Someday the Rabbi Will Leave (11 page)

“I got a snapshot.”

16

Several times Laura had been on the point of giving up. It was stubbornness as much as anything that made her continue. She had thought it all out so carefully, and she refused to admit that she might have been wrong. In her judgment Scofield was the right candidate and, under the conditions as she read them, he could win. Except that he didn't seem to want to. That was something she hadn't counted on.

She was also driven by curiosity. Why was he so uninterested? Not only in the campaign, but seemingly in her? True, she had held him at a distance, to keep their relationship strictly business during the campaign. Nevertheless, she was piqued that he had made no effort to get to know her better. She was sure there was no other woman. Was he then entirely normal? Was he perhaps gay? One heard so much about that sort of thing these days. Of course, if he were, then he was useless as far as her long-range plans were concerned. But although she herself was beginning to lose enthusiasm for the campaign because of his lack of interest, she was determined to continue to the election, if only because she had started.

And then one day, a few weeks before the primary, it happened. He came into their headquarters early in the afternoon and announced, “I can win this election, Laura. You just tell me what I have to do, and I'll do it.”

“Swell! Look, you've got to get yourself known. Your
name
is known in town, but you're not. So you've got to go where there are people, to meetings, hearings, forums, lectures, panel discussions. If there's a question period afterwards, you get up and say something. Usually they ask you to identify yourself, so that's what you do. ‘I am John Scofield. I'm a candidate for the office of state senator. I should like to point out …' or ‘I should like to ask the speaker …' I can arrange for you to be invited to various private homes to speak to small groups, informally. We've had a lot of requests. Later on, you'll have to go to shopping centers and hand out cards. You might even like it.”

She eyed him appraisingly. “There's one thing we've got to settle early. Are you John or are you Jack?”

“What's the difference?”

“A Jack is different from a John. He dresses differently and he talks differently. Let's try it both ways.” She took on the role of chairman of a meeting, and walked to the other end of the room. “The speaker is willing to answer some questions from the audience. Yes, that gentleman in the corner. Do you have a question? Please state your name.”

He grinned at the make-believe. “My name is John Scofield, and my question is—”.

“Mm, no. Let's try it the other way. The gentleman in the corner. Please state your name.”

Still grinning, he said, “I'm Jack Scofield, a candidate for the Senate for the Essex District—”

“That's it,” she interrupted. “You'll be Jack Scofield from now on. You're a little stuffy as John.” She looked at him critically. “That tie and that suit …”

“What's wrong with them?”

“All right if you're going to a funeral, but—”

“I was in court today before Judge Levitt who's a very conservative guy.”

“All right. So in court you can be John Scofield, but afterwards you'll be Jack and dress accordingly. More informal.”

“Jeans?”

“Certainly not. You're taking the conservative position, remember? ‘Let's keep things the way they are.' I suggest gray flannels and a tweed jacket. And a shirt with a button-down collar.”

“I get it,” he said enthusiastically.

“Then let's try it out tonight. There's a hearing on voter registration at the town hall. They want to put the deadline for registration forward a couple of weeks. I think we should oppose it. There probably won't be many there. Maybe a couple of dozen at most, but it'll be good experience. Why don't you go home and change and I'll meet you there.”

“What time is it called for?”

“Eight o'clock.”

“Then how about having dinner someplace first?”

“I've got a dinner date,” she replied quickly. She didn't have one, but it was important to show him she was not readily available. When his face fell, she relented. “We could go somewhere afterwards for a drink or for coffee.”

They went to the hearing, and at one point, he did indeed get a chance to say, “I'm Jack Scofield, candidate for the Senate from this district, so I have a special interest in this hearing. I should like to point out that …”

Laura thought he sounded impressive. Unfortunately, there were candidates for other offices present who took issue with him, and in the interchange he did not come off as well.

Later, over coffee, he said, “I guess I didn't do so good tonight, did I?”

“Well, they were prepared and you weren't.”

“You mean I'm a dope,” he said bitterly.

“No such thing. But you can't depend on ideas that come to you on the spur of the moment. You have a tendency to do that. But there's no telling where they might lead to. What you need is well-thought-out positions on all major issues. I'll start to work on it tomorrow morning.”

He looked at her in frank admiration. “You know, Laura, you're something else.”

17

The rabbi replaced the receiver, and in answer to Miriam's questioning look, he said, “That was our president, Mr. Magnuson.”

“Oh? What did he want?”

“He called to tell me not to come to the board meeting Sunday. It was nice of him to call early enough in the week so that I could make other plans for Sunday morning if I cared to.”

“Did he say why he didn't want you to be there?”

The rabbi shook his head. “I presume it's because he wants to discuss something he doesn't want me to hear.”

“You mean you think he wants to talk about you?”

“I suppose.” He returned to his seat and picked up the book he had laid down.

But Miriam was concerned. “Do you get along well with him, David?”

“With Howard Magnuson? I guess so. I haven't seen very much of him. Just that time he came to my study. Come to think of it, that was to ask me why I
hadn't
been coming to the board meetings. After that, I saw him at the few meetings that followed, but that's all.”

“Anything special happen at those meetings? I mean, as far as you were concerned?”

“Nothing unusual that I can think of. Why?”

“You didn't oppose Magnuson in any discussion?” she persisted.

“I didn't take part in any discussion. Oh, in Good and Welfare, I said I thought that all members of the board ought to come to the Friday evening services, but—”

“That's it,” she said decisively.

“What's it?”

“Howard Magnuson interpreted that as a personal criticism because he never attends the Friday evening services.”

“Or any other.”

“So there you are,” she announced triumphantly. “He thinks you were critical of him.”

