by Roger Herst
“Bomb threat,” said a man in a Sherlock Holmes cape with a long black scarf twirled around his neck. “This is the third one of these bomb scares for me in two months. I’m getting tired of it. My guess is this has something to do with an anti-gun party going on inside.”
“When was the threat made?” asked Gabby, looking skeptically at her wristwatch. A Coalition secretary had just confidently announced that the bomb squad would soon provide an all-clear signal, but she wondered how long guests would suffer the cold before seeking warmth elsewhere.
Around her, she heard the words “National Rifle Association” repeated like a mantra. Surely this was an NRA plot to disrupt the festivities. A couple to her right agreed that the redneck gun-lovers would stop at nothing. It didn’t seem to occur to them that the plot would be a particularly pointless one, doomed only to reinforce existing opinions. But angry people, she reminded herself, don’t think well and there were all too many angry people on both sides.
She was unsurprised when Dov and Sheila Shellenberg meandered off in the direction of Senators Will McCaferty of Illinois and Lynn Kress of Connecticut. Once, while browsing Dov’s library at the synagogue, she’d noticed the self-improvement paperback The Art of Working a Crowd, a book filled with insider tips on where to position oneself at receptions, how to prominently exhibit a nametag, which words to choose for an introduction, and tricks for breaking into a group of individuals already engaged in conversation. She smiled to herself, remembering Dov’s interviews at Ohav Shalom, two months after Gabby had assumed the senior rabbinical post. He’d come across as a well-spoken, studious young man dedicated to building his rabbinical skills in service to the Jewish community. Now, eighteen months later, he’d fulfilled only part of her early expectations. His sermons were skillfully crafted and dramatically delivered, even if the subjects were a bit conventional. But he wrote them, she thought, with a desire to please rather than enlighten. In the right company, he could be utterly charming and, frequently, witty. Influential and wealthy members of the synagogue universally praised his work; less highly placed individuals complained that he was inattentive.
Watching him edge close to Senator Kress, she had failed to notice a short, slightly bald man, in a heavy overcoat that hung from his shoulders like a cloak, who stood nearby.
“Joel Fox,” he said, turning to introduce himself with a smile and offering an ungloved hand. “If I’m not mistaken you’re Rabbi Lewyn. I come to Ohav Shalom from time to time. First saw you after the Zentner Trial. In those days seats at your shul were the hottest ticket in town. I heard the Sukkot sermon you delivered before a packed house.”
At the moment, feeling deserted by Dov and Sheila, Gabby was happy to have someone to talk with. Fox’s boyishly innocent face was refreshing. “I hope you got your money’s worth, Mr. Fox. I block many memories of those unhappy days, but I do remember how packed the sanctuary was. When my name slipped from the media, my fan club melted away like snow in April.”
There was a momentary pause in conversation as both searched for a new subject of conversation.
Gabby came up with something first. “Has someone you know been shot, Mr. Fox?” she asked, careful to repeat his name and inscribe it in her memory. “At one point or another, most of us associated with the Coalition have had a bad experience. This week I buried a wonderful young man who was shot dead with a handgun.”
“Sorry to hear that,” he said, his warm breath evaporating in the frigid air. A mischievous sparkle in his eyes caught her attention. “I’ve got a different story to tell. My experience with firearms is quite positive. If the truth be known, and I can tell you because you’re a rabbi and are probably too polite to jump down my throat, I’m a board member of the National Rifle Association, one of those gun-lovers you people in the Coalition love to hate. And just for the record, I’m dead against legislation to restrict handgun ownership.”
She was struck by his bluntness but rallied. “I wasn’t aware there were Jewish members of the NRA. I suppose there’s always an exception to the rule, isn’t there? Do you work at the Association headquarters in Reston?”
“Oh no. Guns are my hobby. not my vocation; dentistry’s my trade. Got a practice in Chevy Chase. I hunt for sport. And I’m also an enthusiastic collector. If I’m permitted to boast, I’ve probably got the finest collections of Civil War muskets north of Atlanta.”
He stirred an antagonism in her that she saw little need to hide. “What do you kill with your guns, Dr. Fox?”
