“I see.”
“There was another time when I was really sort of perplexed, and I got a message from Him. That was the time my oldest boy–”
The rabbi asked how many children Mr. Carter had.
“I got five, three boys and two girls. Moses, he’s my oldest. Maybe you heard of him. Moose Carter? They call him Moose, he’s so big. He was quite a football player at the high school last year and year before. Last year they came that close to winning the state championship. My boy’s picture was in the papers a lot. There was sixty-seven colleges, Rabbi, sixty-seven that was interested in having my boy go there.”
The rabbi showed he was impressed. “Was he also a good student?”
“No, just a good football player. They sent people down to see him, some of them did. Coaches or scouts. And they offered all kinds of things. Why, one offered girls.”
“Girls?”
“That’s right. He said that they had a lot of co-eds that were pretty and rich and just aching to marry a great big handsome football hero. Then he says, and he winks, ‘Or you don’t have to marry them.’ I ordered him from the house. I didn’t want my boy to go to any college and certainly not that one. I wanted him to get a job and go to work. But he finally did take one of those offers–a college in Alabama. I was all for putting my foot down and forbidding him, but his mother was mighty set on his going.”
“And how did it work out?”
The carpenter shook his head dolefully. “He was there till Christmas, till after the football season, then they dropped him. He had hurt his knee, so he wasn’t any use to them anymore, and besides, he was doing poor in his studies. So he came home. He’s been home three months now and hasn’t done a decent week’s work. He works a couple of nights a week in a bowling alley in Lynn, and every now and then he gets an odd job to do, and that gives him a little spending money. I guess my wife gives him a few dollars now and then. She favors him–him being the oldest.” He shook his head. “I’ve suggested to him that he come in with me and learn my trade, but he tells me there’s no money in it, that all the money these days is in wheeling and dealing. Wants to be a promotor. I tell you, Rabbi, the college ruined that boy. If it weren’t for my wife, I’d order him from the house.”
He straightened up and looked about the room. “That’s about all I have here, Rabbi. It took a little longer than I anticipated. I won’t be able to finish today, but don’t you worry. When I undertake a job, I finish it.”
“It’s just as well,” said Rabbi Small, watching him carefully replace the tools in his kit. “I’m expecting a group of young people to be dropping over a little later in the afternoon.”
“I’ll come by tomorrow or Tuesday, depending how my work goes.”
“Fine, Mr. Carter. Whenever you have the time.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
So then he says, ‘I’m going to pass out copies of the new committees. I’ll ask you to take these sheets home with you so that you can study them at your leisure, and then at the next meeting three weeks hence we can vote intelligently on confirmation.’” Malcolm Marks had been unconsciously mimicking the president. Now he resumed his normal tone. “And he passes out these mimeographed sheets, and I’m watching Meyer Paff. He’s got his on the table in front of him, and he’s reading the lists, sliding his finger on the page down the list and kind of making noises in his throat like he’s pronouncing the names. And then he gets to Roger Epstein’s name as chairman of the Ritual Committee, and I thought he was going to have a heart attack.”
“But why should he be so upset?” asked his wife. “He must have known that Ben Gorfinkle wasn’t going to reappoint him.”
Marks made no attempt to hide his impatience. “Of course not. But Roger Epstein, for God’s sake!”
The telephone rang. “I’ll take it,” called their daughter Betty from another room. And a moment later, “It’s for me.”
“Well, what’s wrong with Roger Epstein?”
“With Roger Epstein as a person, maybe nothing. In fact, he’s a very idealistic type who carries the whole world on his shoulders. But this is the Ritual Committee. You take the Building Fund Committee or the Membership Committee or even the High Holy Day Seating Committee, which all are important committees. Okay, Roger’s fine and dandy. But strictly speaking, for the Ritual you should have not only a real pious type, I mean one who don’t work on Saturdays and eats strictly kosher, but somebody who knows all about the rules of ritual. He’s got to be practically a rabbi, strictly speaking. All right, we don’t have too many like that. Maybe Jake Wasserman, but offhand I can’t think of anybody else to speak of.”
“So if nobody can do it, what’s wrong with Roger Epstein?”
“Well, it’s not exactly that nobody can do it. The point I’m making is that if you haven’t got the type person who should be chairman of Ritual, you got to at least get somebody who, on the surface at least, seems okay. Now, Meyer Paff, maybe he doesn’t know so much, but he keeps a kosher house–”
“Pooh! That’s only because his mother-in-law lives with them, and she wouldn’t eat there if they didn’t have two sets of dishes. He couldn’t let her starve to death, could he?”
“That’s what I’m saying. It don’t matter if he really believes in it, so long as he does it. That’s what I mean by on the surface.”
“All right. So what happened?” his wife asked.
“What do you mean?”
“When Paff saw that Roger Epstein was made chairman of the Ritual Committee. What happened already? What did he do? What did he say?”
“Nothing!” said her husband triumphantly.
She looked at him in amazement. “So what’s the big shpiel? What’s the excitement?”
