A Kiss for Rabbi Gabrielle

by Roger Herst

  The discussion ended without consensus, but this was unsurprising; proposals were now on the table. Gabby decided to contribute one other idea that had been stirring in her mind since Bart’s death – financial backing to help Mothers against Guns become more effective and perhaps spread their success to new cities. Since the others were unfamiliar with the group, they were hesitant to support it. In the end, Harvey Skulkin added Mothers against Guns to the list of proposals for further consideration. A future meeting would address each possibility in more detail. Gabby volunteered to provide a history of Mothers against Guns, as well as have the mothers outline what they would do with financial assistance.

  “Remember that they have to raise at least fifty-percent to satisfy my family foundation,” Noah said as he escorted Gabby to her Jeep outside. “This isn’t a matter of discretion on our part. It’s in the bylaws. But hiring a tennis coach for the remainder of this season is something far more modest. That I can handle on my own, outside the Zentner Foundation. I would imagine there are scores of young player-coaches who’d love a job.”

  “You’re sure about helping with a coach for this year?” Gabby pursued, as she unlocked the Jeep.

  “Let me give it some thought. A week. No more. But first, I’d like to drive out to Anacostia and see what I’m buying. Perhaps meet some of the kids.”

  “I’ll arrange for you to meet the players and see the substandard tennis courts they use.”

  The word substandard caught his ear and he grinned. “What is this? Do I hear a hidden agenda, Rabbi Lewyn? Are you hinting that, in addition to underwriting expenses for a coach, there’s something else I should do? Say provide new courts?”

  “Now, what a splendid idea, Noah! From your lips to God’s ears.” Her surprise was intended to be transparent. “What the boys have now is unacceptable. No place to train in foul weather. And they have to share the courts with the public. To become champions they’ll need more than that.”

  ***

  Though Gabby’s mentor, Rabbi Dr. Seth Nehemiah Greer, had been a born politician, she had never considered herself particularly skillful in that department. During her apprenticeship, Seth had shielded her from congregational infighting, but when she’d been promoted she’d rapidly learned that rabbis have to continuously campaign for their jobs. Rapport with one congregational board of directors did not automatically transfer automatically to the next. To be successful she had to continually adjust to shifting personalities, even if that sometimes felt like abandoning old friends who had retired from positions of authority. She considered the process unsavory yet necessary.

  The Rabbinical Services Committee met on Monday evening at Chairman Louis Mortimer’s home in nearby Bethesda, Maryland. A partner in the accounting firm of Castle, Iskowitz, Mortimer, and Chang, Louis was an unpretentious, studious individual who had accepted the chairmanship because he’d believed that the committee would deal primarily with budgetary issues and the fit seemed natural. Only a few months into the job, he was already joking about his naiveté.

  When Gabby’s arrived, it was immediately clear to her that she’d interrupted a pre-meeting caucus. Vice-chair Claire Tobin had expressed profound displeasure with Gabby’s report to the National Coalition for Gun Control, and had clashed with Tovia Gold, a vivacious young mother strongly supportive of Gabby. The debate threatened to spill over into the official meeting until George Weiner, a professor of computer science at George Washington University, brokered a temporary truce. A little embarrassment on the part of other members helped smooth the waters momentarily, but it was not an auspicious start to the evening.

  Louis Mortimer opened the formal meeting, reminding Gabby that her salary and benefits were scheduled for review at an upcoming meeting, and suggesting in a humorous tone that this was not a meeting she could afford to miss. After various comments about the salary process at Ohav Shalom, Gabby steered the conversation to what was uppermost on her mind—a letter she had written to Louis enthusiastically supporting the renewal of Dov Shellenberg’s contract for three more years. Several members shuffled the papers before them to dig out copies.

  Claire Tobin seized the opportunity to ask the question that concerned the committee. “There’s talk that you and Dov are not getting along. Is there substance to that, Rabbi?”

