A Kiss for Rabbi Gabrielle

by Roger Herst

  “Given your past with Noah, I didn’t think it was advisable.”

  “Everybody in this town knows about what happened between Noah and me, or they think they do. It almost ruined my career and damn near sent me to the loony bin for a psychological overhaul. But it’s history. What’s true today is that Noah and Morgan are members of this congregation. Now there’s a major simcha in Noah’s life and you should have let me know what’s going on. As a professional courtesy.”

  “I didn’t approach the Zentners. They came to me.”

  “And you decided that meant they didn’t want me to know?

  “I don’t go around prying into other people’s motivations.”

  “Your business is to be sensitive to human interactions. Your congregants first and mine second. I suggest you start thinking about my feelings. By your not telling me, I’m boxed out.”

  Dov put on a poker face, revealing nothing. “You want to officiate at this brit? Be my guest.”

  “No, Dov. That’s not the point. I know exactly why you lavish attention on the Zentners. This is a matter of style, not substance. If catering to the wealthy is the kind of rabbinical career you seek, you’re entitled to it. You won’t be the first of our colleagues to court the rich and famous. But as senior officer here, I must remind you that, as long as you serve Ohav Shalom, your rabbinic duty is to serve everybody – without regard to wealth or stature. And don’t try arguing that these people need rabbinical services just as much as anybody else. The brutal fact is, they don’t. Yes, they get sick and die. Yes, they have their share of neurosis, halitosis, stomach cramps, and tooth decay, but they never, never go wanting. Professionals never under serve the rich. It’s the poor and the impotent who are overlooked.”

  Dov inched back to the doorway, obviously asking himself why he had bothered to drop in on Gabby in the first place.

  She exhaled sharply, feeling guilty for her tirade. This was nothing like the mentorship she envisioned when she hired Dov to be her assistant. She had expected to be a guide and teacher, not a disciplinarian. To lighten the atmosphere, she said, “Okay, I’ve said my piece, Dov. I’m afraid we’re just on different wavelengths. You weren’t at the rifle range, so it’s hard for you to understand what happened. It’s Sunday. Let’s not throw good time after bad. Go home and spend the afternoon with Sheila.”

  “Well, you have to admit one thing—it was a flattering picture of you at the rifle range,” he said, firing off a final salvo.

  “You haven’t seen anything yet, partner. Wait until you see me with a holster on my hip and an elephant gun across my chest, endorsing Winchester Ammunition.”

  The remark didn’t strike Dov as funny and her attempt at humor fell flat. Once he was gone, she walked back to gather her briefcase, glancing at the piles of books and papers strewn over her desk. A few had migrated to the reading table and leather chairs, and stayed there. Disorderly as it appeared, she could usually find what she wanted.

  “What a job!” she muttered and then remembered the promise she’d made at Bart Skulkin’s funeral. She had scribbled the telephone number for Marcel Clipper’s aunt on a scrap of paper stuffed into her Rabbi’s Manual. Unlike the rest of her books, she always took pains to store the manual in the same spot. The telephone number was exactly where she had put it. She remembered that Marcel’s given name was Patrick.

  A southern, black voice answered the phone just as Gabby was about to hang up.

  “I’m Rabbi Gabrielle Lewyn,” she introduced herself, “and I’d like to speak with Patrick Clipper. He told me I could reach him at this number.”

  “He’s not here now,” answered the drawling, deep voice.

  “Are you his aunt?”

  “Naw. She’s not here either. That’s Twylla Dee.”

  “Does Patrick stay there? And if so, may I reach him there?”

  “Sometimes. Off and on. Twylla Dee knows when he comes and when he don’t. She’ll be back tonight. About nine.”

  Feeling frustrated, Gabby asked, “Can I leave a telephone number so Patrick can return my call?”

  “Yeah. That’s okay. But you gotta wait ‘til I get a pencil and paper.”

  “I’ll wait. Thank you.”

  When Gabby finally dropped the phone receiver into its cradle, her mind shifted to tennis. In an hour she was scheduled to hit with Lydia.

