A Kiss for Rabbi Gabrielle

by Roger Herst

  “Some alternative,” she grumbled, but quickly made her choice. “All right, it’s the back seat for me.” She shimmied through the gap between the driver and passenger seats, then crawled between the boxes of ammunition, gun cases, and targets that cluttered the rear compartment. There was barely a place to crouch, much less hide. “What the hell is back here,” she exclaimed, “the federal arsenal? You could arm a banana republic with what you’ve got here.”

  “ I’m not a neat person.”

  “Join the club. But this stuff looks lethal.”

  “My toys make a statement —don’t screw with a Jewish dentist from Chevy Chase,” he blurted, then apologized. “Sorry, I’ve also got a foul mouth.”

  Joel proceeded cautiously, and then stopped as picketers blocked the road. He opened his window and presented as friendly a face as he could. “Well, well, ladies, I believe we’ve met before. Welcome to KISS. A bunch of terrific kids from your neighborhood will be arriving soon. They’re coming to learn about how to handle guns safely so nobody will get shot accidentally. You could say they’re here to ensure you won’t get hurt.” Despite his friendliness, Gabby could hear the undercurrent of irritation in his voice.

  She recognized Denise Crosby’s voice. “You are the devil’s emissary, Joel Fox. You’re teaching our kids more than safety. We hear the tat, tat, tat, tat, tat of assault weapons. You can’t fool us; we know that sound too well. It took my nephew. He was only sixteen years old.”

  “You've got it wrong,” he replied, but with some gentleness, responding to the raw pain that lay under the anger in her voice. “What you’re hearing is sequential firing by a team of marksmen. We forbid assault guns at this club. They are not for our members and certainly not for your youngsters. Please take the time to get your facts straight. I’d invite you to see for yourselves, but you‘re apparently not willing to do that. If you change your minds, you’re always welcome as my guests. But guests have a responsibility to be respectful. Someday, I hope you ladies will understand that we’re doing you a favor.” With that he revved his engine to make it clear he would inch his Bronco through those still blocking the road. Gravel under the tires crackled and the demonstrators separated, leaving space to navigate.

  Once at the clubhouse, he helped Gabby climb out over the mound of equipment in the Bronco, and removed a black leather pistol pouch with a 9-millimeter Beretta, earphones, and two boxes of cartridges. She followed him to the handgun range, a short field with a bald hillside for a backdrop. They found themselves alone, though high velocity hunting rifles on an adjacent range cracked, creating thunderous echoes that reverberated for seconds. At a firing stand, Joel pulled back the 5-inch barrel of his handgun to inspect the chamber.

  “So you think firing this will tell you who killed Bart?” he asked, shifting through a stack of paper targets and then attaching one to an overhead pulley.

  “Some people are analytical and reason things out. I’m more empirical. My mind works best when I can touch and feel something.”

  “All right,” he answered, slipping an ammunition clip into the butt of the hardwood handgrip before offering it to her, the muzzle pointed downrange, “here’s a loaded pistol, as lethal as it gets. I repeat: very, very dangerous. Do your thing, please.”

  Her fear and revulsion returned as she took possession of the gun. A gun very much like this one had killed Bart. A film of perspiration moistened her brow. The pistol was heavier than her experience with the .22 rifle had led her to expect. Careful to avoid touching the trigger guard, she lifted the pistol to firing position as she has seen actors do on the screen.

  “Now, stop right there, young lady,” he snapped. “Let’s go back to Gun Safety 101. What’s the first thing you do with any firearm?”

  She shrugged, her confusion bordering on panic. She was unable to recall anything now from the lesson she’d shared with the kids; her mind was blank.

  He could see she was struggling. “Okay, Gabby, say to yourself, I don’t know this fellow, Joel Fox, who has just handed me a gun which he claims is loaded. He could be a liar or just a jerk. Probably both. Can I afford to take his word for something that could mean the difference between life and death? I must check it out for myself. Point the muzzle to the ground and pull back the firing mechanism. Examine the open breach and confirm what I just said.”

