Sunday the Rabbi Stayed Home

by Harry Kemelman

  The rabbi looked over at Wasserman, but the old man’s face was impassive. “I didn’t think I was so great a favorite of Mr. Paff’s,” he said to Becker.

  “Look, Rabbi, I won’t try to kid you. I’m sure that although Paff appreciates your work here, his main object in making the offer is that he expects it will pull members. But what do you care if you’re bettering yourself?”

  “And would I be bettering myself, Mr. Becker?”

  “By three thousand dollars a year, and a long-term contract. Even if this row with Gorfinkle hadn’t occurred, you wouldn’t be sure that your contract would be renewed. I guess that’s bettering yourself. If you’re not sure, ask Mrs. Small, who buys the groceries.”

  But the rabbi replied, “As things now stand, Mr. Becker, I am the rabbi of the Jews of Barnard’s Crossing. I am the rabbi of the community and not merely the rabbi of a particular temple. And that is the way I think of my function. A rabbi is not part of the temple furniture.”

  “But the cantor–”

  “The cantor is different. He needs a temple, or at least a congregation, in order to exercise his function. Can he sing to himself? But a rabbi does not. No doubt, if the community continues to grow, sooner or later a Reform temple will be established and a portion of our members will split away from us to join it. And no doubt, they will get a rabbi. But that break will be for ideological reasons and hence justified. Their rabbi will be the rabbi of the Reform Jews of Barnard’s Crossing, while I remain the rabbi of its Conservative Jews.”

  “But congregations do split,” Becker insisted.

  “All too often, perhaps. When the split was not on ideological grounds, it was apt to be geographical. Jews would begin moving out of one area into another, and because it was considered a breach of the Sabbath to ride to services, another temple would be set up in order to have a place of worship within walking distance of the new area. That, too, would be reasonable.

  “But the split that you plan is neither ideological nor geographical. You will have the same kind of Jews in the new temple as in the old, and the services will be virtually similar. In effect, you are setting up a competing temple, and you would like me to be its rabbi. No, thank you. Nor would I remain in my present job under those conditions. A temple is not a business enterprise in which competition is good for trade. But you will come to think of your temple in that way, and you will force the same kind of thinking on Gorfinkle and his group. Come join our temple–we have air conditioning, softer seats. Our cantor has a better voice, and our rabbi delivers shorter and snappier sermons. Hold your Bar Mitzvah or your wedding in our vestry. We give trading stamps.”

  “Now look here, Rabbi–”

  “Mr. Paff doesn’t need me. A temple doesn’t need a rabbi, and a rabbi doesn’t need a temple. The rabbi’s functions in the temple–leading prayers and delivering sermons–are the most minor part of his duties. The first any thirteen-year-old boy can perform, and the second, isn’t it for most a kind of relief to break the monotony and tedium of the service? No, Mr. Becker, I have no intention of being the extra added attraction of a new temple.”

  “But if Gorfinkle succeeds in voting you out–”

  The rabbi looked at Wasserman in mute question.

  The old man spread his hands. “In this world, Rabbi, you’ve got to make first a living. Here Paff offers you a job, at more money yet. All right, maybe the conditions aren’t perfect. Where are they perfect? But it’s a living; it’s parnossah.”

  The rabbi bit his lip in vexation. He had assumed that Wasserman at least would understand. “And is Barnard’s Crossing the only place where I can make a living? No, Mr. Wasserman, if this split goes through, I will not accept a contract from either Mr. Paff’s or Mr. Gorfinkle’s group. I will leave Barnard’s Crossing.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  As Stuart Gorfinkle drove back to the cookout from Lynn, he felt a totally unreasonable resentment against his parents, especially his father. Why were there always strings attached when his father let him have the car? They were only going to his Aunt Edith’s to eat; his uncle could have picked them up. He wondered uneasily if the kids had been able to find shelter somewhere when the rain really pelted down. And the lightning, had it been as bad at the beach as on the drive to Lynn?

