Someday the Rabbi Will Leave

by Harry Kemelman

  A thought occurred to her. “You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you Tony?”

  “Me? What gave you that idea?”

  “Well, there was that picture you took, and they were talking about a picture—”

  “Listen, Baby”—Tony’s face was hard—“forget about the picture I showed you. All right?”

  “Sure. You know me. But—”

  “No buts. Just forget you ever saw it.” He smiled. “It’s like this. That picture, five or ten guys must have got it. I bet there were ten or twenty guys had cameras. I told you it was a strictly stag benefit and there was entertainment promised. So everybody expected broads and some of them came prepared. When they saw there were no broads, they began snapping pictures all over the place. So let’s say one of these guys tries to put the bite on Baggio, or say he goes to someone who doesn’t like Baggio and thinks the guy might want to give him the leg—”

  “Not you, Tony. You wouldn’t, would you?”

  “Me? I don’t play in a hick town like Revere.”

  “Because working in a nightclub, you hear things. And I wouldn’t want to spend all my spare time for the next few months taking care of some guy who’s had both his legs broken.”

  “Baby!” He spread his arms in token of innocence and candor. “You heard them say something about a picture. So, more like it was a picture of him taken in some motel with a floozie who wasn’t his wife. It’s got nothing to do with us. So, how’s about you pouring me another cup of coffee and just forgetting all about it?”

  20

  “Can I have the car, Dad?”

  The rabbi looked at his son in surprise. “On a Monday night?”

  “He’s got to see Alice,” Hepsibah volunteered. “She called him.”

  “Ma!” Jonathon’s protest manifested long-suffering annoyance.

  “How many times have I told you, Hepsibah?” Miriam was plaintive rather than angry.

  “It’s not a date,” Jonathon explained. “It’s like an assignment for my Political Process course.”

  “What kind of assignment?” asked the rabbi suspiciously.

  “Well, you know, it’s the night before the primaries. So there’s a couple of rallies downtown. And Mr. Cronin said we ought to go, and then we’re going to talk about it in class, and maybe even have like a test.”

  “I didn’t realize the election was tomorrow,” said Rabbi Small. “Where are the rallies going to be held?”

  “Well, there’s the big one at the town hall. And then they put up like a platform at the end of Main Street. So I guess there’ll be another one there.”

  “That might be interesting,” said the rabbi. “Maybe I’ll go with you.”

  “I want to go, too,” said Hepsibah.

  “No,” said the rabbi automatically.

  “No,” said Miriam. “You’ve got homework to do, Sibah, and I want you in bed early. You were up late last night.”

  “Nothing doing,” said Jonathon. “I’m not going to have that pest hanging on to me.”

  So around half-past seven, the rabbi and Jonathon left their house on Maple Street. And in response to Jonathon’s “Can I drive?,” the rabbi handed over the keys and took the passenger seat.

  “Drive down Main to Foster,” he directed. “There’s sure to be a space there. We can walk from there.”

  They found a parking place and set out for the town hall, which was about a hundred yards beyond. But as they approached their destination, Jonathon said, “You want to go to the town hall, Dad? I figured on going to the other place for a while. Why don’t I meet you afterwards?”

  The rabbi hesitated. He assumed Jonathon had arranged to meet his friends at the rally on the platform. “All right,” he said. “But as soon as the rally there is over, you come to the town hall. Or better still, let’s plan on meeting here at the town hall at ten—”

  “Aw …”

  “All right, half past, but no later.”

  The town hall auditorium was almost full, and noisy and disorderly. People kept getting out of their seats to talk to other people, or sometimes, it seemed, just to wander around. Conversations were carried on with little or no attention paid to the speaker at the lectern, and the speakers paid no attention to the noise, not even when it came from various people on the platform. Some in the audience carried placards with a candidate’s name and they expressed approval or disapproval—it was hard to tell which—by pounding the placard stakes on the floor.