  She needed him to show her what to pull back and where to look. He placed his left hand over hers on the Beretta and, with his right, pulled back the top of the barrel, exposing the side opening of the firing chamber. A bullet was lodged in position to receive the firing pin. He showed her how to close the breech without smacking the bullet and insisted she repeat the procedure herself.

  “Now look at the target,” he said, once satisfied that she had taken the proper precautions. “Aim through the back sight to the front, and pull back on the trigger very gently. No jerking with your pulling finger. The police use .9 mm handguns because they’re fast and can penetrate a moving car to stop the driver inside. Expect a big kickback and a loud bang.”

  She imitated countless movie actors by extending her arms and lining up. But the handgun’s weight dragged her aim off-target. The longer she took to center the sight, the more difficult it was to steady the weapon. On three occasions, the front sight passed over the target and, just as fast, swept by. Exasperated, she jerked the trigger hard as the target flashed before the front sight. A sharp, deafening crack startled her. The gun’s backfire threw her arms upwards.

  “This isn’t easy, is it?” she exclaimed, recovering.

  “Not like TV, if that’s what you mean. You’ve got nine more cartridges in the clip. Blast away. Forget about a bull’s-eye. Let’s see if you can hit the target this time.”

  She missed once, twice, and a third time before asking for help.

  He stepped closer to wrap his arm around her shoulders, repositioning her. With his left arm, he guided her left hand forward for stability. She was suddenly intensely aware of his physical presence—the warmth of his hand on hers, the strength of his arm around her, his soft breath on her neck— and the attraction she felt confused her. Joel continually surprised her, confounding her expectations, but there was a philosophical gulf between them. Sometimes she wondered if her body spoke a different language than her brain did. She inhaled deeply to steady herself and refocused her attention.

  When her arms were properly arranged, he carefully released his hold so she could aim by herself. The new position was an improvement, but she still had difficulty keeping the front sight lined up. The weight caused unfamiliar muscles to strain. Every effort to align the sight seemed to make her aim worse. Four consecutive shots missed their mark. The quiver in her left arm turned into a muscular spasm.

  “Missed again,” she said, looking towards Joel.

  He couldn’t see the results of her efforts without the telescope, but he sensed that all of her shots had missed the target. “You see,” he said, “it isn’t easy as television makes it appear.”

  “Whoever shot Bart must have been very strong,” she commented.

  “Probably not so much strong as well trained,” he replied. “We don’t know how many bullets missed Bart, do we? As far as I can remember from the news, the police didn’t find any empty cartridges. Experienced criminals usually gather them before leaving a crime scene. Amateurs don’t bother and lead investigators to their doorstep.”

  “Now that I understand how tough it was to shoot Bart. I’d like to try again.”

  “Be my guest. Shoot out the clip. Incidentally, how many bullets are left?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t count.”

  “In the future, count! There are three left. Some day information like that may save your life. A trained marksman always knows how many shells are in his firearm.”

  Lining up to try again proved easier, but keeping the sight on target remained a challenge. Two more bullets missed, then another. Joel asked if she wanted to keep trying, but she felt as sp
ent as the dispatched shells. It was harder to shoot someone than she’d imagined and all she’d attempted to do was hit a target. She couldn’t imagine pointing the pistol at another human being and pulling the trigger. But people did. Someone had practiced at a range like this one until he could shoot well enough to kill Bart. The darkness of that intent appalled her. The darkness of a human heart. Not the handgun itself. The handgun was now an object: an object that required careful handling, to be sure, but only an object. She grieved for Denise Crosby and her pain. No protest, no legislation could make the world safe from human darkness.

  There was no time to discuss her reactions with Joel. A bell from the clubhouse announced the arrival of youngsters from the city.

  Joel welcomed the new group and they began with the gun safety course Gabby had observed previously. The students were again divided into groups to drill on safety procedures and then, after a break for refreshments, moved onto the rifle range. There were a few familiar faces among them, and Kendra Neils’ was one. Gabby took pains to pair with her on the firing platform, but couldn’t tell if the girl approved or not. She seemed focused on the shooting to come.

  “You finally gonna get this old lady to shoot straight?” she kidded, as Kendra properly inspected the breach of a .22 resting on the firing stand.

