Friday the Rabbi Slept Late (23 page)

He sat very still, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. Then he turned away from her, as if talking to someone else. “In this business, you run up against all kinds of characters. You need like a kind of insurance, if you’re to have any peace of mind. A character starts pushing you, so you try to make a deal. If you can’t you get in touch with your – uh – insurance agent. You’d be surprised what kind of service you can get for five hundred bucks. Now where the job’s a nice-looking girl like you, there are agents would give me a special rate – maybe not even charge me at all. Some of those guys like to play, especially it’s a nice-looking young girl. They do it for kicks.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and knew he was getting through to her. “Like I said, I want to be friendly. I don’t mind helping a friend out now and then. A friend needs a job bad, I can usually arrange it. A friend needs a few bucks, say for a new outfit, I can be touched.”

He held out the money again.

This time she took it.

Macomber had phoned ahead to make sure the rabbi would be in when he arrived.

“Macomber? Do we know a Macomber?” the rabbi asked when Miriam told him about the call.

“He said it was something about town business.”

“Do you suppose it’s the Selectman? Macomber is the name of the chairman, I believe.”

“Why don’t you ask him when he gets here?” she said shortly. And then added, as if she realized she had been abrupt, “He said seven o’clock.”

The rabbi looked at his wife questioningly but said nothing. She had been moody for several days now, but he did not like to question her.

The rabbi recognized Macomber immediately and started to lead him into his study, assuming he had come on some matter concerning the temple or the Jewish community. But he seemed content to remain in the living room.

“I won’t be but a minute, rabbi. I stopped by to ask if you would care to take part in the opening ceremonies of Boat Race Week.”

“What sort of part?” asked the rabbi.

“Well, in the last few years we’ve made quite a thing of it. We get boats from all over, you know, from all the yacht clubs along the North Shore, and quite a few from the South Shore and even further. Before the first race, we have a ceremony on the judge’s dock – a band concert, flag-raising and finally the blessing of the fleet. Last couple of years we’ve had Protestant ministers and before that we’ve had a Catholic priest. So this year, we thought it would be only fair to have a rabbi, now that we have one in town.”

“I’m not sure just what it is that you want me to bless,” said the rabbi. “These are pleasure craft of one sort or another that are coming down here to race. Is there any danger involved?”

“Not really. Of course, you can always get hit by a spar when coming about and get thrown into the water, but that doesn’t happen very often.”

The rabbi was puzzled and uncertain. “Then you want me to pray for victory?”

“Well, naturally we’d like our folks to win, but we’re not competing as a town, if that’s what you mean.”

“Then I’m not quite sure that I understand. You mean that you just want the boats themselves blessed?”

“That’s the idea, rabbi. Your job would be to bless the boats, not only ours, but all those that are in the harbor at the time.”

“I don’t know,” said the rabbi doubtfully. “I haven’t had much experience in that sort of thing. You see, our prayers are rarely petitionary. We don’t so much ask for things that we don’t have as give thanks for what we have received.”

“I don’t understand.”

The rabbi smiled. “It’s something like this. You Christians say, ‘Our Father who art in Heaven, give us this day our daily bread.’ Our comparable prayer is, ‘Blessed art Thou, O Lord, who bringest forth bread from the earth.’ That’s rather over-simplified, but in general our prayers tend to be prayers of thanksgiving for what has been given to us. Of course, I could offer thanks for the boats which provide us with the pleasures of sailing. It’s a little farfetched; I’d have to think about it. I’m not really in the blessing business, you know.”

Macomber laughed. “That’s a curious way of putting it. I don’t suppose Monsignor O’Brien who did it a couple of years ago, or Dr. Skinner who took a turn at it one year, think of themselves as being in the blessing business either. But they did it.”

“It’s at least more appropriate to their respective professions than it is to mine.”

“Aren’t you all in the same profession?”