  Gabby had expected the question. “Talk is what it is, Claire,” she replied. “Louis told me that Dov would be on tonight’s agenda and I’ve thought about this a lot. I hope you will relay what I say to the board, because I would like them to weigh my thoughts on the matter—not the rumors they may have heard. I have the utmost respect for Rabbi Shellenberg’s rabbinical skills. He is well trained and scholarly. He’s always prepared and speaks with great conviction. Ohav Shalom is lucky to benefit from his zeal.” She paused dramatically to let this sink in, then continued. “However, it’s no secret that the two of us sometimes disagree. At times our styles clash. But this is a personal matter between Rabbi Shellenberg and myself. His career should not be penalized because we do not share the same opinions. So as you develop a recommendation to the board, please look carefully at his rabbinical talents – at his scholarship, his public speaking, his teaching ability, and his dedication. Please refer to my letter to Lewis supporting the renewal of his contract. I must stress that our differences are not irreconcilable. I, for one, am absolutely pledged to reduce misunderstandings. Moreover, I would be very displeased if our conflicts became the basis for not renewing his contract. Rabbi Greer, when he was senior rabbi here, and I did not always see things the same way. But we were not frightened by disagreements. Think of the disputes between the schools of Bet Hillel and Bet Shamai in the Talmudic period. This shul has always respected diversity of opinion. So when its rabbis differ from time to time, no one should be alarmed or threatened.”

  “But doesn’t this bickering give the wrong impression?” Claire pursued. “Don’t we want to present ourselves as a united family, with shared goals? How can we attract new members if they believe our rabbis are fighting?”

  “Simple,” said Gabby emphatically. “We affirm the principal of plurality. The only thing we have a right to expect is that disagreements are framed in a respectful tone. And there's never been any question of disrespect between Dov and myself.”

  Louis Mortimer followed Claire. “Your views will be properly evaluated, Rabbi. And we appreciate your forthrightness. Now let’s shift to a tangential issue. The board has received complaints from members that sometimes you are unavailable to perform life-cycle ceremonies because you’re playing in tennis tournaments. The board has asked us to evaluate this matter. People are impressed by your athletic skill. They’re proud of you, but when Rabbi Shellenberg is asked to fill in when you’re not available, that ruffles feathers, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do, Louis, and I know this has caused inconvenience for a few of our members. But I promise you it’s only temporary, if for no other reason than I’m not half as good at tennis as the press make me out to be. If I let you into my confidence, please don’t repeat what you hear, even to the board.”

  She dramatically lowered her voice to a whisper, pulling committee members into her confidence. “If the truth be known, my days of playing competitive tennis are numbered. Younger women beat me consistently. While I’d like to be as quick and agile as they are, the body just won’t cooperate.”

  Claire Tobin interrupted her. “Rabbi, don’t you think your persona as an athlete tarnishes your professional image?”

  “Not as a rabbi. Perhaps as a tennis player.”

  The remark stirred nervous laughter.

  Again Claire pursued. “Rabbi Shellenberg says that it’s quite unusual for a rabbi to be engaged in competitive sports.”

  “He’s not wrong,” Gabby replied mildly, “though we could list a host of clergymen who have achieved success in sports. And these days, isn’t every prizefighter or NFL star a pastor of some denomination or other? I must admit that I’m as surprised
by my success as many of you. Tennis started as a hobby and remains no more than that.” Claire’s insistence was beginning to annoy her, but reacting to it would be no help.

  “Would you say that tennis feeds your rabbinical work or that your rabbinical profession feeds your tennis?” Claire would make a fine prosecutor, Gabby thought.

  “Neither. One is my chosen occupation. The other is a way to keep in shape, mentally and physically. You all know my feelings about healthy bodies promoting healthy minds.”

  “Some members say that you should decide what you want to be—an athlete or rabbi,” Tovia Gold remarked. “I don’t think this is an either-or situation, but others do.”

