Sunday the Rabbi Stayed Home

by Harry Kemelman

  In the parking lot the rabbi was delayed once again. Mr. Wasserman, the first president of the congregation, hailed him as he was getting into his car. Wasserman, now in his seventies, was thin and frail after his recent illness, and the hand he put on the rabbi’s arm showed blue veins through transparent skin. He spoke softly, his speech not so much accented as showing special care to be correct.

  “You’ll be back for the board meeting Sunday, won’t you, Rabbi?”

  “Oh, certainly. We’re planning to start back Saturday right after Havdalah, say six o’clock, and we should be home by nine–ten at the latest.”

  “That’s good.”

  The rabbi paused in the act of getting in behind the wheel. “Are you expecting something important to come up at the meeting?”

  “Expecting? I’m always expecting, almost any day, but especially on Sundays when the board meets. This Sunday it could be something serious.”

  “Why this Sunday?”

  Wasserman held up a finger. “Because next Sunday is the first seder, so there won’t be a meeting.” He held up a second finger. “The next Sunday is again the holiday, so again won’t be a meeting. So if Gorfinkle is planning something serious, this Sunday would be a good day, because there wouldn’t be another meeting for three weeks.” He held up three fingers.

  “And if he decides to do something serious, as you put it, how could I stop it?”

  “You’re the rabbi. That means you’re not on one side or the other. You’re like neutral, so you can say things that the rest of us can’t.”

  “You’re thinking of the committee changes that the president will make?” He settled into the car. “He’ll make them sooner or later, anyway.”

  Wasserman shook his head. “But it will cause trouble, and better later than sooner. You’re a rabbi, but I’m an old man. A lot that I’ve seen, maybe you only know from reading about it. It’s like in marriage. If an open break doesn’t develop, it can be cured. After all, there are couples who quarrel almost from the day they get married. If one of them doesn’t pack up and move out and go see a lawyer yet, there’s a good chance the marriage will last.”

  “Isn’t that being a little–” He looked at the old man; he was obviously troubled, so he changed his tack. “After all, Mr. Wasserman, it’s only a board meeting.”

  Mr. Wasserman looked at him steadily. “Try to be there, Rabbi.”

  As he drove home to pick up Miriam and Jonathan, he found himself resenting the role he was expected to play. He was a rabbi–by tradition a scholar and a teacher; why should he be mixed up with matters of faction and politics? Even Jacob Wasserman, whom he respected and regarded as one of his few real friends in the Jewish community–the one man who should have an understanding of the traditional role of the rabbi–even he was involving him in the tawdry politics of the temple. It was almost as though they resented his taking a couple of days off.

  It had all started a month ago when Rabbi Robert Dorfman, Hillel director and religious advisor to the Jewish students of Mass State, Western Division, at Binkerton, and his wife, Nancy, had driven east to visit her folks in Lynn. They had dropped in on the Smalls in Barnard’s Crossing, because it was close by and the two men had been at the seminary together. In the course of conversation Bob Dorfman mentioned that he had applied for a pulpit in New Jersey.

  “They’ve invited me to come down and conduct Friday and Saturday services.”

  “Sounds encouraging.”

  “It is, but I wish they had chosen some other date. That’s the weekend before our spring vacation.”

  “And the Hillel people won’t let you off for that weekend?” Rabbi Small sounded surprised.

  “Oh, there’s no trouble that way. It’s just that with the Passover coming during the vacation, I feel that I ought to conduct that going-away service.”

  “Why not ask the New Jersey people for a postponement or an alternate date?”

  Rabbi Dorfman shook his head. “You know how it is. They may be having a bunch of candidates for a whole series of Sabbaths.”

  “You’re pretty keen on this?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Dorfman. “Hillel work is all right, and working with college kids is important, but I’d like to get a regular congregation.” He laughed self-consciously. “I’d like to make a speech of benediction at a Bar Mitzvah once in a while. I suppose it’s the messianic delusion that we all suffer from a little or we wouldn’t get into this business in the first place, but I have the feeling that what I can say at that time might strike the youngster just right. I’d like to be present at a brith–”

  “And give a eulogy at a grave?”

