Wednesday the Rabbi got wet

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Akiva spent the afternoon tramping from one end of the beach to the other, renewing his acquaintance with the shoreline, the tide was out and after a while, he took off his boots and socks and slung them over one shoulder by their tied laces, he walked along the water's edge, wriggling his toes in the wet sand, luxuriating in its soft coolness, he came to the rocks of the Point, smooth rounded loaves of pudding stone split here and there by deep narrow channels where the water, even at low tide, rushed in and then was sucked back reluctantly by the receding ocean, the water left little pools in the rocks' depressions where a tiny minnow might be entrapped and dart from side to side until a wave came that was high enough to free it.

Akiva sat at the edge of one such pool and dabbled his feet in the water to wash off the sand, then he held them straight out in front of him so that the sun could dry them and he could put on his socks and boots, as he leaned back on rigid arms, staring out at the horizon, he felt a peace that he had not known for a long time, as far as he could see, he was alone on the beach.

It occurred to him that it was a good time to practice meditation, undisturbed as he was within and without, he sat up and maneuvered his legs into the lotus position. It was not easy for him, but with a little trouble he succeeded in tucking in his feet against his thighs, with arms outstretched and thumbs touching forefingers, he let his eyes fall closed. Images came flooding into his mind, and then as his breathing became slow and regular, he saw nothing except a kind of warm luminosity, the effect of the bright sun on his closed eyelids.

"Hey, Whatcha doing?"

He opened his eyes and saw a small boy— five or six years old?— standing in front of him, a sandpail in one hand and an old spoon in the other.

Akiva smiled. "Just thinking," he said. "Whatcha have your hands out like that for?"

"I guess it's because it helps me think. You live around here?"

"Uh-huh, over there," with a nod at one of the houses on the other side of the road that paralleled the beach. "Say, will you take me across? I'm not allowed to cross alone."

"Sure. You just wait a minute while I get my shoes and socks on. How'd you get across in the first place?"

"My mommy brought me."

"And what would you have done if I hadn't been here?"

"Oh, my mommy comes and gets me after a while."

Booted once again, Akiva stood up and held out his hand. "Come on, let's go."

The boy took his hand confidently and together they clambered up the rocks to the side of the road, where they waited as a succession of cars whizzed by, then, during a lull, they started to cross the road just as a woman came out of the house opposite.

"Why didn't you wait, Jackie?" she called. "I was just going to get you."

"The man said he'd take me across,” he shouted back. Releasing Akiva's hand, he ran across the road and up the porch steps, akiva lounged after him.

The woman looked at Akiva in momentary suspicion, then she smiled absently. Turning to the boy, she said, "All right, dear, thank the man and go inside and take some milk."

The youngster held out his hand and Akiva mounted the steps to take it. "Thanks," the boy said, and turned and ran into the house.

"He's very well behaved." said Akiva.

"Yes, well—"

"You're Leah Kaplan, aren't you?" he said wonderingly.

"Oh, do I know you? Kaplan was my maiden name."

"We were in school together," Akiva said. "One year I sat beside you in French class."

She looked at him uncertainly. "Oh, are you— you're Aptaker, Arnold Aptaker."

He smiled. "That was my maiden name," he said. "I'm Akiva Rokeach now."

"That beard. I would have recognized you right away if it weren't for the beard. What are you hiding?"

"Who's hiding anything? A beard is the natural thing; it's shaving that's unnatural." It was as though the years had fallen away and they were back in high school where derisive sallies were the pattern for conversation.

"Just because it grows doesn't mean you don't have to cut it,” she said tartly. "How about toenails and fingernails? I always feel that a man with a beard is hiding something, either a weak chin or a scar, or an inferiority complex."

"Well, I'm not. It's— it's religious."

Then she noticed the yarmulke he was wearing. "Oh, you're one of those." She looked him up and down, taking in the boots, the patched jeans and the denim jacket. "The rest of you doesn't look very religious."

"Religion isn't a matter of costume," he said loftily. "Just of hats, eh?"

"That's different. It's a head covering, any hat will do, but this one shows that it's for religion and not just to keep my head warm or the sun off it."

"I see, well, I've got to see to Jackie. Come in, if you want to."

"Well I—" but he followed her into the house and on into the kitchen, where Jackie sat at the table drinking a glass of milk. "Taste good, Jackie? You like milk?" he asked, making conversation.

The youngster nodded shyly and drained his glass as if to prove it.