  “It’s like a Democratic national convention, isn’t it?” said a voice behind him. The rabbi turned and saw that it was Police Chief Hugh Lanigan. Lanigan was a square-shouldered man with a round, rubicund face and white hair cut whiffle-style, so short that the pink scalp showed through. He had had dealings with the rabbi over many years, and they had become good friends. On more than one occasion he had been able to inform the rabbi of matters that were of concern to the Jewish community. Nor were the benefits one-sided, for he had also found the rabbi’s advice useful on numerous occasions.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here, David. And then again, I can see where you might come,” Lanigan smiled.

  “I came with Jonathon, except that he went to the other place. He said it was for an assignment in his Political Process class. Curious, the kind of courses they teach in high school these days. It is noisy, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it’s noisy, but that’s all it is. When I was a youngster, they used to parade through the streets carrying torches, red flares really, like the kind they sell in automotive stores. It was mostly the kids that carried them, and the kids joined the parades so they could carry them. But then the Board of Selectmen passed an ordinance against them—fire hazard, you know—and that ended the parades—and the fun. The same when they outlawed fireworks for the Fourth of July.”

  “Everyone seems to be having a good time, though,” said the rabbi. “Does anyone listen to the speakers?”

  “Naw. It’s just a chance to do some last-minute electioneering.”

  “Then …”

  “The candidates are expected to show. I suppose anyone who didn’t would be thought to lack the common touch. They quiet down, though, when the candidates for statewide office speak.”

  “You mean Constant and Belise will be coming here?”

  “They won’t because we’re a strong Republican town; they can do better in some of the cities in the western part of the state. But the candidates for lieutenant governor will show, and Duffy, one of the candidates for attorney general, is expected.”

  It did quiet down when Jeremiah Duffy appeared. He was listened to respectfully, and roundly applauded when he finished.

  The rabbi glanced at his watch and said, “It’s almost half-past ten. Jonathon is either waiting for me or will be coming along any minute.”

  “Well, this about winds it up. I’ll be going along, too,” said Lanigan. “What did you think of Duffy’s idea of establishing a fund for the victims of robbery, assault, and all the rest?”

  The rabbi smiled. “I approve of it. You see, it’s an approach to our view.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, in Talmudic law, theft, robbery, and assault and so on were not crimes; they were torts against the victim, and the perpetrator not only had to make good what he had stolen, say, but also had to pay an additional sum, sometimes several times the value of the thing stolen.”

  “But if it’s not a crime—”

  “In this country, a crime is an injury to the state, or in England where our common law comes from, it is an injury to the Crown. Well, that’s obviously a legal fiction. When A steals from B, how is the Commonwealth affected, or in England, Queen Elizabeth? But it’s the Commonwealth that proceeds against him, and if he’s found guilty, he goes to jail. What does it cost to keep a man in jail?”

  “Last I heard, about twenty thousand dollars a year,” said Lanigan gloomily.

  “So all of us pay through our taxes to keep each criminal in jail
, and the victim, what does he get out of it? But in Talmudic Law, it is the victim who would recover, and the perpetrator would do hard labor to make good the penalty imposed.”

  “You mean this is what Jews, I mean, observant Jews would do?”

  “Oh no, because there is an overriding Talmudic law, Dina Malchuta Dina, which states that the law of the country where we reside takes precedence.”

  “Well, it’s an interesting idea, anyway. I just wonder how it would work on something like the Brink’s robbery. They’d have to work the rest of their lives. Say, how did you like Jack Scofield?”

  “Which one was he?”

  “The local candidate for state senator. The tall, blond fellow.”

  “I don’t think I noticed. There were so many speakers. Why?”

  “Oh, I thought you people would be pushing for him.”

  Before the rabbi could ask Lanigan what he meant, Jonathon appeared and called out, “Dad.”

  “Okay, Jonathon. Coming.” And with a wave to Lanigan, he went to join his son.

