“What was Dr. Herman’s amendment?”
“I don’t know, I wasn’t listening, but any amendment that Dr. Herman makes I want to make an amendment to.”
The chairman, whose badge of office was a head mirror, called for order by tapping on a gong—kept by the club for their meetings—with a rubber patella hammer. “We’ll now have a discussion of Dr. Larson’s amendment, unstated, to Dr. Herman’s amendment, unknown.”
That was the way their meetings usually went, but occasionally some things were offered seriously, and seriously debated and voted on. One, passed a good ten years before, had been to hold their dinners on Saturday nights instead of on Fridays, and to adjourn no later than ten o’clock since several of the members had early-morning hospital rounds the next day and a long way to travel home. Another, passed only a few years back, had been to make the occasion formal with the men in black tie and the women in long gowns. It added to the fun of the thing to dress up for an occasion of no significance whatsoever.
Now, at ten o’clock, as they headed for their cars in the parking lot, Sam Johnson, who had been the chairman for that particular meeting—they changed for each meeting—called out, “Hey, you guys who are heading south on the state highway, the waiter said the State Troopers have set up a trap just below here, and they’re pulling cars over. The bastards do it every time there’s a big bash in the main dining room. If they smell liquor on your breath, they’ll make you walk a straight line to prove you’re not drunk, or maybe even make you blow into a breathalyzer.”
“So we’ll go by way of Pine Grove Road,” said Mimi Gorfinkle to her ophthalmologist husband, Abner. The Gorfinkles lived in Barnard’s Crossing.
“Why should we go Pine Grove Road?”
“Because you smell like a brewery. That’s all you need is to have the State Troopers arrest you for drunk driving.”
“I only had one drink.”
“You had two. I was watching. And that glass of beer that you spilled on your shirt.”
“Only half a glass of beer. Half I spilled. Okay, we’ll go Pine Grove.”
Dr. Gorfinkle, small, rabbit-faced, and bald, was a careful driver, and even on Pine Grove Road with no traffic in either direction, he drove at a very moderate rate of speed. Beside him, Mimi, tall, large-breasted, with carefully coiffed blond hair, had dozed off, replete with rich food and wine. Suddenly, Gorfinkle applied the brakes and she awoke with a start. “Whatsamatter?”
“Look—on the right.”
It was a car whose crumpled hood was wrapped almost halfway around the trunk of a tree as though clutching it in powerful jaws. “Let me have the flashlight in the glove compartment,” he said. “You wait here.”
He got out and swept the roadway with the light of his flashlight. “Must’ve skidded on that patch of mud,” he called out. By the light of his flashlight he saw that the driver behind the wheel had slid down so that his head rested on the back of the seat below the headrest. His right hand was flung back and lay on the passenger seat, the other hung limp, palm down, on the shattered glass of the side window. His mouth was open and the doctor saw that he was breathing. Gingerly, Gorfinkle reached in and turned off the ignition. The motor was dead, but he had heard it was a good idea. Before withdrawing his hand, he let his fingertips rest lightly on the pulse at the throat. It was rapid and thready, but not alarmingly so. He came back to the passenger side of his car and motioned to his wife to lower the window. “Let me have the box of tissues, will you.”
There were numerous cuts on the victim’s face, and he wanted to make sure that none were serious. He dabbed the man’s face and satisfied himself that they were superficial.
“Don’t you dare do anything, Abner,” his wife called out. “Remember what happened to Bill Sawyer when he played Good Samaritan a couple of years ago. He was sued for malpractice.”
He got back into his car and told his wife, “He’s unconscious, concussion.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’ll notify the police, of course. What else can I do? What does the trip gauge say?”
“Five and seven-tenth miles. Why?”
“I’m wondering if it’s worth going back. I’m not sure, but I think we are about as near to Barnard’s Crossing as we are to Breverton.”
“You’ll leave him just like that?”
“Well, do you want to get out and wait here while I go for the police?”
“Couldn’t we wait and flag down a car?”
“On this road, this time of night? It could be an hour or more before another car came along.”
“But to just leave him …”
“Look, there’s nothing I can do for the guy.”
He drove even slower the rest of the way, his speedometer rarely registering above thirty-five miles an hour. Shortly after they finally left Pine Grove Road, they came to an outdoor pay phone and he stopped the car.
“Why are we stopping?” she asked.
“So I can phone the police, of course.”
“That’s silly. We’re almost home. You can call them from there.”
But when they got home and he reached for the phone, she said, “You get out of those clothes first.”
He looked at her in amazement. “Why do I have to get undressed to phone the police?”
“Because they might send someone down to question you about it, and if he smells the beer on your shirt and cummerbund, he might think you had something to do with the accident.”
He knew better than to argue with her, so he undressed and put on a robe. Then he called the police.
“Barnard’s Crossing Police Department. Sergeant Pierce speaking.”
“This is Dr. Gorfinkle, 23 Laurel Road.”
“Yes, Doctor. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I was just coming home from Breverton on the Pine Grove Road, and there was an accident. I don’t mean that I was in it, but I saw this car. It had slammed into a tree. The driver was unconscious behind the wheel.”
