A Kiss for Rabbi Gabrielle

by Roger Herst

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. The West Coast attracts liberal-minded people.”

  “Get real. Liberals in this country are for abortion, socialized medicine, welfare, and freedom of sexual orientation. But not for the freedom to own firearms. These days guns, red meat, and smoking are on every liberal’s shit list.”

  “Sorry, I have to break off, Joel. These days there are so many people coming to talk that my study looks like the waiting room in a dental office—no insult intended. I’m afraid I’ve got to run.”

  “If you weren’t nursing a sore muscle, I’d think you're ready for a jog.”

  She laughed. “Right. Keep in touch, will you? I always like to hear from you.”

  “Glad to have you back in town.”

  Aware that face-to-face meetings between Gabby and Dov were rare, Chuck was surprised when Dov walked down the corridor to her study. He didn’t need permission to enter, and, therefore, didn’t ask for it. Instead, he barged in, forcefully shutting the door behind him. The thought of eavesdropping on the fireworks flashed through Chuck’s mind, but he dismissed it immediately. Gabby would likely tell him later.

  Dov was in shirtsleeves, rare attire since his sense of rabbinical deportment compelled him to wear a suit jacket and necktie while in the synagogue. His complexion was drawn; his hands were in nervous motion. A pair of chairs faced Gabby’s desk and two upholstered wing chairs stood beside her coffee table, but Dov elected to stand. He clutched the back of a chair and seemed to take a moment to compose himself.

  “You’re sure you won’t sit? How about a cup of tea?” she offered, seeing he was disturbed.

  “No. The way I feel, that would only burn my throat.”

  “How do you feel, Dov?”

  “Like I’ve been two-timed by someone I thought I could trust, knifed in the gizzard, and shipped down the river in a funereal canoe.”

  This got her attention and she leaned forward. “Who’s the treacherous Haman and what did this scoundrel do?”

  Small droplets of spittle appeared in the corner of his mouth. “Don’t play innocent with me, Gabby. I met with the Rabbinical Services Committee last night. I’ve worked my tush off at Ohav Shalom, and I think I’ve given damn good service to the members. I expected a pinch of gratitude, perhaps an extension of my contract and a modest raise in salary. Neither Sheila nor I believed these were unrealistic expectations. Many members have told us that they hope we will consider remaining at Ohav. But that’s not what the Committee had in mind.”

  Gabby was startled; she’d known that the Committee was meeting, but she believed it only preliminary in nature. “What makes you think this, Dov?”

  “They didn’t want to talk about anything but the differences between us. They took it as a given that we hate each other’s guts, that communication has all but broken down, and that there’s little hope of reconciliation.”

  “Now that does alarm me,” she stated. “Who are we talking about, specifically?”

  “Louis Mortimer and Claire Tobin to start. And Judith Langford and George Weiner. Not one word about the service I perform at this shul. Not one mention of the backup I’ve provided for you. Who watches the shop while you’re running about the country playing tennis? Okay, that’s the job of a junior rabbi, I argued to myself. I’m like a freshman lawyer in a big firm, expected to bill a hundred and ten hours a week so the partners can travel in Italy and play golf. Just enough time off to sleep, then back to the office in the morning to rack up more fees. I haven’t challenged the system. The fact is, I’ve toiled in it and done what was expected. What hurts is that you don’t support me. You apparently don’t give a damn about my future. Not one iota of gratitude.”

  “Now just wait a second,” she snapped, rising her out of the chair. “What do you mean, I don’t support you?’”

  “You told the Committee about our problems. That wasn’t professional. They asked if we had differences, and you gave them rope to lynch me. Louis Mortimer all but pronounced the death knoll of my career here. He said that tension between the spiritual leaders is unacceptable, and that the Board of Directors could not let it continue. You know what that means? I’m the kapporah. For the sake of peace on the home front they’ll sacrifice me.”

  “And that’s what you heard at the meeting?” She felt wretched.

