That Day the Rabbi Left Town (11 page)

With his promotion and its accompanying tenure, he no longer worried that his lack of academic background might be discovered. Even if by some fluke it were found that he had no degree, would the college dare to admit it after he had taught there for so many years and was now an associate professor? It would reflect on the academic standing of all the students who had passed under his hand.

Since he now taught a couple of sections in the survey course, he was able to move into the regular English office, although he retained a desk in the Freshman English office. His colleagues there were older, nearer his own age, and he spent considerable time there, participating in the conversation.

His colleagues there considered him something of a bore since he was always talking about the important people he knew, but they were careful not to show their distaste because he was thought to have influence with the trustees, and a disparaging word from him might affect their chances of promotion. It was thought that this influence was because of his friendship with Matilda Clark, whom none of them knew, but all were aware that she had clout.

Since getting his promotion, he had no doubt of it himself, and was careful to keep the friendship alive. Hardly a day went by that he did not contrive to see her, if only for a few minutes to drop off a magazine or a newspaper clipping that he thought might interest her. And she seemed equally anxious to see him. He was someone she could prattle to, or even sit silently with as she watched a video.

Once as they were having tea and talking about a reception they had attended the day before, he asked, “Do these friends of yours ever ask you about me?”

“Of course they do.”

“And what do you tell them?”

She giggled. “I tell them you're my fiancé.”

“And what do they say to that?”

“Oh, they think it's wonderful and want to know when we're going to get married.”

“Well, how about it?”

“How about getting married, you mean? It might be kind of nice; you'd be here all the time. But I don't think I could stand the—you know, the nasty stuff.”

“The nasty stuff?”

“You know, in bed.”

If she had had the slightest physical appeal for him, he might have tried to persuade her that what happened in bed was not nasty. Instead, he nodded gravely and said, “I feel the same way you do. It's really for young people who want to have children.”

At the end of the school year, when he was forty-eight and she was fifty-four, they were married by a justice of the Massachusetts Supreme Court. And seemingly as a wedding gift from the college, he was promoted to the rank of full professor. Because it was more or less expected, they went on a honeymoon to Penobscot Bay in Maine. When they came up to their room after dinner, he was not surprised to find that she had arranged with the hotel manager to replace their king-sized bed with twin beds. When they came back to Boston and he moved into the Clark house, he was not displeased when he saw that they were to occupy separate bedrooms.

“You like to read at night,” she explained, “and the light keeps me awake.”

“All right. It's probably better this way.”

The marriage was never consummated. It was a businesslike partnership rather than a marriage. He would have breakfast and lunch at the faculty dining room, but come home in the late afternoon for tea with her. Then he would read or prepare his lectures in the privacy of his bedroom while she would go about the business of making dinner. When he suggested that perhaps they ought to have a housekeeper, she said, “Then what will I do? I like keeping house. It keeps me busy. It gives me something to do.”

Occasionally they ate out and went to a movie or the theater afterward.

He had assumed early in their acquaintance that she had an income commensurate with the grand house she lived in. But as their friendship grew, she had confided in him more and more, and he discovered that all that remained of the Clark fortune was a moderate income.

“Daddy willed his estate to the college, all except this house. And they send me a check every month. It's what they call an annuity. I guess he thought if he left me, you know, his portfolio of stocks and bonds, I wouldn't be able to manage it. I wouldn't know when to sell and what to hold on to if it went down for a while. He had somebody doing it for him, a company, but he didn't trust them to do it for me the same way. I mean, he was always checking with them, and they'd talk it over with him. But, of course, I couldn't do that.”

Although disappointing, the monthly check was quite sizable. To be sure, a large part of it she used to contribute to the charities her father, and her grandfather, too, had always supported; it was a sort of family obligation. Still, there was enough left, in combination with his own salary and the fact that he no longer had rent to pay, to keep him very comfortably off. In fact, it made him feel positively affluent. For one thing, since he was something of a dandy, it enabled him to expand his wardrobe considerably.

Then the barbershop he patronized engaged a manicurist. She was small and cuddly with blond hair cut short in a Dutch clip, but combed back from her forehead. He judged that she was not yet thirty. She was flirtatious with her clients, especially those who were good tippers. He had her do his nails whenever he came in for a haircut, and he tipped lavishly.

Like most barbershops, this one was closed on Mondays since they worked a full day on Saturday, and of particular interest to Kent was that she was free all day Monday. In a short while he became a friend rather than a client or customer, and instead of tipping her, he would bring her little gifts, a pair of earrings, a pin, and slide them unobtrusively across the table to her. And they now called each other by their given names, Malcolm and Lorraine.

Once he invited her to lunch on a Monday, and when she agreed, he said he would pick her up at her flat. He arrived a little before nine while she was still in her nightgown and a hastily donned bathrobe.

“What time is it? I haven't had my breakfast yet. I thought you said we were going to lunch,” she said.

“Oh, did I say lunch? I meant brunch. And I brought it with me so you shouldn't have to prepare it,” he said gaily, and proceeded to empty the paper bag he'd brought with him: thin-sliced pumpernickel, rolls, smoked salmon, cheeses, and a bottle of wine. He called the English Department and asked them to put up a notice that he would not meet his ten-o'clock class, and then later in the day he called again to say that he would not meet his afternoon class either. They didn't go out to lunch, but made do with what he had brought and what she had in the refrigerator, and she never got around to getting dressed.

When he got home a little after four, he looked tired, and his wife asked if he'd had a hard day. He shook his head dolefully and said, “I spent the whole day at Widener Library. There was something I simply had to work out.”