  “Yes, even that, if it could give comfort to the family.” Bob Dorfman was stout and round-faced, and as he looked eagerly at his friend he seemed much younger, like a rosy-cheeked schoolboy hoping for his teacher’s approval.

  “Believe me,” said Rabbi Small, “like most things, it doesn’t come up to expectation. In a Hillel job, on the other hand, you have lots of time to yourself; you’re in an academic atmosphere; you can study.”

  “But you’re not involved in the real world.”

  “Maybe you’re lucky. At least with a Hillel job you get security. In a congregation–in this real world of yours–you never can tell when you’re going to step on the toes of somebody important and find you don’t have a job.”

  The other grinned. “I know. I’ve heard that you’ve had your troubles, but that’s all past, and you’re all set now. You’re on a long-term contract–”

  Rabbi Small shook his head slowly. “Our contracts are service contracts, which means that legally–that is, as something you can sue for in a court of law–they’re about useless. Even if you could, if you did sue, you’d merely insure your never getting another pulpit. As you know, I was given a five-year contract, and when it expires at the end of this year, I suppose I will be offered another, probably at an increase in salary.”

  “So,” said Dorfman, “you’re all set.”

  “There are other drawbacks, though. For one thing, it’s a full-time job. You’re involved with the congregation twenty-four hours a day. Your time is not your own.” He smiled. “You might find it a little wearing, even if it did give you a chance to officiate at a brith or a Bar Mitzvah.”

  “Oh, it’s not only that,” said Dorfman. “It’s not only that I want to get into congregational work; I also want to get out of Hillel work. There’s the matter of money; with a growing family, I’ve got to think of the future. But also I don’t feel effective with these college kids. They’re the wrong age for me. I don’t feel that I’m getting across to them. They know everything, and they’re cynical about it.”

  “Sometimes they’re affected more than they show,” said David Small. “I don’t get to see too many of them, of course, only those who come under my hands here in Barnard’s Crossing–kids I’ve had in post-confirmation classes. They usually drop in on me when they’re home on vacation. To me they seem keen and vital. When they’re cynical, it’s because they’re basically idealistic and they’ve been disappointed.”

  “Yes, but if kids were all you saw–”

  “I suppose. Look, would it help if I came down to sub for you that weekend?”

  Dorfman’s face lit up. “Gosh, David, that would be wonderful.” Then immediately it clouded. “But could you arrange it at your end?”

  “I don’t see why not. The Brotherhood conducts one service each year. This year I think it’s the week before the one you’re interested in. I’ll check my calendar. But it shouldn’t be too hard to change it to the following week, and I could then come down to Binkerton.”

  Miriam and Jonathan were all dressed and waiting for him when he drove up to the door. Tiny and vivacious-looking, Miriam had wide blue eyes, an open countenance, and a firm, determined little chin.

  “Does he have to be bundled up like that?” her husband asked. “He’ll roast.”

  “The weather is so changeable. I can alwa
ys unzip his snowsuit if it gets too warm.”

  “All right. Get in. Let’s get started.”

  Miriam started to close the door and then stopped as she heard the phone ring inside. “Just a second,” she called out. “The phone.”

  “Don’t answer it,” he shouted.

  She stopped. “Why not?”

  “Because I want to get away. I’m tired.”

  She looked at him doubtfully and then closed the door, while inside the phone continued to ring.

  Silently she strapped Jonathan into his harness in the front seat and then took her place beside him. As they drove off he repeated by way of apology, “I’m tired–just plain tired.” And then, “I hurried through the prayers this morning, just saying the words, and I was short with Morton Brooks and annoyed with Mr. Wasserman and–”

  She patted his hand on the wheel. “That’s all right, David. Everybody needs a little change once in a while.”

