Someday the Rabbi Will Leave (6 page)

“Yeah, but what am I going to talk about? I don't have a record.”

“So go with what you have.”

“But I don't have anything.”

“Sure you do. You're a local boy and you're nice-looking and friendly. So you show them that you're nice and friendly. People don't listen; they look. That's why TV beats radio. You just stand there and let them see you and say anything that doesn't mean anything.”

Laura could see that Scofield was nervous and felt a twinge of pity for him. He favored the audience with an embarrassed boyish grin and then a nervous chuckle. “I am John Scofield, twenty-eight. I am a practicing attorney with offices in Salem. I am unmarried,” he began. “I was born right here in Barnard's Crossing and have lived here all my life. And my family has been living here ever since Colonial times. I went to the Gaithskille School and to Barnard's Crossing High. Then I went to Harvard and Harvard Law School. Maybe they were a little easier to get into a few years back. I love this town and the people in it.” He went on to talk about places in the town—the Landing, Fremont Hill, Children's Island—and the special associations they had for him. Behind him, he heard the little shuffle and scrape that suggested that Bottomley was getting to his feet and would come to stand beside him. His mind cast about for some way of ending his little speech, and then as he felt the presence of the chairman beside him, it came to him. “The point is,” he said, “that I like it the way it is and I don't want to change it, not any of it.”

It seemed to Laura that the applause for Scofield was a little louder and a little less perfunctory than it had been for the other candidates, but then, of course, he was the only candidate from Barnard's Crossing.

Speeches of the candidates running for representative followed. Laura Magnuson had no interest in any of them, but she remained because she wanted to speak to Scofield, to see what he looked like close up. Finally, the chairman came forward and announced, “Well, there you are, folks. You've heard them and it took just over an hour, which is not bad. I guess some of them will be standing around for a while and you can talk to them informal-like, or argue with them if you've a mind to.”

Laura wandered over to the campaign material, assuming that was where he would go upon leaving the platform, only to discover that there was none for Scofield. So she headed for the door, reaching it just as he approached.

“That was a very effective speech you gave,” she said.

Surprised, he stopped and looked at her with interest. “It was?”

She nodded solemnly. “Very. Is that going to be the theme of your campaign?”

He wondered what he had said that could possibly be the theme for a campaign. “Er—what, I mean what part of—?”

She sensed that he had no idea of what she had in mind, and no thought of its political effect. “You said you were against change.”

“Well, you know, I was just, you know, kind of expressing my feelings—”

“The point is,” she went on, “that most of the people here tonight are middle-aged or older. And that's true of voters in general. Young people want changes, but older people are worried about change. They're afraid of it. So when you said you didn't want any change, most of them approved. Politicians are always telling people that they are going to change things. Well, the older people have heard these promises all their lives, and they don't believe them. So a campaign against change might actually work.”

“You seem to know a lot about politics. You a reporter or something?”

“No, just interested.”

“Look, could we go someplace and have a drink and maybe talk about it?”

“All right. Where to? The coffee shop on West Street is nearest.”

“Yeah, but it's awfully crowded this time of night,” he said. “How about going over to Salem? I'm parked just around the corner.”

As they walked, he shot sidelong glances at her, uncertain whether she was a pickup or was seriously interested in politics.

“Here we are,” he said.

She was a little startled when she saw the car, a bright, shocking pink.

“Is this your car?” she asked. “I figured you for the conservative type. It looks like an ice-cream wagon.”

He chuckled. “That's because it is—or was—an ice-cream wagon—sort of. The guy I bought it from had four trucks on the road, the same color, peddling ice cream through the neighborhoods, and he used to ride around in this keeping an eye on them. Then he went broke, and I was able to buy it up cheap because of the paint job. I'm planning to have it repainted. I have to anyway. She's starting to peel there on the fender. I just haven't got around to it yet.” He didn't bother to explain that he'd had the car for almost a year.

“I hope you won't until after the election. A car that stands out like that can be good for campaigning.”

“You think so?”