  “Don’t play interrogator with me. You told them we were having problems. That’s all they needed to hear. Solution? Ditch the junior rabbi. I’m toast. I wouldn’t mind if I hadn’t worked my ass off, doing overtime while you played tennis. I deserve better treatment, and I think you know it.”

  She took a deep breath and looked directly into his eyes. “You bet you do, Dov,” she said in her crispest, most professional voice. “I’m appalled that this is what you perceive from last night’s meeting. It may be true, but it may also be a matter of perception. You may be drawing the wrong conclusions from isolated remarks. I’ll have to find that out and, I promise you, I will. But I can say one thing for certain right now. Your assertion that I’ve undermined you is absolutely wrong. I told the Committee that your rabbinic work is superb. You’re always scholarly and well prepared. I wrote a memo to Louis saying just that and I’ll be happy to share a copy with you. It’s in writing with my signature at the bottom. So there’s no misunderstanding between us, I want you to know that I also said that we had our differences in style and philosophy, but I was emphatic that such differences should not, I repeat, not affect your career at this shul. Most importantly, I recommended extending your contract for another three years. At the time, I recall thinking that you might not accept. I though your interests and ambitions might take you elsewhere. I thought it possible you might be so fed up with me that you’d prefer to serve with another rabbi. Before you write me off, you’d be well advised to read my memo and have a private talk with Louis.”

  “Get off it, Gabby. They wouldn’t talk about anything but the disagreements between us. They had a list of them.”

  “Then my remarks have been misunderstood. Such things have been known to happen. If they were, I intend to correct the record immediately. I’m going to call Louis. You can hear the conversation if you wish. I’ll ask him what happened at last night’s meeting and, if it sounds like what you just said, I’ll correct the record. What I told them last week is what I stand by now. I recommended that you continue with us for another three years. I also pledged to reconcile our differences, and that’s going to take a little help from you. But Dov, please understand that I want you here working alongside me.”

  His face was flushed and he was hyperventilating. “The damage is done. You know it. The Board might begrudgingly offer me something, but only because you twisted the members’ arms. I don’t want that. It will make my tenure intolerable.”

  She was beginning to feel responsible for the misunderstanding. “I don’t believe that’s true, Dov. Not for one moment.”

  “It’s over. Dead. I might as well pack up my rabbinical career and become a schoolteacher. Who will want me after I’ve been fired?”

  “That’s unadulterated rubbish! You’re not getting fired. First, I’ll get the facts. Then, I’ll correct any misunderstanding. I’m good at things like this. Don’t start packing your bags until you hear from me. I know this is upsetting to you and Sheila. I’d be devastated. But it will only be temporary, I promise you. And more, I profoundly apologize for the pain this has caused. You’re absolutely right. You don’t deserve it. I hope you hear my apology, Dov. I mean it.”

  His eyes were heavy as he stepped back, a tremor in his lower lip.

  She let him reach the door before she moved around the desk, her arms reaching out in his direction. Her smile was enveloping. “Hey, Rabbi. Thanks for covering for me while I played tennis.”

  “Great…just great!” His voice was pure sarcasm as he bolted into Chuck’s office and headed for the corridor.

  Chuck waited for several minutes before venturing through Gabby’s door. He had heard D
ov’s elevated voice, but hadn’t been able to make out what he was so exercised about. He found Gabby slumped in her desk chair, staring into space. She did not acknowledge his presence until he inquired, “Want to tell me about it?”

  “No, I don’t,” she grumbled. “Not really.”

  “Well, how about a Danish to give you a sugar fix and sweeten what looks to be a sour day?”

  “Thanks, but no.” She turned her head and saw him waiting at the door, as though he expected her to change her mind at the last moment—which she suddenly did. “I’ve made a bad mistake with Dov. He’s certain the Board of Directors won’t renew his contract because of the hostility between us. He’s probably right about that, you know. And it’s entirely my fault. I should never have permitted our differences to escalate. I should have nipped them in the bud. They should never have gotten to the gossip stage.”