  21

  Monday afternoon when the local paper had come out, Laura was pleased to see their repudiation of the Committee of Concerned Citizens leaflet covered under the headline SCOFIELD DEPLORES DIRTY TRICKS; CALLS BAGGIO HONORABLE MAN. The chairman of the Barnard’s Crossing Republican Committee called to say, “That was very decent of Scofield to issue that statement. We’re all good Republicans and shouldn’t fight amongst ourselves.” There was also a call from the Baggio headquarters. “I’m calling in behalf of Thomas Baggio to express his appreciation for Mr. Scofield’s statement. We’ve made formal complaint to the Election Commission, but I want you to know that we appreciate Scofield’s support.”

  “Have you heard anything from the Al Cash headquarters?” she asked.

  “Not a word.”

  “Well, maybe he didn’t see the leaflet,” she suggested. “We got it in Saturday’s mail.”

  “Maybe,” was the skeptical reply.

  Scofield had come in late in the afternoon, and Laura could see by the way his eyes glittered that he had had a drink or two. When she tried to fill him in on the events of the day, he cut her off with a wave of the hand. “Look, what do you say we go some place nice to eat, and—and make a night of it.”

  “No, not tonight,” she said firmly and decisively. “Tonight, you go to the rally. Have you forgotten?”

  “Oh yeah. You coming?”

  “Maybe.”

  He could tell from her tone of voice that it was useless to argue, so he mumbled, “Okay.” Without further ado, he walked out, not trusting himself to stay on in her presence.

  It had come to him that afternoon that he wanted her badly. More, that he needed her. And that it might be his last chance, for the feeling was strong in him that if he lost, he would not see her again. She would say the usual, that they had put up a good fight, and maybe next time around he would do better. Then they would shake hands perhaps and say good-bye, and that would be the end of it. She had given him purpose and direction, and tomorrow, if he lost, he would be alone and wouldn’t know what to do. So he had decided that it had to be tonight, and had fortified himself with a couple of drinks. But he had forgotten all about the rally and thought she was annoyed with him.

  Of course, if he did win tomorrow …

  Tuesday was a crisp, clear day. He arrived at his headquarters early, but she was there before him. “What do I do?” he demanded briskly. He had decided not to mention the rally or her failure to appear.

  “Have you voted yet?”

  “Gosh, no.”

  “Then that’s the first thing you do. Then you come back here and get a load of cards, and tour the district to see if one of our people is outside each precinct station. Thank him, tell him how much you appreciate his help, and give him a supply of cards if he’s running low.”

  “Will do.” He started for the door.

  She called after him, “Keep your chin up. It’s our kind of weather.”

  He stopped. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nasty weather would have favored Cash and Baggio. They’ve got the organizations to bring out their people, rain or shine. But if the weather is good, then even people who are lukewarm about voting are likely to go to the polls.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. You voted yet?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Who’d you vote for?”

  “Tommy Baggio, of course. I’ve been in love with that guy from the beginning.”

  He walked to the precinct station and wondered idly if she might not be hinting, to him, trying to tell him something by her remark. As he walked along the street, he was hailed by several passers-by, who called out and wished him luck, or said they had just voted for him. One even addressed him as Senator.

  He spent the whole morning touring the district, and when he got back, shortly after noon, he found that she had set up a large electric coffee urn, along with several cardboard boxes of assorted doughnuts. The wastebasket was overflowing with paper cups and wrinkled paper napkins, and there were several used paper cups rolling around on the floor under the table.

  He poured himself some coffee and selected a doughnut. As he munched, he said, “Checked all the precincts. They all report the voting is slow. Only to be expected in a primary. You must have had a crowd here.”

  “Not too many, but people kept dropping in.”

  “Why don’t we get the place cleaned up a little?” he suggested.

  “No, leave it as it is. It makes it look as though we were busy.”

  “Many calls for cars?”

  “Not too many. Most of them would be apt to call the offices of those running for statewide office.” The telephone rang. “Just a minute.”

