Someday the Rabbi Will Leave (14 page)

Scofield leaned forward in his chair and Laura put her glass down on the windowsill.

“… Winner by a sizable plurality is John Scofield. So we'll have a new face in the Senate …”

Scofield sat back in his seat, stunned. Laura stretched both arms ceilingward. “Wow!” she exclaimed. And then very deliberately, she sat down on Scofield's lap and pressed her lips to his.

A moment later, when she made to get up, he held her tight, “No.” It was the official Republican nominee for the Senate talking.

She did not struggle and made no further attempt to escape. When she felt his hand on her thigh, under her dress, she merely sighed contentedly.

Much later, when they were lying in bed, relaxed and at ease, he said, “You know, I'm kind of scared. I don't really know anything about politics, and I'll be one of the few new men. I'll be asked all sorts of questions—”

“I'll have to think about that. See me tomorrow.”

“About what?” he asked, puzzled.

“That's what you say to them when you don't know the answer. Then we'll talk about it and decide on what position you will take.”

“You'll be there?”

“Of course. I'll run your office. A couple of terms as state senator and then we take the next step.”

Remembering his figure of speech of the horse and jockey, he asked, “You aiming to ride me to Washington?”

“That's right, Congressman. And maybe, after a couple of terms, if the time is right, you'll try for the Senate in Washington. Who knows, I might ride you right into the White House.”

“The White House!” he chortled with delight. “Imagine me, President of these United States. And what will you be?”

“I'll be the First Lady, of course.”

“You're my First Lady right now,” he said soberly. “We going to make it official?”

“Of course.”

“When?”

“Oh, sometime after the election.”

“Why not right away? What's the point of waiting?”

“It's bad politics. I'm Jewish, so that means we'd be married by a rabbi. There are a lot of bigots who might resent that and vote the other way just for spite.”

“So why do we have to be married by a rabbi?”

“Because it's the bride's folks who make the wedding. You couldn't expect my father to arrange to get a minister and a church.”

“How about a judge or a clerk of the court. I know—”

“No,” she said decisively. “My folks would feel hurt and I wouldn't like it, either. I wouldn't think of us being really married.”

“I'll do it any way you want, Sweetheart.”

22

Morris Halperin sneezed, then sneezed again.

“You getting a cold, Morrie?” asked his wife.

“Nope.” He sniffed deeply. “I've already got it.”

“Then maybe you shouldn't go to the meeting tonight. Take a couple of those cold tablets of yours and go to bed.”

“I'll take the cold tablets, but I'm going to the meeting. When I get home, I'll take a couple more and then go to bed.”

“It's your funeral,” she said. She went to the medicine chest. “There's only two left.”

“I'll pick up another bottle at the drugstore.”

The Board of Selectmen met every Wednesday evening throughout the year, and Morris Halperin as the town counsel was expected to attend. Before the public hearing in the Hearing Room, the five selectmen met in private for fifteen or twenty minutes in their office, a small room just large enough for their five desks, to discuss the agenda of the coming meeting and to agree on the order of business they would take up. Usually Morris Halperin joined them there to give whatever legal advice might be called for.

As he drove to the town hall, Halperin thought the pills had cleared his head. But no sooner was he in the enclosed atmosphere of the selectmen's office than he began to sneeze again.

“You catching cold, Morris?” asked Tom Bradshaw, the chairman.

“Or it's catching me.”

“You know what you need? You need a good shot of whiskey.” Bradshaw reached into the lower drawer of his desk and drew out a bottle and a glass. He poured and handed the drink to Halperin.

“Gee, I don't know. I've taken some pills.”

“Go on, drink it, man. It'll do you a world of good.”

It did seem to help. At least, he thought he felt better, but when they trooped into the Hearing Room, he found that he was perspiring profusely, although the room was not unduly warm. His head seemed full and his bones ached. When the meeting ended around ten o'clock, he decided not to join “the boys,” that is, the selectmen and whatever senior town officials who had had occasion to be present, at the Ship's Galley for a drink. He excused himself, announcing he was going right home and getting into bed.