“Passengers?”
“I didn’t see any. I mean there were none in the car. Of course, there might have been and they could have gone off for help.”
“Just where on Pine Grove Road was this, Doctor?”
“Where? Just off the road.”
“I mean, was it before or after the boundary marker coming from Breverton?”
“Boundary marker?”
“Yeah, you know, the sign that says You Are Now Entering Barnard’s Crossing.”
“I didn’t notice any sign. I mean it would be on the side of the road, wouldn’t it? And I was keeping my eyes straight ahead of me on the road. Is it important?”
“Well, sure, if it’s on the Breverton side of the line, they’ve got to handle it and—”
“Well, I can tell you how far it is from the Breverton Country Club. It was five and seven-tenths miles.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve got one of those trip things on my odometer. You just press a button and these three numbers all go back to zero. I got into the habit of pressing the button every time I get into the car. That way, I always know just how far I’ve driven. So I looked at the trip gauge when I stopped and it was five-point-seven miles.”
“Five point seven. Just a minute.”
The doctor waited, his fingers drumming nervously on the telephone table. Finally, the sergeant came back on the line, “Hello, Doctor? By our measurements on the map, I think the accident occurred in Breverton.”
“You mean, I’ve got to call them?”
“No, we’ll call them. Now, can you give me an idea of how seriously he was hurt.”
“I didn’t examine him. I’m an ophthalmologist, an eye doctor. I didn’t want to touch anything. There might be broken bones or—you know, it’s dangerous to move a man in that condition unless you know exactly what you’re doing. I didn’t touch anything except that I took his pulse and that seemed all right, a little thready perhaps. I reached in and turned
off the ignition. The motor was dead but I read somewhere that it’s a good idea to turn off the ignition.”
“I see. All right, we’ll take care of it.”
Professor Mordecai Jacobs shook his head at the waitress who had stopped to refill coffee cups, and said to Alice Saxon, a hint of irritation in his voice, “How long do these things last anyway? Do you have any idea?”
“Oh, there are always speeches,” she said, “and usually resolutions are offered which are discussed and voted on. An hour or more, I’d say. But you can go now, if you like. Victor Joyce left some time ago.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, I saw him go over to the coatroom and then go out the front door. That was a good fifteen minutes ago and he hasn’t come back, so I guess he left for good.”
“Then I think I’ll be going along.”
“To the Bar Mitzvah? Well, have fun.”
He nodded, and then he rose and sidled through the tables to the lounge. He looked back for a moment to see if perhaps Professor Sugrue was looking in his direction, and then strode purposefully to the front door. He paused momentarily on the veranda at the head of the stairs leading down to the parking lot. Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned. It was the young man who had been attending the coatroom.
“You leaving early, too, Professor?”
“Oh, hello—Aherne, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“I have another engagement—in Barnard’s Crossing. You taking a breather?”
“No, I’m through for the night. I work only until ten.”
“Then who’s minding the store?”
“Oh, Mary Ellen, one of the regular waitresses.”
“Then she gets the tips?”
“No, the waitresses pool the tips, both what’s left on the tables and what’s left in the dish at the coatroom. I guess they figure a woman in the coatroom will draw more tips than a man. I just get paid by the hour.”
“That’s very interesting. You live in Breverton?”
“No, in Swampscott, just beyond Barnard’s Crossing, the next town. Ah, there’s my jalopy.” He got out his keys. As Jacobs was about to walk on, he said, “Oh, Professor, I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“Yes?”
“The Survey course. All sections cover the same ground and take the same final. Right?”
“That’s right. Each instructor emphasizes those aspects that interest him, but we cover the same ground, and we get together and make up one exam for all sections.”
“Well, this girl I used to go with, she was in Professor Joyce’s section. After the exam, she thought she’d flubbed it. Two questions she didn’t answer at all, and then there were a couple she was sure she got wrong—”
“Ah, that was first semester. There were ten essay-type questions.”
“That’s right, first semester. I thought I did pretty good. I answered all questions. And you gave me a B.”
“That’s pretty good.”
“Yes, but Joyce gave her an A, and like I said, there were two questions she didn’t answer at all.”
“Well, grading essay-type exams is a pretty subjective business. Sometimes a student will concentrate on one or two questions, and his essays on those are so good, you might overlook his failure to answer the other questions. But this semester we used an objective-type exam. How did your marks compare for the second semester?”
“I don’t know. We kind of stopped seeing each other.”
“But you did well, I recall.”
“I guess so. You gave me a B plus.”
“Well, I didn’t give many of those. Believe me.” He waved in dismissal, called out, “Have a good summer,” and headed for his car.
He got into his car, eased out of the parking lot, and headed for Barnard’s Crossing.
It was only after he’d reached the Crossing and made the turn onto Abbot Road that he realized his mistake in not reviewing the directions Clara had given him before he started. She had advised him quite specifically which road to take from the country club to Barnard’s Crossing, and it was obvious as he now looked at the directions and noted the cross streets that he should’ve taken the other. He was on Abbot Road, yes, but the directions she had given him to reach the Charleton section didn’t match with what he was seeing, and he was utterly confused. He was on the point of turning back when the police cruiser came along Abbot Road. He honked, and the cruiser stopped.
