Naked Came the Stranger (7 page)

But the most unpleasant incident connected with the Temple
occurred during the dedication ceremonies. Rabbi Turnbull had
arranged to liberate a hundred balloons and, as the balloons soared
aloft, the string on one of them became entangled on the forked
tongue of the Temple's left prong and bobbed there insistently. In
effect, the letter "shin" was dotted on the left which,
unfortunately, turned it into the letter "sin." And to the rabbi's
anguish the balloon remained there for half a day until one of his
congregation shot it down with an air rifle.

Despite its beginnings, the Temple prospered. As did Rabbi
Turnbull. Gaining some small fame as an ecumenical bridge, the Temple
primarily served as the social locus of the Jewish community of
King's Neck. The Jews of King's Neck, thoroughly assimilated and
distributed, were members of that ultimate ghetto – the
dispersed one.

Turnbull always observed that tolerance breeds selectivity. If a
community bends over backward to be publicly liberal, it can give
itself the bonus of private snobbery. In such a hotbed of tolerance
it was perhaps inevitable that the rabbi and his Temple would
flourish. Only last year, Turnbull, the father of three, had been
named one of the ten most outstanding young rabbis in America. This
was followed by a genuine heaven-sent gift – the King's Neck
(Reform) Temple Beth Manasseh received a three-page color spread in a
Life
Magazine series entitled "The New Look in Religion."
Shortly thereafter, Rabbi Turnbull received a CORE citation for his
Civil Rights efforts. He had marched in Washington and St. Augustine,
and his picture had been flashed across the nation when an Associated
Press photographer spotted him attempting to reason with an outraged
redneck in Selma. Turnbull circulated five hundred of these
photographs to leading church, state and community officials at his
own expense.

But Rabbi Turnbull's latest venture, hiring Jonah and the Wails
for his Friday night service, had caused a stir even among his fellow
reformers, most of whom objected on aesthetic rather than ethical
grounds. The rabbi dismissed this as so many sour grapes. He had
simply stolen a march on them again.

The controversy spread throughout Long Island, with the community
about evenly divided. A
Newsday
poll revealed that the
division was among those who thought the rabbi was a charlatan (5 per
cent), those who thought he was sincere (5 per cent), those who
thought Jonah and the Wails were sincere (20 per cent) and the rest
who had not yet formed an opinion. In the face of criticism, Rabbi
Turnbull stoutly maintained that Judaism was an organic faith which
must adapt or die, "I am improvising on the keyboard of faith," he
told Gillian, or rather, the microphone. At that moment Gillian
decided, if the rabbi planned to champion reform, she would fight the
battle of tradition.

Rabbi Turnbull noted that music had been malleable and
contemporary in Jewish culture from the time of King David's harp; as
evidence he named such composers as Arabanels in Spain and others
such as Mendelssohn and Halévy. Gillian countered by observing
that no one on the list composed ritual music. Rabbi Turnbull
recalled that even the pious Hasidic rabbis had composed a march of
welcome when Napoleon entered Galicia.

"Yes," Gillian said, "but surely you will recall that they
scrupulously refrained from using that march in their liturgy. And
certainly you're not going to compare the Hasids to… Jonah and
the Wails?"

The rabbi turned red around the neck but went on ignoring Gillian.
He pointed out that, if the tradition were literally adhered to, the
great commentaries on the Bible, the Mishnah and Gmorrah, would never
have been written, and the Jews would still be mired in pre-Herodian
ritual. What were the commentaries, he asked, but a restatement of
the Bible in contemporary terms? He likened the Bible to a Rorschach
ink blot and the commentaries to the thought associations of
generations of rabbis.

"Careful, rabbi," Gillian said.

"And what is the Reform movement," he continued, "but a
restatement of Judaism in contemporary terms? And, consequently, in
the direct tradition of the great rabbis. Like your own earlier
Christian Reformation, it is an attempt to breathe new life into an
ancient faith.

And if we are to rephrase the religious idiom, would it not be a
breach of faith to stop short at the music?" Gillian had majored in
Far-Eastern Religion at Bard College – that was before she left
school and lived off-campus with Charlie, a blind jazz pianist
– and she was not so easily put off.

