Sunday the Rabbi Stayed Home

Chapter Thirty-Four

What did you expect him to say, David? Mr. Wasserman is an old man; he’s practical. I know how you feel, but sometimes you have to compromise. You yourself have said that parnossah is necessary for a good life, that you can’t have a good life unless you’re making a living.” She had fussed over him like a mother hen, bringing him his slippers and pouring him a cup of hot tea liberally laced with whisky and lemon. “Drink it; it will ward off a cold.”

“Making a living is a necessity,” he said through her ministrations. “Making a good living is a luxury. I don’t need luxury for a good life. I don’t reject it, of course; I am not ascetic. But I don’t need it.”

“But wherever you go, except in small towns like Barnard’s Crossing, there will be more than one temple. And that will mean competition.”

He shook his head wearily. “You don’t understand, Miriam. In the nature of things the rabbi is paid by a temple or synagogue because here in America it’s the most practical way of compensating him for his work. But he is not the employee of the temple, just as a judge is compensated by the state but is still completely free to rule against it in an action. And if his courthouse bums down, it doesn’t mean that he loses all function and responsibility and purpose. But here, if the temple should split, we would have an ugly situation. The rabbis of the two institutions would become bargaining points in the two campaigns for membership. And I want no part of it.”

“But if as you say, you insist on being the rabbi for the entire community, it means living in a small town.”

“Well. I like small towns. Don’t you?”

“Ye-es, but small towns mean small communities, and small communities mean small pay. Don’t you have any personal ambition?”

He looked at her in surprise. “Of course. Why else would I spend so much time at my studies? But my ambition is to be a rabbi, not something else. I have no interest in using the rabbinate as a springboard to some other kind of work that pays more and carries greater prestige. I don’t think I’d care to be a big rabbi with a big pulpit at some prestigious temple where I could never be found because I’d have speaking engagements all the time. I wouldn’t like it, and”—he reached over and patted her, hand reassuringly—“you wouldn’t like it either. Maybe you’d be proud of me for a little while, seeing my name or my picture in the Jewish press. But after a while you’d get used to that, like everything else. Besides. I don’t think I could do it, anyway.”

“But you have to do some compromising. David, or—”

“Or what?”

“Or keep moving.”

“We’ve been here almost six years. But you’re right, we can’t keep moving. It’s not good for Jonathan, for one thing. And I’ve been thinking about it. Wherever I go, there will be other Gorfinkles and other Paffs.”

“So what do you plan to do?” she asked quietly.

He shrugged. “Oh, one day this week I’ll go down to New York and see Hanslick and tell him that I would like another position. I might look into the possibility of Hillel work—”

“David, is that why you are being so”—she was going to say stubborn, but decided on another word—“so resolute about this situation here?”

He gave her a sharp look and then smiled. “Catholics have their confessors,” he said, “and Jews have their wives. I think I like our arrangement better.”

“You’re dodging me,” she said but laughed in spite of herself.

“Am I? Yes, I suppose I am. Well, I think perhaps that is part of the reason. Didn’t you like it—the two days in Binkerton? To tell the truth, dear, I’m tired of fighting. I’ve been doing it for almost six years, ever since I came here. I was prepared for a certain amount of it, but I thought that once it was established just who was the rabbi here, I’d be able to concentrate on my real job. But throughout my tenure, I’ve had to fight just to stay. I tell you I’m tired of it.”

“You had an argument at Binkerton,” she observed.

“That was different. That was a matter of principle. I don’t know, maybe this is the wrong congregation for me. They’re so—so contentious.” He thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets and strode the floor.

“Well. Jews have never been known as a passive people.” Miriam said gently. “And what makes you think their sons and daughters in the colleges will be any different?”

“Perhaps not, but I’m hoping their disagreements would be over issues of greater moment than whether or not to have permanent seating arrangements, say. But it’s more than that. A rabbi is primarily a student, a scholar. And for scholarship, a certain amount of leisure is necessary. In Hillel work. I’m hoping I would have the time—”

“But here you’re doing things; in the college you’d only be reading about them.”

“Well. I’d like a chance to do a little reading.”

“Oh, you—” She controlled herself. “Your head is in the clouds. David. What about the immediate future? The community seder on Sunday, for instance. Will you be running it? Have you thought of that?”

“No. I haven’t. But now that you mention it, I suppose that until I resign or am voted out I’m still the rabbi officially, and I would preside. Of course. Gorfinkle through his new Ritual Committee could decide to have the cantor run it, or Brooks, for that matter. It wouldn’t bother me too much. As a lameduck rabbi. I might find it embarrassing. Besides, the seder is not really a community affair. It’s a family affair. The only reason we have a seder in the temple is because a lot of our members are either too lazy to run their own or feel that they can’t.”