“I’m looking for the Charleton section,” he said.
“Right. Take your third left and go all the way. Then take another left.”
The directions were clear enough, but when he came to the Charleton section, he found that it was a large development with roads that turned every which way and with street signs that were only dimly lit by fake antique lanterns which were more picturesque than functional. It occurred to him that since it was a party, there would be a number of cars parked outside the house. So he drove around for a while looking for a house where a party might be in progress, only to come out once again to the road he had taken to arrive at Charleton. He took it as an omen, and drove back to Abbot Road and then to the state road and headed for home.
By the time he arrived at his furnished apartment in Brookline, it was almost midnight. Nevertheless, he decided to call, on the chance that Clara might answer. If the phone rang for a while, and was then answered by someone else, he would simply hang up rather than try to explain why he was calling so late. The phone was answered on the second ring, but it was a man who answered.
“Is Clara Levenson there?” he asked.
“Well, she must be around someplace,” came the reply. “Hold on.”
He waited, and waited, and then hung up. He was bothered, however, and he tried again, shortly after midnight. He reasoned that if the party were still going on at eleven, then even if it was now over, the family would not all have gone to bed. If Clara answered, he was sure she would not object because of the lateness of the hour, and if someone else answered, he would simply hang up again. But this time he got a message from an answering machine, which under the circumstances was even better. When he heard the beep, he said quickly, “Clara? Mord Jacobs. I tried to make the party, but I couldn’t find the house. I drove around looking for a place that was all lit up and had a lot of cars parked nearby. No luck, so I went on home.”
22
For three years the Barnard’s Crossing Symphonic Orchestra, which drew members from various North Shore towns, including a violinist from as far away as Gloucester, had met every Saturday night for rehearsal for a concert that was presumably to be given at some as yet unannounced date. At first they had met in Veteran’s Hall in Barnard’s Crossing, hence the symphony’s name. But when the veteran’s organization that had let them use the auditorium at no cost decided the facility could be used to better advantage for a Bingo game which could bring in revenue, the rehearsal was shifted to the faculty lounge of the Breverton Junior High School, through the good offices of the assistant principal, who played the trombone.
It was one of several such organizations scattered throughout the area. The one in Rockport met on Wednesdays, the Wenham orchestra met on Friday nights, and the Lynn orchestra, whose conductor was a member of the Boston Symphony and was paid for his services, met Sunday mornings. They varied widely in size and proficiency but they all afforded the participants the opportunity to play orchestral music; in the case of the Barnard’s Crossing group, light classical music, like the Poet and Peasant and William Tell overtures. Many played in more than one orchestra, and one, a barber, in all of them.
Herbert Rosen had joined shortly after moving to Barnard’s Crossing. Since he was far and away the best musician, he was immediately made concertmaster, and when the conductor who was head of the Music Department of the Barnard’s Crossing High School took another job in the western part of the state, Rosen became the conductor.
The orchestra, which had anywhere from as few as twenty-five to as many as fif
ty musicians, depending largely on weather conditions, was open to anyone who could play an orchestral instrument. There were no tryouts for proficiency. Anyone who was interested and who could play an instrument could come and play. If the piece or any portion of it was beyond his capacity, he stopped playing, and those who could, carried on. As a result, andante passages were apt to be played by the full complement, and scherzo passages only by the leaders of the various sections.
While there were a few regulars who attended each rehearsal religiously, there were those who came only occasionally, some of them only once, never to return. There was no telling on any given rehearsal night what instruments would be played. There was usually a large number of violins, perhaps because while a single violin poorly played was characterized by squeaks and scratches, several playing together produced a melodious sound. There were almost always two cellos because they were regulars. Once or twice a double bass player appeared. They could usually count on flutes, clarinets, and the trombone of the assistant principal. There was an English horn who showed up about once a month, and a bassoon came every other week because he and his brother owned a small restaurant in Lynn and they alternated supervision of it on Saturday nights.
Amy Lanigan, the wife of Hugh Lanigan, the Barnard’s Crossing police chief, played the flute with great enthusiasm, but with no great proficiency. She had learned to play when she was a girl and was a member of the high school band. After high school she had dropped it, but then took it up again when the orchestra was organized. She was the most devoted supporter of the orchestra and never missed a session.
When rehearsals were held in Barnard’s Crossing, she would drive there in her own car, but once rehearsals were transferred to Breverton, her husband always drove her there and picked her up when the session ended, because she was hesitant about driving to and from Breverton, especially in the winter.
Sometimes, Hugh Lanigan would stay and listen to the rehearsal, and sometimes he would spend the time gossiping with the senior officers at the Breverton police station until it was time to go back to the school to pick up his wife. Although he had no great interest in music, he found it not unpleasant to sit and listen as the orchestra went through one piece after another. They did not really rehearse in the sense of trying to perfect or even improve their rendition of the piece. They merely played it, deriving pleasure from making orchestral sound and arriving at the end together.
The Day the Rabbi Resigned Page 11