That Day the Rabbi Left Town (6 page)

“Oh, well, I hardly ever get up around there. I take the new State Road when I go to and from Boston.”

“The Boston bus uses our road,” Selig pointed out. “There's a stop right at our driveway.”

“Probably to avoid traffic and traffic lights,” said Baumgold.

“Well, anyway, you can't miss it. There's a biggish sign just beyond our land that says, ‘Welcome to Barnard's Crossing.'”

“So if it's beyond your property, you're actually a resident of Swampscott rather than Barnard's Crossing.”

“No, we're in Barnard's Crossing. I guess they put the sign up beyond us because there's earth that they could drive a couple of stakes into. If they were to put it on the other side of our driveway, they'd have to either blast or drill. It's all ledge. Our house is on a hill and most of it is ledge. There are patches of soil here and there, so we have some grass, but mostly it's ledge.”

“So why in the world did someone think to build a house there?”

“For the bathing, I suppose. There's this small bay—”

“Gardner Cove, right? I've jogged along the shore a couple of times.”

“That's right.”

“Now I know where you are. But I thought those were all summer cottages up around there.”

“I guess they were,” said Selig, “but the present owner, the man we're renting from, said that our place has been thoroughly winterized. On the couple of cold days we've had, it's been quite comfortable.”

It was a pleasant, sunny day when Baumgold drove up to the Selig home. Rabbi Selig heard him and came out to greet him. The two stood outside as Baumgold looked around. “Your land goes up to the hedge?” he asked.

“And a couple of feet beyond,” said Selig. “There's a twelve-foot drop there, so I suppose the hedge was put up to keep anyone from falling over in the dark. As I understand it, the man that built this house originally owned all the land from the Boston Road to the beach, including the flat land beyond the drop. And he built not only this house, but that one across the road there. Do you see it? For a married son or daughter, I understand. I guess this place wasn't big enough for them, his kids, and their friends. Of course, there was no road dividing the two houses then. That came later.”

“Cutting you off from the beach, huh?”

“Well, no. At least I don't think so,” said Selig. “The man we're renting from said we had a right-of-way. Say we do; does that mean that the people from that other cottage have a right-of-way through our property, to the bus stop, I mean?”

“Gosh, I wouldn't think so. It all depends on what is written into the deed. You'd have to look it up in the Registry. Have they been coming through your property?”

“Well, not really. But the other day someone came up along the hedge, not on the outside, you understand, but on this side of it. He was visiting the people in that other cottage, I suppose. I hailed him and when he didn't answer, I shouted out that he was trespassing. And without bothering to halt in his stride, he yelled back, ‘Right-of-way,' and walked on.”

Baumgold shrugged. “What can I tell you? But you're renting only for a year, right?”

“Yeah, but we might buy. The owner was a lot more interested in selling than in renting. It's very pleasant and nicely situated. We can see the ocean from our bedroom windows. And being right at the bus stop on the Boston Road could come in handy, especially if Susan has to go into Boston for her bar review. I mean, it might be easier to take the bus than to drive in and try to find a place to park.”

“Yeah, that's for sure. But if she were to take this bar review in Salem—”

“That's what she wants to ask you about. Let's go in through the back by way of the garage.”

Selig led him through the open door of the spacious two-car garage. Inside, Baumgold nodded appreciatively. He pointed to the workbench against the far wall and the Peg-Board above it from which dangled a few tools.

“Your tools?” he asked.

“No, they come with the house. My own are back in Connecticut in storage with my furniture.”

“And the snowblower in the corner there?”

“That also comes with the house.”

“You might need that if we have a snowy winter. You might have trouble getting up your driveway even with snow cords. That's a pretty steep hill you've got there.”

“I know. It occurred to me when we were first shown the place, but the owner said that with the snowblower I could clear the driveway in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

This last as they entered the kitchen where Susan Selig was setting cake and cookies on a plate and arranging cups and saucers on a tray. “And he's dying to try it out,” she said gaily. “Why don't you guys go into the living room and I'll bring in the coffee.”