  He took a step toward the desk, stopped, and planted his hands on his hips. He looked like the Duke of York in Richard III. “If you don’t mind me being impertinent, that’s horse manure, Rabbi Gabby. And deep down, you know it. You and Dov were born on different planets. Conflict between you was inevitable from the first day he was appointed. Sure he’s smart, but he’s also a pompous ass. If you hadn’t stood up to him, he’d have wooed the powers that be and usurped your job. You’d be on the street and he’d be sitting in your chair this very minute, gloating over a cunning victory. Believe me, that’s what he’s been trying to do from day one. “

  “He’s young and needs conditioning. That was my job.”

  “And he’s also rapacious. The training program at Ohav doesn’t include self-aggrandizement. Didn’t Le Petit Prince say you’re responsible for those you tame? Well, you never tamed him so you have no responsibility. Besides, he’s made a lot of friends in the congregation. Influential people. They’re sure to represent his interests before the Board.”

  She turned away, placing a hand on the phone as if to say was time to get back to work. “The Board will probably follow my counsel in the matter. Now, I’m afraid I must make a few calls.”

  “Just a reminder,” he said, backing out the door. “This evening is our meeting with Ersiline Patricia North, Daphne Styles, and another woman—I can’t recall her name—at Buzzard’s Point. Are you ready for dinner at the world-famous Buzzard’s Point Burger King?”

  “You know I don’t eat burgers.”

  “I’m sure they have gourmet vegetarian dishes and a celebrated wine list—the finest from California and France. Their specialty is les fruits de mer served on a bed of bib lettuce and an old-fashioned mushy hamburger bun.”

  “Okay,” she said impatiently, “Let’s leave at 5:00. Please pull the file on the Bart Skulkin Memorial Fund. I’ve got notes from the Memorial Committee that I want to share with the MAG women. Also, get Louis Mortimer on the phone. I want to make an appointment to speak with him ASAP.”

  “He travels a lot these days. Half work and half play.”

  “Then find out where he is and track him down. Above all, I don’t want his committee reporting to the Board before I have a chance to clarify my remarks about Dov. I owe my colleague that much.”

  Chuck considered muzzling his thoughts, but the urge to speak overwhelmed him. “In my humble opinion, Rabbi Gabby, you don’t owe Dov anything. He relishes every opportunity to show he knows more than you.”

  “That’s not constructive, Chuck. You’ve disliked him from the outset. In your mind everything he does is wrong and what he does right, you fail to acknowledge.”

  “Let’s say we’re on different wavelengths. You don’t see what he does behind your back. I do.”

  “I can’t live my life looking over my shoulder.”

  ***

  The Burger King at Buzzard’s Point was particularly run down. Gabby parked her Jeep in a lot filled with battered Fords and Buicks. A District of Columbia police cruiser had backed into a parking space, its ignition running but its headlights dimmed. An officer sat in the front seat talking into a shortwave radio. Nearby, loitering men shrewdly eyed passersby for panhandling opportunities. Two rapidly converged on Chuck, who deposited several coins into their hands.

  Black men filled most of the restaurant seats, but Gabby spotted Ersiline Patricia North at a rear table, with two additional members of Mothers against Guns—the Reverend Claudine Henderson and Daphne Styles. They turned to acknowledge Gabby and Chuck with smiles. Gabby slid into the vacant seat at the table, while Chuck dragged over a chair from a neighboring table.

  After introductions, Chuck and Gabby excused themselves to approach the food counter. Gabby opened her handbag to pay, but Chuck would not permit it. In the Browner family, men always paid restaurant checks. This was an article of chivalry Gabby had long since ceased trying to negotiate.

  Back at the table, they made small talk, avoiding the subject of Bart Skulkin’s memorial. The women from MAG explained that their work had attracted coverage on local television. Several members had been interviewed for a CBS documentary entitled Guns in America’s Schools, but at the last moment the network hadn’t aired it; perhaps, Daphne speculated with some bitterness, “because they’re waiting ‘til more children get killed at school.” The story of Bart Skulkin, a white teacher fighting to keep guns out of his black high school, had produced a flurry of national coverage, but was soon eclipsed by fresher events. His name, the women lamented, had quickly faded from the memories of all but his friends and family.

