Irwin stares at the driver, blinks, stares again. So full of command only moments earlier, he now stands speechless, his tongue as immobile as the black van.
The other side window is lowered and the front-seat passenger pokes his head out. “It’s Moscow all right,” he says to the driver. “I told you we shoulda turned right at Grand Rapids.”
“Impossible,” scoffs the driver. “Moscow’s not this cold.”
By this time a crowd has formed around Irwin at the front of the van as irate motorists abandon their cars to investigate the hold-up. “Holy Mother!” whispers one of the onlookers, almost in awe. “There’s two of ’em.”
Another whispers, “They look like that rabbi fellow, the weird-looking one with the …”
“Shh!” hisses a third, as if the mere mention of the Lubavitcher will turn everyone within range into pillars of salt.
Now the wide side door of the van slides open and two more young men emerge. Like the driver and the front-seat passenger, they are dressed in black wide-brimmed hats and long black coats and they wear thick beards and sidelocks. They stretch, then begin vigorously to clap their gloved hands.
“They seem to be applauding. Must be some kind of ritual,” observes a woman in the crowd.
“That sort usually have strange customs,” explains her companion.
One of the hand clappers blows warm breath onto his gloves. “It’s definitely some kind of ritual,” insists the woman.
The driver climbs down from behind the wheel. “Has anybody seen my blood anywhere?” he calls out to no one in particular, flapping his arms about him wildly to restore circulation.
His passenger, also climbing down, replies, “You must’ve left it back in Detroit.” He too engages in strenuous arm flapping.
The driver speaks again to Cal Irwin. “Is there a service station nearby?”
Irwin’s self-confidence returns. “No need for that,” he huffs. “Here, allow me.” He slips behind the wheel of the van and turns the ignition key. From the engine compartment comes the slow, low grinding of a motor earnestly attempting to revive. Seizing the moment, Irwin slams the accelerator to the floor. “This’ll clear her,” he assures the driver. The grinding grows slower, lower. Then silence. Dead.
“I better open the hood,” says the van driver.
Cal Irwin, facing public disgrace, clings to the wheel as if waiting for Fate to vindicate his judgment. “She’s flooded. Nothing more.”
The driver opens the hood, bends and peers into the engine’s tomb.
Cal Irwin winks at acquaintances in the crowd and calls to the driver, “You got any idea at all what you’re lookin’ at under there?”
“Well,” replies the driver slowly, “for one thing, I’m looking at a loose distributor cap, so I don’t suppose there’s much point removing the air cleaner to check the carburetor.”
Corporal Wilson has now made his way through the crowd. “What’s the trouble here?” he asks in a voice that matches his six-foot-six frame.
“She’s flooded, Ernie, that’s all,” Irwin tells the policeman.
“I heard something about a loose distributor cap,” says the corporal.
“It’s more likely the starting system,” says the driver. “I had a problem with the ring gear a coupla weeks ago.”
“She gettin’ any spark?” Corporal Wilson asks.
“Not much,” the driver confesses, “but I’ve tightened up the distributor cap.”
“Start ’er up, Cal,” the corporal orders.
“Roger,” Irwin responds, supporting the law to the hilt. The engine remains lifeless. “She’s flooded all right,” says Irwin, “and that’s final.”
“Then we better get ’er outta here for starters,” Wilson decides.
“Got any good ideas?” the van driver asks him.
Wilson takes long strides toward the rear of the van, its four occupants trailing after him. “A strong back’s better than a good idea,” he says. His manner is laconic. The shoulder he presses against the rear doors of the van is as broad as a cow’s rump. On either side of him the black-clad travellers arrange themselves, like a quartet of pallbearers. “Okay,” says Wilson, “heave!” They strain; they grunt. The feet of one give way on the slippery road and he ends up on his knees. “Again,” Wilson barks. “Heave!”
But the van seems rooted to the roadway, perhaps forever.
“One more time,” Corporal Wilson says. But the quartet’s attention is no longer on him, as in disbelief they watch a young man, wearing attire similar to theirs, advancing through the bystanders.
“I don’t believe my eyes,” says the van driver.
“Hi, there,” calls the man approaching.
The driver laughs. “You the local Ford dealer?”