  Brit Milah

  Unlike Jewish weddings and funerals, which may not take place on the Sabbath, the ritual circumcision of a male newborn may. Generally. this poses few obstacles for the family, but for an Orthodox mohel, or circumciser, who may not violate Sabbath proscriptions in order to perform the operation, it presents serious challenges. Since an observant Jew may not travel or transport surgical tools on the Day of Rest, he is obliged to deliver them to the newborn’s home during the preceding week. And in order not to travel on the Sabbath, he must stay in a nearby hotel Friday evening and walk to the infant’s home the next day.

  Morgan Zentner had contacted Pinkus Reiner, a certified mohel from Baltimore, to perform the circumcision. Later, when she gave birth on a Friday, it became clear that the prescribed eighth day for her son’s brit would fall on the Sabbath. Pinkus Reiner agreed to spend Friday evening at a Washington hotel in the fashionable embassy district, an eleven blocks walk to the Zentner home.

  Morgan had also asked Dov Shellenberg to recite the traditional prayers. Now Noah was complicating her arrangements by insisting that Gabby participate in his family simcha. To him, it seemed a perfect way to heal an old wound and express some of his gratitude to the woman who’d done so much to make his present happiness possible.

  “I’d love you to co-officiate with Rabbi Shellenberg,” he pleaded with her by phone. “Since Seth Greer left the congregation, I’ve thought of you as my rabbi. This is a very special moment in my life. It would make me very happy if you were part of it.”

  “I’m having trouble with the idea,” she replied. Her own feelings were complex and there was the matter of her relationship with her associate rabbi. “My nerve endings are still raw over the trial. Besides, whatever we do, people are bound to misunderstand. Dov is quite capable, but I warn you, see that he isn’t around during the actual circumcision. The sight of blood makes him woozy. Keep him away from the operation until the mohel has stopped the bleeding and little Alan is wrapped up in a blanket.”

  “I’m sure he can handle it, but you’re special to me, Gabby. Someday I’ll want you to bar mitzvah Alan. And officiate at his wedding.”

  “You’re rushing things, my friend. By that time, I’ll be history at Ohav. Either they’ll pack me in salt or retire me to the Home for Over-the-Hill Rabbis.”

  “Now you’re the one exaggerating. I’m going to call Rabbi Shellenberg and explain things. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

  “I haven’t agreed to this, Noah.”

  “To sweeten the deal you should know that Colin Jameson is coming. He’s the police commissioner. I know you’re interested in the investigation of Bart’s murder. Colin knows the Skulkin family and is personally involved in the case. He was at the funeral and spoke very highly of you.”

  “Better you should tell this to Rabbi Shellenberg. I’m sure he’ll be impressed by your guest list.”

  “Did I miss something?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said, miffed at herself for the unprofessional remark that, fortunately, Noah had failed to pick up. “It’s not important. I promise to consider your invitation. If you and Alan become as good a team as you and your father have been, it’s certain to be a winning combination. By the way, how is your dad?”

  “Thrilled at being a grandfather, but cranky as ever. His plumbing problem is temporarily fixed, but every day he’s got a new complaint. Old age has turned a robust man into a raging hypochondriac.”

  “Give him my best, please.”

  “I insist that you tell him, personally, this Saturday afternoon at the brit.”

  In the old days, Gabby had f
elt she could barge into her senior rabbi's study at any time and often did. She and Seth had enjoyed being in each other’s company and he always welcomed the intrusion. The same could not be said of Dov Shellenberg and Gabby. They remained collegial but maintained a healthy, if not frigid, distance. When she dropped by his office late Thursday afternoon to discuss Alan Zentner’s brit milah, he was tight-lipped and aloof. Though the workday was over, his jacket was still buttoned around him like a cocoon and he’d not loosened his tie.

  When she told him she intended to accept Noah’s invitation, he had difficulty disguising his disappointment. His furious eyes expressed what he was unwilling to say. “It’s a short ceremony,” he finally stated. “I can’t imagine chopping it into small parts like an earthworm. I’ll back out altogether. You’ve had a long relationship with the Zentners. Better you should perform the whole ceremony.”