“Of course. It gives you instant recognition. You're planning to mount a sign on top, aren't you?”

“Oh sure.”

“I'd do it right away if I were you. It's recognition that gets you elected, and that's the easiest way of getting recognition. You have a sign with your picture on it and your name.”

“Say, you know a lot about this stuff.”

“Not as much as I'd like to know.”

“You interested in politics?” he asked curiously.

“I think it's the most interesting thing in the world.”

8

At the special meeting of the general membership called to elect a new president of the temple, the successful candidate was not even present. Neither was Rabbi Small, since he was not, strictly speaking, a member of the temple organization. He had gone home immediately after the minyan, before the meeting had begun. He received the results from Morton Brooks, the principal of the religious school, who was not a member either, but had been present because the school was in session on Sunday mornings, and the meeting took place in the school's assembly hall.

Shortly after noon, Morton Brooks zoomed up the street in his sports car and came to a screeching halt in front of the rabbi's house. He rang the bell, and when Miriam opened the door, he struck a pose with arms spread wide and announced, “Ta-da!”

He was wearing a light-fawn herringbone sports coat with chamois patches on the elbows and a leather tab with a buttonhole on one lapel. Underneath, he wore a cream-colored sport shirt, open at the throat, which was encircled by a bright red kerchief. His short, spindly legs were encased in sand-colored slacks, and his shoes were chocolate-brown suede with fancy laces.

Miriam smiled and said, “You look very sharp, Morton. Come in.”

“Sunday in the country,” he said, simpering, by way of explanation.

“But the principal of a religious school—”

“Miriam, you know that's only temporary,” he said reproachfully. Although he had been the principal of the Barnard's Crossing religious school for eight years and had been a Hebrew teacher in other schools for several years before that, he still considered it essentially temporary work while he awaited the call to return to his true vocation, the theater. This, on the strength of having been the bookkeeper and general factotum of a Yiddish theater group in New York, perpetually on the verge of bankruptcy, and had occasionally been given a walk-on part to save an actor's salary.

In the living room, Morton paced back and forth like a movie director sketching a scene to the actors. “Get the picture. Although the meeting was called for ten o'clock, a lot of them were already there by nine because they had to bring their kids to school. You'd think by ten o'clock they'd be anxious for the meeting to begin. But no, people keep coming in and standing around and
shmoosing
. It's like a regular Old Home Week. It's ten o'clock, a quarter past, half past. It gets to be eleven, and still nobody is impatient, nobody is calling to get the show on the road. Then I spot Kaplan, one of the candidates, in a corner—you can hardly see him—and his pals, that long drink of water, Herbie Cohen, and Harold Gestner, and Hymie Stern, they keep coming over to where he is, to whisper to him. He listens and he makes little check marks on a paper, the membership list, I suppose. And it all becomes clear to me. See, he's still campaigning. Magnuson is not around, and Kaplan is making hay, lining up the membership.” He nodded his head and winked at his own perspicacity.

“And how did you see all this?” asked the rabbi. “Didn't you have classes?”

“A class I've got at ten. All right, so I come into my office at ten to get my class list and who do I see behind my desk but our president, Sam Feinberg. ‘I hope you don't mind my using your office,' sezee. So what should I say? That I do mind? Well, you know how when I'm teaching, I'm always running next door to my office to get some text that will help bring out some special point. I couldn't do that with Sam Feinberg there. He'd think I was spying on him. So I gave my class some writing to do. Then eleven o'clock is my time for staying in my office to see parents who might want to talk to me about their kids. But when I come in to put the papers from my ten o'clock class in the desk drawer, he looks at me like what am I doing there, like I'm a kind of inter—inter—”

“Interloper?” Miriam offered.

“That's the word. Like I'm a kind of interloper. So I hung around the corridor near the assembly hall, figuring any parents who wanted to see me, well I was right there, wasn't I?”

“But the meeting was finally called to order,” said the rabbi patiently.