“How’d you guess? Name’s Teitelman, Kalman Teitelman. Welcome to Steelton.”
“I’m Reuben Calish,” says the driver. His three fellow travellers desert their post at the rear of the van and come forward, brushing road salt from their black coats, leaving Corporal Wilson to survey his second major defeat of the day. “Say hello to Corey Silverstone, Manny Kirsch and Horrible Herman Hitzik, so called because he gets carsick even when we aren’t moving.”
“Welcome to Steelton,” Teitelman repeats. “I’m the rabbi here.”
“Rabbi!” says Horrible Herman Hitzik, astounded. “You mean they have Jews here?”
“Where there’s oxygen, there’s Jews,” says Teitelman smiling. “Where are you from?”
“Detroit … Michigan,” says Calish.
Teitelman laughs. “I know Detroit’s in Michigan. I’m from Boston. Massachusetts, that is. Who’s the guy behind the wheel?”
Hearing this question, Cal Irwin leans out the van window. “I’m Cal Irwin, Irwin’s Hardware. We’re not together. I’m just tryin’ to help out. She’s flooded.”
Corporal Wilson rejoins them. “Evening, Reverend,” he nods to Rabbi Teitelman. “These friends of yours?”
Reuben Calish, besides being the driver of the van, seems to be the spokesman for its crew. “You better say yes to the officer,” he tells Teitelman. “I think we’re already in big trouble here.” To Corporal Wilson he says, in a serious vein, “How can we get hold of a tow truck?”
“You don’t need a tow truck, I tell ya,” Cal Irwin, who has welded himself to the steering wheel of the van, says stubbornly. “Give ’er another minute or two to drain and I’ll have ’er going. Matter of fact, she’s probably clear enough now.” Calish is about to caution Irwin not to try again, but it’s too late. From some hidden resource deep within the bowels of the vehicle, a spark of life finds its way into the engine, barely adequate to create the familiar grinding noise. Despite the cold, Irwin has removed his hat and, hand twisting the ignition key as if squeezing out its last drop of blood, he sweats and curses quietly.
“You’re killing ’er for sure,” warns Corporal Wilson.
“I’m not, Ernie,” Irwin insists.
“I’m afraid you are,” says Calish, no longer worried about appearing ungrateful.
“Better leave off, Cal,” Wilson says.
The grinding noise goes on, like a death rattle.
Calish looks over at Teitelman and shrugs the kind of shrug that asks, “What are we going to do with this fellow?”
Teitelman shrugs the kind of shrug that answers, “God only knows.”
Then, for no reason at all, Rabbi Teitelman extends a foot and kicks the right front tire of the van.
As if struck by lightning, the engine explodes into a roar. There is a sudden acrid cloud of smoke that envelops the van and all who surround it. When the smoke clears, Irwin can be seen grinning proudly behind the wheel. “Didn’t I tell ya!” he exults.
Two women standing behind Rabbi Teitelman — the two who were a few minutes earlier convinced that they were witnessing tribal rites — now begin whispering intently with other onlookers. Faces become half-invisible as their words, issued into the below-zero air, t
urn into clouds of steam.
“Did you see that? I saw it. I swear, that’s all he did, he just kicked the right front tire.”
“They say that’s how he got rid of the bank robbers, the same way. Must have some special kind of power.”
“Weird, that’s what I call it.”
“Didn’t I tell ya!” Irwin calls out to the crowd, still rejoicing in what he takes to be his own triumph.
Corporal Wilson’s square jaw widens into a half-smile, as if he is half-willing to admit to witnessing a miracle. “It was the Reverend here that got ’er started, Cal. Not you.”
Feeling injured, Cal Irwin gives up the driver’s seat. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s cars,” he mutters to the policeman.
“Maybe you know cars,” Corporal Wilson replies, “but the Reverend here knows somebody higher up.”
Reuben Calish offers his hand to Cal Irwin. “You were a great help,” he says graciously. They shake hands, but Irwin is surly. But for the accidental kicking of a tire by a rabbinical foot, the moment would have been his.
“C’mon,” Calish calls to his fellow travellers, “we better clear out of here.” He thanks Corporal Wilson, who responds with an informal salute. “Can we give you a lift somewhere?” he asks Rabbi Teitelman.
