Thursday the Rabbi Walked Out

by Harry Kemelman

  “But why are they exempt from those commandments, Rabbi?” asked Mrs. Froelich.

  “Because observing them would interfere with their more important work of managing the home and the family.”

  “Naturally,” said Molly Mandell sarcastically, “the idea is to get as much work out of them as possible.”

  “No.” The rabbi shook his head. “No, Mrs. Mandell. It’s because with us, the synagogue, or as we call it, the temple, is not the center of our religion. With us, it’s the home. It is there that the Sabbath is celebrated, there that the Feast of Passover, the most important liturgical ceremony in our religion, is held, there that the Succah is built. On the practical side, Mrs. Mandell, I can imagine a case in which a husband, overzealous in reciting the Kaddish for a dead parent, might insist on his wife accompanying him to the minyan to insure that there are the necessary ten, even if it means neglecting to prepare breakfast for the children.”

  Mrs. Froelich nodded vigorously. “When his father died, Harvey went to say Kaddish every single day, morning and evening, for a year. Before that he never went to the daily minyan, and he hasn’t gone since. But he certainly was Old Faithful that year. And you know, he wasn’t even close to his father. They never really got along.”

  “Sure, he had guilt feelings,” Mrs. Allen offered.

  “To hear you tell it, Rabbi,” Molly Mandell said, “the whole Jewish religion is practically dedicated to making things easier for women. It sounds nice, but it’s a crock, and I can prove it. Because in those daily prayers you say every morning, you start by thanking God for having been born a man.”

  The others were taken aback by her vehemence and looked at the rabbi to see his reaction. He had colored but he managed a smile. “I don’t see how you can object to that particular blessing, since it is in such complete agreement with the thinking of your movement.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, your Women’s Lib movement maintains that life is easier for the man than it is for the woman, doesn’t it?” he asked.

  “Well sure, but—”

  “So why shouldn’t men thank God for it? And is it wrong for them to try to equalize the differences a little by according women special privileges?”

  8

  Laura Maltzman was not a pretty woman; in fact, she was plain. She was tall and angular with square shoulders. She had a long face with a square chin, which seemed a little off center, as though she had just been struck a blow, or was on the point of turning her head. But her eyes were large and kindly and understanding. As her husband, rubbing his hands in satisfaction, came into the living room from the hallway, where he had been on the phone, she looked up inquiringly.

  “Just got word,” he said, “that the loan is going through, pretty sure anyway.”

  “Oh? Who called?”

  “Molly Mandell. She spoke to Gore about it, and she thinks he’ll go along. She thought I’d like to know.” He strode up and down the room and then stopped in front of her. “Look, this dinner you’re having, how about calling the Mandells and inviting them?”

  “But they’re so much younger than the others,” she objected.

  “So what? I want her—them—to know that I’m appreciative—”

  “You appointed Herb Mandell to the board last week.”

  “Yeah, but he’s active in the Brotherhood, so she might think it was for that. I want her to know I’m appreciative. See? She’s got a lot of influence in the bank. And she’s been friendly to me, like this phone call tonight. That can be pretty important, having someone you can count on right there in the bank. So I want her to know—”

  Laura dropped her eyes to the knitting in her lap. “You think she’s pretty?” she asked.

  Instantly he was wary. “Well now, she’s no cover girl, but yeah, I think she’s kind of cute. She’s eager and alive and fresh—”

  “I guess she’s fresh all right. Lillian Allen was telling me that she was with the group that went to see the rabbi, and she was pretty fresh to him.”

  “Oh, Lillian Allen! What did she say?”

  “She said that Molly said the whole Jewish religion was sexist and she practically called the rabbi a male chauvinist pig.”