  The rain had let up and now was little more than a heavy mist. At Tarlow’s Point he stopped his car and plunged down the path. When he came to the little grove of pine trees, he could see the beach and that no one was there. From the litter, the empty beer cans, the wet cellophane wrappers, he knew that they had left unexpectedly and in a hurry.

  Then he saw the arrow on the log. Carefully he made his way to the house and up the back steps. He put his ear to the door and listened hard but heard nothing. He circled the house, went up to the front door, and again listened, then essayed a timid knock. He waited, listening, and this time he thought he heard something. He knocked harder and called, “It’s me, Stu. You kids there?”

  Instantly the door was thrown open, and his friends crowded around the doorway.

  “Hey, you had me going there for a while.”

  “We thought you weren’t coming back. We left an arrow with lipstick. Did you see it?”

  “How’d you get in?” Stu asked. “Was the door open?”

  “Nah, we climbed in through a window in back.”

  “Well, we better get going,” said Stu. “The cruising car goes by here, and they check the unoccupied houses. They got a list.”

  They piled into the car, and Stu turned on the ignition. From in back Adam Sussman called, “Say, how about Moose?”

  “What about him?” asked Stu.

  “He’s in there. He passed out, and we had to put him to bed.”

  “We’d better get him. We can’t leave him in there like that.”

  “There’s no room for him, especially the shape he’s in.”

  “He wasn’t invited to this party.”

  “Yeah, but he got us in out of the storm.”

  “I want to go home,” wailed one of the girls. “My folks will be awfully worried.”

  “Get going, Stu,” said Bill Jacobs. “We can swing back afterward and pick him up.”

  Stu and Bill Jacobs took Didi home last, and Alan Jenkins went along because his motorcycle was parked in the Epstein garage. The house was dark when they arrived, and on the kitchen table Didi found a note from her mother: “Gone to the movies–maybe somewhere for coffee afterward.”

  “You guys want some coffee?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I could use something hot,” said Jacobs.

  “I should be starting back,” said Jenkins, “but–okay, I’ll have some too.”

  “But what about Moose?” asked Stu.

  “He’ll keep,” said Jacobs. He laughed harshly. “He’s good for hours.”

  “The way he poured that stuff down–” Stu shook his head. “Still, you wouldn’t think beer would have that effect on him. At school I’ve seen guys who drank the stuff practically all night–”

  “It’s wasn’t the beer,” Bill Jacobs explained, “although he had quite a few of those. As soon as we got into the house, he found himself a bottle of Scotch. He did the same trick with that–you know, tossing his head back and taking it down. He must’ve polished off half the bottle in a couple of swallows.”

  “Half a bottle?” said Stu, marveling. “And he passed out? Complete? Blotto? What’d you do, leave him lying on the floor?”

  “On the floor!” Jacobs was indignant. “Hell no, on one of the beds.”

  “Well, like they say, on the floor he can’t roll off,” said Stu defensively.

  Jenkins laughed, and Jacobs said grimly, “The way we laid him on the bed he won’t roll anywhere.”

  “There was one of these plastic sheets,” Jenkins explained, “and we wrapped him up real good.”

  “Just like you swaddle a baby in a blanket,” Jacobs added with satisfaction.

  Didi came in wi
th coffee. They sipped it in silence, each immersed in his own thoughts for the moment.

  The Stu said suddenly, “Hey, how are we going to get back in? We’re not going to have to go through the window, I hope? You shut the door.”

  “No sweat,” said Bill Jacobs. “I left it on the latch.”

  Jenkins set his cup down and rose lazily to his feet. “I better be starting. Got to get up real early tomorrow.”

  “Hey,” said Bill. “With Stu driving, I’m not sure I can handle Moose alone if he should start acting up. Can’t you give us a hand?”

  Jenkins smiled and shook his head. “You’re asking the wrong party. Far as I’m concerned, he can stay there until he turns to green mold. If I was you cats, I’d forget about him.”

  As the roar of Jenkins’ motorcycle died away, Stu said, “What was he so up tight about?”

  Didi answered, “Moose was dumping on him most of the evening. Frankly, I don’t blame Alan.”