“Sure. You can drive me home. We’ll have tea.”
“Great. Hop in.”
The crowd disperses, some shaking their heads, some laughing. Minus the stalled van, the chaos at King and Queen continues, Corporal Wilson still blowing his one-note repertoire on his whistle.
From his compact kitchenette, where he is making tea, Teitelman calls to his fellow Lubavitchers, “It’s not the Waldorf Astoria, but it’s burglar proof, not that there’s anything to steal.”
“The main thing is, it’s warm!” says Manny Kirsch. He is busily massaging the cold from his limbs.
“The main thing,” says Horrible Herman Hitzik, “is that it’s stationary!”
Over tea, which they drink boiling hot with much lip smacking and groans of relief, Calish and his friends explain their current mission. Their van is referred to in Lubavitch circles as a “Mitzva-mobile,” a rolling tabernacle filled with traditional Orthodox paraphernalia of prayer: a stack of booklets of scripture, neatly folded white satin prayer shawls with blue bands at the borders and long stringy fringes, small velvet pouches containing sets of phylacteries and boxes of literature about the Lubavitch movement. The Mitzva-mobile (or “good-work” mobile) belongs to the Lubavitch community of Detroit. Its customary territory is a busy street in a suburb of Detroit heavily populated with Jews. On fair days, and even foul, the Mitzva-mobile can be found at its station, its rotating crews standing by its open doors on the sidewalk, examining the faces of passersby for those barely perceptible signals — the twitch of a lip, perhaps, or the slight rise of an eyebrow — for anything that says, “Ah, here’s a candidate, someone who’s ready to travel our highway back to Heaven.”
“You’re about four hundred miles north of your usual street corner,” Kalman Teitelman notes.
“We’re on our way to Ottawa,” says Calish. “You see, the four of us are also entertainers, so we often get invitations to perform for other Lubavitch communities. Usually they’re close to Detroit, you know, cities in Lower Michigan, Illinois, Indiana. Ottawa’s the farthest we’ve ever travelled.”
“Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” says Hitzik. “At the rate we’re going, we may never see civilization again.”
Calish is an accordion player, Corey Silverstone a clarinetist and Manny Kirsch a drummer. “Hitzik sings,” Calish explains, “when he’s not carsick.”
“We better get started,” says Hitzik, without relish. He glances at his wristwatch. “We’re already way behind schedule.”
Teitelman says, “There’s no way you’ll make it to Ottawa tonight. It’s hundreds of miles away. The nearest town is Nickel City and, frankly, from what the Steeltonites say of it, Nickel City is Sodom and Gomorrah all wrapped into one. I suggest you spend the night here. My abode is humble, but it’s better than being found frozen to death on Highway 17. There’s only one problem: supper. I’m supposed to be dining out tonight at the Glicks’. They’re members of my congregation. I’ll call and cancel. Then I’ll pick up some groceries and we’ll have ourselves a kosher pig-out. Okay?”
His unexpected guests insist that he keep his social engagement, but Teitelman is adamant. On the telephone to Sarah Glick he is profoundly apologetic. “I do hope you understand, Mrs. Glick. I know it’s last-minute, but if I could please have a rain check.”
Sarah Glick is firm. “You must bring your friends,” she insists graciously. As she says these words, she grimaces at Maximilian, hoping there’s enough to accommodate four extra hungry men. “I’m sorry,” she says in a motherly tone to the rabbi, “I simply will not take no for an answer. There’s plenty for everybody.”
In the Glick dining room, a second Miracle of the Fishes has occurred, but this time they are smoked fishes, imported along with several kinds of cheese from a market in Toronto whose kosher standards are high enough to merit the Lubavitcher rabbi’s approval.
Similarly, two loaves of challah, baked for the occasion by Bryna Glick, have stretched wondrously among the hungry and road-weary guests from Detroit, Rabbi Teitelman and five Glicks. Reuben Calish declares that the homemade bread is the best he’s ever eaten. Bryna Glick points out that this is because she baked the challah in Sarah Glick’s oven. She is openly resentful of the fact that the old oven fell into her daughter-in-law’s hands when the house on Pine Hill passed to Henry and Sarah.
“That stove has fed three generations of Glicks,” she boasts to the visitors.