“Don’t you see? Paff has been the big wheel in the temple ever since it was built. He’s never been president, but he’s always been a power behind the throne. So Friday night Ted Brennerman gives him a ribbing right out in public. And don’t tell me that Gorfinkle didn’t know what Ted was planning. And from what I hear–we were down in the vestry at the time, so we missed it–Paff catches Ted up in the sanctuary, and he really lays him out in lavender. That’s round one.” He rotated a hand. “Mezzo, mezzo. Call it a draw; Paff gave it to Ted a lot harder than Ted gave it to him, but on the other hand, only a few people heard Paff, and everybody heard Ted. Yeah, I guess you could call it a draw.
“All right, round two. Gorfinkle doesn’t let it lay; he comes out fighting. He says like, ‘Make your play, Paff. Go for your gun. I’m not afraid of you. And I’m proving it by appointing my friend Roger Epstein to be chairman of Ritual, which not only you used to be chairman of and which, moreover, is a very special job that I wouldn’t normally appoint Epstein to on account of his background, but I’m doing it right now, the first chance I got after Friday, just to show you who’s boss. So put up or shut up.’”
“So he shut up.”
“Not Meyer Paff. He don’t give up that easy, and he don’t back away from a fight. He just gets on his bicycle and goes in for a little fancy footwork to keep out of the way of Gorfinkle’s reach so he can save his strength for the next round. The talk after the meeting was that he would line up his gang and either try to take over the town or burn it down.”
“What do you mean burn it down? You mean he’d burn the temple?”
“Of course not. That’s what they call a figure of speech,” he said loftily. Then he lowered his voice. “Some people I talked to said they wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled out of the temple and started one of his own.”
“Over appointing Roger Epstein head of the Ritual Committee?”
“That and other things,” said Marks defensively. “This thing has been building a long time.”
She looked at him. “So where does that leave you?”
“That’s just it. I’m like betwixt and between. I was appointed by Schwarz, and I got another year to go on my term. Ben Gorfinkle and Roger Epstein and the rest I’m k
ind of friendly with, but on the other hand, I’m friendly with Meyer Paff’s gang, too. After all, if God forbid somebody needed an operation, we’d call Doc Edelstein, wouldn’t we? So I can go either way. And my guess is both sides will be pulling for my vote.”
Their daughter, Betty, sauntered into the room. She was short like both her parents. Her long blond hair was parted on one side and hung straight down over her shoulders, although one strand was looped over her ear with a barrette and pushed forward to partially conceal her left eye. Where the hair was parted, one could see a trace of dark hair, suggesting it was time for another color rinse. Her innocent dark eyes were made knowing with eye shadow and a thin line of darker coloring that edged the lids. Her breasts pushed aggressively against her sweater, and her little rump rotated suggestively as she walked.
Her mother looked up in automatic question.
“A bunch of the kids are having a cookout tomorrow evening, at Tarlow’s point,” she explained. “That was Didi Epstein. She wanted to know if I could make the scene.”
Mr. Marks shot a significant glance at his wife, but she appeared not to notice. “Did you say you would go, dear?”
“I guess so. She said Stu Gorfinkle would pick me up–around five tomorrow.”
“Did Didi say who else was going to be there?” asked her mother.
“Sue Arons and Gladys Shulman and Bill Jacobs and I think Adam Sussman–you know, the kids who have been away to college and are back for the vacation.”
“It’s a lovely idea,” said her mother. “It’ll be nice to see all your old friends again.”
When she left the room, Mr. Marks said, “See, it’s started already.”
“What’s started already?”
“Buttering us up. All the time she was in high school they never gave her a tumble–that Epstein girl and the Gorfinkle boy, they always acted as though she wasn’t good enough for them.”
“That’s ridiculous. Didn’t she go to Didi Epstein’s for the after-prom breakfast last year?”
“Sure, the whole senior class was invited.”
“Well, you’re wrong. They started making up to her before that–when she was accepted at Connecticut College for Women. She got more brains in her little finger, let me tell you–and they know it. That Stu Gorfinkle was turned down by all the schools he applied to, and he had to go to his fallback, Mass State. And Didi ended up at an art school in Boston, for God’s sake, and she was so sure she was going to Wellesley because her mother was an alma mater there. And that little Sussman pipsqueak. I remember his mother distinctly telling the girls at her table at a Sisterhood lunch that her son had applied to Harvard, Yale, and Columbia. So he ends up at a dinky little college out in Ohio that nobody ever heard of.”
“All right, all right, but you mark my words–”
The telephone rang. “It’s for you, Dad,” Betty called out.
“Who is it?”
“Mr. Paff.”
Mr. Marks favored his wife with a triumphant smirk and left the room to answer the phone.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Sunday night supper was usually a pickup meal in the Gorfinkle household, where dinner was served at midday. But with Stu home, Mrs. Gorfinkle felt guilty about not providing him with a hot meal. So when he came in and asked what was for supper, she answered, “How about some hamburgers? I’ve got buns and potato chips.”
“Oh, sure, anything.”
“Why, I’d like hamburgers for a change,” said his father. “And a Coke.”
