Sunday the Rabbi Stayed Home

Chapter Twelve

“But why the Ritual Committee?” asked Roger Epstein.

The Gorfinkles made a point of seeing their good friends, the Epsteins, at least once a week, usually on Saturday night. They would go to a movie together or have an evening of bridge or sometimes merely sit around and talk, as on this Saturday night. Roger Epstein had waited until the women had gone into the kitchen before speaking.

“What’s the problem, Roger?” asked Ben Gorfinkle.

“Well, you know my background. What if the rabbi should raise an objection?”

Gorfinkle chuckled. “How can he when he won’t even be at the meeting tomorrow?”

Epstein was a short, pudgy man, balding but with a tuft of hair in front, which he had a habit of pulling when disturbed. He pulled at it now. “So what? So he’ll question it when he gets back. And he’ll be right.”

“He’ll be wrong.” said Gorfinkle flatly. “Appointment of committees and committee chairmen is purely an administrative function of the president.”

“But this is the Ritual Committee. They supervise the order of the services. That makes it a concern of the rabbi. I would think. And what do I know about ritual? Besides, there’s Samantha—”

“Look. Roger, you think you’re required to be some sort of expert? You think Paff when he had the job was a specialist of the ritual? That’s what the rabbi is there for. They way I see it, the Ritual Committee stands in relation to the congregation the way the School Committee here in town does to the citizens. You don’t have to be a teacher or an educator to serve on the School Committee. We’ve got a superintendent of schools and principals and teachers for that. What you want on the School Committee is just somebody with common sense who has the welfare of all of us first and foremost in mind. Well, it’s the same way with the Ritual Committee. There is a set order of prayers and it’s shown in the prayer book. In case of any special question, there’s the rabbi. As for the rest. I’d say that describes you to a T.”

Epstein was still not convinced. “But why me?”

“Well, for one thing, the Ritual Committee parcels out the honors for the services, and especially for the holidays—that can be mighty important—and I want a man I can trust to head it up. For another thing, you’re an artist—”

“Commercial artist.” said Epstein with a deprecatory wave of the hand.

“An artist,” his friend insisted. “There’s a certain pageantry involved in religious services, and it takes an artist to sense it and bring it out.”

“Well—”

From the kitchen, Samantha called out, “Coffee will be ready in a minute, boys.” She came to the door. “How about some English muffins?” She was a good two inches taller than her husband; blonde and blue-eyed, with wide cheekbones, she looked like the daughter of a Viking.

“Just coffee for me, Sam,” said her husband. “Too many calories.”

“Aw c’mon, lover. You can indulge tonight. You’ve been a good boy all week.”

“Well, all right. You twisted my arm.”

“You’ll have some. Ben, won’t you?”

“You bet.”

From upstairs, their daughter. Didi. called down. “You making coffee. Mum?”

A moment later she entered the room and waved to her parents’ guests. She was a slim, elfin girl, whose hair was parted in the middle in two braids.

“You been here all evening?” asked Gorfinkle. “What have you been doing?”

“Telephoning, of course.” her mother answered for her.

“Oh, Mummy,” she protested, then turned to the Gorfinkles. “We’re getting up a cookout on the beach for Monday evening. When’s Stu coming home?”

“Probably around noon Sunday.” said Gorfinkle.

“Gee. I hope he hasn’t made any plans. We’re having all the kids who’ll be coming home from school. I guess whoever is coming will be home by tomorrow. That’s why we figured on Monday.”

“Where are you having it, dear?” asked her mother. “Over on Tarlow’s Point.”

“Monday—that doesn’t give you much time to prepare. Have you called everybody?”

“Some. Bill Jacobs, Sue Arons. Adam Sussman. But, then, a lot won’t be in until late tonight or sometime tomorrow. The chances are I’ll see most of them over at the rabbi’s house tomorrow afternoon.”

“Why?” asked Gorfinkle. “Is he holding some kind of a meeting?”

“Oh, all the kids from the post-confirmation class sort of drop in the first Sunday they get back for vacation. You know, it’s like an open house. They just talk, tell how things are going at school.”

“Hm—that’s interesting.” Gorfinkle was interested. “How come? I mean, how did this—this tradition start?”

“No tradition. Just that sometimes he held the confirmation class at his house, and we kind of got into the habit of going there—you know, every now and then.”

“And he’s popular with you kids? You all like him?”

She considered. The question struck her as requiring thought, not because she was unsure of her feelings, but because they were hard to frame in words. “He’s not fun, exactly,” she said tentatively, “and he doesn’t try to be pally or even friendly. He doesn’t try to be anything, I don’t think, but—”

“Yes?”

“An equal. I guess,” she said, finally finding the words. “When you’re with him, you don’t feel like a kid.”