A Kiss for Rabbi Gabrielle

by Roger Herst

  Chuck arrived when his sister was leading by four games to zero. Knowing better than to distract his sister’s concentration, he approached from behind a canvas backdrop and poked his head through a flap on Gabby’s side. Between points, he asked Gabby, “Can I watch you guys play?”

  “This isn’t play; it’s a veritable massacre,” answered Gabby. “Do me a favor and contact the United Nations Human Rights Commission to rescue me.”

  Lydia could not help noticing her brother but was, as usual, indifferent to spectators. She rarely deigned to return looks, much less exchange words. Gabby, on the other hand, was easily distracted. She drove four consecutive balls low into the net.

  Chuck immediately regretted the interruption and said, “I’ll meet you guys in the club area.”

  “Come in Rangoon. Come in Rangoon.” Lydia sounded impatient with Gabby. “Let’s go, Gabby. Put it back together and keep your mind on what we’re doing. Forget who’s watching. There’s always somebody and they don’t count. You grunt like a pussycat slurping milk.”

  When Gabby missed the next two shots, Lydia exploited her lack of concentration to rack up additional points.

  “Are you going to fight or cave in?” she taunted.

  “I’m sorry,” Gabby blushed. “I’ve lost it.”

  “You’ve lost more than that. When you stopped concentrating your strokes went to hell. Just for your information, the difference between a player worth her weight in tennis balls and a duffer is the ability to keep focused. There’s always something to divert your attention.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Being sorry doesn’t win matches.”

  “Okay then, Lydia, you win, however you want. I’m not made like you.”

  “You’re right about that. But you’ve got the strokes and the coordination to be a far better player than you are. You’re wasting your talent. If you want to be a muse, then go off and write poetry. But don’t you dare try to be a poet on my tennis court. Understand? Kids with better concentration will wipe the courts with your fanny.”

  “Forget it. I am who I am. Leopards don’t change their spots.”

  “Bullshit. Gabby, I know there’s a mean streak inside you and I’m going to expose it. One day you’re going to become so disgusted with getting trounced, you’ll grind your teeth and dig in your heels. When losing becomes painful enough, you’ll find a way to win.”

  The hour ended and new players filed onto the teaching court. Lydia twirled her racquet in her left palm, then smartly grabbed it with the right hand before it spun out of control. The moment she stepped through a flap in the canvas leading to an air-sealed door, her tone became solicitous. “How about having dinner with Charles and me?”

  “You haven’t seen him in a long while. You two might want to talk in private.”

  “True, but I’m sure Charles would vote for you to come. Something about you makes him happy.”

  “Let's ask him,” Gabby offered. “If he wants me to tag along, I’m game. If not, we’ll do it another time.”

  As soon as the question was put to Chuck, he asked Gabby in some surprise, “No meetings tonight? I recall I wrote something down on your schedule.”

  “The National Coalition for Gun Control has postponed its monthly meeting. No synagogue committees either. You might say I’m on leave from the penitentiary until 8:30 tomorrow morning.”

  They had no reservations at the popular Basil Thai Restaurant on Wisconsin Avenue, so the hostess told Chuck, Gabby, and Lydia there would be about a twenty minute wait for a table. They decided the food was worth the wait and added their party to the reservation list.

  As soon as they were seated, Gabby and Lydia ordered Tiger beer, in over-sized 22-ounce bottles, to quench their thirst. Chuck, who had never cultivated a taste for beer, ordered a glass of wine. He was in a loquacious mood, commenting on Lydia’s aggressive court behavior—a sensitive subject which neither Gabby nor Lydia wished to discuss. Their eyes met in a pact not to ruin a good dinner.

  Eliciting no response, he switched to a pet target. “Sheila and Dov have become quite the social butterflies these days,” he reported in an omniscient voice, tilting his head in Gabby’s direction. “I know you don’t read Gina Tobias’ gossip articles in The Post. She claims that, before a recent celebrity brunch they hosted, Dov called Moses Sullivan from the Washington Wizards and told him that South African Ambassador Bali Kumalseli was planning to attend. Then he called Ambassador Kumalseli and told him he absolutely must come to meet Moses Sullivan. Apparently, they both showed up.”