  “That’s not what Noah or I propose, Dov. Morgan originally contacted you. You’ve acted as their rabbi this past year. There’s no reason why we can’t share the honor.”

  “Too crowded. I’m sure the mohel will want to say a few words.”

  Gabby was not invited to sit and stood behind a chair opposite his desk. “If you back out now, it will be awkward. I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “This has been foisted on me in the eleventh hour. I don’t like being manipulated. I don’t like it one little bit.”

  “And you believe I’m manipulating you?”

  He thought about that awhile before blurting, “Yes, I do.”

  “That’s not my intention. This is a complicated personal matter that began well before you came to Washington. I’m asking you to swallow your pride for a few hours and stand up with me to fulfill a rabbinical duty. My past with Noah was a nightmare and extremely painful. Now he’s reached out with an opportunity for me to put all this in the past. I’d hoped you would be sensitive to my needs. But since you don’t seem to be, then I must assert my authority. You may not like being there, but I want you at the Zentner home with a smile on your face doing what you’re paid to do.”

  “So it’s an official order, is it?”

  “I had hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. I was seeking a show of largess on your part. It didn’t come voluntarily.”

  ***

  To prepare for the 3:00 p.m. ceremony, Gabby arrived forty-five minutes early at the Zentner home, a stately Georgian with a red brick exterior and dark slate roof. The mohel, Pinkus Reiner, was expected to arrive at any moment, prepare his instruments, and scrub in for this routine surgery. Gabby first looked for Dov Shellenberg and learned that he had called to say he was running late and anticipated arriving just a few minutes before the ceremony. Morgan was upstairs with her baby. Noah, beaming and energetic in a light gray suit and maroon tie, had stationed himself in the foyer, at the foot of the staircase, and was conversing with business friends. It crossed Gabby’s mind that his insistence she attend might be partially designed to end rumors, once and for all, about any clandestine relationship between them. If so, she was skeptical about the strategy’s chances for success.

  As soon as he became aware of her presence, Noah turned from his associates to extend a hand in welcome. He refrained from a friendly kiss. Just as well, she thought to herself. She wanted no suggestion of physical closeness. In answer to her queries, he told her that the surgical operation would be performed in the dining room. They would then move into the living room, with its enormous stone fireplace, for recitation of the traditional Hebrew blessings. Gabby excused herself to inspect the venue for the rabbinical portion of the ceremony. Beside a bottle of kosher wine, an engraved family Kiddush cup, purchased by Noah’s grandfather in Turkey at the beginning of World War II, rested on the mantle.

  Not far from the fireplace, Gabby saw Harvey Skulkin and remembered his relationship to Jonathan Zentner’s wife. She was about to greet him when Florence seized her arm and almost dragging her the remaining distance to her husband. He was conversing with Colin Jameson, a towering, handsome black entrepreneur who was a partner in two telecommunications businesses and a minor shareholder in the city’s professional basketball team. Jonathan introduced Colin as the police commissioner.

  Colin greeted Gabby courteously, but immediately resumed his conversation with Harvey. “We’ve put an extra detective on Bart’s case,” he said, “which means three men are now assigned.”

  Harvey Skulkin, who had spent much of his professional life quantifying economic statistics, asked, “And how much of their time is dedicated to Bart’s case? Would you say fifty percent? More? Less?”

  “Well, I can’t answer that. As commissioner, I’m not involved with daily operations of the force. Homicide detectives are under extreme pressure. It’s hard to account for their time.”

  Harvey shot an exasperated glance at Gabby, including her in his unspoken assessment that the investigation was hopelessly bogged down and slipping from the department’s attention.

  “I’m curious to know,” she interjected, “if the community in Anacostia is providing any clues?”

  Colin’s attention shifted from Harvey to Gabby with a condescending glance. “Difficult question, Rabbi. You see,” he said, “the police have a difficult role to play in black communities. Poor black people are usually the victims of crime, yet survival instincts make them suspicious of law enforcement. There’s hardly a family that doesn’t have a member doing time in prison or hiding from the law. Everybody knows somebody who has had trouble, is having trouble, or will shortly be in trouble. So you can understand the hesitation to volunteer information. Most of our intelligence comes from informers.”

