The Day the Rabbi Resigned (15 page)

“Ah, that was first semester. There were ten essay-type questions.”

“That's right, first semester. I thought I did pretty good. I answered all questions. And you gave me a B.”

“That's pretty good.”

“Yes, but Joyce gave her an A, and like I said, there were two questions she didn't answer at all.”

“Well, grading essay-type exams is a pretty subjective business. Sometimes a student will concentrate on one or two questions, and his essays on those are so good, you might overlook his failure to answer the other questions. But this semester we used an objective-type exam. How did your marks compare for the second semester?”

“I don't know. We kind of stopped seeing each other.”

“But you did well, I recall.”

“I guess so. You gave me a B plus.”

“Well, I didn't give many of those. Believe me.” He waved in dismissal, called out, “Have a good summer,” and headed for his car.

He got into his car, eased out of the parking lot, and headed for Barnard's Crossing.

It was only after he'd reached the Crossing and made the turn onto Abbot Road that he realized his mistake in not reviewing the directions Clara had given him before he started. She had advised him quite specifically which road to take from the country club to Barnard's Crossing, and it was obvious as he now looked at the directions and noted the cross streets that he should've taken the other. He was on Abbot Road, yes, but the directions she had given him to reach the Charleton section didn't match with what he was seeing, and he was utterly confused. He was on the point of turning back when the police cruiser came along Abbot Road. He honked, and the cruiser stopped.

“I'm looking for the Charleton section,” he said.

“Right. Take your third left and go all the way. Then take another left.”

The directions were clear enough, but when he came to the Charleton section, he found that it was a large development with roads that turned every which way and with street signs that were only dimly lit by fake antique lanterns which were more picturesque than functional. It occurred to him that since it was a party, there would be a number of cars parked outside the house. So he drove around for a while looking for a house where a party might be in progress, only to come out once again to the road he had taken to arrive at Charleton. He took it as an omen, and drove back to Abbot Road and then to the state road and headed for home.

By the time he arrived at his furnished apartment in Brookline, it was almost midnight. Nevertheless, he decided to call, on the chance that Clara might answer. If the phone rang for a while, and was then answered by someone else, he would simply hang up rather than try to explain why he was calling so late. The phone was answered on the second ring, but it was a man who answered.

“Is Clara Levenson there?” he asked.

“Well, she must be around someplace,” came the reply. “Hold on.”

He waited, and waited, and then hung up. He was bothered, however, and he tried again, shortly after midnight. He reasoned that if the party were still going on at eleven, then even if it was now over, the family would not all have gone to bed. If Clara answered, he was sure she would not object because of the lateness of the hour, and if someone else answered, he would simply hang up again. But this time he got a message from an answering machine, which under the circumstances was even better. When he heard the beep, he said quickly, “Clara? Mord Jacobs. I tried to make the party, but I couldn't find the house. I drove around looking for a place that was all lit up and had a lot of cars parked nearby. No luck, so I went on home.”

22

For three years the Barnard's Crossing Symphonic Orchestra, which drew members from various North Shore towns, including a violinist from as far away as Gloucester, had met every Saturday night for rehearsal for a concert that was presumably to be given at some as yet unannounced date. At first they had met in Veteran's Hall in Barnard's Crossing, hence the symphony's name. But when the veteran's organization that had let them use the auditorium at no cost decided the facility could be used to better advantage for a Bingo game which could bring in revenue, the rehearsal was shifted to the faculty lounge of the Breverton Junior High School, through the good offices of the assistant principal, who played the trombone.

It was one of several such organizations scattered throughout the area. The one in Rockport met on Wednesdays, the Wenham orchestra met on Friday nights, and the Lynn orchestra, whose conductor was a member of the Boston Symphony and was paid for his services, met Sunday mornings. They varied widely in size and proficiency but they all afforded the participants the opportunity to play orchestral music; in the case of the Barnard's Crossing group, light classical music, like the Poet and Peasant and William Tell overtures. Many played in more than one orchestra, and one, a barber, in all of them.