“Natch. But when? At a quarter to twelve!” Brooks exclaimed triumphantly, as though he had scored a major point.

The rabbi glanced at the mantelpiece clock. It was halfpast twelve. “So the meeting is still going on?” he asked.

“It's over. They started at a quarter to twelve and by noon it was adjourned.”

“And the election? Did they hold the election?”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you, if you'll only let me.”

“Let him tell it in his own way, David,” Miriam suggested.

Morton Brooks gave her a quick look of gratitude, and said, “Thanks, Miriam.”

“All right,” said the rabbi. “Everybody was just standing around just visiting, and—”

“And Kaplan was campaigning,” said Brooks, holding up an admonishing forefinger. “Don't forget that. His lieutenants were circulating all this time, whispering to this one and that one, and then reporting back to Kaplan.”

“All right, I won't forget it,” the rabbi good-naturedly assured him.

“So I figure,” Brooks went on, “that it was Kaplan's men that were holding up the works. Why? So they could touch all bases, contact as many of the membership as they could before the voting started. And I figured he'd win in a walk, because he's been a member practically from the beginning, and he's observant and goes to the minyan every day, whereas Magnuson is a Johnny-come-lately, and who knows him? But then I notice that Kaplan's face gets more serious, like things aren't going so well. And then he and his boys all get into a huddle there in the corner and you can see that they're arguing about something, and some are on one side and some on the other. But pretty soon they come to some kind of agreement because they all nod their heads like they're on springs. Then Kaplan marches down to the front of the room where Melvin Weill, the secretary, is sitting, and leans over and whispers to him and I can see Melvin is surprised. Then he nods and he gets up and scoots out the door down the corridor. I'm standing at the door and he don't so much as say Hi, Mort to me, even though I've been at his house I don't know how many times. He goes into my office where Sam Feinberg is still sitting.

“I thought I might go in after him, like to get some papers out of my desk, but before I could make up my mind, the door opens and Feinberg comes out and goes striding down the corridor, he stops at the door of the hall and as soon as they see him, everybody begins to quiet down and find seats, like a bunch of kids in a classroom when the teacher comes back after having gone out for a few minutes. He goes to the podium and calls the meeting to order. It's a quarter to twelve now. Okay. Then Feinberg says, ‘I have an announcement to make. Mr. Kaplan, one of the two candidates in this election, has authorized me to say in his behalf that for the sake of greater unity he is retiring from the race and asks that Howard Magnuson as the remaining candidate be elected by acclamation.' Well, for a couple of minutes there was regular pan—pan—what do you call it?”

“Pandemonium?” the rabbi offered.

“That's right. Regular pandemonium. Everybody shouting, arguing. You see, while Kaplan's lieutenants knew what was going to happen—they must have decided back there when they were in a huddle with Kaplan—they hadn't bothered to tip off those they had been pressuring to vote for him. Some of
them
thought Kaplan had sold out, that Magnuson had bought him off. You don't look surprised, David.”

“I'm not,” said the rabbi. “I figured Magnuson would win.”

“You did? But why?”

“And why would Kaplan surrender without a fight?” asked Miriam.

“Oh, I think Morton is right about Kaplan counting the votes, and then he realized he was not only going to lose, but that he was going to lose badly. So he quit to avoid being embarrassed.”

Morton Brooks raised his hands and shook his head. “I don't get it. Why would they vote for Magnuson?”

“No? Tell me, Morton, when you go back to New York for a visit, and you tell your friends that you are the principal of the religious school of the Barnard's Crossing Temple, are you sure you won't add that the president is Howard Magnuson,
the
Howard Magnuson?”

Brooks shrugged casually. “I suppose I might. All right, say I do, but—”

“And so will every member of the temple. Kaplan is just an ordinary, decent man, but Magnuson is a somebody. He's been written up in
Time
magazine, and the shares of Magnuson and Beck are traded on the stock exchange. Maybe it occurred to some of the members that if Magnuson were president, he would be likely to contribute to various temple projects, but I imagine that most were content to be associated with a big name.”