  Harvey had been waiting for an opportunity to offer a suggestion. “Then should we be offering a reward?”

  “There have been discussions about it. But the homicide unit is still running down clues and wants to wait a little.”

  “Any progress on establishing a motive?” Gabby pursued.

  “Once again, that’s more detail than I get in such matters. The officers in charge might know something more, but what they have said is that Bart’s wallet was taken. It was later discovered in Northeast Washington, probably where the killer parked his car. The cash was gone. The thief threw away the wallet and cards. Smart criminals usually don’t try to use stolen cards.”

  “Do they know what Bart was doing in the park after sundown? It’s not the kind of place a white person would go without a good reason.”

  Colin Jameson tightened his lips and shook his head. It was clear that he, at least, had no idea. “It’s a rough place,” he said. “The local community uses city parks for many purposes, some recreational, some legal, and some illegal—like drugs.”

  As soon as another guest stole the commissioner’s attention, Florence turned to her husband. “You see, Harv,” she said. “The authorities are dead in the water. There hasn’t been any significant movement for weeks. And the longer it goes, the less attention the press will give it and the less the officers will care.” To Gabby she asked, “Do you think this is deliberate anti-Semitism?”

  “Despite all the murder mysteries we see on television and in the movies,” Gabby replied, “I don’t think we have the foggiest idea how the police really operate. I’d be hesitant to level charges of anti-Semitism.”

  “Well, I’m thoroughly frustrated,” Harvey declared. “My son’s murderer is still prowling the streets while Bart is buried in the cold ground. It galls me to think that the killer may get away because the police are incompetent.”

  “If we can find out what Bart was doing in the park, I think it might be easier,” Gabby replied. “I was waiting for the authorities to run things down but, since they don’t seem to be having any success, I’ve got an idea.”

  “Whatever it is, I’d like to help,” Harvey said, looking momentarily brighter. “Mind telling me your thinking?”

  “Not yet. I’ve just got a hunch. Must ask some questions first. Then I’ll be in a position to share my thoughts wit
h you.”

  At that moment, Morgan appeared at the top of the stairs, carrying her son swaddled in a white cotton blanket. Conversations tailed off as the guests became aware of her presence and Noah moved immediately to the base of the stairs to receive his family. Morgan’s elegant descent captured everyone's eyes. She wore a stunning emerald green dress cut to minimize a waist still thick from pregnancy. For this occasion, her dusty blonde hair had been swept back over her ears and pinned up. She cradled her son in one arm, grasping the banister with her free hand. The guests gasped in horror when she miss-stepped near the landing and Noah bounded up the steps to assist her. By the time he arrived, however, she had regained her balance. To show that she had not lost control, she refused his help and descended quickly to the tile floor.

  From behind Gabby came Dov Shellenberg’s familiar voice. “Made it,” he exclaimed, sounding a little winded.

  “Good,” Gabby responded, turning to see whether he was still sore about being asked to co-officiate. “The mohel hasn’t arrived yet. Since nothing can happen until he comes, we’ll just have to wait.”

  Dov and Gabby moved together into the dining room to rendezvous with Morgan, Noah, and Alan. It was Gabby’s first chance to see the rosy-cheeked newborn. Alan had inherited his mother’s blond hair and his father’s light eyes. He seemed to be smiling in his sleep, though Gabby suspected he might still be too young to smile. She wasn’t sure; it was one of the complex questions of motherhood she hoped one day to resolve for herself. She longed to cradle him in her arms.

  Morgan proved as cordial as she expected, though Gabby had purposely kept her at arm’s length after Noah’s brief imprisonment. Well-wishers surrounded the new mother, peering at her baby and cooing. Most tried a little baby talk. Noah, buoyant with happiness, kept repeating that Alan was the best thing he had ever created, outclassing even the most monumental of Pyramid Development’s real estate projects.