  “Shame on you, Chuck,” Gabby ribbed. “You’ve become an intolerable gossip. You know what the Talmud calls gossip? La-shon ha-rah, the evil tongue, and it’s an unbecoming trait. Beware of the messenger of truths we can’t live without. If Dov actually did what Gina Tobias reported, I’d say he was pretty resourceful. Sounds like a dangerous game to me. Imagine what would happen if one of the key players failed to come.”

  “He was born a social climber. Rumor has it that, in the hospital nursery, he climbed out of his crib to hobnob with attending physicians,” Chuck continued. “Any idea how he got that way?”

  “Better to grant him marks for imagination and leave it at that.”

  “You always put a good spin on things, Rabbi Gabby. That makes the rest of us mortals, who weren’t born with the same charity genes, feel like shit.”

  “I wasn’t spinning.”

  A waiter in a Thai tunic and pants arrived with menus. As Chuck struggled with the variety of choices, Lydia looked at her brother affectionately and said, “It doesn’t look to me like you’re eating much these days. You can’t help Thomas by starving yourself. Only the strong can help the weak.”

  “Sorry, Lyddy. My appetite’s disappeared.”

  Lydia suggested foods she knew he liked. When he postponed choosing, she told the waiter he would have lo mein noodles with chicken. Lydia and Gabby ordered meatless dishes, a mixed vegetable curry and spicy eggplant in basil sauce. The women fell silent listening to Chuck banter.

  When the dishes arrived, two waiters converged upon their table to deliver the steaming plates, refill beer glasses, and see that no dinnerware was missing. As they concluded, Chuck’s bantering stopped and he seemed to contract inside himself. A withdrawn expression replaced his previous smile. He looked down as Lydia spooned noodles onto his plate and murmured, “Sorry, I just don’t feel like eating.”

  “It’s okay, Chuck.” Gabby placed her hand on his, squeezing gently. “We know you’re hurting. I think Thomas is very lucky to have someone like you. If you don’t feel like it, don’t eat. My mother used to force my sister to eat eggplant, which she hated. Of course, Mom cited all the logical reasons a growing girl should eat eggplant, but it struck me as cruel. I vowed never to force my own kids to eat what they didn’t want. If I ever have children I’ll be the world’s best earth mother, don’t you think?”

  Chuck’s eyebrows rose and he smiled. His eyes met Lydia’s in an accord expressed in the secret childhood language they still shared. “You’ve got all the makings, certainly better than Lyddy or me. God apparently ordains certain things for certain people. Some are destined to be parents, others not. How do you account for this, Rabbi?”

  “I don’t believe it’s true,” Gabby replied. “And I don’t know about you two, but I’m still hoping to produce a full litter of gorgeous, exceptionally talented children.” She looked to Lydia. “What about you? Any desire?”

  Lydia released her ponytail and shook her head to let the free locks fall around her shoulders. “Not much,” she said, serving vegetable curry onto her plate and pressing a serving on her brother across the table. “We’ve got a ton of food here. This is my favorite cuisine. I always overeat in Asian restaurants.”

  “Thomas asked me to convey a request, Gabby.” Chuck spoke suddenly, in a lower tone, eyeing his sister first.

  “Of course,” she responded immediately.

  “When the time comes, he want
s you to conduct his funeral.”

  Gabby’s chopsticks paused in midair before she said, “A bit early for such talk, isn’t it?”

  “Thomas knows he’s losing it mentally and wants to plan now, before it’s too late.”

  Lydia’s eyes were downcast, as if to absent herself from the subject. Gabby gazed at Chuck. “The living must live, not plan for death. That’s in the Bible, you know.”

  “I never read that. You’re improvising, Rabbi. The Good Book never said that.”