  “Did she?” He chuckled. “Well now, that’s not what I would’ve called him. I figure him for more the namby-pamby type. I mean, a real he-man wouldn’t become a rabbi and spend his life praying. I know these guys. You’d think butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, but in their own quiet way, they screw up the works. So don’t expect me to get uptight because Molly Mandell told him off. I intend to do a little of it myself if he gets in the way. The temple belongs to the members, and I and the board of directors are the people they elected to run it for them. The rabbi is just somebody we hire to do a job, and the sooner he realizes it, the better. Now, will you call up Molly Mandell and invite her?”

  “If you insist.”

  His face got red and his eyes protruded. “Yes, Goddammit, I insist.”

  9

  Ellsworth Jordon paced the living room of his old Victorian house, glowering at the clock on the mantelpiece each time he passed it. Billy was late getting home from work, and he was worried, and annoyed with himself for being worried. By the time he caught sight of him hurrying up the long driveway, his annoyance with himself had turned into anger at the young man.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded. “You’re late.”

  Billy was contrite. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I missed the bus and I decided to walk instead of waiting for the next one. It was so nice out.”

  “Don’t you know Martha has an engagement for tonight and has to leave early? She mentioned it this morning.”

  “Gee, I forgot.”

  “And I am due at the Agathon.”

  “Gee, I’m sorry. But Martha can leave the dishes and I’ll do them.”

  “Well, we’ll see. Wash up now and let’s not keep Martha waiting any longer.”

  They ate in silence. Normally, Billy would have prattled about his day at the bank, but having been reprimanded, he was reluctant to speak. Jordon occasionally shot furtive glances at the boy and wondered at his sullenness. He had reproved him for coming home late, which was his right and duty. But when he had told him to go and wash up, Billy should have realized that in effect his explanation and apology had been accepted. So why didn’t he speak? Did he expect him, so much his senior, to make the overture?

  Though he continued to glower over his plate, after a while, Jordon reflected philosophically that young people naturally lacked subtlety, that in the few months that Billy had been with him, he had adjusted quite well, that in the evenings and on weekends when they were together, the boy had even proved companionable, albeit in the gauche, awkward way to be expected in the young. To be sure, the boy was graceless and uncertain, but he presumed all young people of that age were. He didn’t look you in the eye, and he slouched and was slovenly in his dress. His glasses kept sliding forward on his nose, and one of the bows was attached by a bit of wire. On the other hand, he was obedient, even docile, and thank God, his face was not pimpled. And, a positive plus—he seemed to enjoy his work at the bank, where he worked as a teller. Gore had even reported that the customers seemed to like him.

  It had been no problem getting him the job. “I’ve got a young fellow coming to stay with me for a while, Larry. I’ve known his family for a long time. I’d appreciate it if you’d give him a job in the bank while he’s here.”

  “How long is he going to stay?”

  “Months. Maybe a year. Maybe longer. For some time I’ve thought I ought to have someone sleeping in.”

  Lawrence Gore smiled knowingly and nodded.

  Jordon frowned. He had a reputation as a pinchpenny, and he knew what Gore was thinking—that rather than hire a companion, he was having Billy come for just the cost of his keep. But he didn’t feel it necessary to explain. “And I’d consider it a personal favor, Larry,” he went on, “for any kindness you can sh
ow him. I don’t mean for you to grant him any special privileges that the other employees don’t have, but you know, a friendly word of encouragement now and then. I guess he’s something of a mama’s boy and doesn’t have the confidence—”

  “Sure, I understand, Ellsworth. Tell you what. I’m starting a class of pistol shooting. He can join and I’ll teach him how to shoot.”

  “Goddammit, Larry, this isn’t the Wild West. Use some common sense. Learning to shoot a pistol isn’t going to help make a man of him—”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” said Gore earnestly. “I was the runt in my class in high school. Most of the girls were taller than me. Once at a party they rigged it so I had to dance with this big, tall girl, Florence Richardson. My eyes were just about level with her breasts. God, it was embarrassing.”

  The older man grinned lewdly. “Your face right up against her tits, eh? That might not have been so bad.”

