That Day the Rabbi Left Town (12 page)

He thought of the Donofrios in Lynn as his family, and was invited to dinner to celebrate the birth of their daughter Josephine—“If it had been a boy, we would have called him Malcolm,” Lorraine had told him. And afterward to each of her birthdays. When she was old enough to talk, the child was taught to call him “Uncle Malcolm,” but he sensed that Tony had no strong liking for him, might even be suspicious of him.

Occasionally Tony came to Boston to borrow money from him, for an unforeseen plumbing bill, for an oil bill, to meet an insurance payment. It was never for a large sum, a few hundred dollars at most. Since he did not schedule clients after four o'clock in the afternoon, he would usually leave shortly after, walk the short distance to the railroad station, and make the train that left at twenty past. In Boston he might stop off somewhere for a cup of coffee just to waste time, and arrive at the English office of the college at a quarter of five. There he would wait until Kent was finished with his four-o'clock class. Sometimes Kent finished his class early, in which case Tony would go to his house on the corner. He never called up in advance to say he was coming because he was afraid that Kent would pretend to be busy and would be unable to see him.

Although Tony was the same age as Lorraine, he looked older, at least, more mature. He was tall and muscular with dark eyes set in a square face. His jet black hair was combed so that a wave hung over his forehead. He had a square jaw and the heavy nose of a boxer. The tunic he wore in the shop had short sleeves that showed strong, hairy forearms much admired by his clients.

The first time he had come, Roger Fine was the only one in the English office, and he asked politely, “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I want to see Professor Kent.”

“He should be along any minute now. You a friend of his?”

“My wife's uncle.”

“Oh. Well, his class ends at five. That's his desk over there. Why don't you sit there until he comes.”

Kent would greet him cordially and ask about Lorraine and the child. Then they would go to the house on the corner, and over a glass of wine, Tony would explain just how he happened to be short and talk about his plans for the future. The meeting usually ended with Kent taking him to a local Italian restaurant for dinner, with Tony eating voraciously and silently as Kent toyed with his food and talked. Tony was no conversationalist, and left Kent with the feeling that he was talking to himself. His need for friendship, companionship, someone to talk to, was acute and was not satisfied until he made friends with Thorvald Miller.

Chapter 15

It was after eight o'clock when Rabbi Small, in phylacteries and prayer shawl, recited the morning prayers. He was at home in his study, facing east, of course. He had overslept and so was too late to go to the minyan, which began at seven. As he began the
Shimon Esrai
prayer, his meditation was suddenly disturbed by the racket of the peripatetic gardener mowing the lawn of the house across the street. By an effort of will, he finished the morning prayers, and then, after doffing and folding his prayer shawl and replacing it in its blue velvet bag, and winding up the leather straps of his phylacteries, he repaired to the breakfast nook, which adjoined the kitchen.

Miriam had already eaten. Now she served his breakfast of eggs and toast, poured his coffee, and then filled her own cup again and sat down opposite him. She could see that he was annoyed by the noise outside, and said, “It doesn't last long; only while he's doing their front lawn. When he goes around to the back, you can still hear him; but it's not too bad.”

“I wonder if you realize how much this place has changed since we first came twenty-five years ago,” he said. “Back then people used hand mowers, and the snick-snick of the blade as they walked up and down their lawns was not an unpleasant sound. And when they trimmed their hedges, they used hand shears. Now it's all done by machine, and the raking is done by electric blowers. It seems as though all morning long there is the sound of grass or hedge being cut. Yesterday afternoon there was a god-awful racket—”

“That was the Rinaldos, two doors down, taking down that big tree on their front lawn that had been damaged by the storm,” she said.

“Well, I remember when that used to be done with a handsaw, one of those two-man saws. The point is, it was quiet. It didn't disturb you when you wanted to read, and you didn't have to raise your voice when you wanted to talk. And the traffic—have you noticed how much traffic there is these days? Where do all the cars come from?”

