Sunday the Rabbi Stayed Home

Chapter Two

The store was large as stores in Barnard’s Crossing go, fully twenty feet wide and more than twice as deep. The windows were grimy and the display ledges behind them dusty. A long time ago they had been decorated with crepe paper, with flutings and rosettes and streamers of a poisonous green and saccharine pink—originally an elaborate Coca-Cola display. But the colors had faded and in places were badly water-spotted. The curvaceous cardboard models in one-piece bathing suits, probably quite daring at the time but now sadly old-fashioned, were still sitting, legs drawn up under them to emphasize the curve of the thigh, backs straight and breasts firm and high with the suggestion of the nipple under the bathing suit, eyes half-closed, bottles of Coca-Cola held to lips parted in anticipatory pleasure. Scattered around among the folds of crepe paper were dusty bottles of Coca-Cola, one of which had leaked open long ago, oozing its contents along the window ledge in a narrow, viscous streak.

Up against the window cases and blocking them off from easy access, which perhaps explained why the leaking Coke bottle had never been removed, were a cigarette vending machine, a jukebox, two pinball machines, and a steel tub of bottled soda embedded in crushed ice.

Along one wall was a large ornate marble soda fountain, behind which, lettered in black crayon across the flyspecked mirror, was a sign: FOUNTAIN OUT OF ORDER. Boxes of packaged cookies, doughnuts, and bags of peanuts were set on the marble counter top. On the opposite wall there were racks of magazines, paperback books, and greeting cards; and across the back of the store were shelves with notebooks, boxes of pencils, blocks of paper, boxes of rulers, erasers, compasses, pencil sharpeners, tubes of mucilage, rolls of tape, balls of twine, key rings, combs, hand mirrors, and other paraphernalia that school youngsters might want.

In the rear of the store was an old-fashioned rolltop desk and an antique swivel chair, its feet held together by several loops of baling wire, which also served as a footrest. In the center there were half a dozen round tables and chairs, where teen-agers would congregate.

The sign in front said: BOOKS AND STATIONERY, JOSEPH BEGG, ESQUIRE, PROP. Mr. Begg was a vigorous, muscular man of fifty, with a large bald head which was seldom seen, since he wore a hat all the time, who presided over his store from his rolltop desk in the rear. He was an unfriendly, crusty man, gruff and cantankerous, yet the store was a popular spot with the youngsters. They waited on themselves, picking up a package of cookies at the counter, a bottle of soda from the cooler, and then reported to the rear to show their purchases and pay up. They always called him Mr. Begg, although some of the older boys ventured to call him Squire because of the sign outside. It was the nearest they ever came to joking with him. “Coke and doughnut. Twenty cents, Mr. Begg,” they’d say and hand over money, which he tossed into an old cigar box on his desk. Or sometimes, “Change for the pinball machine, Mr. Begg, please,” and he would examine the bill or coin suspiciously before grudgingly handing over the change. When they finished their drink, they were expected to put the empty bottle in the rack, and if they forgot, he called out sharply, “You there, put that bottle away,” and they meekly complied.

Years ago Mr. Begg had taught at the high school and even had tenure, but he had left. No one, certainly none of his young patrons, knew why. He had served a term as selectman, but he no longer attended the annual town meetings and did not bother with town politics except to fire off an occasional letter of violent protest to the weekly newspaper—usually directed against some proposed plan to benefit the young, such as taking over land by eminent domain to build a playground.

“He can’t stand kids.” was the usual explanation. “That’s why he gave up teaching.”

“But that place of his—only kids go there.”

“Well, you know how it is: He started it as a bookstore, and then he added some greeting cards and some stationery items. Then when he found that mostly kids came, he put in other stuff for them. After all, the guy’s got to make a living.”

Friday morning Begg came in late. He had not been back at his desk more than a few minutes when the door opened and Moose Carter loafed in. “Hey, where you been, Squire?” He was a large muscular boy with the square shoulders and thick neck of a football player. He had blue eyes and a short, tilted nose and an eager grin. “I was down half an hour ago, and the place was shut tight.” Begg did not deign to reply but turned to one side and spat in a cuspidor down by his left leg.

The young man did not take offense. “You going to be fixing up your place for the summer?”

“I’ll be taking off the storm doors and windows and putting up the screens.” the other admitted.

“Won’t you be wanting some help?”

“I can use some.” he said grudgingly. “Dollar and a half an hour.”

“That’s not much. I get two bucks an hour at the bowling alley and sometimes tips.”

“I’m paying a dollar and a half.”

Moose shrugged. “Oh, all right. When do you want me?”

“Sunday morning, first thing.”

A thought came to Moose. “Hey, Sunday—it ought to be more for Sunday.”

“Why?” Beggs looked up humorlessly. “Because you’ll miss going to church with your family?”

Moose laughed. “All right. I’ll be there.” He looked around and then dropped his voice. “Say, Squire. I got a date for tonight. How about some safes?”

“Three for a dollar.”

“Look. I’m a little short right now. How about cuffing it against my pay for Sunday?”

Begg studied the face of the young man, then pulled open a desk drawer and reached inside. He handed Moose a small tin container. The young man slipped it into his trouser pocket. “Thanks. Squire.” And then with a grin. “And my girl thanks you, too.”