Herbert Rosen had joined shortly after moving to Barnard's Crossing. Since he was far and away the best musician, he was immediately made concertmaster, and when the conductor who was head of the Music Department of the Barnard's Crossing High School took another job in the western part of the state, Rosen became the conductor.

The orchestra, which had anywhere from as few as twenty-five to as many as fifty musicians, depending largely on weather conditions, was open to anyone who could play an orchestral instrument. There were no tryouts for proficiency. Anyone who was interested and who could play an instrument could come and play. If the piece or any portion of it was beyond his capacity, he stopped playing, and those who could, carried on. As a result, andante passages were apt to be played by the full complement, and scherzo passages only by the leaders of the various sections.

While there were a few regulars who attended each rehearsal religiously, there were those who came only occasionally, some of them only once, never to return. There was no telling on any given rehearsal night what instruments would be played. There was usually a large number of violins, perhaps because while a single violin poorly played was characterized by squeaks and scratches, several playing together produced a melodious sound. There were almost always two cellos because they were regulars. Once or twice a double bass player appeared. They could usually count on flutes, clarinets, and the trombone of the assistant principal. There was an English horn who showed up about once a month, and a bassoon came every other week because he and his brother owned a small restaurant in Lynn and they alternated supervision of it on Saturday nights.

Amy Lanigan, the wife of Hugh Lanigan, the Barnard's Crossing police chief, played the flute with great enthusiasm, but with no great proficiency. She had learned to play when she was a girl and was a member of the high school band. After high school she had dropped it, but then took it up again when the orchestra was organized. She was the most devoted supporter of the orchestra and never missed a session.

When rehearsals were held in Barnard's Crossing, she would drive there in her own car, but once rehearsals were transferred to Breverton, her husband always drove her there and picked her up when the session ended, because she was hesitant about driving to and from Breverton, especially in the winter.

Sometimes, Hugh Lanigan would stay and listen to the rehearsal, and sometimes he would spend the time gossiping with the senior officers at the Breverton police station until it was time to go back to the school to pick up his wife. Although he had no great interest in music, he found it not unpleasant to sit and listen as the orchestra went through one piece after another. They did not really rehearse in the sense of trying to perfect or even improve their rendition of the piece. They merely played it, deriving pleasure from making orchestral sound and arriving at the end together.

Not that Rosen did nothing but beat time. There was first of all the necessity of “balancing” the orchestra since at each rehearsal the number and the kind of instruments as well as the capacity of the players varied widely. He might say to a couple of the weaker violinists, “Kate and Tom, don't try to play this next passage. Just play the top note of the chord on each downbeat. Or better still, Kate, you play the top note, and Tom, you play the bottom note.”

Or he might rap on his music stand with his baton and say, “I think you're flat, Bill. Let me hear your A. Yup, you're flat.”

“It was on pitch when we started, but the peg keeps slipping.”

“Well, rub a little rosin on it. That will hold it. Okay, let's start again, and this time let's see if we can't make those staccatos a little sharper, and follow the stick.”

Tonight, because it was the first week in June, and warm, the windows of the rehearsal room were all open. While open windows improved the quality of the air, especially after the smoking many of them went in for during the ten-minute break, they affected the acoustics, so that the orchestral volume was reduced and they sounded somewhat tinny.

They usually played until ten o'clock, but at a quarter to ten Rosen said, “I think we'll call it a night. I've got to get home a little earlier tonight. We're expecting our daughter to call from San Francisco.” As the players began to put away their instruments, Chief Lanigan wandered over to Rosen, who was gathering up the music folders, and nodding toward the country club just across the road, he said, “There's evidently a big shindig at the club. Watch it when you start out. The State Troopers may have set up a trap on the state road.”

“You mean they set up a trap everytime there's a do at the club?”

