Sunday the Rabbi Stayed Home (14 page)

But Sharon returned to report. “It was the bowling alley. They want to know where Moose is and why he isn’t there.”

But Mr. Carter had already got into his raincoat and was striding out of the house. He paused just long enough in the garage to select a length of dowel rod. He whipped it through the air once or twice and then took his place behind the wheel of his car and set the rod carefully on the seat beside him.

The rabbi wanted time to collect his thoughts before going home, to decide what he would tell Miriam or rather how he would tell her. It had started to rain almost as soon as he got into his car, and now as he drove aimlessly through the streets of the town it was coming down hard, striking against the windshield faster than the wipers could swish it away. Every now and then the skies suddenly grew daylight bright, with blinding flashes of lightning followed almost immediately by the crash of thunder. It was frightening and yet, because it suited his mood, exhilarating as well.

He wanted to talk the matter over with someone before seeing Miriam, but there was no one in town with whom he felt he could talk freely and openly unless it was – he could not help smiling – Hugh Lanigan, the pleasant, red-faced Irish chief of police. They had an honest, longstanding relationship, maybe, he thought wryly, because neither had anything to gain from the other. It struck him in a situation of this sort, where everyone in the congregation was on one side or the other, how isolated the rabbi was. Of course, there was Jacob Wasserman, who, as a sort of elder statesman of the congregation, tended to be above factions. They had always liked each other, and he respected the older man’s judgment and understanding. Impulsively he drove to his house.

Mrs. Wasserman was a motherly woman, who, when she saw who it was, urged him – even taking him by the arm – to come in, come in.

“It’s all right, Rabbi, so the rugs will get a little wet,” she said, as he scraped his shoes against the coco mat.

“Who is it?” her husband called from inside. “The rabbi? Come in, Rabbi, come in. It must be a serious matter to bring you out on such a night. But I’m happy you came. Lately I haven’t seen so much of you. It’s not so easy for me to get to the minyan these days. You know how it is. If the weather is not so good I stay in bed a little longer. Becker is here with me. He had supper here tonight. If it’s private you want to talk, he can keep my wife company in the kitchen. I wouldn’t be jealous. But if it’s temple business, then maybe you’d like him to hear, too.”

“Yes, I think it might be a good idea.” said the rabbi.

The old man led him into the living room, and his wife followed them. “Look, Becker, I got another visitor,” he called. Then to his wife. “So why don’t you get the rabbi a up of tea?”

“I have just seen Mr. Gorfinkle,” said the rabbi and told them what had transpired. He expected the news to come, frankly, as something of a bombshell. Instead, the men were surprisingly unmoved.

“You mean he threatened not to renew your contract in the fall?” asked Becker, as if to make sure he had all the facts straight.

“No. that he would recommend it be terminated now.”

“He can’t do that; you’ve got a contract. Besides, that’s something that the full board has to vote on.”

“So they pay him the remaining money,” said Wasserman with a shrug, “and if Gorfinkle has a majority, what difference does it make if it comes before the full board or not?”

The rabbi expected Becker to react belligerently. Instead, he looked at Wasserman and said, “Shall I tell him?”

Again the old man shrugged his shoulders. “What would be a better time?”

“In a way. Rabbi.” began Becker, “it’s funny you coming here tonight. You see, today Meyer Paff came to see me. It looks as if there’s going to be a split in the temple. And Paff wanted me and Wasserman to join him.”

“And did you agree?”

“For us it’s easy. Rabbi. As past presidents, we are both permanent members of the board. And to join another temple is just a matter of paying an extra membership fee. It’s like a donation. Even when I was president. I was a member of the synagogue in Lynn, and Jacob here is a member both in Lynn and Salem. But in the course of telling me what was on his mind, you came up for discussion. Paff asked me to approach you about coming over, on a long-term contract and at an increase in salary. That’s what I was discussing with Jacob just before you came in.”

The rabbi looked over at Wasserman, but the old man’s face was impassive. “I didn’t think I was so great a favorite of Mr. Paff s.” he said to Becker.

“Look. Rabbi. I won’t try to kid you. I’m sure that although

Paff appreciates your work here, his main object in making the offer is that he expects it will pull members. But what do you care if you’re bettering yourself?”