  Gore grinned back. “Yeah, nowadays it wouldn’t bother me, but it sure did then.” He shook his head in reminiscent reflection. “It wasn’t just with girls, you understand. Being short makes some men assertive, but most people become shy and cautious and withdrawn. Well, in college you had to go out for some sport, and I chose the pistol team, figuring it was something where my being short wouldn’t matter. And you know, as I learned to handle the weapon, I began to grow.”

  The older man looked down at him and said, “Not noticeably.”

  “Yes, noticeably. I didn’t get taller, but feeling comfortable with a handgun gave me confidence in everything. It gives you a sense of power, and that makes you sure of yourself. When I won the intercollegiate Regional Championship, I was a giant. You leave the boy to me, Ellsworth. I’ll make a man out of him.”

  Not until Martha came in to serve the main course did Jordon break the silence, and then it was to address her. “Big date tonight, Martha? Somebody special?” he asked jocosely.

  “No, just a date,” she said.

  “Anybody I know?”

  “I don’t guess so. It’s a feller from Lynn I met the other night when I went bowling.”

  “Well, don’t worry. You’ll get out in good time. Just leave the dishes and Billy will do them.” There, he thought, I’ve called him by name. That should let him know that I’m not angry any longer. But the young man did not take the hint and kept his eyes on his plate and remained silent.

  When Martha came in to serve the coffee, she was already in street clothes. “I’ll be going now,” she said. “I’ve stacked the dishes, and the soap powder and towels are on the drainboard.”

  “Okay, Martha, have a good time.” Moodily Jordon sipped his coffee, his eyes abstracted. When he finished, he left the table without a word and went into the living room. Presently Billy joined him there, and Jordon looked up from his paper and asked, “Dishes all done?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And put away?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, that’s good. That’s fine. You written to your mother yet?”

  “I thought I’d do that tomorrow.”

  Jordon’s face darkened. “I promised your mother that she’d get a letter from you every week. I want you to do that right now.”

  “But I told Mr. Gore I’d be over to help him with the photos of the silver collection.”

  The answer infuriated the old man. “Well, your mother comes first. You go to your room right now and do that letter.”

  “Oh fish!” Billy muttered, but he went to his room and closed the door behind him.

  Jordon followed him to the door. “And I’m locking you in till you finish,” he called after him and turned the key in the lock.

  Through the door he called, “And you’ll stay in there until you’ve written that letter. I’m going to have my regular meditation now, so I’ll thank you not to disturb me for the next twenty minutes. After that you can knock if you’ve finished and I’ll let you out. But I’m telling you that if it’s not done by then, I’m going to the club and you’ll wait in there until I get back.”

  He listened for a moment, his ear to the door, but Billy did not reply. He sat down in his recliner for the Transcendental Meditation he was convinced was good for his heart. When the twenty minutes he allowed himself were up, he got out of his chair and tiptoed over to the door of the boy’s room. He listened, his ear pressed to the door, but he heard nothing.

  So be it, he thought. If this is going to be a test of willpower, we’ll see who’s the stronger. He went to the front door, opened it and then banged it behind him. Then opened it carefully once again and listened. Hearing no response, he eased the door closed silently and got into his car parked in the driveway.

  10

  The call came late in the afternoon. “Mr. Maltzman? Ben Segal speaking. I’m interested in buying some land. Mr. Gore at the bank suggested I call you. I wonder if we could meet with you—”

  Ben Segal? Did he know a Ben Segal? Then it came to him. It must be the Ben Segal of Chicago. There were rumors that he was in town. He breathed deeply. “Where are you calling from, Mr. Segal?” he asked calmly.

  “I’m calling from your local hotel, the Arlington Arms. We’re staying here.”

  For a moment he debated whether to appear busy and then decided against it.

  “If you’re free now,” he said, “I can come right over.”