He offered a flash of even, white teeth in defense. “Deer. Pheasants. Ducks and geese. No foxes, if that’s what you’re thinking. A man shouldn’t kill his own namesake, now should he? I once went on an African safari to hunt wildebeest, but there were so many on the savanna that it didn’t seem like sport. I never pulled the trigger. Kenyan officials wanted to sell me a very expensive license to shoot a lion, but the idea of destroying a big cat just because God made it a carnivore rather than herbivore didn’t sit right. “Lions got to live, too,” I said to myself. I don’t kill very much these days. It’s the hunt that intrigues me. You probably won’t believe this, Rabbi, but hunting is my religion. They say Jews aren’t supposed to like hunting, but I do. It makes me feel as if I’m communing with God, if that makes any sense to you.”
“No, I can’t say it does. To me, God is a creative force in nature, Dr. Fox, though, of course, I acknowledge that destruction is natural as well. But guns simply destroy. I can’t see that they have any other purpose.” She was keenly aware how pedantic this must have sounded and didn’t care. Though she had never met an NRA officer, she had never liked the organization. Joel Fox, DDS, member of the NRA Board of Directors, gun lover, hunter, and gun collector, appeared to be pretty much what she expected.
“I like to think of myself as disciplined when hunting,” he pursued. “If I’m very, very lucky, I will kill one deer every other season. Never more than that. Many years I shoot absolutely nothing.”
“Shooting an innocent creature with a high-powered rifle and one of those telescopic scopes powerful enough to observe the rings of Saturn doesn’t seem to me like much of a sport, Dr. Fox.”
“Agreed,” he shot back. “My friends and I never use magnifying devices. And none of us fire more than a single cartridge for the entire season. One shell per man per year. If my friend wounds an animal with his bullet, that means I must hunt down the wounded creature and dispatch it with mine. There are eight of us in my club and we average only five deer per season. I don’t think that endangers the deer population, do you?”
She avoided the question and glanced around to evaluate the bomb threat. “I was looking forward to a hot toddy for New Year’s. Instead, I’m feeling like a frozen Popsicle. It’s a miracle people here are so patient. Soon they’ll give up and go to a warm bar or home. Tell me,” she asked, “what brings you to this affair?”
“It’s important for us to know what you guys in the Coalition are thinking. I’m committed to dialogue; someone has to spread our message. Unfortunately, extremists on both sides don’t think there’s much to debate and I usually end up talking to myself.”
In her thin formal footwear, Gabby’s toes were frozen. She stamped her feet on the pavers to promote better circulation.
“My friends think I’m meshugah,” Joel Fox said. “They’ve been trying to reform me for years and keep inviting me to anti-gun meetings, hoping I’ll see the light and repent my evil ways.”
“Sounds positively evangelical,” said Gabby, moving towards Dov Shellenberg to let a team of firefighters pass. Dr. Fox followed. The idea of hunting with a single cartridge intrigued her and she said to him, “If you hunt with only one bullet, you must be a very good shot.”
“Not bad, if I’m allowed to brag. If you wound an animal, hunting with a single bullet can be quite cruel. A wounded creature will bleed to death. My friends and I seldom let that happen.”
Gabby squinted, cocking her head. “In such a situation why not
just declare the use of a second or third bullet acceptable?”
“Oh, that wouldn’t work at all, Rabbi. If a hunter knows he’s got more bullets for an emergency, then he’ll be careless. More importantly, he won’t be motivated to stalk. That’s really what it’s all about—getting so close you can’t miss. That’s what I meant about hunting being a religion. Merging with nature can be thrilling; some people describe it as a mystical experience.” From his pocket he withdrew a 9-mm. bullet and displayed it before her eyes. “My good luck charm. Silly, I know, but I feel naked without it. I once took this from a drunk who damn near shot someone with it. I take it wherever I go.”
If what he wanted was to merge with nature, she wondered, why bring a gun into it at all? Briefly she considered continuing the argument, but she was uncomfortable with the subject and wanted to lighten the conversation. “With such good eyes and coordination, I’ll bet you’re a fine dentist.”
“Do my best. But dentistry isn’t what it used to be, you know. Insurance providers bury me in paperwork. It’s a good thing you don’t have to deal with insurance companies.”