“And would I be bettering myself. Mr. Becker?”

“By three thousand dollars a year, and a long-term contract. Even if this row with Gorfinkle hadn’t occurred, you wouldn’t be sure that your contract would be renewed. I guess that’s bettering yourself. If you’re not sure, ask Mrs. Small, who buys the groceries.”

But the rabbi replied. “As things now stand. Mr. Becker. I am the rabbi of the Jews of Barnard’s Crossing. I am the rabbi of the community and not merely the rabbi of a particular temple. And that is the way I think of my function. A rabbi is not part of the temple furniture.”

“But the cantor –”

“The cantor is different. He needs a temple, or at least a congregation, in order to exercise his function. Can he sing to himself? But a rabbi does not. No doubt, if the community continues to grow, sooner or later a Reform temple will be established and a portion of our members will split away from us to join it. And no doubt, they will get a rabbi. But that break will be for ideological reasons and hence justified. Their rabbi will be the rabbi of the Reform Jews of Barnard’s Crossing, while I remain the rabbi of its Conservative Jews.”

“But congregations do split.” Becker insisted.

“All too often, perhaps. When the split was not on ideological grounds, it was apt to be geographical. Jews would begin moving out of one area into another, and because it was considered a breach of the Sabbath to ride to services, another temple would be set up in order to have a place of worship within walking distance of the new area. That, too, would be reasonable.

“But the split that you plan is neither ideological nor geographical. You will have the same kind of Jews in the new temple as in the old, and the services will be virtually similar. In effect, you are setting up a competing temple, and you would like me to be its rabbi. No. thank you. Nor would I remain in my present job under those conditions. A temple is not a business enterprise in which competition is good for trade. But you will come to think of your temple in that way, and you will force the same kind of thinking on Gorfinkle and his group. Come join our temple – we have air conditioning, softer seats. Our cantor has a better voice, and our rabbi delivers shorter and snappier sermons. Hold your Bar Mitzvah or your wedding in our vestry. We give trading stamps.”

“Now look here. Rabbi –”

“Mr. Paff doesn’t need me. A temple doesn’t need a rabbi, and a rabbi doesn’t need a temple. The rabbi’s functions in the temple – leading prayers and delivering sermons – are the most minor part of his duties. The first any thirteen-year-old boy can perform, and the second, isn’t it for most a kind of relief to break the monotony and tedium of the service? No. Mr. Becker. I have no intention of being the extra added attraction of a new temple.”

“But if Gorfinkle succeeds in voting you out –” The rabbi looked at Wasserman in mute question.

The old man spread his hands. “In this world. Rabbi, you’ve got to make first a living. Here Paff offers you a job, at more money yet. All right, maybe the conditions aren’t perfect. Where are they perfect? But it’s a living; it’s parnossah”

The rabbi bit his lip in vexation. He had assumed that Wasserman at least would understand. “And is Barnard’s Crossing the only place where I can make a living? No, Mr. Wasserman, if this split goes through, I will not accept a contract from either Mr. Paff s or Mr. Gorfinkle’s group. I will leave Barnard’s Crossing.”

As Stuart Gorfinkle drove back to the cookout from Lynn, he felt a totally unreasonable resentment against his parents, especially his father. Why were there always strings attached when his father let him have the car? They were only going to his Aunt Edith’s to eat; his uncle could have picked them up. He wondered uneasily if the kids had been able to find shelter somewhere when the rain really pelted down. And the lightning, had it been as bad at the beach as on the drive to Lynn?

The rain had let up and now was little more than a heavy mist. At Tarlow’s Point he stopped his car and plunged down the path. When he came to the little grove of pine trees, he could see the beach and that no one was there. From the litter, the empty beer cans, the wet cellophane wrappers, he knew that they had left unexpectedly and in a hurry.

Then he saw the arrow on the log. Carefully he made his way to the house and up the back steps. He put his ear to the door and listened hard but heard nothing. He circled the house, went up to the front door, and again listened, then essayed a timid knock. He waited, listening, and this time he thought he heard something. He knocked harder and called “It’s me: Stu. You kids there?”

Instantly the door was thrown open, and his friends crowded around the doorway.

“Hey; you had me going there for a while.”