William turned away and sighed. He knew what was going to happen.
Whenever a male guest showed a flourish of intellectual vigor,
Gillian would first attempt to match erudition – this through
an instinctive ability to marshal the right quote, cite the
differential case and, at times, invent the properly unnerving
statistic. And if she didn't win in this manner, she would resort to
banter, ruse and twittering. Then, if the guest genuinely knew what
he was talking about, Gillian would ever so deftly suggest that he
was a wee bit pompous, lacked humor, took himself more seriously than
was absolutely warranted. And, in extreme cases, when the guest was
preparing to lash back, Gillian would simply cut him down with a
fusillade of charm. Which would it be this time?

"But isn't it true," she began the assault, "that medieval rabbis
had interpreted the Law within the traditions of ritual – which
you are clearly not doing? And isn't that ritual which you are
forsaking essential to judaism, not necessarily for its own sake as
you imply, but because it reaffirms the holiness of each human
act?"

"My dear lady…."

"Just let me finish, rabbi," she interrupted him. "As for the
analogy between Jewish and Christian reformations, I'm more than a
little surprised that you would overlook such a basic matter as
intent. The original spirit of the Protestant Reformation was to
purify, to return to the past, whereas the Jewish Reform sought to
streamline and move toward the future. And finally, it will seem
strange to some of our listeners that a man of God would allow what
is most crude and frivolous in our society into the sacred halls of a
temple – not as penitents, but as preachers."

"Is there a question in all that?" For the first time Rabbi
Turnbull took note of the opposition.

"Take your choice," Gillian said.

"It was Rabbi Meir," Turnbull said, "who was once asked why he
remained friends with an outcast. His reply should serve me as well:
'I found a pomegranate; I ate its contents and threw away its husk.'
"

William was getting nervous. Not only did he question the
relevance of pomegranates, he could almost hear the radios being
turned off. (That talky kike is worse than my gabby wife, he
thought.) He was aware that he had become less than peripheral once
again. He had vanished, vanished like a rabbit through the magic of
others being unaware of his presence. The one thing he was certain
of, the conversation was becoming too damned metaphysical for a
chatty morning radio show. Who did she think was listening, Reinhold
Niebuhr?

That crack about Protestants purifying the church, that was going
to go over big with the Catholics.

"Gilly," he interrupted, "darling, don't you think that what the
rabbi is trying to say is that religious music can benefit from new
sounds, even rock and roll?"

"Not exactly, Billy," she said – control, control –
sweetheart, I think the rabbi is saying much more than that. I think
he is suggesting a religious structure that is not so much opposed to
tradition as outside it. Isn't that so, Rabbi Turnbull?"

They were off once again, Gillian leading Turnbull a merry chase
through the forest of tradition and reformation. The rabbi was
dazzled by Gillian's fund of knowledge, dazzled but not cowed, and he
took to the game with relish. But when he cited an arcane Babylonian
scholar, Gillian managed to recall what the sage's equally arcane
nemesis had said to refute the argument. Turnbull was fascinated. Up
until that moment it had been a game. Suddenly it was a contest. In
the next fifteen minutes, Rabbi Turnbull had invoked the sum of his
learning at Union Theological and beyond. Gillian had, by this time,
changed her tactics, shifted to intellectual guerrilla warfare,
sniping, hitting available targets, retreating, twitting and teasing.
When the show finally ended, Gillian reflected the infuriating
impression that she had won. The issue of Jonah and the Wails had
somehow been put in camphor.

"You are an army of scholars, Mrs. Blake," the rabbi conceded. "We
must continue this some other time."

"I'd love to, rabbi."

The rabbi nodded absently at William and left. He had hardly
closed the studio door. "What the hell did you think you were
talking about?" William was asking. "Where did you think you were,
one of your Radcliffe seminars?"

"Bard," she corrected him. "And kindly be quiet for a moment, and
do some thinking. It doesn't matter what I say. We could be talking
Urdu – all that matters is that all those little housewives
think I come out on top. In case you've missed the point, that's what
this show is all about."