  Gabby fought off the sense that her privacy had been invaded. Had she been the average weekend duffer, nobody would have raised an eyebrow. Her success had prompted the inquiry. “Last I heard, tennis wasn’t on anybody’s list of forbidden activities,” she said.

  “It isn’t tennis, per se, which people are objecting to, Rabbi, but your availability for rabbinical services,” Louis Mortimer replied.

  “Am I not supposed to have any free time, Louis?”

  “Of course you are. But your pastime has become a public affair. People refer to you as the “tennis playing Rabbi.” That’s not the image Ohav Shalom has in mind for its spiritual leader. The prestige of its senior rabbi reflects on the entire congregation. Of course, not everybody feels like this. I’m sure some get quite a kick out of seeing you mentioned in the sports page or on television.”

  “A temporary phenomenon,” Gabby repeated, looking at Claire Tobin’s scowling face. “I’m suffering from lower-back pain. And if you want to know the truth, my knees aren’t so hot, either. But please don’t mention this. Competitors would love to run me around the court to see me collapse. It’s just a matter of time before my doctor tells me it's time to take up golf.”

  “We appreciate your openness,” Louis replied, clearly embarrassed by the interrogatory tone of the questioning”. As I said at the beginning, the purpose of this meeting is to set forth topics for discussion. Gabby, I want you to know that we’ll be getting together with Dov Shellenberg next week. Your opinion about him is noted and will be carefully considered in our recommendation.”

  As the other board members started to gather their papers and close the proceedings, Claire Tobin spoke sharply, “We have yet to consider the rabbi’s report to the National Coalition for Gun Control.”

  Louis frowned. “Not tonight, Claire. I’m going to postpone that discussion until next month. The subject will not go away anytime soon.” He scanned the committee members, challenging them to buck his authority. For once, Claire backed down.

  The meeting ended without the usual cordiality. No major decisions had been made, but Gabby left with a bad feeling. The issue of her tennis was thornier than she had anticipated and her response to criticism had failed to garner sympathy. Even more distressing, her relationship with Dov had become controversial. Clearly, this evening was only an opening salvo.

  ***

  Among the papers awaiting attention on Gabby’s desk was a handwritten membership list for Mothers against Guns. For help in developing her proposal, she asked Chuck to contact Hillary Jones, Karlene Patrick-Hill, Denise Crosby, Ersiline Patricia North, and Delillah Senegal. “A secretary at the National Coalition for Gun Control can give you their phone numbers. Please get addresses as well, and e-mail addresses if they have them. I’ve got a week to collect their views about how to handle donations made in Bart’s memory.”

  “You really think they can help?” Chuck often acted as ombudsman.

  “I don’t know why not,” she replied. “They’re independent ladies who, I suspect, don’t agree on much, but this cause is close their hearts. Besides, these days consultation is obligatory. If I don’t consult the beneficiaries first, nobody will take me seriously.”

  Chuck enjoyed running things down, but getting phone numbers for the members of Mothers against Guns proved more difficult than he had expected. Two numbers provided by the Coalition were no longer connected. Three addresses were also inaccurate. After coming up empty-handed, he reported back to Gabby, “Hard to consult people you can’t locate,”

  “How many of the women did you call?” she asked

  “Two. Both numbers were disconnected.

  “What about the others?”

  “No numbers at all. And the addresses were either out-of-date or simply wrong.”

  “Do you think the Coalition secretary could have gotten the names scrambled?”

  “That’s what I thought, so I called a second time and had another person look for me.”

  “Then I’m going to ask their previous neighbors.”

  “Over my dead body,” Chuck countered. “You’re not going alone. Your friend Joel Fox has clout with the police. Maybe they’ll send a SWAT team to protect you. “

  “Then, for sure, nobody will talk with me.”

  “I know the Master of the Universe looks after the welfare of His obliging servant, but one of these days you’re going to get hurt when He’s snoozing. That’s why you need me to ride shotgun when you drive your stagecoach into Dodge City. I insist upon going with you.”