Sarah Glick points out that it is also feeding three generations of Hendersons, Ned Henderson being the local electrician whose house calls to repair the doddering appliance have recently increased from monthly to weekly. Sarah is thinking of trading it in for a sleek range full of dials and automatic devices.
Hearing this, Bryna Glick threatens to repossess her stove.
“Where on earth will you keep it?” Sarah asks. “With all due respect, you’ve already got a stove in your apartment.”
“In our bedroom,” says Bryna Glick defiantly.
Henry Glick says to his wife and mother, “Why don’t you two girls step outside and settle this?”
“Because it’s too cold out there, that’s why,” says Bryna Glick. “Besides, Sarah and I aren’t quarrelling, we’re merely discussing. Isn’t that so, Sarah dear?”
Remembering as always that there will be other sunrises, other battle points, Sarah Glick, flushed with annoyance, manages nevertheless to smile back.
“Peace!” cries Augustus Glick. He rises, his cheeks red from the effects of the first round of drinks, and begins to move about the table with a second bottle of brandy. Sarah and Bryna clap determined hands over their glasses, the men at the table extend theirs and Augustus pours generously, as if the stuff flows from a bottomless well. “L’chayim, good health!” he cries, downs his portion in a single gulp, then growls rawly with satisfaction.
The other men follow suit, throwing back their drinks with a quick turn of the wrist, gasping in pleasant agony as the liquor sends flames into their chests.
Coughing and chuckling, Augustus looks across the table to his grandson. “You see, Maximilian my boy, this is how men do it!”
“You mean, when I’m thirteen I have to be able to knock it back like that?” Max asks.
“Good God, no!” says Sarah Glick, her eyes shooting daggers at old Augustus.
“Don’t go giving the boy wrong ideas,” Bryna scolds her husband. She is, for a change, in complete agreement with her daughter-in-law.
“Boy? Boy?” says Augustus. “Maximilian’s not a boy, he’s a man!”
“I’ll drink to that,” says Henry Glick, sliding his glass toward his father. A bit shakily, Augustus fills his son’s glass again and proceeds to fil
l the glasses of the other men, only one of whom — Rabbi Teitelman — resists gently, though in vain.
The women once again cover their glasses self-righteously, but are unable to hide their amusement at the creeping unsteadiness of Augustus, the self-appointed bartender, and his willing patrons.
Rabbi Teitelman, by now slurring his consonants, suggests to his Lubavitch colleagues that a little music might be in order.
“Fine with me,” says Reuben Calish agreeably. “My accordion’s in the van. The only question is: Can I make it to the van and back?” He jiggles his brandy glass, which has been filled and emptied three or four times. He’s not sure how often, having lost count.
“I’ll get my clarinet,” says Corey Silverstone, “but somebody else may have to blow it.”
Manny Kirsch, the drummer, declines to fetch his set of drums. “I’ll just use the tabletop. It’ll save everybody’s ears, including mine.”
All move to the Glick living room, old Augustus carrying the remains of the second bottle of brandy in one hand and a newly opened bottle in the other. Within minutes the house shudders, its walls and ceilings under attack from Calish’s accordion, Silverstone’s clarinet and Kirsch’s snare drum, which, he has decided after all, works better than a tabletop.
At the centre of the living room stands Horrible Herman Hitzik, miles removed now from carsickness. Indeed the brandy has relieved him of most of his earthly cares. He is poised for dancing, waiting only for the tempo of the music to match the slow undulation of his shoulders. He’s taken the liberty of shedding his black coat. Streaks of grey run down the front and back of his white shirt where he perspires. Horrible Herman Hitzik, unlike his partners, is of slight build, and as he positions himself to dance, pointing the toe of his small right foot outward and slightly to the side and tapping it to the beat of the music, there is something delicate, almost feminine, in his posture. Now he performs the same step with his left foot, deftly, gracefully, like a ballerina. The shoulders continue to roll, the head thrown back proudly. And suddenly, from this tiny lean man there comes a sound like an air-raid siren. It floats up and out, seems to carry with it a thousand years of wild joy, indescribable sorrow, sung at a pitch that would split a mountain. His audience, mesmerized, begins to clap in time, slowly, deliberately.
The Outside Chance of Maximilian Glick Page 13