"Try talking Urdu a few times," he said. "And see what
happens."

The following day Rabbi Turnbull phoned Gillian and asked for some
program tapes. She said she would have them the next evening if the
rabbi wouldn't mind stopping over at the house for them. He said no,
he wouldn't mind. She said fine.

Gillian had figured right; Wednesday had become Phyllis night.
When Rabbi Turnbull arrived at the Blake home, Gillian greeted him in
a low-cut dress which covered her midsection and not much else. She
had completed the costume with hooped earrings and matching silver
bracelets.

"Rabbi, how good of you to come," she said. "I didn't hear you
drive up."

"I parked up the block," he said. "I was afraid I might clutter
your driveway."

Was it possible? Was it possible that even the rabbi would be so
willing?

"But that's what the driveway is for, rabbi," Gillian said. She
led him by the hand into the living room. The decor was Spanish
– everything low and wide except the mortgage.

"From the outside," the rabbi said, "I expected to be greeted by
Henry VII."

"Imitation Tudor," she said. "And I hate imitation anything.
William always says that all this castle needs is Anne Boleyn –
but I guess I'll just have to do."

"She ended badly," Turnbull observed.

"But she lived so well."

"May I ask," he went on, "where Mr. Blake is tonight?"

"William is working late tonight," Gillian said. "He works late on
Wednesdays and on Mondays and sometimes on Sundays. And on those
occasions, he leaves me with his dog. Rolf. I don't like dogs,
however, and I especially dislike Rolf."

"Where is Rolf?"

"I've locked him in the garage," she said. "I always lock him in
the garage when William's gone."

"But isn't that cruel?"

"Not at all," she said. "He's supposed to be a watchdog. He
watches over our broken lawn mower."

Gillian offered Turnbull a drink. His rapid acceptance of the
offer amused her.

"What's the blessing on a martini, rabbi?"

"It depends on how well you make it, Mrs. Blake." Gillian returned
to join Turnbull on the couch. The conversation went from the tapes
to the show and then, with increasing animation, to the age-old
struggle between good and evil. Turnbull mentioned that evil was
known everywhere, even in the rabbinate. He concluded that even the
sages – no, especially the sages – were not free from
temptation.

"Why the sages
especially?"

"There is a saying, Mrs. Blake," he said. " 'The greater the man,
the greater the inclination toward evil.' "

With this Turnbull snorted, as if to clear his nostrils, and
reached out to grasp Gillian's wrist. She twisted her arm from his
grasp, went into the dining room and returned a moment later.

"Here are the tapes, rabbi," she said. "I believe these were what
you came for."

"I mistook you, Mrs. Blake." Turnbull rose and strode over to her.
"l hope I didn't upset you."

"No," she said.

"I hope we can still be friends."

"I understand, Rabbi Turnbull, that you're married and that you
have three children."

"Yes."

"And your marriage is considered a model for the community?"

"Models are for show windows," he said.

"Then you are unhappily married?"

"That is a redundancy, Mrs. Blake."

"Have you been unfaithful before?"

"Why all this?" he asked. "Is this another taped interview?"

"Before you buy the goods, rabbi, you want to know the
quality."

"I will talk straight with you," he said. "I have a need for
variety which my wife, dear woman, cannot fulfill. I am not a
believer in abstinence."

"But isn't abstinence the sign of a holy man?"

"Only according to your saints, Paul and Augustine, both
profligates of the worst order trying to repent for their own sins.
Abstinence and profligacy are two sides of the same coin. To be
obsessed by one, you must be fascinated by the other."

"This
is
beginning to sound like an interview, rabbi," she
said.

"Let us return to the goods, Mrs. Blake. Have we made a sale?"

"Call me Gillian," she said.

"I take it then" – reaching for her – "that the goods
are in hand."

"Not until you get your hands on them."

Gillian laughed, slipped away, behind the couch, into the master
bedroom. Snorting, the rabbi gave chase. His beard was bobbing. He
cornered her in the bedroom against a low Spanish bedpost and pushed
her toward the bed.

"Wait," she said, "I must ask you something."