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  The store was large as stores in Barnard’s Crossing go, fully twenty feet wide and more than twice as deep. The windows were grimy and the display ledges behind them dusty. A long time ago they had been decorated with crepe paper, with flutings and rosettes and streamers of a poisonous green and saccharine pink–originally an elaborate Coca-Cola display. But the colors had faded and in places were badly water-spotted. The curvaceous cardboard models in one-piece bathing suits, probably quite daring at the time but now sadly old-fashioned, were still sitting, legs drawn up under them to emphasize the curve of the thigh, backs straight and breasts firm and high with the suggestion of the nipple under the bathing suit, eyes half-closed, bottles of Coca-Cola held to lips parted in anticipatory pleasure. Scattered around among the folds of crepe paper were dusty bottles of Coca-Cola, one of which had leaked open long ago, oozing its contents along the window ledge in a narrow, viscous streak.

  Up against the window cases and blocking them off from easy access, which perhaps explained why the leaking Coke bottle had never been removed, were a cigarette vending machine, a jukebox, two pinball machines, and a steel tub of bottled soda embedded in crushed ice.

  Along one wall was a large ornate marble soda fountain, behind which, lettered in black crayon across the flyspecked mirror, was a sign: FOUNTAIN OUT OR ORDER. Boxes of packaged cookies, doughnuts, and bags of peanuts were set on the marble counter top. On the opposite wall there were racks of magazines, paperback books, and greeting cards; and across the back of the store were shelves with notebooks, boxes of pencils, blocks of paper, boxes of rulers, erasers, compasses, pencil sharpeners, tubes of mucilage, rolls of tape, balls of twine, key rings, combs, hand mirrors, and other paraphernalia that school youngsters might want.

  In the rear of the store was an old-fashioned rolltop desk and an antique swivel chair, its feet held together by several loops of baling wire, which also served as a footrest. In the center there were half a dozen round tables and chairs, where teen-agers would congregate.

  The sign in front said: BOOKS AND STATIONERY, JOSEPH BEGG, ESQUIRE, PROP. Mr. Begg was a vigorous, muscular man of fifty, with a large bald head which was seldom seen, since he wore a hat all the time, who presided over his store from his rolltop desk in the rear. He was an unfriendly, crusty man, gruff and cantankerous, yet the store was a popular spot with the youngsters. They waited on themselves, picking up a package of cookies at the counter, a bottle of soda from the cooler, and then reported to the rear to show their purchases and pay up. They always called him Mr. Begg, although some of the older boys ventured to call him Squire because of the sign outside. It was the nearest they ever came to joking with him. “Coke and doughnut. Twenty cents, Mr. Begg,” they’d say and hand over money, which he tossed into an old cigar box on his desk. Or sometimes, “Change for the pinball machine, Mr. Begg, please,” and he would examine the bill or coin suspiciously before grudgingly handing over the change. When they finished their drink, they were expected to put the empty bottle in the rack, and if they forgot he called out sharply, “You there, put that bottle away,” and they meekly complied.

  Years ago Mr. Begg had taught at the high school and even had tenure, but he had left. No one, certainly none of his young patrons, knew why. He had served a term as selectman, but he no longer attended the annual town meetings and did not bother with town politics except to fire off an occasional letter of violent protest to the weekly newspaper–usually directed against some proposed plan to benefit the young, such as taking over land by eminent domain to build a playground.

  “He can’t stand kids,” was the usual explanation. “That’s why he gave up teaching.”

  “But that place of his–only kids go there.”

  “Well, you know how it is: He started it as a bookstore, and then he added some greeting cards and some stationery items. Then when he found that mostly kids came, he put in other stuff for them. After all, the guy’s got to make a living.”

  Friday morning Begg came in late. He had not been back at his desk more than a few minutes when the door opened and Moose Carter loafed in. “Hey, where you been, Squire?” He was a large muscular boy with the square shoulders and thick neck of a football player. He had blue eyes and a short, tilted nose and an eager grin. “I was down half an hour ago, and the place was shut tight.” Begg did not deign to reply but turned to one side and spat in a cuspidor down by his left leg.

  The young man did not take offense. “You going to be fixing up your place for the summer?”