“Why don't we have our coffee here,” the rabbi suggested.

“All right.”

So they sat at the kitchen table as Baumgold explained about the bar review in Salem. “He holds the class right in his home. See, his wife is not well. I don't know what's the matter with her, but she wants him there all the time. So he had to practically give up his law practice. But he's a born teacher, and those who have taken his review swear by him. He keeps it sort of informal, like when they finish a section, say torts, or contracts, or jurisprudence, or whatever, they have like a kaffeeklatsch, in his home, or in the home of one of the students.”

“Sounds interesting,” said Mrs. Selig.

“If you like, I'll give him your name and he'll send you some literature, or call you.”

“You do that. I have a flyer from a school in Boston, but I'll hold off until I hear from him.”

Chapter 9

The faculty meeting on Monday, the day before registration, was called for eleven. Because the announcement said “All members of the faculty are strongly urged to attend,” the rabbi sensed that attendance was not actually required. However, there was a penned note at the bottom that read, “Can you manage to see me before the meeting? Anytime after ten will do.” It was signed by Dr. Cardleigh, the dean of the college.

It occurred to the rabbi that if he started out a little before nine, he would miss the morning traffic and still be in good time for his meeting with the dean. He chose to go by way of the old Boston Road, which followed the curvature of the coastline. He noted with satisfaction that he was able to reach the college a little before ten, and since school had not yet begun, he had no trouble finding a place to park.

Dr. Cardleigh was a big man, tall with broad shoulders, but he seemed to be trying to make himself small by the way he slouched in his chair. He twisted about as though to get comfortable and finally came to rest on the back of his spine with one leg dangling over the arm of his chair, exposing an unpressed trouser leg and a scuffed and dusty shoe.

His high forehead was surmounted with sparse, graying hair, and although clean-shaven, his cheekbones, which were prominent, showed some fuzz, which he had evidently not bothered to reach with his razor. His large upper lip was covered by a straggly mustache beneath a bulbous nose. Evidently he was not a man concerned about his appearance, and for some reason the rabbi felt comfortable with him.

“I was on sabbatical the year you were here, Rabbi,” he said, “but I heard all about you from President Macomber and some others when I got back. I was offered the deanship after the—er—departure of Dean Hanbury.” He chuckled. “It was just as well, I suppose, because I had about run out of students. I had been in the Classics Department, you see, and my last year of teaching I had only two students in Latin and none in Greek. I took the sabbatical because the following year, when you came, no one signed up for any of my courses.”

“You did research that year?”

“No, I just traveled a bit. When I came back, I gave a course in Greek Literature, to English majors mostly. Nevertheless, I was kept pretty busy. It was a bad winter that year, and faculty people kept coming to me with cases of bad colds and flu—” In response to the rabbi's questioning look, he explained, “My doctorate is in medicine. I'm an M.D., not a Ph.D.”

“You mean you still practice?”

“Oh no. Don't care for it. I studied medicine under family pressure. My father was a doctor and my grandfather before him, so nothing would do but I should become one, too.”

He took a pipe from his pocket and filled it from a pouch that he drew from a desk drawer. He struck a match. “Smoke bother you, Rabbi?” he asked as he puffed away.

“No, I used to smoke a pipe myself,” said the rabbi, “but I had to give it up.”

“Advice of your doctor?”

“No, it was just that I found it hard to smoke during the week and not be able to on the Sabbath. Lighting a match is making fire, and that is considered work and hence forbidden on the Sabbath. But I'm a little surprised that you do.”

“Why?”