“You take a good shot of whiskey and maybe some more in hot tea,” Tom Bradshaw urged, “and you'll feel fine in the morning.”

“Right.”

As he headed for home, he passed a drugstore, closed at that hour of course, but it served to remind him that he had no more cold pills. There was a drugstore in Lynn, however, that was open late, and although it was out of his way, he decided it was worth the extra fifteen-minute drive.

The druggist knew him, and when he asked for a glass of water so that he could take a couple of pills right then and there, he said, “You going home, Mr. Halperin? I mean you're not driving into Boston or anything like that, are you?”

“No, I'm going right home and going to bed. Why?”

“Well, these have antihistamine and they might make you a little drowsy.”

“Oh? No, I'm going right home.”

Millie Hanson looked up from the
Real Romance
she was reading as Tony D'Angelo went to the hall closet and removed his coat from its hanger.

“Where you going, Lover?” she asked.

“Going to get me some bread.”

“But we got rolls, and the stores are closed—Oh, you mean money? You going to be gone long?”

He shrugged into the coat. “I don't know. Maybe not too long.”

She knew better than to inquire further. She was curious, but she had a vague sense that when Tony was secretive about his activities, it was probably better that she shouldn't know. She heard the car door slam and the motor start up. Then she adjusted the pillows, stretched out on the sofa, and was soon lost in the problems Nurse Mary McTeague was having in pleasing her aged and peevish patient, Lady Haversham, and of getting her handsome son, Lord Haversham, to notice her.

Tony drove through Revere and through Lynn and then along High Street. When he came to the notice “You Are Now in Barnard's Crossing,” he slowed down and eased over to the right. Then he saw the sign—Glen Lane—at a mere opening in the trees and brush that lined the road. If not for the sign, the road would be easily missed in the dark. He followed the winding, twisting lane for a hundred yards or so; then seeing an opening on one side, he steered into it and parked. He turned off his lights, lit a cigarette, and settled down to wait.

Shortly after leaving the drugstore, Morris Halperin had indeed begun feeling drowsy. Cars raced by him, and those going in the other direction blinded him with the glare of their headlights. Once or twice a car honked furiously at him, either because he had taken his foot off the gas pedal and slowed down unexpectedly, or perhaps because he had drifted out of the lane. So he decided to go home by way of Glen Lane rather than the highway—it was a short cut, but even more pertinent, he assumed there would be no traffic.

He put on his high beams and was driving along when suddenly he struck a pothole. As the front end bounced, he thought he saw a body on the road. He jammed on his brakes and brought his car to a halt. He lowered the window, stuck out his head, and looked back. There
was
someone there. He got out and walked back. He knelt down, uncertain what to do. In a low voice, almost a whisper, he called, “Hey, feller, you all right?” Then, “Can you hear me?”

If only a car would come along, he thought, he could flag it down. Then one of them could stay with the poor devil while the other went to summon help. But he realized that at this late hour it was most unlikely. Almost no one used Glen Lane at night.

He got back into his car and proceeded to the end of Glen Lane where it turned into Maple Street. He had thought he might ring someone's bell and ask to use the telephone. But all the houses were dark except for an occasional light coming from under drawn shades on an upper floor.

Down the street, almost at its end where it met Main Street, one house was lit up, Rabbi Small's. But he was reluctant to go there. He felt unsteady on his feet because of the pills or perhaps even because of the whiskey. He had had only the one drink, and that was some hours ago, but might it not have interacted with the pills? The rabbi might think he was drunk.

He continued down Maple Street and then, just as he turned onto Main Street, he saw a police cruiser. He sounded his horn and the police car slowed down and stopped. A policeman got out and strolled over to his car.

Flashing his light, the officer said, “Oh, it's you, Counselor. Something the matter?”