“We thought you weren’t coming back. We left an arrow with lipstick. Did you see it?”

“How’d you get in?” Stu asked. “Was the door open?”

“Nah, we climbed in through a window in back.”

“Well, we better get going.” said Stu. “The cruising car goes by here, and they check the unoccupied houses. They got a list”

They piled into the car, and Stu turned on the ignition. From in back Adam Sussman called. “Say, how about Moose?”

“What about him?” asked Stu.

“He’s in there. He passed out, and we had to put him to bed.”

“We’d better get him. We can’t leave him in there like that.”

“There’s no room for him, especially the shape he’s in.”

“He wasn’t invited to this party.”

“Yeah, but he got us in out of the storm.”

“I want to go home,” wailed one of the girls. “My folks will be awfully worried.”

“Get going, Stu,” said Bill Jacobs. “We can swing back afterward and pick him up.”

Stu and Bill Jacobs took Didi home last, and Alan Jenkins went along because his motorcycle was parked in the Epstein garage. The house was dark when they arrived, and on the kitchen table Didi found a note from her mother: “Gone to the movies – maybe somewhere for coffee afterward.”

“You guys want some coffee?” she asked. “Yeah. I could use something hot,” said Jacobs.

“I should be starting back.” said Jenkins, “but – okay, I’ll have some too.”

“But what about Moose?” asked Stu.

“He’ll keep.” said Jacobs. He laughed harshly. “He’s good for hours.”

“The way he poured that stuff down –” Stu shook his head. “Still, you wouldn’t think beer would have that effect on him. At school I’ve seen guys who drank the stuff practically all night –”

“It’s wasn’t the beer,” Bill Jacobs explained, “although he had quite a few of those. As soon as we got into the house, he found himself a bottle of Scotch. He did the same trick with that – you know, tossing his head back and taking it down. He must’ve polished off half the bottle in a couple of swallows.”

“Half a bottle?” said Stu, marveling. “And he passed out? Complete? Blotto? What’d you do, leave him lying on the floor?”

“On the floor!” Jacobs was indignant. “Hell no, on one of the beds.”

“Well, like they say, on the floor he can’t roll off,” said Stu defensively.

Jenkins laughed, and Jacobs said grimly, “The way we laid him on the bed he won’t roll anywhere.”

“There was one of these plastic sheets,” Jenkins explained, “and we wrapped him up real good.”

“Just like you swaddle a baby in a blanket,” Jacobs added with satisfaction.

Didi came in with coffee. They sipped it in silence, each immersed in his own thoughts for the moment.

The Stu said suddenly, “Hey, how are we going to get back in? We’re not going to have to go through the window, I hope? You shut the door.”

“No sweat,” said Bill Jacobs. “I left it on the latch.”

Jenkins set his cup down and rose lazily to his feet. “I better be starting. Got to get up real early tomorrow.”

“Hey,” said Bill. “With Stu driving, I’m not sure I can handle Moose alone if he should start acting up. Can’t you give us a hand?”

Jenkins smiled and shook his head. “You’re asking the wrong party. Far as I’m concerned, he can stay there until he turns to green mold. If I was you cats, I’d forget about him.”

As the roar of Jenkins’ motorcycle died away. Stu said. “What was he so up tight about?”

Didi answered. “Moose was dumping on him most of the evening. Frankly, I don’t blame Alan.”

“Well, that leaves us in a bind,” said Jacobs. He went to the window and looked out. “And it’s started raining again.”

They sat around and talked, waiting for the rain to let up. Every once in a while one of them would wander to the window to peer at the rain-lashed streets.

Suddenly a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, followed immediately by a tremendous crash of thunder, and the room was plunged into darkness.

“That must have got a transformer.” said Jacobs, looking down the darkened street. “Maybe the substation; it’s dark all up and down the street.”

“You got any candles. Didi?” asked Stu.

“I – I guess so.” Didi’s voice sounded frightened in the darkness, and then he felt her hand groping for his. He put his arm around her.

“Tell you what. Rather than sweat this out in darkness, why don’t we all get in the car and drive over to pick up Moose now? The way it’s coming down, it can’t last long.”

Mr. Morehead was apologetic. “Believe me, Mr. Paff, if I didn’t have to meet my wife at the airport –”