That Day the Rabbi Left Town (15 page)

“Sure, Chief.”

“So tell Slocumbe.”

“Okay.”

Chapter 22

Rabbi Selig came home about ten minutes after the departure of the police. As happens in New England, the weather had cleared and the moon was bright in the cloudless sky. He parked his car in the garage and came in through the back door to the kitchen. When he saw that his wife was in nightgown and robe, he asked, “Don't you feel well?”

“Oh, I feel all right. Why do you ask?”

“Well, you don't usually get into nightgown and robe this early in the evening.”

“I was kind of headachy after the bar review and I thought I'd feel better if I lay down for a while, but …”

“But what?”

“Oh, Dana.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she told him what had happened.

“I'm going over there right now and—”

“Oh, please don't, Dana. Not now. You might get into a fight.” She managed a smile through her tears. “And there'd be all kinds of trouble if it got out. You might get a black eye, and how would it look? And what would the congregation think of their rabbi with a black eye? Wait until you've quieted down a little.”

“All right, I'll see him tomorrow.”

He debated whether to go to the police first to get their view of what had happened, and then decided that if he did, it might become public knowledge, which could be embarrassing. So the following night, after the evening service, he drove up Evans Road and parked his car in front of the Miller house.

He rang the bell, and when Miller opened the door, he said, “I am Rabbi Selig and—”

“Oh yes, my neighbor. Won't you come in?”

Reluctantly Rabbi Selig moved into the hallway.

“As the older resident, I should have called on you when you first moved in, instead of your coming to me,” said Miller.

“I came about your guest last night.”

“That was Professor Kent, a distinguished scholar.”

“Well, I have a message for that distinguished scholar. Would you tell him that if I ever see him on my side of the hedge, I'll punch him in the nose.”

Miller smiled. “Those are harsh words from a man of the cloth.”

“I'm not a man of the cloth and I have no pretense to special standing with the Deity. Just tell him if I see him, I'll punch him in the nose.”

“Professor Kent is an old man, about seventy, and you are, I'd say, about half that age. He weighs about a hundred and twenty-five pounds, and you are six one? Six two? You'd have a hard time explaining your fighting with a frail, old man.”

“All right,” said Rabbi Selig, “so I won't punch him in the nose. You just tell him, if I see him on my side, I'll pick him up bodily and toss him over the hedge. Will you tell him that?”

“Oh, I assure you, there won't be any more trouble. You see, Professor Kent's folks used to own the land from the old Boston Road clear down to Gardner's Cove, and they built this house and the one you're living in. His wife's folks, actually, so he's apt to feel that he can still go where he wants to in this area. But I made it plain to him last night that he can't do that sort of thing now. He's a frequent visitor here; it has pleasant associations for him. Normally he drives here. He likes to drive, and he's a good driver. It's a pleasant hour-or-so run for him. But last night he didn't come from home. He was downtown in Boston, so he took the bus instead of going home and picking up his car. See, he knew I'd drive him in the next morning.”

“All right, but remember to tell him that if I see him on my land, I'll pick him up—” he extended his hands as though to pick up a child under the armpits “—and toss him over the hedge. Will you tell him that?”

“I'll tell him, but I assure you it won't be necessary.”

Rabbi Selig nodded, and without further words, left the house and got into his car. When he got home, he greeted his wife with, “We won't be troubled again by anyone going to the Millers' over our land.”

Chapter 23

When Chief Lanigan called to ask if Miller was going to be home that evening, and if he was free, Mrs. Miller was pleased. “It must be they want you to serve on some town committee, Thor,” she said.

“More likely he's going to try to sell me something, like tickets to the Policemen's Ball, or sign something, a petition for a wage raise, maybe.”

Nevertheless, when Lanigan came, he greeted him graciously. His mother, a large, stoutish woman with puffy cheeks and protruding eyes, was effusive. When they were seated in the living room, she got up to offer their guest a plate of cookies, then some chocolates, asking each time, “You're sure you wouldn't want a cup of tea? Or coffee, perhaps? It's no trouble.”

“I came because I thought we ought to get acquainted,” said Lanigan.

Mrs. Miller smirked her satisfaction and gave her son an “I told you so” look.

“You see,” Lanigan went on, “we're a small town, but we cover a lot of territory. In addition to the residential area, we have the responsibility for the harbor. We don't have a large police force, so we operate differently from the way they do in a city. We try to keep informed on everything that's going on. We listen and we hear a lot of gossip and rumors, and when we sense that trouble is brewing, we try to nip it in the bud. Now, the other night we got a call from your neighbor, the one whose backyard adjoins yours, that someone was peeping through her window. Our cruising car happened to be nearby, and when it was alerted by the desk sergeant, they went right over and they were able to catch the man at the window.”

“That was Professor Kent,” said Mrs. Miller, “a very distinguished scholar who comes from an important family.”

“He took refuge from the cloudburst on their porch,” said Thor Miller.

“When the officer in the cruiser focused his flashlight on him, he was busy brushing the porch dust off his pant legs,” Lanigan pointed out.

“He said he thought he heard a shot and looked to see if there was trouble,” Miller explained.

“There was no shot,” said Lanigan.

“It may have been from the radio or the TV,” said Miller.

“Neither the radio nor the TV was turned on.”

“Then it could have been thunder,” Miller said. “As I told the lady's husband, a Rabbi Selig, who came to complain.” He went on to say. “Professor Kent's folks used to own a lot of the land here and he is still used to treating it as his own.”

“And did he buy that?” asked Lanigan.

Miller shrugged, but his mother said indignantly, “He said he'd punch Professor Kent in the nose if he ever saw him on his property again. And when my son pointed out that he was an old man, he said then he'd just throw him over the hedge. Imagine a clergyman talking like that, and about a distinguished scholar like Professor Kent.”