Although he thought of Monday as Lorraine's Day, and made a point of seeing her every Monday, it was not like the first time. He was, after all, in his mid-fifties and she was not yet thirty; her demands were beyond his capacity. So now, when he arranged with her for lunch, he came around noon. Instead of calling the English Department to cancel his afternoon class, he used it as a reason for leaving. They would sit around in her apartment, or in a restaurant if they had gone out to eat, and she would talk about her customers or of things that had happened in the shop, of the barbers, their jealousies, of what they said when a customer gave a tip they considered too small.

He found it interesting, and he developed a genuine affection for her that had nothing to do with going to bed with her. She had become like a young sister or a daughter. He was not the least bit upset or annoyed or even disappointed when one Monday morning she called the English office and asked him not to come. He assumed she had something she had to do, shopping perhaps. He saw her at the barbershop the following Friday, and as she did his nails, she said, “Oh, I can't see you this next Monday, Malcolm. Do you mind?”

“No. It so happens I've got a lot of work to do.”

The Monday after that, she asked him to meet her at the restaurant they frequented rather than pick her up at her flat. “I've got to be in that neighborhood in the morning. The dressmaker in the block is making some alterations on a dress I bought.”

All through their lunch, she prattled as she usually did. When their coffee was served, he asked, “You saw somebody else last Monday?”

For a moment, she was silent as she considered. Then she nodded.

“And the Monday before that?”

“Uh-huh. Tony.”

“Tony? Who's Tony?”

“Tony Donofrio, the middle chair. He wants to marry me.”

“And do you want to marry him?”

“I'm going to have a baby.”

“Is it mine or his?”

“I don't know,” she wailed.

He drummed the table as he asked, “Does he, this Tony, know about us?” Curiously, he was not the least bit jealous. He suspected she might have been carrying on with Tony for some time. Maybe even with others. After all, she was not restricted to Mondays.

“He thinks we're related, that you're my mother's cousin.”

He nodded. “Very good.” And it occurred to him that it was good. Otherwise, it could become embarrassing. She might start calling him at home; or even call on him. She might even go to see Matilda to get her to divorce him.

“You won't be able to go on working soon. Can he support you?”

“Well, Tony thinks we should go into business together. He'll be the hairdresser. He can do ladies' hair. That's what he trained for originally. And I'll do the manicures. He's got a friend who has a hairdresser place in Lynn—really his father's friend—and he's pretty old and wants to retire to Florida. It's right near the train station and he'll sell it for just about the cost of the fixtures. Two chairs, he's got, and Tony says they're in good condition, practically new.”

“But near the train station, is that a good location for a hairdresser?”

“Oh, but that's the beauty part of it, according to Tony. See, there was a shoe factory right in the next block, and they're converting it to condominiums, which will not be too expensive, and should fill up right away. So there'll be a couple of hundred customers right around the block within walking distance, and no trouble finding a place to park. Tony is dickering with the old geezer. He wants a little more than we've got and he won't take a note for the difference. Wants it all cash. But as soon as we strike a deal, we'll get married.”

“How far apart are you?”

“About a thousand dollars. If we can work something out with the bank …”

“You'd move to Lynn?”

“Yeah, that's where Tony lives. His father works for the city in the Highway Department. He's got lots of folks there. He thinks maybe he could borrow the money from him, or his friends.”

“I'll lend you the money.”

“You will? Gee, Malcolm. That's wonderful. I'll tell Tony tomorrow. He'll be thrilled.”

“And I won't charge you any interest.” He thought for a moment and then said, “You'll sign a note, you and this Tony—what's his name?”

“Donofrio.”

“You and Tony Donofrio. For six months. If you can't pay it by then, I'll extend it. I just want to make sure everything goes the way you're planning.”

“Swell! You'll come to the wedding, won't you?”

“I'll try.”

“And—er—Mrs. Kent?”

He shook his head slowly. “I don't think so. She's not well. Cancer.”

“Oh, I am sorry.”

She was a year in dying, and the college took care of her all through her illness. When she found that she could no longer do housework, they supplied a housekeeper, a Mrs. Bell, who came every day to tidy up and to cook their meals. At critical times, they engaged nurses to take care of her. When she died at the age of sixty, the flags on the college buildings were lowered to half-mast.

With her death, the annuity stopped, but it was no great loss to Kent. Most of the money she had contributed to the causes that her father and grandfather had supported, and the rest she had spent largely on herself. Financially, he was quite comfortable since he was now receiving the salary of a full professor, and with no rent to pay. The college continued to have Mrs. Bell come in for an hour or so a day to keep the house clean and to cook an occasional meal for him.

With his wife gone, Kent felt strangely alone. He had had no great love for her, but he had got used to her, and now he missed her in the same way, perhaps, as he might miss a favorite easy chair or even a favorite pair of slippers. He could always count on her being at home, so that he never felt alone.

He considered her not too intelligent, and not well read; her reading was confined to what he regarded as trashy magazines with a great many pictures. But she knew quite a bit about some of the important families of Boston and she could gossip about them. Sometimes they would go out for dinner to a nearby restaurant, or to a movie, but most of the time they stayed home, silent for the most part, to be sure, but occasionally over a cup of tea or coffee, they would talk about people she used to know. She would spot a name in the newspaper and then tell him about the time she had gone to the person's country home with her father when she was a little girl.

And he had no friends in the college. His colleagues found him a bore. His scholarship was negligible, so he hesitated to talk about books and literature. It seemed his talk was all boasting—of important people he had had some contact with, of some important affair he had attended, of what he had said to a congressman, to the chairman of a commission. And they avoided him because they feared him: he had some sort of influence, some sort of “drag” with the trustees of the college; they weren't sure why except that it was through his wife, and it might be used to their detriment.