  “Well, that leaves us in a bind,” said Jacobs. He went to the window and looked out. “And it’s started raining again.”

  They sat around and talked, waiting for the rain to let up. Every once in a while one of them would wander to the window to peer at the rain-lashed streets.

  Suddenly a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, followed immediately by a tremendous crash of thunder, and the room was plunged into darkness.

  “That must have got a transformer,” said Jacobs, looking down the darkened street. “Maybe the substation; it’s dark all up and down the street.”

  “You got any candles, Didi?” asked Stu.

  “I–I guess so.” Didi’s voice sounded frightened in the darkness, and then he felt her hand groping for his. He put his arm around her.

  “Tell you what. Rather than sweat this out in darkness, why don’t we all get in the car and drive over to pick up Moose now? The way it’s coming down, it can’t last long.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Mr. Morehead was apologetic. “Believe me, Mr. Paff, if I didn’t have to meet my wife at the airport–”

  “But I’ve arranged with the other men in the deal to meet them at the house. You could have let me know earlier.”

  “I didn’t expect her until tomorrow, Mr. Paff. I just got a call from New York, from the airport. Look, you don’t need me there anyway. You can get the key from–”

  “Don’t tell me to go to see that son of a bitch Begg again. He’ll tell me he can’t get away from his two-bit store and that he can’t let me have the key because I might steal the furniture. Furniture! I’ve seen better at the Morgan Memorial. I’ll drive up with a truck and load it with his goddam ratty furniture.”

  The other chuckled. “Begg is an old Yankee, all right. But look, how would it be if I left the key in Lynn?”

  “Happens I’ve got to check something at the Lynn alley.”

  “Well, that’s fine then. You know the drugstore on the corner where my building is? I’ll leave the key there, and you can pick it up.”

  “Well, I guess that’s all right. You just be sure that there’s no slipup. Give them my name and tell them what I look like so there won’t be any question when I come in for it.”

  “Nothing to worry about, Mr. Paff. And you look over the property as long as you like. Just be sure you turn out the lights and lock the door when you leave.”

  At the Lynn alley the manager greeted him with, “Your wife just called, Mr. Paff, and said for you to call a Mr. Kermit Arons.”

  Arons was remorseful. “Gee, Meyer, you’ll never guess what I went and did. After I made this appointment with you for tonight I forgot all about my sister-in-law’s wedding anniversary. She’s throwing a big shindig, and if I don’t go to it, well, I might just as well start discussing visitation rights to the children with my lawyer. So for tonight, I’m afraid you’ll have to count me out.”

  “But we’ve got to act fast on this thing, Kenn. We can’t futz around.”

  “So act. What do I know about buildings, anyway? If you guys say it’s all right, then it’s all right with me. I’ll go along with whatever you decide.”

  As soon as he hung up, the manager bore down on him. “Look, Mr. Paff, Moose is late again. I called his house, and he wasn’t home. I haven’t eaten yet.”

  “Well, why don’t you go out and grab a bite. I’ll cover for you, and I’ll get somebody for tonight. Frank over at the Malden Alley said he could work any night except Friday.”

  “Well, what if Moose comes in?”

  “If he comes in while I’m here, I’ll fire him. And if he doesn’t show up, I’ll tell him tomorrow he’s through. Look, don’t take too long; I’ve got an appointment.”

  “Sure, Mr. Paff, I’ll just get a hamburger and a cup of coffee. Say, I know a young fellow who if you hire him, I know he’d be reliable and–”

  “We’ll talk about it. You go and eat now.”

  He started for the door, but Paff called after him. “Say, have the cops been in again since–”

  “Oh, don’t worry about them, Mr. Paff. I know how to handle them.”

  “Well, that’s what I wanted to tell you. Lay off. Don’t rile them. Understand?”

  “Oh, sure, Mr. Paff.”

  “Don’t act flip. Just cooperate.”

  While the other was gone, the phone rang. It was Dr. Edelstein. “Meyer? Your wife gave me this number, and said I might catch you here. I just got a call, and I got to go clear down to Lawrence for a consultation.”