  That produced a sudden, enthusiastic grin. “Oh sure. You weren’t so bad. Only you blink when you pull the trigger. That only makes you flinch. Keep your eyes open when you pull.”

  “I’ll remember that when it’s my turn.”

  Kendra dropped into firing position and fingered the .22 cartridges neatly packed into a snug box of 50. She looked upward, first to the red firing flag and then to Joel, who was pacing behind the benches to confirm that the youngsters were ready. At another firing table, a chubby girl with a large mauve ribbon in her hair declared that a bullet was jammed in the breach of her rifle—a potentially dangerous situation that required the immediate attention of an expert.

  “Say, Kendra,” Gabby leaned toward her in a conspiratorial manner. “Last time, you told me about how easy it is to get a Saturday night special. Do you remember?”

  “I remember.” She didn’t look at Gabby.

  “If I wanted to get one, how would I go about it? On the street, that is?”

  “You wouldn’t have to. Just go to a store and buy a gun. Rich people like you don’t need a special.”

  “If I told you I wasn’t rich, would you believe me?”

  For the first time, Kendra turned to face her. “Nope. You act like a rich lady. I think you got plenty of dough, but if you want a special, just go to Switchboard.”

  The answer confused her. “What's Switchboard?”

  “Every few blocks got a guy called Switchboard. He stands on the corner at 7:00 p.m. every night. You tell him what you want, and he goes to tell the boss man.”

  “Who’s the boss man?”

  “You’re not supposed to know him. That’s the way it works. Switchboard always tells somebody else. Then the next night, you go back to Switchboard and he tells you where to take your deposit money and where you get the gun. On Monday, Switchboard tells you where to bring the rest of the money.”

  “Quite a system,” Gabby remarked. Certainly not one taught in rabbinical school.

  ***

  Gabby didn’t have a date that evening—not unusual these days—and none of her friends had asked her out to dinner, so she looked forward to an evening at home. Just as well, she thought, since it gave her some time to curl up with a book. It seemed that every congregant had a book to recommend, the total being far beyond her —or anyone’s —ability to read in a lifetime. By itself that was not a problem; less manageable was the tendency of some congregants to become resentful when she didn’t follow their recommendations. Even when she patiently explained how many unread books were piled on her coffee table, they were still insulted that theirs was not the highest priority.

  She thought about calling Zoe Mountolive, with whom she had not spoken with for more than two months. Reaching Zoe on a Saturday night was probably unlikely, but she decided to try anyway. She was surprised when Zoe, home in her Manhattan apartment, answered almost immediately.

  “So how is Clive?” Gabby asked.

  “A vanishing moment in history. A woman nearly forty years old with a teenage kid can only compete with the girls for so long. I try to stay in shape, put more anti-wrinkle cream on my skin than is healthy, and pretend to be Ms. Smoking Hot, but there are always girls with tighter muscle tone and more stamina than I have. Clive needs a string of ponies, not a faithful mare. Just as well. I’ve now got more time for Clemmy.”

  “And how is Clementine?” asked Gabby, abandoning what she knew to be a painful subject for Zoe.

  “Impossible, like her friends at school. Whoever said that parenthood is a sublime experience should be crucified. Clemmy and I are entangled in the normal mother-daughter squabbles. If she could lend me some of her excessive hormones, Clive might still be around. And you, Gabby? Any interesting men in your life?”

  “Nobody special, but that’s par for the course these days. Still, there’s one fellow circling this aging carcass like a buzzard—a divorced dentist with two young sons in Los Angeles. A bit overweight. A bit too short. A bit too little hair. And worst of all, he’s a gun lover and a hunter. Would you believe it? But there’s something mysteriously attractive about him. He lacks all pretension and, in this town, that’s refreshing. You always know what he’s thinking, even if you don’t agree with him. And he’s got a big heart, especially for kids.”

  “That sounds like you’re playing in the attic with TNT. Any chemistry?”

  “Hard to say. When I was younger, I thought I understood my body. Now it only confuses me. I say one thing; it tells me something different.”

  “And work?” Zoe asked.

  “Demanding. But I’m getting more efficient at the daily functions. That makes it easier.”

