Thursday The Rabbi Walked Out

40

IT WAS NOT ANNOYANCE WITH MORTON BROOKS THAT LED Rabbi Small to leave his study so abruptly. Secretly, he rather enjoyed his cheekiness, his theatrical pomposity. While Brooks' little lecture on temple politics may have triggered the reaction, the reason for walking out was that he was fed up—with the temple, with Maltzman, with his own position as rabbi, he wanted to get away, if it were only for an hour or two, from the reach of the telephone, to where he would not be likely to meet a member of his congregation with a question or a complaint.

He got into his car and set out on the road to Boston with the vague idea that in the city he would achieve the anonymity that, for the moment at least, he craved. But as he drove along the main road, with its heavy traffic, it occurred to him that once he reached the city, he would have to drive around looking for a place to park, and that by the time he found one, it would be time to head for home. So instead, he turned off and took the road to Revere, the nearby resort town with its long stretch of beach faced by an equally long stretch of amusement booths, most of which would be closed at this time of year, there he could perch on the seawall, or sit in tha public pavilion facing the ocean, and watch the waves roll in, there, if anyone approached him, it would be to ask for the time, or a match, or to make some observation on the weather.

There were very few people about, and as he had surmised, most of the amusements had closed down, their bravely decorated fronts made tawdry by the unpainted wooden shutters that were intended to protect them during the winter, here and there, however, one was open, the proprietor leaning over his counter, looking hopefully up and down the street on the chance of interesting one of the few passersby, calling out when one went by, "Step right up. Everyone a winner. No losers. Step right up."

A few of the ice cream and hot dog stands were open, and in the distance the rabbi saw a store that looked as though it might serve coffee, he hoped he could get it in a paper cup and take it to the pavilion to sip at while he did nothing, he heard his name called, and stopped and looked around, the only one in sight was a tall young man in a T-shirt and blue jeans leaning across the counter of the shooting gallery he had just passed, he retraced his steps.

"Gee. I wasn't sure it was you. Rabbi. I mean, seeing you here."

Then he recognized him. "Sumner, isn't it?"

"Uh-huh. Sumner Lefhvich. I was in your postconfirmation class a couple of years back. You come down here often?"

"No, not often. You work here all the time? I thought you were at school."

"I am. Mass State. I just work here off and on. It belongs to my girl's father. I help him out once in a while, with business as slow as it is. I can study here just as good as at home or in the library, and I get a few bucks for it." He looked at the rabbi shyly. "Care to test your skill. Rabbi? Ten shots for a quarter."

"I’ve never shot a rifle."

"Nothing to it, Rabbi. You just aim and squeeze the trigger. You don't pull it, you kind of squeeze it."

The rabbi looked up and down the street and decided the young man had not had many customers that day, he fished a quarter out of his pocket and watched with interest as the young man slid a tube of cartridges into the chamber of the rifle.

The rabbi put the rifle to his shoulder and peered through the sights at the row of clay pipes, the moving line of ducks, the rabbits hopping one after another, the giant pendulum swinging slowly back and forth, then he vaguely remembered that there was a recoil when a gun went off, and he removed his glasses and carefully put them in his breast pocket. This time when he sighted, he saw only white blobs and splotches. But what of it, there were plenty of things to hit.

He pulled at the trigger again and again until a click told him that he had exhausted his ammunition, he laid the gun down on the counter and put on his glasses.

"Perfect score," said the young man, grinning broadly at him.

"Really?"

"That's right. Ten shots and ten misses, the sights must be off, here try this one. On the house."

"No, really—"

"Go on. Rabbi."

The rabbi shrugged, and once again took off his glasses and put the rifle to his shoulder. When he put it down on the counter again, the young man shook his head to signify that he had done no better this time.

"I guess it's you, Rabbi, not the rifles."

"I'm afraid I'll never be a marksman," said the rabbi. "I was heading for that shop to get a cup of coffee. Can I get you one?"

"Yeah, I could go for a cup of coffee. Cream and just a little sugar. If you tell him it's for me, he knows how I like it."

When the rabbi returned with the coffee cups, Sumner said, "Say, Rabbi, what do you think about having a special class, or a kind of club, for the kids who are now in college?"

"We tried that one year, and so few came that we gave it up."

"Yeah, well I had an idea—"

Finally after a decent interval, he was able to break awav.

He decided to go back to Barnard's Crossing, reflecting that perhaps it was ordained he should not leave his job.