“Not every time, but often enough to make you wonder.” He chuckled. “When I first joined the force in Barnard's Crossing as a patrolman years ago, the chief was Jim Duggan. The town used to pay him fifty cents for everyone he had in jail, for their supper, you understand. Duggan never paid the restaurant that supplied the meals more than thirty cents apiece, giving him a net profit of twenty cents each meal. So we patrolmen had a kind of quota. We were expected to make a certain number of arrests every Saturday night. If anyone so much as stumbled over a pebble as he walked along the street, he was apt to be pulled in as a drunk and disorderly.”

“And you think the State Troopers have a similar quota?”

“Well, it never hurts to improve your arrest record.”

Rosen grinned. “Then I'll follow you until we pass them. They'd never stop you, certainly not while you're in uniform.”

“Good enough.”

23

For Cyrus Merton the dinner had not been particularly enjoyable. He had not expected it to be. He had come, and decided to remain, in part because it was a sort of refuge from his sister. He tried to tell himself that she was exaggerating; that young newly-weds frequently quarreled in the very circumstance of adjusting to each other, that it would blow over and they would make up. On the other hand, he had to admit that Agnes was a shrewd, intelligent woman, not given to overstatement.

Nor did the conversation at his table do anything to distract him. It was entirely academic and over his head. So he concentrated on his food, chewing away without appetite or pleasure as he wondered when he might properly leave. As the dishes were being cleared by the waitresses for the dessert and coffee that were to follow, Professor Gates, a twinkle in his eye, said, “Ah, now for the interesting part of the evening.”

“What comes now?” asked Merton innocently.

Gates hesitated, and then said, “Well, there'll be speeches, and a resolution is to be discussed and voted on, and Dr. Carpenter has written a long poem, doggerel to be sure, but amusing.”

Speeches, a resolution, doggerel verse—since all present were teachers, their target was likely to be the administration, perhaps even the Board of Trustees. Merton felt it might be embarrassing to remain. “It's getting late,” he said, “I think I'll be running along.”

“I understand,” said Gates sympathetically.

He rose and nodded his good-byes to the rest of the table. He made his way to where Victor had been sitting. The place was empty. He motioned and looked his question.

“Joyce? Oh, he's gone. Left some time ago.”

He was disappointed. He had hoped to ride home with Victor so that he could talk to him about his marital problems. Then, at Shurtcliffe Circle, he'd have Peg there as well. Perhaps he'd be able to knock some sense into them. But Victor was gone.

It was still too early to go home; Agnes would not as yet have gone to sleep, but with a possible stop at Shurtcliffe Circle to visit with Peg and Victor … He made his way to the coatroom, gladdened the heart of the young woman in charge by leaving a dollar bill in the dish as he retrieved his topcoat, and hastened out to the car. He had intended going to the men's room before setting out on the trip home, but he was worried about Victor and wanted to get on the way; he'd be at the Circle soon enough. He turned the key and left the club parking lot.

Lanigan veered to the left in order to make the turn into Abbot Road and Barnard's Crossing. The light turned to red and he brought his car to a halt. Instead of following into the left lane, Rosen drove up beside him. Amy lowered her window and called out, “Thought you had to get right home.”

“Yeah, but I promised Helen I'd pick up some doughnuts.”

“How about us going in for a cup of coffee?” Amy suggested as she raised her window.

“Naw,” said Lanigan. “Saturday nights the place is full of kids, and seeing me in uniform is apt to put a damper on their fun.”

The light changed and the Lanigans made the turn into Abbot Road while Rosen continued on into the mall parking lot just beyond. He stopped just short of the store, and without bothering to lock his car, he hastened to the door.

Merton, meanwhile, had pulled in from the other end of the lot at almost the exact same time as Rosen. The house on Shurtcliffe Circle had been dark, and he was desperate for the Donut Shop's rest room. The parking lot of the mall was dark except for the light on one pylon, and Merton parked there. He turned off the lights and the motor and slid out, automatically pressing the button on the car door so that it locked when he slammed it shut. No sooner was he out when he realized he had left his key in the ignition, as he had on several previous occasions. He was not unduly concerned, however, and hurried toward the Donut Shop.