“Oh no, we stem from different traditions, all three of us. Monsignor O’Brien is a priest in the tradition of the priests of the Bible, the sons of Aaron. He has certain powers, magical powers, that he exercises in the celebration of the Mass, for example, where the bread and wine are magically changed to the body and blood of Christ. Dr. Skinner as a Protestant minister is in the tradition of the prophets. He has received a call to preach the word of God. I, a rabbi, am essentially a secular figure, having neither the mana of the priest nor the ‘call’ of the minister. If anything, I suppose we come closest to the judges of the Bible.”

“Well,” said Macomber slowly, “I think I see what you mean, but nobody really – What I mean to say is that we’re primarily interested in the ceremony.”

“Were you about to say nobody listens to the prayer anyway?”

Macomber laughed shortly. “I’m afraid, rabbi, that I was going to say just that. And now I’ve offended you.”

“Not at all. As a rabbi I am just as aware that people do not listen to my prayers as you are that they don’t listen to your most serious arguments. I am not concerned with whether those standing on the dock will be in a mood of proper devotion so much as whether the purpose of the prayer might not be frivolous.”

Macomber seemed disappointed.

“Why are you so anxious to have my husband give the prayer?” asked Miriam.

Macomber glanced from one to the other and saw in her even look and in the determined set of her chin that it was futile to temporize. He decided to gamble on the truth.

“It’s the bad reaction to this unfortunate business at the temple. Especially the last few days, there’s been talk – not nice talk. We’ve never had anything of this sort and we don’t like it. We had the idea it might help matters if we could announce that the Board of Selectmen had invited you to bless the fleet. I agree with you, it’s pretty silly – a brainstorm the Chamber of Commerce dreamed up a few years back. Oh, it’s done in some Catholic countries in the small fishing villages, but there ships are serious business and their success affects the whole economy. And there’s considerable danger, too. It’s even reasonable in Gloucester, where the big fleets sail from. Here it’s just meaningless ceremony, but as far as you’re concerned, rabbi, it will serve to underscore the fact that the Selectmen – and therefore the responsible people in town – will have no part of these shameful acts.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Macomber,” the rabbi said, “but aren’t you perhaps exaggerating the situation?”

“No, believe me. You personally may not have suffered any annoyance or embarrassment, or if you have you may have shrugged it off as the work of a crackpot or two that will stop when the real culprit is caught. But this kind of case is the hardest to solve and frequently doesn’t get solved at all. In the meantime, some very decent people can be hurt. I don’t say that this scheme will solve the situation, but I’m sure it’ll help a little.”

“I appreciate what you are trying to do and the spirit that prompts it –”

“Then you agree?”

The rabbi shook his head slowly.

“Why not? Is it against your religion?”

“As a matter of fact, it is. It’s specifically mentioned: Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.”

Macomber rose. “I guess there’s nothing more to be said but I wish you’d think about it. It’s not just you, you understand, it’s the whole Jewish community.”

When he left, Miriam exclaimed, “Oh David, these are good people.”

He nodded but said nothing.

The telephone rang and he picked up the receiver. “Rabbi Small,” he said, and then listened. She watched him, alarmed as she saw the color rise in his face. He put the instrument back on its rest and turned to his wife. “Is that the kind of wrong number you’ve been getting?” he said quietly.

She nodded.

“The same person each time?”

“Sometimes it’s a man’s voice and sometimes a woman’s. It has never seemed like the same voice twice. Several times it has been just a string of obscenities, but most of the time they say terrible things.”

“This person, quite a nice voice by the way, wanted to know if human sacrifice was required for our approaching festival – I suppose he was referring to Pesach.”

“Oh no!”

“Oh yes.”

“It’s terrible. This lovely town has such nice people like Hugh Lanigan and Mr. Macomber, and then those people on the phone …”

“Crackpots,” he said in contemptuous dismiss. “Just a few nasty crackpots.”

“It’s not only the phone calls, David.”

“No? What else?”

“When I go into the stores, the clerks used to be so warm. Now they’re polite. And the other customers, those I know, they try to avoid me.”

“You’re sure you’re not imagining it?” But he sounded less certain of himself.

“Quite sure, David, isn’t there something you can do?”

“Such as what?”

