was used to seeing her his need for her became overwhelming. In the year he had known her their relationship had settled down to a routine. Every Thursday afternoon she would call him and they would meet at some restaurant for dinner. Then they would drive out into the country and stop at a motel. He always brought her home by midnight, since the babysitter who took care of her children objected to staying later.

But recently there had been a change. He had not seen her last Thursday nor the Thursday before, because of her foolish fear that her estranged husband had hired detectives to watch her.

“Don’t even call me, Mel,” she had begged.

“But there can’t be any harm in calling. You don’t think they’d go to the trouble of tapping your telephone, do you?”

“No, but if we talk I might weaken. Then it will start all over again.”

He had agreed because she had been insistent, and also because some of her fear had communicated itself to him. And now it was Thursday again. Surely he ought to call if only to inquire whether things had changed in any way. If only he could talk to her, he was sure that her need, which was as great as his, would overcome her fears.

Becker came into the room, making a great effort to appear casual, and said: “Say, Mel, I almost forgot; Sally asked me to be sure and bring you home for dinner tonight.”

Bronstein smiled to himself. Ever since AI and Sally had seen him with the girl a month ago, they had tried all kinds of stratagems to entice him to spend Thursday evenings with them.

“Gee Al, let me take a rain check, will you? I don’t feel up to people tonight.”

“Were you planning to eat at home?”

“No-o – Debbie’s having her bridge club as usual. I thought I’d just grab a bite somewhere and then drop into a movie.”

“Tell you what, kid, why don’t you come over a little later, spend the evening with us. Sally just got some new records – highbrow stuff. We could listen to them and then go downstairs and shoot a couple of racks of pool.”

“Well, if I drive by, perhaps I’ll drop in.”

Becker tried again. “Say, I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t I call Sally and tell her I’m going to stay in town, and then the two of us could make a night of it – go some place for dinner, hoist a couple of drinks, and then take in a movie or go bowling?”

Bronstein shook his head. “Knock it off, Al. You go on home and have your dinner and relax. I’ll be all right. Maybe I’ll be over later.”

He came around to the front of his desk and put his arm around the older man’s shoulders. “Go on home, beat it. I’ll lock up.” Gently he led Becker to the door. Then he picked up the telephone and dialed. He heard the phone ring at the other end, again and again and again. After a while he hung up.

It was late, after six, when the doctor finished his examination. Elspeth thanked the receptionist for the mimeographed diet and the booklet on pregnancy, and carefully folded and put them away in her purse. As she was about to leave, she asked if there was a public telephone in the building.

“There’s one downstairs in the lobby, but you can use ours if you like.”

Elspeth blushed shyly and shook her head. The receptionist thought she understood, and smiled.

In the phone booth she dialed a number, praying that he would be home. “It’s me, dear, Elspeth,” she said when she heard the voice at the other end. “I’ve got to see you tonight. It’s terribly important.”

She listened, and then said, “But you don’t understand. There’s something I’ve got to tell you … No, I can’t over the phone … I’m in Lynn now, but I’m coming back to Barnard’s Crossing. We could have dinner together. I thought I’d eat at the Surfside and then take in a movie at the Neptune.”

She nodded as he answered, just as if he could see her. “I know you can’t go to a movie with me tonight, but you have to eat so why can’t we have dinner together? I’ll be at the Surfside around seven… . Well, please try to make it… If you’re not there by half-past seven I’ll know that you couldn’t come, but you will try, won’t you?”

She stopped at a cafeteria before going on to the bus station. Sipping her coffee, she opened the booklet on pregnancy and read it through once and then again. When she was sure she understood the few simple rules, she tucked it behind the leather seat pad of the booth. It was too dangerous to keep; Mrs. Serafino might come across it.

At half-past seven Jacob Wasserman rang the bell of the rabbi’s house. Mrs. Small answered the door. She was tiny and vivacious, with a mass of blonde hair that seemed to overbalance her. She had wide blue eyes and an open frank face that would have seemed ingenuous were they not offset by a firm, determined little chin.

“Come in, Mr. Wasserman, come in. It’s so nice to see you.”

Hearing the name, the rabbi, who had been engrossed in a book, came into the hall. “Why, Mr. Wasserman. We have just finished supper, but you’ll have some tea, won’t you? Make some tea, dear.”

He led his visitor into the living room, while his wife went to set the water on. The rabbi placed the book he was holding face-down on the table beside him and looked inquiringly at the older man.