  “But, Doc, Kermit Arons can’t make it. He got to go to his sister-in-law’s anniversary party, and now you–”

  “It’s a man’s life, Meyer.”

  Parked under the streetlamp opposite Hillson House, Meyer Paff decided that he would wait just five more minutes for Irving Kallen and then leave. It was easier to get money out of his friends than work, he reflected bitterly. He was not merely annoyed; he was physically uncomfortable. Because of the rain he had to keep the car window up, and it was hot and sticky inside. He could have gone into the house–he had the key–but he remembered what Begg had said about vandals having broken in there on occasion, and he did not want to go in alone. Besides, half-hidden behind its overgrown hedge, the house now looked dark and forbidding. And the thunder and lightning didn’t help things any.

  He glanced at his watch and saw that he had been there almost half an hour. He looked uncertainly down the road and, seeing no car approaching, turned on the ignition and drove off.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  . . . No ma’am, you notify the electric company. But I can tell you there’s no need to call them either. They know about it. The power is out in all that part of town. The storm knocked out the substation.”

  Sergeant Hanks turned to Patrolman Smith, who had unbuttoned his tunic and was relaxing with a cup of coffee. “Boy, what a night! Must be a hundred people calling the electric company and then calling us when they can’t get them.”

  Smith smiled sympathetically, but the sergeant was back at the phone again. “Barnard’s Crossing Police Department, Sergeant Hanks speaking … Yes, Mr. Begg … Oh yes, that’s one of the houses the cruising car checks regular … No sir, nothing was called in … You say it was lit up? … That’s funny–all power in that part of town is out. You don’t have lights, do you? … Oh, before … No, sir, I was not talking to my girl and not to my wife either … Well, I’m sorry about that, but people been calling in almost constantly for the last hour or so about the lights … Yes sir, I’ll have the cruising car check. …”

  He wheeled around in his swivel chair. “Son of a bitch!”

  “Begg? No two opinions on him,” said the patrolman. “Did I ever tell you about the time he–”

  “I better call the cruising car,” the sergeant interrupted. “It would be just like him to keep tabs on the time. Hear me, Bob? … Hanks … When did you pass Tarlow’s Point? … Uh-huh … Well, take a run down there, will you? Old man Begg claims he saw
a light there … No, just before the transformer blew … Okay.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-NINE

  They drove three in the front seat, Didi between the two boys. Stu turned the wipers to high speed to take care of the rain lashing against the windshield. “I sure don’t envy that Jenkins riding a motorcycle in this kind of weather.”

  “Oh, he can always duck in someplace until it lets up,” said Jacobs.

  They parked in front of Hillson House, and Stu dug a flashlight out of the glove compartment and snapped on the beam.

  “Hey,” said Jacobs, “the door is open.”

  “Maybe Moose woke up and just walked out,” said Stu hopefully.

  “Could be, but we better take a look around. Here, let me have the flash.” Bill mounted the stairs with Stu behind him. He pushed open the front door and cast the light around the room. Then he led the way down the hall to the study, where they had left Moose. He stopped at the threshold and focused the beam on the couch. What looked like a giant cocoon in silvery white plastic was resting on top of it.

  Stu giggled nervously. “Geez, you sure wrapped him good. What did you put it over his head for?”

  But Jacobs was already at the couch. “We didn’t leave him like that. Help me!”

  The figure was completely encased in the sheet, the top flap of which had been folded over the head and tucked tightly into the folds enwrapping the body.

  Jacobs yanked at the flap frantically and then, with Stu’s help, pulled the rest of the sheet from the body. The face was curiously white. Jacobs felt the forehead and cheeks. They were cold. He handed the flashlight to Stu and began to rub the hands of the figure on the couch. Then he dropped them in distaste.

  “What’s the matter?” Stu whispered.

  “I think he’s dead.”

  He thrust his hand underneath the shirt to see if he could feel a heartbeat.

  “You can’t tell that way,” said Stu. “You got to hold something like a mirror up to his lips.”