“I suppose it's because a lot of those big old houses downtown and on the Point have been turned into condominiums. So where there were one or two cars, now there are a dozen. What are you getting at, David?”

He pushed his plate aside and leaned back in his chair. “I was thinking that maybe we ought to think about moving to the city—”

“And leave Barnard's Crossing?”

“What I had in mind was keeping this place for the summer, and weekends. I thought we might get a small place in Boston, a studio apartment—”

“So you wouldn't have to drive in every day?”

“There would be that, of course. But I was also thinking that it's not easy being a rabbi emeritus if you go on living in the same place after the new rabbi has arrived. I've performed three marriages since I resigned. I didn't want to, but the parents of the bride in each case were importunate. I had married them, and they wanted their daughter married by the rabbi who had married them. Although Rabbi Selig agreed—at least he raised no objections—I was uncomfortable.”

“You could always refuse.”

“It isn't only that. The congregation expects me to sit on the bimah in front of the Ark, along with Rabbi Selig, for the Friday evening services and the Sabbath services, for all services held upstairs in the Sanctuary. Last Friday night one of the congregants approached me at the collation in the vestry after the service to say that he'd noticed that I didn't agree with what Rabbi Selig had said in his sermon. How did he know? He'd watched me while the rabbi was talking, and he could see in my face that I took exception to the rabbi's remarks. And I couldn't budge him from his opinion. As a matter of fact, I barely heard what Rabbi Selig was saying, and after a while I stopped trying. It's not easy to hear when you're sitting behind the speaker. The microphone focuses the sound away from you. I was thinking of something else at the time.”

“But we'd be leaving all our friends if we move to the city,” she objected.

“What friends? We don't really have many here, you know. We were invited out a lot because I was the rabbi rather than because they liked us. And perhaps you've noticed, there's already been a falling in the number of invitations we've received. Besides, socializing is largely a weekend affair, and we'll be coming back for weekends, at least when the weather is good.”

“It looks as though you've already made up your mind,” she remarked.

“Oh, I wouldn't make up my mind on something like this without talking it over with you,” he said quickly.

“It would make a nice change,” she admitted, “but selling this house in today's market—”

“Oh, I wasn't planning on leaving Barnard's Crossing. What I had in mind was to rent just for the school year.”

“And come back here for the summer?”

“And weekends.”

“You mean we'd drive back here Friday afternoon and go to Boston Monday morning?”

“Or Sunday. There'd be less traffic.”

“It wouldn't work, David. Your class on Friday gets through at noon. Then I suppose you sometimes have to stick around to answer questions or just to talk. It would be one o'clock before you got home and two by the time you'd had a bite of lunch and were ready to leave. I couldn't prepare for the Sabbath in that time.”

“All right, so we wouldn't go back weekends. We'd just go back during the vacations, Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

“You seem awfully anxious.”

“Well, I really would like to get out of Selig's way. I haven't been comfortable here since he took over. And I don't suppose it's too pleasant for him, either. But I thought I'd just have to suffer through it. And then Mordecai Jacobs—you remember him, the fellow who is going to marry the Lerner girl—he lives in an apartment house near Coolidge Corner. He said quite a few of the tenants go to Florida for the winter, and some of them are willing to rent their apartments while they're gone. Well, yesterday he told me that he spoke to someone whose apartment was just below his, and when he told him he knew a rabbi who might be interested in taking their place for the winter, they were pretty eager. See, they're observant, and if a rabbi took their apartment, they wouldn't have to put away their dishes and silverware.”

“When can we see it?”

“Any morning, according to Jacobs. Today, if you like.”

“I'll get dressed.”

Chapter 16

“We'll move Friday morning,” the rabbi announced.

“Why Friday?” asked Miriam. “Why not Sunday as we originally planned?”

“Because if we're here Friday, we'll have to go to the evening services, and that means that I'd have to sit up in front beside the Ark with Rabbi Selig, and then go down with him to the vestry for the collation. Each time it has led to some embarrassment for both of us. I'd just as soon skip it.”