“Well, from that point of view, I suppose I am. What of it?”

“Oh, David, don't you see? You don't criticize people like Magnuson. You do, of course, but I mean … What I'm trying to say is that people like Magnuson aren't used to being criticized by people they regard as subordinates. You did, and it's probably not the only time. So he's determined to do something about it.”

“Like what?” he scoffed. “Get the board to pass a resolution declaring that the rabbi must never say anything that's critical of the president?”

“You may laugh,” she said, “but I'm bothered. You know it's not as though you had a life contract here. It's just year to year.”

“That's the way I want it. If it leaves the temple free, it also leaves me free.”

“But what if they decide they won't renew?”

He shrugged. “So I go looking for another job. And from what I hear, it would probably be a better one. Maybe a larger synagogue in a larger town, or in a city with members who are more understanding. The response to my paper in the
Quarterly
was pretty flattering, and I'm still getting letters on it.”

“Then why not think of moving on? I mean, why not look around—”

“Well, because I like living here in Barnard's Crossing for one thing. And for another, I feel that I'm needed here. It's harder, and there are frequent rows. There's constant pressure from one group or another to move in all sorts of undesirable directions. I feel that I'm keeping them to the tradition. Someplace else, with an older and a more established congregation, life would be easier, but less rewarding.”

This was Wednesday night. Although Miriam did not bring up the matter again, he knew it was on her mind by the questions she asked. Had Mr. Kaplan been at the minyan? Did he say anything? Had Morton Brooks said anything to him? He usually knew what was going on. Finally, he asked her outright what was bothering her.

“I'm not really bothered. Yes, I suppose I am. I'm not too worried about your being able to get another job if you have to. But I like it here, too, and I'd rather you didn't have to. But if you're in trouble with the president—”

“So what? I've been in trouble, as you put it, with presidents before. In fact, I've fought with about half of them. It's nothing new.”

“But Magnuson is different, David. The others, you knew where you stood with them. It was always about some basic principle, and you were right and they were wrong. You could always rally the congregation round you if it came to a fight. You could always explain how it was contrary to our tradition and why you had to oppose it. The point is, the other presidents were concerned about the temple, about our religion. They were Jews—”

“And Magnuson isn't?”

“Well, of course he is, but he doesn't give a hang about the temple. It's just an organization to him, and because it is an organization, he wants to run it. And he can want you out of it because—because you get in his way. And if he wanted you out, he'd get you out. It wouldn't have to be about anything in particular. He'd just convince the board, and he could, not to renew your contract when it expires. And your contract expires soon, or didn't you realize it?”

“Does it? No, I hadn't realized. Then maybe that's it. Howard Magnuson is a businessman with a concern for detail. Since my contract is due to expire, he feels that it should be voted on by the board. It's only natural that he should want them to do it in my absence.”

Sunday morning when Miriam woke him to go to the morning minyan, he stretched lazily and said, “I think I'll pass it up. I'll say the morning prayers at home today.”

“Anything the matter, David? Are you feeling all right?”

“I'm feeling fine,” he assured her, “just lazy. I just thought I'd indulge myself a little.”

Later at breakfast, after he had recited the morning prayers, he explained, “The meeting comes right after the minyan. The board members who are present at the minyan drift down the corridor to the boardroom where those who didn't come to the minyan are waiting, Magnuson usually among them. Then after a few minutes, he calls the meeting to order. All right, so after the minyan, if I go in the other direction, towards the stairs to my study, someone is sure to ask me if I'm not planning to go to the meeting. And of course, I'll have to say that I'm not. Then, most likely they'd ask why not, and I'd find it a little embarrassing to say that I was requested to stay away.”

“But if it's just what you think it is, a formal vote on the renewal of your contract, wouldn't they get it out of the way the first thing and then maybe call up to your study to have you come down to participate in the rest of the meeting?”

“Possibly. But then I don't want to appear to be at their beck and call. Anyway, our board meetings don't work like that even under Magnuson who tries to keep them businesslike. They do a lot more talking than transacting business. If Magnuson brought it up right after committee reports, say, in an effort to get it out of the way, they'd still spend the whole time discussing it, even though it's purely routine. He'd call for discussion, and every one of them would take the opportunity to say something about me, how I had shown bad judgment in this, or failed to do that.”

“Don't you have
any
friends among the board, David?”

“Oh sure, if you mean people I get along with. Most of them, maybe all of them. But if you mean, do I have a clique, the rabbi's party, no, definitely not.”

“Maybe that was a mistake, not having one, I mean. You know what Rabbi Bernstein said—”

“Saul Bernstein is a politician from way back. He was a politician at the seminary. That kind of thing comes natural to him. It means cultivating a few important people, dining with them, going places with them. I can't do it. There are only three or four at whose homes I
could
dine. The rest don't keep kosher kitchens. Besides, it works both ways, you know. If you expect them to support you in your projects, you've got to support them in theirs. I'd rather be my own man.”

He spoke somewhat testily, the matter having come up before between them. Miriam thought it best to change the subject. “When do you suppose you'll hear? Will they send you a letter?”

“Well, Magnuson, being a stickler for businesslike methods, will send me written notice, I expect. But no doubt, the secretary will call me around noon or right after the meeting is over.”

However, it was not the secretary who called; it was Magnuson himself. “Rabbi? Howard Magnuson speaking. I thought you'd be pleased to hear that we have just voted to increase your salary by six thousand dollars a year, to take effect immediately.”

“Oh, why—why, thank you. I appreciate that. It was very kind and generous—”

“Just good business practice, Rabbi. It's been a cardinal principle with me never to underpay personnel, especially key personnel.”