  “I’ll be taking off the storm doors and windows and putting up the screens,” the other admitted.

  “Won’t you be wanting some help?”

  “I can use some,” he said grudgingly. “Dollar and a half an hour.”

  “That’s not much. I get two bucks an hour at the bowling alley and sometimes tips.”

  “I’m paying a dollar and a half.”

  Moose shrugged. “Oh, all right. When do you want me?”

  “Sunday morning, first thing.”

  A thought came to Moose. “Hey, Sunday–it ought to be more for Sunday.”

  “Why?” Beggs looked up humorlessly. “Because you’ll miss going to church with your family?”

  Moose laughed. “All right, I’ll be there.” He looked around and then dropped his voice. “Say, Squire, I got a date for tonight. How about some safes?”

  “Three for a dollar.”

  “Look, I’m a little short right now. How about cuffing it against my pay for Sunday?”

  Begg studied the face of the young man, then pulled open a desk drawer and reached inside. He handed Moose a small tin container. The young man slipped it into his trouser pocket. “Thanks, Squire.” And then with a grin, “And my girl thanks you, too.”

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  The key was under the mat. While the rabbi, hampered by a suitcase and an armful of coats, struggled with the lock, Miriam kept a tight hold on Jonathan, arms and legs spread like a starfish as he tried to make for the jungle gym he had spied in the backyard. “No, Jonathan, later,” she said automatically. “You’ve got to have your lunch first and then your nap, and then you can go out and play.”

  They trooped into the reception hall and stood there for a moment, looking left and right at the dining room and facing living room. As Miriam stooped to extricate her young son from his snowsuit, the rabbi wandered into the living room toward a bookcase to inspect the titles. He selected a book and began to thumb through it. Then he sat down on the couch; and a moment later, his eyes still focused on the book, he had unlaced his shoes and kicked them off and stretched out on the couch, his head propped against the arm and the book held high to catch the light from the window.

  Miriam found a coat hanger in the hall closet and hung up the snowsuit. She had put away the coats that her husband had left draped over the valise when she noticed the envelope on the hall table with her name printed across it in large block letters. She drew out a couple of sheets of paper typed single-space.
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  “Dear Miriam,” she read aloud. “Welcome to Binkerton and Mass State, Western Division. I hope you followed instructions and didn’t bring food. Everything is prepared–a complete Sabbath meal and enough for the weekend. It’s all in the refrigerator, and all you have to do is heat it up. Pilot light doesn’t work on left front burner. Use matches (in cupboard over stove) … Kiddush wine in dining room sideboard … meat dishes–blue edging–in cupboard on the right as you face kitchen windows … meat silver also on right–floral pattern … meat pots and pans in right cupboard … dairy utensils all on left … when washing dishes, watch out for kitchen faucet–squirts sideways when turned on full … arranged for baby-sitter–Kathy (15 and very reliable) next door, No. 47, daughter of Prof. Carson, Math, and very nice … feel free to call them if you need help of any kind. Extra blankets–top shelf bedroom closet … Bob attached side rail to Rachel’s bed for Jonathan … No automatic switch for lights on Friday night. Bob and I are not that Orthodox. If you are, leave them on all night … Our good friend, Prof. Bill Richardson, Philosophy Department, was much taken with David’s paper on Maimonides. He is holding open house in David’s honor Saturday night. Did Bob mention it to David?”

  Miriam poked her head in the living room and viewed her husband lying on the couch with affectionate annoyance. “David!” she called sharply. “Sit up.”

  “I took my shoes off,” he protested.

  “And how about your jacket? It will be all wrinkled for tonight.”

  “I’m wearing my black suit tonight. This will smooth out when I hang it up.”

  She sighed. “Did Bob say anything about a party Saturday night?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, there’s going to be one in your honor. A Professor Richardson is having open house.”

  This time the rabbi swung his legs over and sat up. “I don’t think I care for that. Besides, I was planning to drive back to Barnard’s Crossing. I all but promised Mr. Wasserman.”