"Now upstairs for your bath," she said. Obediently, the boy rose from the table and started for the stairs. "Aren't you going to say good-bye to the man?" she called after him.

He came back and went over to Akiva, he held out his hand again and said, "Good-bye."

"Gee, you sure got him trained," said Akiva admiringly.

"I do my best. Say, would you like some coffee? It's all ready. I usually have it while Jackie is having his milk." She brought two cups to the table along with a plate of cookies. "Go on, take one," she urged. When he seemed reluctant, she smiled and said. "It's all right, they're kosher. I made them myself."

"Oh yeah?" He reached for a cookie. "How come you keep a kosher kitchen?"

"Because it's the way I was brought up."

"So why did you find this funny?" he asked, touching the crocheted yarmulke on his head.

She grinned. "I wasn't brought up that kosher."

He grinned back at her, not in the least offended. "You been living here in town all along?" he asked.

"All except when I was at school."

"Your husband local? Anybody I'd be apt to know? I mean, one of the guys at school?"

She poured the coffee. "He's from Boston originally. Goldstein, Fred Goldstein. Know him?"

He shook his head.

"I was divorced last vear,” she said easily.

He had been seeing her as he remembered her in high school. Now he looked at her appraisingly, she was not particularly good-looking, he decided, just short of being plain, in fact. But her face showed a self-possession and assurance that he found oddly attractive, she had a high forehead and widely spaced cheekbones, but her brown eyes were also widely spaced, so that the face was not disproportionate. It struck him that there was nothing feminine about her features except for the soft rounding of the jawline, ending in a firm chin, she stared back at him and he lowered his eyes.

"Gee, that must have been tough on you," he said, "with the boy and all. I'm sorry."

"It happens all the time," she said with a shrug. "Half the girls I went to school with who got married are either divorced or separated, at least it seems that way. It's the times. People don't need each other anymore."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's the truth. Men used to marry because they needed a woman— to cook for them, to clean and mend for them, to have sex with. Nowadays, it's no trouble to cook for themselves. You just have to heat something that you buy already cooked in a store, and no one mends anymore. You don't have to. Who darns socks these days? And sex is pretty readily available, too. So why should a man get married?"

"How about women? They still need to, don't they?"

She shook her head. "No more than men, they used to need a man to support them while they kept house. Now they can get jobs, and housekeeping is so simplified that they can cook and clean for themselves even with a nine-to-five job. When people needed each other, they tended to stay together. Nowadays they marry because they just want each other, and when they stop wanting, there's no real reason to stay together, especially because when you stop wanting one person it's usually that you've started to want another."

"Is that what happened to you?" he asked.

She smiled sourly. "What do you think? He remarried as soon as the decree became final."

"And the boy, does he miss his father?"

"Of course he does, but he'll get over it. His father was away a lot on business, sometimes a week at a time, so it isn't as though he was accustomed to seeing him here every day. Children are flexible. Or do you have children of your own?"

He shook his head. "I'm still single." Then he laughed. "Up until eight or nine months ago when I came to Philadelphia I wasn't in one place long enough to get married."

"A hobo."

"Yes I guess you could say so."

"And what made you stop in Philadelphia?"

"That's where I went to school. I stayed there because I came in contact with Reb Mendel's chavurah."

"And got religion."

"I found what I'd been looking for," he said simply. "I got an idea of the meaning of my life, a sense of purpose, a sense of destiny."

She was pleased that he had not responded in kind to her sarcasm. Yet she could not resist another sally. "And now that you've found the meaning of life, you've come to spread the gospel here?"

"Oh no, I'm just a beginner with Reb Mendel. I wouldn't presume to be an expert. I'm only here for a few days visiting my folks."

They talked— of people they had known at school, and of what had happened to them; of her plans to get a teaching position next year "so I won't be dependent on Fred for support"; of his life on the road before settling in Philadelphia and the various religious disciplines he had sampled before he met Reb Mendel's chavurah. "You come to a new town and the quickest way to meet people is to go to one of these religious meetings."

Then Jackie called from upstairs. "I’ve had my bath, Mommy."

"I'll be right up, dear."

"I better be running along." said Akiva.

"Oh, all right. It was nice talking to you." She started for the stairs. "You don't mind if—" "I'll find my way out."

As he trudged along the beach to where his car was parked, akiva thought about the visit, mildly disappointed that she had not suggested that he call her and yet relieved, too, he told himself there was no point in establishing any more ties in Barnard's Crossing than he had to.