She chuckled. “Sounds like heaven compared to a synagogue board of directors. In my shul everybody is a general. No privates. No sergeants. No lieutenants and no colonels. Just generals.”
They passed to the rear of Dov Shellenberg, who had an uncanny sense of people behind him, and he turned to regard Gabby. His eyebrow rose over the round glasses, with very thin wire frames, that gave him the distinguished appearance of a Washington lawyer. She could not avoid his attention and stopped to introduce Joel Fox.
As soon as she spoke his name, Dov snapped with annoyance, “These bomb threats are a damned nuisance. Whoever is responsible should get twenty years in a jail with hardened criminals, not at a country club for white collar felons.” He smiled suddenly. “It’s good to see so many people here tonight. The repeal of DC’s gun ban has made our work more urgent than ever. We’re making significant progress on handgun registration, don’t you think Dr. Fox?”
Gabby interrupted. “Dov, I’m afraid you’ve got this gentleman wrong. He isn’t a member of one of our Coalition groups. He’s from the NRA camp—from their board of directors, in fact. He’s here to get to know us. Actually, I find him quite interesting. Don’t know if I’ve ever met a Jew who enjoys guns. He’s also an enthusiastic hunter.”
A reprimanding scowl replaced the smile on Dov’s face. “It’s hard for me to understand your position,” he said. “It seems to lack social conscience when city hospitals fill every night with gunshot victims. How can your organization overlook the gruesome facts? Guns are decimating the inner cities.”
Joel Fox eyed Dov, evaluating his position before he responded in a controlled voice, “Rabbi Shellenberg, we deplore crooks and hoodlums as much as you do. I hope we can agree on one fact—handguns don’t fire themselves. The legislation you and your friends are sponsoring in Congress won’t take firearms off the streets. To take guns away from responsible people is to hand them over to thugs. I don’t think that would be to anybody’s good.”
“I don’t see that handgun registration takes guns from responsible people; what it does do is make it harder for criminals to acquire them.” Dov, as usual, sounded a bit pedantic, but Gabby found nothing to disagree with. Then, being Dov, he proceeded to push his argument too far. “Gun lovers guarantee that criminals have a healthy supply of weapons and, in my book, that’s pure and unadulterated aiding and abetting. Tell me, what’s your fascination with guns? Phallic worship?”
Joel Fox glanced for support to Gabby and found her conflicted; she hadn’t cared for Dov’s crudeness. “I don’t know about that phallus stuff, Rabbi,” he said, carefully ignoring the provocation. “I like guns, that’s all. I was born in a hunting family in a small Northern California town near the Oregon border. My uncle put a .22 into my hands as soon as I was old enough to operate it safely. Been shooting all my life and, so far, I haven’t hurt anyone. In point of fact, I once helped the police in Berkeley. I was in a Wells Fargo Bank when a robber entered with a sawed-off shotgun. I could see he was an amateur because he failed to lock the breach. In that condition, the gun couldn’t fire. I dived into his midsection, knocked him off balance and, with the help of another customer, restrained him until the police arrived.”
“Pretty gutsy, I’d say,” Gabby interjected.
“Nope, it wasn’t gutsy at all. Not a chance in the world that gun would have fired.”
Dov was sharp and explosive. “If there were laws against guns, the bank robber wouldn’t have had a shotgun in the first place.”
To show she did not approve of the attack, Gabby seized Dr. Fox’s arm and tugged him away. “Before we freeze to death, let’s find out if there’s going to be a gala tonight.”
When Dov saw her hand on Fox’s arm, he released a final salvo. “Gabby, I don’t understand how you can countenance someone like this. He’s saturated in innocent blood.”
“I’m not countenancing anything, Dov. If I’m not mistaken, tonight is New Year’s Eve, when I don’t have to endorse, condone, support, or affirm anything. We may not like Dr. Fox’s views on guns, but remember he also takes care of people’s teeth. Keep that in mind the next time you have a toothache. I reckon any good dentist has a right to a few sins. So if you’ll excuse us…”
At ten minutes past the hour, a spokeswoman from the bomb squad announced, through a bullhorn, that no bombs had been discovered inside and that the police had declared the premises safe.