  They sat in the gaudy, overfurnished sitting room of the only suite that the Arlington Arms afforded and which was intended primarily for business conferences. The Segals sat on a heavily brocaded sofa, Maltzman on the edge of a leather lounge chair, uneasily balancing a coffee cup and the petit fours that Mrs. Segal had rung for when he arrived.

  “I’m interested in buying a piece of land,” Segal explained. He fished in his coat pocket and found the match cover on which he had scribbled the name of the street. “It’s out on the Point, I think you call it, on Crossland Avenue, just beyond Porter Street.”

  “Yeah, I know it,” said Maltzman frowning. “But that’s all residential land out there and our zoning laws are pretty strict.”

  “Of course. I understand.” He smiled. “I wasn’t planning on building a factory there, or a warehouse.”

  “I mean it has to be a single family residence. You can’t just have a house that’s used mostly for executive meetings and dinners and maybe as a place to put up visiting firemen. It has to be used by a family as a regular residence. See what I mean?”

  “Oh yes, I understand,” said Segal. “This is going to be just an ordinary house—”

  “We’re planning to live in it ourselves, Mr. Maltzman,” Mrs. Segal explained. “We’re planning to settle here.”

  “That’s right,” her husband added. “I’m going to operate Rohrbough Corporation personally.”

  Mimi leaned forward eagerly. “You see, Mr. Maltzman, we’ve lived in cities all our lives, both of us. And in hotels at that. We have a large apartment in Chicago to be sure, but it’s still in a hotel. And we’re fed up with the city. With the noise and the dirt and the crime—being afraid to go out for a walk in the evening. So we’re planning to settle here. It means changing our whole lifestyle, becoming part of a community. That’s what we want. It’s that, I expect, as much as anything that decided Ben on operating Rohrbough personally.”

  “That’s right,” said her husband. “At lunch today, Gore was telling us about your town meeting that everybody goes to. Well, we’d like to go to that. And to the Fourth of July bonfire, and to the arts festival you hold in the town hall.”

  Maltzman nodded slowly. An idea was beginning to take shape in his mind. He directed his eyes to Ben Segal. “Are you still Jewish? I mean, you haven’t converted or anything?”

  Segal shrugged. “I don’t practice it, but I’ve never denied it.”

  Mimi said, “His brother changed his name to Sears and wanted Ben to, but Ben wouldn’t consider it.”

  “That’s fine,” said Maltzman, “but in a small town like Barnard’
s Crossing, people want to know where you stand. If you want to be respected and accepted, you got to be part of the group they associate you with. And here, that means joining the temple. You got to show that you’re willing to stand up and be counted.”

  “But I’m not the least bit religious,” Segal protested.

  “So what? Most of our members aren’t. We only get about a hundred at Friday evening service. I always go because I’m president of the congregation. Joining the temple is not a matter of religion, so much as a way of showing you feel you belong.”

  “But it’s different with me,” said Segal. “I honestly don’t think I have a right to be a member of a synagogue. You see, I was never Bar Mitzvah. My folks were terribly poor when I was a kid, and they just couldn’t afford it at the time.”

  “Oh Ben, dear, you never told me.” Mimi was all sympathy. “But about Bar Mitzvah, I imagine you can have it anytime. Can’t he, Mr. Maltzman? Seems to me I saw something on TV about a seventy-year-old man in California who just had one. His folks couldn’t afford it either when he was a youngster.”

  “Say, I remember that,” said Maltzman. “And in the Hadassah Magazine there was a story about a whole bunch of men, a club, or from the same synagogue, mature men, who went to Israel and had a group Bar Mitzvah at the Wall. Look here, Mr. Segal, if you’re interested, I’ll see the rabbi and arrange it.” Then it came to him—the gimmick. “Tell you what, I’ll put it up to the board, and if they see things my way, we’ll have the temple sponsor it.”

  “Well, it seems to me there’s quite a ceremony, isn’t there? I mean, it’s not just the party. I seem to remember kids my age who had to study up for it. Special prayers they had to learn by heart and—”