  She smiled. “It isn’t necessary, but your company is always welcome.”

  Gabby had never been comfortable with Chuck’s driving, and usually insisted upon taking the wheel when they went anywhere together. This time, however, he inveigled her into riding in his new Nissan Sentra. He considered the car a gift from Thomas, since he’d made the down payment from the bequest Thomas had left him.

  As Chuck barreled over potholes, dodged traffic, and tailgated, she regretted letting sentimentality sway her judgment. “Only a woman with spaghetti for brains would think it safer to drive with you than walk this neighborhood on foot,” she declared, stomping her foot on an imaginary brake pedal.

  Of all of the members of Mothers Against Guns she’d met, Gabby had felt the most personal rapport with Hillary Jones. So they began their search with the address they had for her on 18th Street Southeast. It led them to a weathered brownstone built in the early 1920s, when Southeast had been a residential neighborhood for federal employees working on Capitol Hill. Now, uncollected garbage and discarded debris cluttered the streets, and people on the sidewalk eyed them with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

  A dusty stoop led to an entry door with a broken lock. Inside, they discovered a corridor with painted doors sealed with steel straps and padlocks. Because Chuck refused to trust the dilapidated elevator, they took the stairs, arriving somewhat winded at Apartment 402 on the fourth floor.

  Three sequences of knocks failed to elicit a response. Eventually the noise drew the attention of a middle-aged black woman from an apartment across the hall.

  “Excuse us,” said Gabby with a cordial smile. “We’re friends of Hillary Jones and are trying to get in touch with her. She used to live here, didn’t she?”

  A man with the defined muscles of a weight lifter appeared behind the woman and growled, “What you want her for?”

  “We’re friends. We work with Mothers against Guns.”

  The odor of tobacco permeated the hall. “She don’t live here no more,” he replied, with the rasp of a heavy smoker.

  “Know where she is now?” Chuck asked.

  He hesitated a moment, looking at the women beside him. “Nope,” he said. “Hillary ain’t been around here for a long time.”

  “But she has two kids, doesn’t she?” Gabby said. “Don’t her children come back occasionally to play with their friends?”

  “Don’t know nothing about them.”

  “Do you know who we could ask for help?” Chuck followed.

  “You could ask anybody, but they ain’t gonna tell you nothing.”

  The man reached around the woman to shut the door while Chuck nudged his shoulder against a panel to keep it propped open. “Why won’t you tell us?” he insisted.

  The black man,
a head taller and at least fifty pounds heavier than Chuck, muscled his way around the woman for better leverage on the door. Simultaneously, Chuck moved in front of Gabby to wedge his foot in the doorjamb. “Just tell us why, that’s all we ask. I can’t understand why you wouldn’t want to help us. We’re Hillary’s friends.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed and his lips tightened. “They all say the same thing. Hillary ain’t got no friends. ‘Specially, no white friends.”

  “That’s not true,” Gabby interjected, sounding her frustration. “We’ve always had very cordial relations. I’m trying to raise money for Mothers against Guns. There are people who like what she and her organization are doing and want to help.”

  The woman laughed, a bitter, mocking sound that conveyed her disbelief.

  Finding neither hospitality nor friendliness, Gabby shot back, “Even if you don’t help, we’ll find her. She has children in school. And to be enrolled in a DC school you must have an address.”

  “Right,” the man snarled. “You got all the answers, lady.” With his knee, he forced Chuck’s leg from the doorway and slammed the door shut.

  “Well, what do you make of that?” Gabby asked as they made their way back to the lobby.

  “They’re obviously frightened of something.”

  “Or suspicious of white people.”

  “Trust me, Rabbi Gabby. They’re frightened. Suspicious people are reticent. These people were absolutely hostile. You’d need a good set of pylons and crampons to climb the mountain they erected between us. But you had a good idea, anyway. Hillary has kids in school. A computer check should tell us in which. It should also give us her current address and phone number.”