  “I guess your colleague helps, right?”

  Gabby hesitated. She made it a rule never to speak negatively about a colleague, but she knew Zoe to be a model of professional discretion and she was accustomed to speaking freely with her. “Wrong. My associate is a disaster on wheels. Rigid and pompous. I find it hard to relate to him. But he’s a damn good rabbi, knowledgeable and hard working. Both of us carry on a public charade of collegiality, which is mentally draining. Mel Brooks once said ‘The Good Old Days were lousy.’ He was wrong. How I long for the good old days with Seth Greer.”

  “Any word from him in Israel?”

  “Not for several months. I’m thinking about a summer vacation there, but I’ve become a tennis freak. I eat and drink the sport. I even occasionally think of life situations in tennis metaphors. From the pulpit I talk about ethical punch volleys and low-percentage interpersonal ground shots. And what Moses would have done in a 6-5 tiebreaker. My coach and I are going on the road together—playing doubles in the big-time circuit. She’s got me all pumped up.”

  “You’re well out of my league by now, ” Zoe sighed.

  “How about bringing Clemmy down to visit me?”

  “I’d like that. She mentions you often. Let me talk with her about it.”

  “Adolescent girls need aunts to balance against their mothers.”

  “She’s yours.” Zoe was quick. “For as long as you want. Just send her back to me after she reaches menopause.”

  Donning flannel pajamas, Gabby stretched out on the rug before her fireplace and lost herself in a novel. When her phone rang, she was first startled, then wary of the interruption. Being a spiritual pastor for more than 3,000 families meant that there was always something to command her attention. She let three rings pass before she reluctantly lifted the receiver, expecting to hear Chuck—often the harbinger of bad news.

  “Hi, Gabby.” She sensed some surprise on the other end of the line. “It’s Joel. I took a wild chance you’d be home this evening. Wasn’t actually expecting
to reach you.”

  “Religious school in the morning, then gun safety and pistol firing in the afternoon. I’m entitled to a little rest, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely. I wanted to tell you how much I admire your open-mindedness. I know a lot of women who detest guns and wouldn’t fire a handgun for all the tea in China. You’re different. I appreciate where you’re coming from, and think it’s wonderful that you’re willing to look before you judge. But that’s not the primary reason I called.”

  “It’s no secret who the corrupting influence is. You’re a good instructor, Joel, though in all honesty, I’d rather have you teaching in my Hebrew school. But what did you call about?”

  “I’d like to talk with you about a personal problem, Gabby. I value your counsel.”

  “I’m always willing to listen.”

  “Since you’re home, do you think we might meet somewhere for a drink? I’m used to talking face-to-face rather than on the phone. It’s about my kids in California. I told you why I haven’t sued for custody.”

  “That sounded extremely broad-minded to me.”

  “But it isn’t working out. I was just on the phone with my ex. Donald and Ian are having troubles in school and just about everywhere else. Donald was caught shoplifting. It’s not the first time. Agnes is so busy that she isn’t around much. She wants to be the new Stephanie Spielberg and has forgotten how to be an on-the-job mother. My strategy’s failed, Gabby. I think it’s time for me to seek custody.”

  She considered. It meant the end of her quiet Saturday evening, but the thought of being with Joel was not unpleasant. “Okay, let’s rendezvous. You’re in Bethesda, right? How about somewhere in between. Say, Chevy Chase Pavilion? There’s a new brew house nearby and I always enjoy a good stout. How about you?”

  “For me, something low-calorie. Can you make it in 45 minutes?”

  “If I come in my pajamas.”

  “Then come in pajamas. Your congregants will love it. And so will I.”

  She chose the less outré option of jeans, a Land’s End shirt, and a lamb’s wool cardigan, and arrived only a few minutes late. He was waiting for her in jeans, a khaki shirt, and, as she noticed with approval, a stylish Italian leather jacket. He’d taken some care to prepare for their informal meeting. The stainless steel brewing vats and hatch top tables of CC Haragan’s brew house, sandwiched between multi-story office buildings in Chevy Chase, attracted a boisterous young clientele and they had to wait for a table at the bar, where bodies were so closely packed that serious talk was impossible.