  Claudine Henderson, pastor to a neighborhood church in Northeast Washington, was rail-thin, with intense eyes that peered through thick lenses. Gabby had not previously met her, but knew her by reputation as one of the more energetic leaders of MAG. She had earned a degree at the University of the District of Columbia, been ordained by her local church, and acquired a considerable reputation as a committed community leader. The other two ladies deferred to her as spokesperson for the occasion, and she deftly brought the conversation back to the proposed memorial by inquiring how a group like MAG would be accountable to a charitable fund. Gabby admitted she did not know, but pointed out that her immediate goal was to formulate a proposal for the donors to evaluate. Details about accountability could be hashed out later.

  “The donors view Bart as a hero,” she said. “What makes his death so tragic is that he didn’t die in a car accident or from cancer, but from the very thing he hated so much. His admirers want to prevent more senseless shootings.”

  Daphne Styles exchanged glances with the other ladies and laid down the plastic fork she had been using to scoop coleslaw from a paper container. “Mr. Skulkin got himself killed because he took his fight to the streets,” she said grimly. “They left him alone in the school. Working to keep guns out of school was good. But when he moved from the school to the neighborhood, things changed.”

  Chuck glanced at her quizzically. “I thought Bart Skulkin campaigned outside the school, like MAG does.”

  “Not exactly,” she replied. “We told him nobody would hurt him on school grounds. But outside he was a white boy in a jungle of thugs—bad men who wouldn’t give a shit if he taught school kids.”

  “What made you so sure?” Chuck asked.

  She was about to answer when two police officers from the squad car parked outside entered the restaurant. Conversations suddenly lapsed as diners gazed with the cold mistrust of monks whose sanctuary had being violated. The officers, in smart blue uniforms and belts heavy with communication equipment, stood near the door, imperiously eyeing the customers. The tallest, his hand resting on the hilt of a service pistol, broke into a friendly smile that nobody returned. The other marched among the tables toward the food counter, his equipment jangling at his hip. When diners returned to their conversations voices were lower, and their eyes periodically rose to monitor the intruders.

  Chuck rephrased his question to Daphne Styles. “I’m afraid I’ve missed something. It isn’t clear to me why Bart Skulkin was so dangerous off the school grounds.”


  She sighed in exasperation. “It ain’t that hard. This place is hell on wheels—drugs, crime, guns, pimps, whores, and con artists leach out of the woodwork. Good people stay inside, especially after dark. If they can, they move to PG County or Northern Virginia. The crooks and snakes run this place, and even they’re scared. White people never get it right. Do-gooders like you ain’t welcome here. And you know why? Cause every day you come to tell us what bad people we are, and every night you go home to safe neighborhoods where the crimes are respectable. People like you make us feel bad about ourselves. We don’t need white people reminding us how bad this place is. We already know it.”

  “And is that the same advice you’re giving me?” Gabby asked. No one rushed to answer the question.

  Finally, Reverend Henderson spoke in a clear, resonating voice. “You’re a smart woman, Rabbi. Of course we want money for our program. But guns are our problem, not yours.”

  Gabby picked up her plastic fork and attempted to spear a leaf of lettuce. “Bart Skulkin and I were close friends. He had a big heart and wanted to see that his kids got a decent chance at life. Guns lowered their chances. Several got shot. He told me that the presence of weapons in his school made learning impossible.”

  “I know,” said Daphne more gently now, “and we’re sorry about what happened to him. But sorry doesn’t change the realities here.”

  A short-wave radio attached to the shoulder of one of the policeman suddenly punctuated the din of voices in the restaurant. First came a growl of static, followed by a dispatcher’s voice. “Eighteen, forty-three. Eighteen, forty-three. Units converging on Water Street at T Street, Southeast. Suspect moving northeast. Probably armed. Cruisers 87 and 53 now moving south along South Capitol.” There was another burst of static as the dispatcher switched to another frequency.