“I’ll take milk,” said Stu.
“Milk with hamburgers?” questioned Mr. Gorfinkle.
“You suddenly kosher since you became president of the temple?” Stu asked sarcastically.
“No, but in my own house I don’t like to see them eaten together.”
“But in a restaurant you don’t mind? That doesn’t make sense to me,” said his son.
Gorfinkle resented being challenged by his son, but he tried not to show it. “Tastes in food never make sense, Stu. That’s just how I feel about it. Your mother never serves butter, for example, when she’s serving meat. When I was a youngster, the thought of it turned my stomach. But I always expect butter for my bread when I’m eating in a restaurant.”
He was even more annoyed when his wife brought a pitcher of milk to the table, and automatically–as always happened whenever he was angry or crossed–the corners of his mouth turned up in a frozen little smile that had no humor in it, as some of his subordinates at the plant had found to their cost.
“He’s so thin,” she said apologetically as she filled Stu’s glass.
Gorfinkle looked away from her and said abruptly to his son, “Where were you all afternoon?”
“Oh, some of the kids dropped in to see the rabbi. He sort of expects it. I did it during Christmas vacation, too. It’s a kind of open house.”
“And what did he have to say?” He could not help adding, “I’m sure he didn’t talk about the kashruth regulations.”
“Oh no. We just talk about what we’re doing at school. Didi Epstein kind of kidded him about what they were teaching her in art school–learning to make graven images, you know.”
“That Didi,” said Mrs. Gorfinkle. “I bet he thought she was fresh.”
“I don’t think so. He said he didn’t mind as long as she doesn’t worship them. So then she told him about this painting she’s doing on Moses receiving the Law. And he said he’d like to see it. She promised to bring it over tomorrow.” Stu chuckled. “He’s a pretty free-minded guy. You should’ve heard him down at Binkerton at this party they gave for him.”
“Oh?” his mother remarked.
“There was this Father Bennett who’s head of the Newman Club–like the Hillel Club but for Catholics. He came over while I was sitting with him, and the rabbi kind of needled him about his religion. Very smooth, very cool. And then this priest comes right back and asks how he stands in the faith department. ‘Do you believe?’ So the rabbi kind of smiles and says, ‘I guess I’m just like you; sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t.’ Pretty sharp.”
“Well, I don’t think that’s the proper thing for a rabbi to say,” said Mrs. Gorfinkle flatly.
“Why not?”
“Well, if he’s a rabbi, it seems to me the least he could do is believe all the time.”
“That’s just exactly where you’re wrong. Do you believe all the time? Does Dad?”
“Now, just a minute, just one minute,” said his father sternly. “I don’t, and I don’t suppose your mother does, but, then, we’re not rabbis. What your mother means is that as a rabbi, it’s his duty to believe. I can see him talking that way with a priest when they’re alone together. After all, they’re both in the same profession. But I certainly don’t think he should have said it in front of you or any of the other young people who were there.”
“Why not?” demanded Stuart.
“Because you’re not old enough or mature enough to–”
“And this business that’s happening right here in the temple, I suppose I’m not old enough or mature enough to understand that either?”
“And what’s happening here in the temple?” asked his father quietly.
“There’s going to be a split,” his son said hotly. “That’s what’s happening.”
Gorfinkle’s voice was tight, controlled. “Did the rabbi say that? Did he say there was gong to be a split?”
“No, not exactly–but he didn’t seem surprised when Sue Arons asked him about it.”
“I see,” said the elder Gorfinkle. “And what did he say?”
“Well, if you must know,” said Stuart belligerently, “he said there was no reason for a split and that if one occurred, it would be as much the fault of one side as the other.”
Gorfinkle drummed the table with his fingers. “I see. And did he indicate what his attitude would be in the event of this supposed–split?”
“Yeah. A plague on both your houses.”
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“A plague on–?”
“He didn’t use those exact words, of course.” Stu showed his exasperation with his father’s literal-mindedness. “What he said was that if a split should take place, well, he wouldn’t care to serve any longer.”
The corners of Gorfinkle’s mouth turned up now. “He shouldn’t have said that, not to you kids.”
Stu was aware that his father was angry, but he resented the implication that he and his friends were not concerned. “What do you mean, ‘you kids’?”
“I mean that he was trying to influence you, and he has no right to.”
“Isn’t that what rabbis are supposed to do, influence people, especially kids?”
“There’s legitimate influence, and there’s influence that’s strictly out of line,” said his father. “When the rabbi gets up in the pulpit and explains about our religion and its traditions, that’s legitimate. That’s what he gets paid for. But the rabbi is not supposed to interfere in temple politics. If he prefers one side to another, he’s supposed to keep it to himself. And when he urges his point of view on a bunch of kids who don’t know what’s involved, then he’s out of line. And I think I’m just going to have a little conference with him and tell him so.”
“Look here,” said Stu, suddenly worried. “You can’t do that.”
“And why can’t I?”
“Because he’ll know it came from me.”
“What do you suppose he told you for? If he didn’t think it would get back to me–and to the other parents?”
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