“There's a body lying in the road on Glen Lane, just beyond the rise. I—I think he's dead.”

“Glen Lane? Okay, we'll check it out.”

Sergeant Drummond squatted down beside the figure on the road and insinuated his stubby fingers inside the collar. “He's dead, I figure, but you can't be sure. Look, I'll call in while you take some flares and set them up across the road. Better go down a ways. We don't want anyone driving into the lane and messing things up.”

“Right.” Officer Knowland fished in back of the cruiser. “How about the other end?”

“I'll set them up just as soon as I call in.”

But when Knowland got back to the car, the sergeant was still there, sweeping the ground with his flashlight. “It's a hit-and-run, for sure. See all that glass. That's headlight glass. We better be careful not to touch anything. The lab boys can sometimes do wonders with stuff they pick up. Okay, now let's set up the flares at the other end. They'll be here in a couple of minutes.”

As they proceeded down the hill, the sergeant swept the road from side to side with his flashlight. They spotted a car parked in the little siding.

“You suppose that's his car?” asked Knowland.

“Must be. Got out to take a leak, I suppose.” He turned and waved with his flashlight back toward the hill. “Probably behind that clump of trees at the top of the hill.”

“Hell, Sarge, there's bushes all around. All he had to do was open the door, slew around in his seat, and let go.”

Sergeant Drummond did not take kindly to disagreement from a subordinate, certainly not from the likes of Bill Knowland. “Some people,” he said loftily, “are careful not to foul their own nests.”

23

Sophia Magnuson sat down on the edge of the bed and watched her daughter brushing her hair at the dressing table. Addressing Laura's image in the mirror, she said, “We've seen so little of you these past weeks.”

“I've been busy with the campaign,” Laura admitted without turning, “but that's winding down now. There's still the election, of course, but we're not really worried now that we've won the primary. It's always been a Republican district. Of course, we can't relax, and there's still a lot of work to do, but everything is going well, and we're not running scared anymore.”

“You say we as though—as though—”

She turned around to face her mother. “As though I'm standing for election myself? Well, I am. We're a team, Jack Scofield and I. He'd never have won the primary without me and he knows it. He probably would have dropped out of the race altogether if it hadn't been for me. And, of course, I couldn't get very far without him.”

“I don't understand,” said her mother. “When you first began this—this political work, it was our understanding, your father's and mine, that you wanted to get some practical knowledge of politics to complement the things you learned in school. That's what you told us, anyway. Your father thought you might meet some interesting young men that way and eventually you'd settle down and—and—”

“And get married?”

“There are worse careers for a woman,” said her mother evenly.

“Oh, Mum, we're in the nineteen eighties.”

“I said that was your father's idea. Your father is rather conservative. Most men are.”

“But you don't agree?”

“Well, at least I recognize things have changed. I certainly have no objection to your going in for a career in politics, anymore than I would object to your planning a career in law or medicine. But, you must admit that politics is—is chancy. You can work and work and then if you lose the election, you're nowhere and it's all been wasted.”

“Of course,” said Laura eagerly. “That's why I'm going about it this way. I'm not interested in running for office myself because I'm not interested in the glory. Besides, a woman running for office is operating under a tremendous handicap. Her voice isn't suited for making political speeches. When she tries to express conviction, she's apt to scream. What's more, these days, any woman running for office can't help but get caught up in the Women's Lib movement, and I want no part of it. I just want the chance to do something important and worthwhile.”

“You mean you want power and authority.”

“All right. Why not? Power should go to those who can use it intelligently.”

Her mother smiled. “You mean those who enjoy using it.”

Laura returned the smile. “All right. So I had the idea of latching on to some political candidate that I could direct and steer. Oh, I don't mean that I planned it all out that way. I guess my original idea was that I might start by helping in a campaign, and then maybe becoming indispensable. But then I met Jack Scofield, and everything fell into place. He was perfect. For one thing, he was all alone.”