“All right, then I'd better start packing.”

“What is there to pack? Just take the dresses and stuff you'll need for the next week or two.”

“But dishes, pots and pans—”

“We don't need them, Miriam. The Rosenblooms keep a kosher kitchen.”

“But if I just take a few dresses—what if something comes up and there's a particular dress I'd need for the occasion—”

“So we can always drive out here on a Sunday morning.”

On Thursday, at the morning minyan, in casual conversation with Rabbi Selig, he mentioned that he would be moving to Boston the next morning. He thought his younger counterpart appeared pleased, although he said, “I'll miss your presence here in Barnard's Crossing, Rabbi. I always felt more secure knowing I could count on your experience with the town, with the congregation.”

“Well, I won't be far away, and I'll be coming back from time to time.”

Friday morning, the rabbi again said his morning prayers at home. Then after a leisurely breakfast, they loaded the car with the clothes they might need in the next couple of weeks and started out. As usual, she was careful not to talk to him while he was driving, but when they arrived at their new home on Beacon Street, she said, “You were driving kind of fast at times.”

“But I didn't exceed the speed limit. I tried to keep up with it. And on the Boston Road there is very little traffic at that hour.”

“Well, you made it in an hour and a quarter.”

“The State Road is shorter. I could have made it in an hour if I'd gone that way. But there's a lot more traffic on the State Road.”

They brought up their bags and hung their clothes in the closets that had been cleared for them. “Now all I've got to do to get to the school is walk across the street and take a streetcar to Kenmore Square and walk a couple of blocks to Clark Street. And there I am, maybe a total of fifteen minutes.”

“That's wonderful,” she exclaimed. “Are you leaving now?”

“Might as well.”

“Shall I fix you a sandwich?”

“What for? I'll be coming home for lunch. Not every day, although I could have my lunch here and then go back to school and hang around for a couple of hours. Except that once home, I'd like to stay home. But on Friday, very few classes are scheduled for the afternoon and the place is practically deserted.”

As expected, he got home at half past twelve. “I thought I'd make something light for lunch, David,” she said as he sat down at the kitchen table where the dishes had been set. “I thought we'd have sardines or tuna fish, or something from a can. But I went shopping and they have everything here. So I got some frozen blintzes.”

“And you were able to shop for this evening?”

“No trouble. In fact, it's a lot easier than in Barnard's Crossing, and more convenient. You'll have your regular Sabbath dinner tonight.”

“Good. And you had no trouble with the utensils or the stove?”

“No, everything is fine. And how was your class? Did they all come? I remember the last time you had trouble with attendance for the Friday class.”

“Ah, but that was because it came in the afternoon, at one o'clock. Since this class comes before noon, they don't have to cut to get an early start to their weekend dates. I think that the fact that there are so few of us, and that we sit around a table, may have something to do with it. It makes for a feeling of responsibility. And these seem more interested in the subject. They've all attended a Religious School of some sort, and all have been confirmed or have been Bar Mitzvahed, or Bat Mitzvahed. Two of them have been to Israel. You know, I asked them to write a couple of paragraphs on their backgrounds, and every one of them turned in a paper. That's a little unusual. Usually one or two come with some excuse for not having it ready to hand in. And one, a girl, wrote a paragraph in Hebrew.”

“How about this McBride woman who's auditing the course?”

“Well, naturally, she didn't.”

“But she came? She's interested? You think she'll stick it out?”

“I—I think so. But I haven't been able to figure her. When she came to my office Tuesday, she said it was to get some paper from her old desk. But I got the feeling that it was to size me up. Wednesday, she came late for the first class. She seemed distressed, but seemed all right by the end of the class when she stopped to explain why she had been late. Then yesterday when I passed her in the corridor, I said hello and she just nodded and hurried on. Then this morning, she was late again, and looked uncomfortable, but then sort of relaxed. I suppose she finds the situation strange, sitting around a table with a bunch of kids, and all of them Jewish.”