“I don’t know. You’re the rabbi; you’re supposed to know. Maybe you ought to tell Hugh Lanigan what’s been happening. Maybe you ought to consult a lawyer. Maybe you ought to consider Macomber’s offer.”

He made no answer but returned to the living room. She looked in to find him sitting in his armchair, his eyes staring fixedly at the wall opposite. When she offered to make him some tea, he shook his head with annoyance. Later she ventured to look in again, and he was still in his chair, his eyes staring straight ahead.

“Will you unzip me, please?” she asked.

Without rising and quite automatically, he pulled at the zipper on the back of her dress. He seemed to come to, for he asked, “Why are you taking off your dress?”

“Because I’m exhausted and I want to go to bed.”

He laughed. “Why, of course. How stupid of me. You can’t very well go to bed with your dress on. If you don’t mind, I’ll stay up a little while longer.”

Just then they heard a car drive up and stop at the door. “Someone is coming,” he said. “Who could it be at this hour?”

They waited, and after a while the doorbell rang. Miriam, who had quickly zipped herself up, went to answer, but even as she approached there was the sound of a roaring motor and wheels spinning against gravel. She opened the door and looked out. She saw the tail-light of a car speeding down the street in the darkness.

Behind her, she heard her husband exclaim, “Oh my God!” She turned and then saw it too: a swastika on the door, the red paint still fresh and dripping like blood.

He put out a tentative forefinger and stared dumbly at the red spot on his finger. All at once Miriam burst into tears.

“I’m sorry, David,” she sobbed.

He held her close until he felt she had regained her composure. Then, his voice harsh, he said: “Get me some of that household cleaning stuff and a rag.”

She pressed her face against his shoulder. “I’m afraid, David, I’m afraid.”

Although the rabbi’s picture had been in the papers as one of those connected with the case, Mrs. Serafino did not recognize him when he rang her bell.

I am Rabbi Small,” he said. “I should like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

She was not sure she ought to, and would have liked to ask her husband, but he was still asleep.

“Is it about the case? Because if it is, I don’t think I should.”

“I came to see her room.” There was something so positive and assured in his tone that to refuse seemed almost impertinent.

She hesitated and then said, “I guess it will be all right. It’s back here beyond the kitchen,” and she led the way.

The telephone rang on their way into the kitchen and she raced over to pick it up at the first ring. She talked for a moment and then hung up. “Excuse me,” she said to the rabbi. “We have an extension beside our bed, and I didn’t want to wake Joe.”

“I understand.”

She opened a door from the kitchen and stood aside so he could enter. He looked around the room – at the bed, at the night table beside it, at the bureau, at the small armchair. He went to the night table and read the titles of the few books on its shelf; he glanced at the small plastic radio on top of the table. He studied it for a moment and then turned the knob and waited until he heard a voice announce, “This is Station WSAM, Salem’s own station, bringing you music –”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to touch anything,” she said.

He turned it off and smiled apologetically. “She play it much?”

“All the time – this crazy rock and roll music.”

The door of the closet stood open. He asked her permission and then looked inside. Mrs. Serafino herself opened the door to the bathroom.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’ve seen enough.”

She led the way back to the living room. “Did you find anything special?”

“I didn’t expect to. I just wanted to get some idea about the girl. Tell me, was she pretty?”

“She was no beauty, for all the newspapers kept calling her ‘an attractive blonde.’ I guess they call any girl that. She was sort of attractive in a corn-fed farm-girl sort of way, you know, thick waist, thick legs and ankles – oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Serafino,” he reassured her, “I know about ankles and legs. Tell me, did she seem happy?”

“I guess so.”

“And yet I understood she had no friends.”

“Well, she and this Celia who works for the Hoskins a couple of houses down sometimes went to a movie together.”

“Any men friends, or wouldn’t you have known?”

“I think she would have told me if she had a date. You know how it is, two women in a house together, they talk. But I’m sure there were no men friends. When she went to a movie Thursday nights, she’d either go alone or with Celia. Yet in the papers it said she was pregnant, so I guess she must have known at least one man.”