“Well, your profession, the medical profession—”

“The medical profession occasionally goes on a crusade, and the most extreme views are apt to prevail. There's also the Puritanism we Americans are prone to. You know, it was said that the Puritans disapproved of bearbaiting, not because it was cruel to the bear, but because it gave pleasure to the spectators. Well, the medical fraternity is the same. They tell us to avoid sugar and fat and salt, anything that makes food taste good. We don't eat meals anymore; we ingest chemicals: potassium and zinc and iron. We don't drink milk or eat cheese; we increase our calcium intake.

“Smoking is taboo because it causes a whole variety of ailments. I suppose cigarette smoking
is
bad for you because you tend to inhale the smoke, but you don't inhale when you smoke a pipe, so they've come up with the notion that it's bad because it makes others, nonsmokers, sick if they're in the same room.

“But there's something in the human psyche that demands some form of—of relaxing, some pleasurable vice. Every society we know about has one. I suppose it's because our minds work all the time, and if we didn't interrupt this constant stream of mentation, we'd all go mad. If you stop one form of relaxing vice, you only break into another.”

“So stopping smoking has led to—”

“To drugs and sex,” Cardleigh replied promptly. “Drugs and sex and violence, and—and jogging, and lifting weights, and working out at those crazy machines.”

He sat up straight in his chair and said, “Well, let's get down to business, Rabbi. I understand you're heading up a new department, but all I have is the course in Judaic Thought that Rabbi Lamden gave until he retired. That was the course you taught the year you substituted for him. Right? I barely had time to change his name for yours in the catalog before going to the printer. Now, is there more? Are you planning other courses?”

The rabbi nodded. “Eventually. But I thought I'd wait until I had a chance to gauge the response of the student body and the faculty, too. Perhaps next year I might have an advanced course for students who have some background in the field.”

“Well, I'm concerned right now with the allotment of space, office space and classroom space.” From his top drawer he drew a large chart and laid it on top of the desk. “Let's see, your course is three hours a week, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”

“That's right. At eleven o'clock if possible.”

“No trouble with the hour. You have any idea how many you'll draw?”

The rabbi shrugged. “I have no way of knowing.”

“I gather from what President Macomber said that you agreed to stick around a few hours every day so that you'd be available to any student or faculty member who might want to consult with you. So you'd need a decent-sized office. We can't have you cooped up in a cubbyhole for three or four hours every day. Now, the Freshman English people are moving in with the rest of the English Department on the second floor here in this building. That leaves their office here on the first floor vacant. It's pretty big as offices go. And if you only get ten or a dozen for your class, you could hold it there instead of in one of the classrooms. I could have some chairs and a blackboard brought in and take out the extra desks that are there now and maybe give you a large table so you could run your class like a seminar. Of course, if you should draw a lot more, we can always find you an empty lecture hall.”

“I'd need a bookcase.”

“There's one there. If it's not adequate, let me know and I'm sure I can scare up another one.” He cocked an inquisitive eye at his visitor. “You'll be doing research, I suppose.”

“I wasn't planning to. If you're thinking of the kind of research that's involved in piecing together scraps of parchment of the Dead Sea Scrolls, I'm afraid it's not the kind of thing I do. I have written some papers that have appeared in journals, but they were essentially works of criticism rather than research.”

Dr. Cardleigh nodded. “Did you discuss this with Macomber?”

The rabbi shook his head. “The subject didn't come up.”

“Ah, he probably knew your attitude from when you were last here.”

“What attitude? I don't understand.”

Cardleigh leaned back in his chair and in reminiscent tones began, “It used to be that college was a place where the faculty was engaged primarily, I might say solely, in teaching. In their spare time, they did what other people did in their spare time. Occasionally one might get caught up in some interesting problem in his field and work at that. And if it seemed worthwhile, he might write it up and send it on to a learned journal for the benefit of those who might be interested.

“But sometime in the twenties, a change developed. If a professor had discovered something new, or developed a theory that attracted the attention of the press, then Kibosh was no longer Kibosh College of Liberal Arts, but Kibosh Where That Fellow Discovered the New Planet, or the Cure of Cancer. And suddenly everyone connected with the school took on a new importance.