Wasserman suddenly realized that the rabbi’s gaze, though mild and benign, was also penetrating. He essayed a smile. “You know, rabbi, when you first came to our congregation you suggested that you ought to sit in on the meetings of the board. I was all in favor of it. After all, if you engage a rabbi to help direct the development of a congregation, what’s better than to have him sitting in on the meetings where the various activities are planned and discussed? But they voted me down. And do you know what their reason was? They said the rabbi is an employee of the congregation. Suppose we want to talk about his salary or his contract? How can we, if he’s sitting right there with us? So what was the result? All year the matter wasn’t even mentioned – until this last meeting. Then I suggested that we ought to decide about the contract for next year since there are only a couple of meetings left before we adjourn for the summer.”

Mrs. Small came in with a tray. After serving them, she took a cup for herself and sat down.

“And what was decided about the contract?” asked the rabbi.

“We didn’t decide anything,” said Wasserman. “It was held over for the next meeting – that is, for this coming Sunday.”

The rabbi studied his teacup, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then without looking up, as if thinking aloud, he said, “Tonight is Thursday, three days before the meeting. ? approval were certain and the vote only a matter of form, you would have waited until Sunday to tell me. ? approval were likely but not absolutely certain, you would probably mention it when next you happened to see me, which would be Friday evening at the services. But if it looked as though the vote were uncertain or even likely to go against me, you would not want to mention it Friday evening for fear of spoiling my Sabbath. So your coming tonight can only mean that you have reason to believe I will not be reappointed. That’s it, isn’t it?”

Wasserman shook his head in admiration. Then he turned to the rabbi’s wife and waggled an admonishing forefinger. “Don’t ever try to deceive your husband, Mrs. Small. He’ll find you out in a minute.” He turned back to the rabbi. “No, rabbi, that’s not it, at least not exactly. Let me explain. We have forty-five members on the board of directors. Think of it! It’s more than they have on the board of General Electric or United States Steel. But you know how it is, you put on the board anyone who is a little of a somebody; anyone who does a little work for the temple, or you think maybe he’ll do some work for the temple, you put him on the board. It’s an honor. Without meaning to, you usually end up with a board made up of the richer members of the congregation. Other temples and synagogues do the same thing. So of the forty-five, maybe fifteen come to every meeting. Then maybe ten more come every now and then. The rest, you don’t see them from one year to the next. If only the fifteen regulars were to show up, we would win by a large majority, maybe as much as four to one. To most of us, it was merely a matter of form. We would have voted the contract right then and there. But we couldn’t fight the motion to hold it over for a week. It seemed reasonable and it’s what we do in all important decisions. But the opposition, Al Becker and his group, evidently had something else in mind. He doesn’t like you, Al Becker. Just yesterday I found out that they went to work and phoned the thirty or so who don’t come regular. And from what I can see, they didn’t just argue the question with them. They put on whatever pressure they could. When I heard about it yesterday from Ben Schwarz, I began to contact these people myself, but I was too late, I found that most of them were already committed to Becker and his friends. That’s how matters stand now. If we have the usual meeting with the usual members present, we’ll have no trouble winning. But if he gets the whole board to attend…“He spread his hands, palms up, in token of defeat.

“I can’t say that this comes as a complete surprise to me,” the rabbi said ruefully. “My roots are in traditional Judaism, and when I entered the rabbinate, it was to become a rabbi of the sort my father was and my grandfather before him, to live the life of a scholar, not in seclusion, not in an ivory tower, but as part of the Jewish community, and somehow to influence it. But I’m beginning to think that there is no place for me or my kind in a modern American Jewish community. Congregations seem to want the rabbi to act as a kind of executive secretary, organizing clubs, making speeches, integrating the temple with the churches. Perhaps it’s a good thing, perhaps I’m hopelessly out of fashion, but it’s not for me. The tendency seems to be to emphasize our likeness to other denominations, whereas the whole weight of our tradition is to emphasize our differences. We are not merely another sect with minor peculiarities; we are a nation of priests, dedicated to God because He chose us.”

Wasserman nodded his head impatiently. “But it takes time, rabbi. These people who make up our congregation grew up during the period between the two World Wars. Most of them never went to a cheder or even a Sunday school. How do you think it was when I first tried to organize a temple? We had fifty Jewish families here at the time, and yet when old Mr. Levy died, just to get a minyan so his family could say Kaddish – it was like pulling teeth. When we first started our temple, I went to see each and every Jewish family in Barnard’s Crossing. Some of them had arranged car pools to take their kids to Sunday school in Lynn; some had a teacher come out to give their boys instruction for a few months so they could hold a Bar Mitzvah, and they used to phone back and forth to make arrangements to deliver him to the home of his next pupil. My idea was to establish a Hebrew school first, and use the same building for services for the holidays. Some thought it would cost too much money, and others didn’t want their children to feel different by having them go to a special school in the afternoon.