  She picked up the phone and announced, “Scofield headquarters.” She listened for a moment and said, “Yes, it is a nice day for it. It looks like a good turnout. Who do you favor for governor, Constant or Belise? Yes, he is a good man. They’re both good men and good Republicans. What’s the address again? Okay, we’ll have a car over shortly.”

  “What’s that all about?” he asked. “What do you care who they prefer for governor?”

  “So I’ll know whom to call for a car. She said Constant, so I’ll call the Constant headquarters. They have a lot more cars than we do.”

  He looked at her with admiration. “Why don’t we go and get some lunch?”

  “And leave the place unattended? No, you go, and bring me back a hamburger, no mustard.”

  “Then what do I do?”

  “You make the round of the precincts again. That’s the most important thing, showing your people you’re interested and that you appreciate what they’re doing. And only you can do it. And when you finish, you start over again.”

  “Okay, Sweetheart, whatever you say. But we’re having dinner together tonight.”

  “All right, after the polls close.”

  “But that’s not until eight o’clock,” he protested.

  “Well, if you’re famished, you can always have a doughnut to tide you over,” she said.

  He left and did not reappear until half-past seven. He urged her to leave with him.

  “But we can’t leave before the polls close.”

  “How many calls have you had in the last half hour?”

  “Only a couple,” she admitted, “but—”

  “But nothing. If they call here and get no answer, they’ll call the headquarters of one of the candidates for statewide office. Chances are they’ll call them first, anyhow. Besides, anyone calling now, by the time they get a car to them, and deliver them, the polls will be closed.”

  This seemed reasonable. And he was so surprisingly firm that she agreed. “Shall we turn the lights out? Or should we put up the Back Later sign?”

  “What for?”

  “Oh, you know, people come to sit around and wait for the results.”

  “Not here, they won’t. They’ll go to the committee headquarters. Tu
rn them out.” On the sidewalk, he said, “Suppose we take your car. Mine has the sign on top, and I’d like to forget about the campaign for a while. I was thinking we’d go someplace along Route 128 outside the district.”

  When they got to the restaurant, she discovered he had made reservations. Curiously she was not displeased. He ordered cocktails, and when the waiter asked if they wanted to order, he said, “No, after our drinks.” And to Laura, “I aim to eat leisurely tonight.”

  It was almost ten o’clock when they finished their coffee. “The results will be broadcast on the eleven o’clock news,” he said. “How about coming to my place to hear the returns?”

  “All right.”

  He had a large studio apartment on an upper floor at Waterfront Towers, one of the few apartment buildings in Barnard’s Crossing. It was sparsely furnished with a large bed, a couple of overstuffed modern chairs without arms, a businesslike desk and straight-backed chair, and a table with a TV set.

  As he busied himself with ice cubes and a whiskey bottle, she turned on the TV, and then since the news wasn’t on yet, she went over to the window to look out at the harbor. “Nice view,” she remarked.

  “Uh-huh.” He handed her a tall glass and sat down in one of the armchairs facing the TV. She remained standing, sipping at her drink.

  The newscast came on and the primary was the big story. In addition to the two anchormen, there were a couple of “experts,” political reporters from the Boston newspapers to comment on the implications of the vote.

  “… Not all precincts in as yet … however, Constant appears to have a commanding lead over Belise … In the attorney general race …” It went on and on, numbers clicking on the tote board and appeals to the experts to explain the vote in this precinct or that. The turnout had been small, as it was apt to be for a primary election, and it was obvious that the anchormen were doing their best to build up a story, seizing on every change in the numbers to create suspense and excitement. It was almost midnight before one of the anchormen announced, “And now for the regional offices … the incumbent Democrat in the Senate was of course unchallenged in the First District, but there seems to be a horserace for the Republican nomination … in the Second District … the Third, the Essex District, usually goes Republican and nomination is regarded as tantamount to election. There were three men running for the nomination …”