***
A few minutes later, Gabby and Joel Fox accepted glasses of Chardonnay from a waiter and inspected a table piled with peeled shrimp, miniature sandwiches, canapés, crudités, cheeses, slivers of melon and strawberries, and a vast assortment of crackers. One could, Joel commented, live a full life in Washington and never touch a fork. Gabby noticed that fellow celebrants around the buffet kept their topcoats on in case a new emergency forced them back into the cold. Behind a central hardwood dance floor, a six-member band was installing sound equipment. She excused herself to circulate among Coalition friends and was immediately approached by five women from the Southeast DC Chapter of Mothers against Guns. She had spoken with Hillary Jones and Karlene Patrick-Hill at Bart’s funeral, but needed help recalling the names of the others —Denise Crosby, Ersiline Patricia North, and Delilah Senegal. It struck her how comfortable and confident the women appeared, particularly as she herself felt self-conscious without an escort. They had adorned themselves with striking jewelry and dramatic makeup. Three wore brightly colored African head wraps. Two women had sculpted their hair in meticulous corn-roll coifs. Ersiline North’s perfume reminded her of the fragrance she’d worn to her high school prom. Olfactory memory produced a vision of her date on that momentous occasion—the skinny, acne-prone computer nerd, Sanford Milstein. She smiled to herself in memory: after dropping out from the California Institute of Technology, Sanford had become a fabulously wealthy high-tech entrepreneur in Idaho. She chatted with the ladies for several minutes, then noticed Joel Fox waiting for her attention and excused herself.
“I hope I’m not intruding, Rabbi, but to tell the truth, I feel a bit lonely here. If I tell people who I am, they seem ready to strangle me. If I don’t, I feel like an imposter. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come in the first place. Better to have gone to the movies.”
“No family, Dr. Fox?” she asked. “I’m surprised. You look like a family man to me.”
“None in Washington, if that’s what you mean. I’ve got two boys living with my ex in Los Angeles. Kind of lonely without them when the New Year rolls around, but even if they were here, they’d probably want to be with their friends.”
“I can sympathize with that. I’m a Californian too and grew up on the Fairfax/Beverly Hills frontier—but, if the truth be known, a bit closer to Fairfax than Beverly Hills. My father still lives there.”
“So we’re both Californians living in exile.”
Gabby’s
dimples deepened as she produced an empathic smile. “You put yourself into an uncomfortable position at this function.”
“I won’t quarrel with that. How would you like to be my guest at an NRA gathering?”
“No, thanks. That tolerant I ain’t.”
“If you’re like folks at this party, you’d fit right in with my NRA cohorts. We have our share of extremists too, you know. Dialoging with our self-righteous ideologues is like talking to a hooting gibbon. When I get in arguments with them, I remind myself to step back and ask who’s really the fool–me or the ranting ape? Know what I mean?”
Gabby was about to acknowledge his predicament when a surge of excited voices rose from across the dance floor. Screams followed a moment later. As she looked around for a clue to the disturbance, guests began scrambling for the entry door. Near the speaker’s platform, others bunched up tightly, howling at one another. In the pandemonium, Helen Pendergas, the newly elected president of the Coalition, hauled herself onto the elevated platform. Someone passed her a looping chord attached to a hand-held mike.
An electronic popping declared the microphone alive. “You see, you see!” she shrieked, like a crow warning of an intruder near its nest. “We have absolute, absolute proof what those NRA bastards are capable of.” With that she lifted an indistinguishable hunk of steel over her head, waving it in circles. “We just found this hidden in the hors d’oeuvres centerpiece! Would you believe it? Among carrot sticks and broccoli flowers!” She pointed the 6-inch barrel of a.38 caliber Smith and Wesson, a Police Special, into the air. ”Now we know what that bomb threat was all about, don’t we?” She continued to wave the .38 before the bewildered guests. “They emptied the building to plant this here. But they won’t get away with it, will they? Will they?”
On the other side of the room, Gabby realized that many in the crowd were unable to distinguish the handgun and were confused by Pendergas’s assaulting language.