“Is he a regular visitor here?” asked Lanigan.

“He's a professor in the same college as my son is, and he's a professor, too.”

“Oh, Ma!” Then to Lanigan, “He is my colleague and the senior member of my department. I feel honored that we are close. He comes here because his family used to summer here. In fact, his family built this house and the one where the rabbi lives, too. Usually he drives here, but if for some reason he takes the bus, then he'll stay overnight and drive in with me the next morning. In fact, I guess he usually stays the night.”

“And when he takes the bus, he gets off at the stop in front of the rabbi's driveway?”

“That's right. I was told that there is a right-of-way from the old Boston Road clear to Gardner's Cove.”

“We-el, there is a right-of-way, but it's on the other side of the hedge. I suggest that you tell your friend that if he uses the bus, he should get off at the next stop where the old Boston Road is joined by Evans Road.”

“But that means a long walk,” Mrs. Miller protested.

“But it could be a lot less trouble,” said Lanigan. “Next time the police in the cruiser might arrest him and he'd have to spend the night in our jail instead of your guest room.”

Chapter 24

November had been cold and rainy for much of the month, with appreciable amounts of snow in the higher elevations of New England and with the ski slopes of northern New England already sufficiently covered so that snow-making machines were needed for only the occasional bald spots. There had even been snow in the western and middle portions of the state, which the coastal area had escaped, the weather experts on the news broadcasts had explained, because of its proximity to the warmer water of the ocean.

The rabbi and Miriam had planned to drive out early in the afternoon on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, spend the evening and night in their house in Barnard's Crossing, and then the next day walk or drive to the Bergsons' for dinner as they had promised. But Tuesday night the weather forecaster, with sweeping arm motions to illustrate the path of the jet stream, had suggested the possibility of a northeaster of possible blizzard proportions, and when the rabbi started out at ten o'clock to go to the college, snow was already falling.

“If this keeps up, we'll have to change our plans,” he said to Miriam.

“Oh, it will probably stop soon, David. See, it's not sticking. But you'd better wear your rubbers anyway.”

By the time he got to Kenmore Square, where he left the streetcar and walked a couple of blocks to the school, the snow was sticking and there was an inch or more on the sidewalk. The wind had also picked up considerably and he had to lean forward, clutching his hat.

As he thrust his arms through the sleeves of his overcoat, a thought occurred to Lew Baumgold, and he reached for the phone. “Sarah? Lew. Look, sweetheart, I've got to be in Boston most of the day. So how about if I pick you up when I'm through, and we can go out to Barnard's Crossing together?”

“I've got a three-o'clock, Lew.”

“That's even better. I won't be through until around four, so say I come down to the school at four-thirty. You get through at four, so you'll wait around in the English office for a half hour at the most.”

“All right. You're sure you don't want to have Thanksgiving dinner here in Boston?”

“Sweetheart.” His tone showed his exasperation. “I told you we're having dinner with Bob and Louise, and he's made reservations at Salem House.”

“Oh yeah. All right, so you'll pick me up at the English office around half past four.”

“Love you.” And he hung up.

His partner, Jack Colby, came into the room. “Just listening to the radio,” he said. ‘They're predicting a real nor'easter for this afternoon. If I were you, I'd go in by train or bus. You're apt to have trouble finding a parking place if there's any snow. And if you find a parking place on the street, you could find yourself plowed in if there's lots of snow.”

Lew looked out the window at the street, which was already white. “Yeah, I think you're right. You got a bus schedule?”

Thorvald Miller backed out of his garage and turned on his windshield wipers against the falling snow. He noted that the blade on the passenger side was not working properly: it was streaking rather than wiping clean. He turned off the motor and got out and fiddled with the spring that pressed the blade against the glass. He got back into the car and switched on the wipers again. This time, while the wiper on the driver's side seemed to work normally, the other tended to stick and move only sporadically. It occurred to him that if the snow continued, as seemed likely, it might be dangerous to drive all the way into the city, so he drove instead to nearby Swampscott station.

There, all parking spaces were taken except one of those reserved for the handicapped right next to the stairs leading to the platform. The Reserved sign was lightly covered with snow, and he reflected that if he were ticketed for using the space, he could claim that the sign had not been visible.

Only two showed up at eleven o'clock for his class. ‘They've probably been delayed by the storm,” said the rabbi. “We'll wait a few minutes.”

“They won't show up,” said one of the students. “They're all from out of town and made an early start for home.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I'm from Newton.”

“And I came from Brookline.”

“All right,” said the rabbi, “so we'll call it a day and you can make an early start, too.” He turned to Sarah McBride and asked, “You through for the day, too?”

“Oh no, I have a three-o'clock.”

“Would the cafeteria be open now? Would you care for a cup of coffee?”

“It is and I would.”

As they walked to the cafeteria, she explained, “Most of the students are local and they don't cut class the day before a vacation. They certainly won't in my three-o'clock because most of them are teachers from local schools. You just happened to get a majority of out-of-towners, several from New York and at least one I know about who is from New Jersey.”

“So the late-afternoon classes are well attended?”

“Usually. Professor Kent always holds an important quiz on that day to make sure they don't cut. He has a four-o'clock today.”

They reached the cafeteria and got their cups of coffee. “He might cut this class, though,” she went on. “He's got a big party on tonight up in Breverton. He's been boasting about it all week. It's a wedding reception at the country club there, and the bride is a Leverett.”

“Indeed! And she's having it at the Breverton Country Club? I didn't realize it was that fashionable a place.”

“It isn't. But she's from the poor branch of the Leveretts, the North Shore Leveretts. When they got off the
Mayflower
they went in for farming, on the North Shore of all places. The other Leveretts settled in and around Boston and went in for business and shipping.”