“But if they did arrange for someone else to run it, what would you do?”

“Do? I’d stay home.”

“But—”

The doorbell rang.

“Who can that be at this hour?” exclaimed the rabbi. “It’s eleven o’clock.”

Miriam hurried to the door. “Why, it’s Mr. Carter. Come in, won’t you.”

He permitted himself to be led into the room and sat down on the chair that was drawn up for him. He sat on the edge, his back straight and not touching the chair-back. “My son is dead.” he announced.

A shocked glance passed between the rabbi and his wife. “Oh, Mr. Carter. I’m so sorry,” said Miriam.

“How did it happen?” asked the rabbi quietly. “Tell me about it. Is there anything I can do?”

“Maybe there is.” said Carter. “They called me tonight. I was out, and they called just as I was coming in the house. Asked me to wait until some police sergeant got there. When he came, he wanted me to go down the station with him. I kept asking him what is the matter, and all he would say was that I’d find out when I got to the station house. The chief was there when I got there, and he told me. He wanted me to identify the body.” He gave a short bitter laugh. “My boy’s picture was in the paper practically every week last year. I’ll bet that most people in town knew him better than the chairman of the Board of Selectment. He was the guest of honor at the annual banquet of the Junior Chamber of Commerce at the end of the football season. But they needed me to identify him.”

“That’s just necessary formality. I believe,” remarked the rabbi.

“Yuh. I guess so.”

“Did they tell you how he had met his death?”

“They didn’t say positive except that he had been drinking, that it looked like he had been drinking an awful lot. Well, that stuff is poison. He was intoxicated, that’s what he was. That’s a Latin word, and it means poison. Did you know that?”

The rabbi nodded.

“They took the body down to the police station.” Carter went on, “in the police ambulance. They opened the door and there he was, with a blanket over him. The head was toward the front of the car, so I had to climb right in. Lanigan got in after me, and he pulled back the blanket. ‘Is that your son?’ he asks. And I says. ‘Yes, that’s my son.’ So then they told me how they found him at Hillson House. He was lying on a couch there, and they could smell the whisky on him. Lanigan said how if you drink the stuff fast enough before the body has a chance to get rid of it, it can be very dangerous. So I guess that’s what must have happened.”

“You said you thought I could help,” said the rabbi. “Did you want me to try to get further information on just how it happened?”

The carpenter shook his head. “No. I guess that’s how it happened, the way Lanigan said. I knew that Moose drank even when he was in high school.” He paused again and then went on. “Lanigan drove me home and left me to break the news to Mrs. Carter. She carried on something dreadful. Lanigan called a doctor, and he gave her something to quiet her. I didn’t have the heart to prevent it, God forgive me.”

“And how is she now?” asked Miriam gently.

“Well, right now she’s asleep. My oldest girl is with her.” He knuckled his eyes, as if to wipe the sleep out of them. “Then I went back to the station house—Lanigan had left earlier—to make arrangements to get the body so I could give it decent burial. And Lanigan told me that they might have to do an autopsy on him to find out for sure what the cause of death was.”

“I suppose that’s the law.” said the rabbi.

“Well. I don’t hold with it. I know the cause of death. Lanigan told me. So why do they have to cut him open?”

“I suppose they have to be sure.”

“How much surer do they have to be than they are right now? The body is the temple of the spirit. Rabbi. Even if the spirit is gone, do you have a right to destroy the temple? I don’t hold with it. It’s against my religious beliefs.” He fixed piercing eyes on the rabbi. “Now. I’m not looking for a fight with the police department or with the town, but if I have to fight. I will. But I’ve heard that you’re friendly with Lanigan and have been almost since you came. I thought maybe you could speak to him about it for me.”

“I have no legal standing in the matter.” said the rabbi. “I mean. I’m not a lawyer, and I couldn’t act as your legal representative. Have you thought of getting a lawyer?”

Carter shook his head. “It’s not a fight I want right now. Rabbi. When it comes to going to court. I’ll get a lawyer. Right now I’m thinking whether you could persuade him for my sake and my wife’s sake.”

“All right, I’ll talk to him,” said the rabbi. “But I wouldn’t expect too much. Lanigan isn’t the sort of man who would refuse a request of this kind unless he had a very good reason and saw it as a necessary duty. And if that is so, then I don’t think I could persuade him. But I’ll talk to him if you like.”

“When?” asked Carter pointedly.

“Anytime you like.”

“How about now? Tonight?”