  “Well, let’s say I’m reading a little into the text. It’s a rabbinical prerogative. Besides, Thomas isn’t Jewish. What could I say of relevance for a Christian? Is it proper for a Jew to usher the soul of a Christian into heaven? It should be lifted on angel wings with Christian prayers.”

  “He doesn’t know any ministers,” Chuck replied. “And even if he did, he told me he wants you. The Jewish part doesn’t bother him. You’re his friend. And he knows what you mean to me.”

  “I’ll give this serious thought,” Gabby said, her chopsticks returning to motion.

  “I told Thomas to call you at the synagogue. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, he can always talk to me. But I must think about what to tell him about this.”

  Chuck’s eyes caught hers, holding firm. “I’d personally appreciate it.”

  She tried to lighten the conversation. “Who knows? I might buy the farm first. I could walk out of this restaurant and get run over by a car. Then, of course, I would want both of you, along with Thomas, to come to my funeral. And I’d expect some pretty teary eyes, too.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Chuck felt more comfortable with light banter.

  “Then be sure you don’t. Meanwhile, life is for the living. And this meal gives it spice. Now how about some of your lo mein?”

  He looked dubious until Lydia nodded her head. Gabby’s smile lit her eyes. Her dimples always drew him toward her. He plied his chopsticks, but the slippery noodles refused to remain on them long enough reach his mouth. He soon replaced the wooden sticks with a stainless steel fork.

  After dinner, Lydia and Gabby drove Chuck to the Adams Morgan apartment he shared with Thomas Belmont. As soon as Lydia eased her Nissan into a bus zone and killed the engine, she looked at her brother, as if ready to reprove him. “It’s time to think about the future, Charles. These days, Thomas is in hospitals most of the time. You waste away at home and get depressed. That doesn’t help anybody.”

  He removed his hand from the door handle and leaned toward the driver’s seat. “It’s lonely. Friends no longer come by. The apartment reeks of sickness. But I can’t move now because Thomas wouldn’t understand. He needs to believe he still has a home, even though he rarely uses it anymore. Just the thought of having it gives him peace. And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”

  Gabby reached from the back seat to place a hand on Chuck’s arm, then squeezed to convey that she understood that the lovers of victims suffer almost as much as their partners.

  “When Thomas is in the hospital, stay in my apartment with me,” Lydia offered.

  The invitation took Chuck by surprise and he needed a moment to consider. “Thanks, but no. That wouldn’t be fair to Kate. I’m sure she wouldn’t enjoy a melancholy brother living in her apartment.”

  Gabby did not know Kate. This was the first time either of them had mentioned Lydia’s roommate.

  Lydia seemed oblivious to Gabby’s presence. “Don’t worry about her. Things are not going well between us. She’s planning to move as soon as she finds a new place.”

  “You’re on the road more than in Washington. I don’t see how staying with you helps me,” he said.

  “When Lydia’s away, I can fill in,” Gabby said, entering the conversation. “I’m always available for those fabulous, expensive restaurants you know about. I don’t like eating alone any more than you do.”

  “Appreciate the invitation, ladies, but I don’t want to be a burden. This isn’t your war. It won’t last forever. Nothing is forever, right?”

  Lydia’s voice, sharp and biting on the tennis court, could be soft and gentle at other times. “I’m talking about family, Charles. You and me. We’ve been through some pretty shitty things together. Like growing up in our parents’ home for a start. But we’ve always had each other, just as we do now. I don’t want you to be alone.”

  “A loving invitation to consider,” he said, returning his hand to the door handle. “I’m exhausted tonight. I’ll think about it in the morning.”

  Gabby climbed out of the rear seat to sit beside Lydia. Once on the pavement, she restrained Chuck with a hand on his shoulder. “I need a favor. I’ve got a Talmud session early tomorrow morning and won’t be in the office until after ten. Can you make an appointment for me to have my teeth cleaned?”

  “Sure. I’ll phone Dr. Baumberger’s office first thing, but don’t expect an appointment before your sixtieth birthday. These days the old codger works only on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, so he’s backed up for months. His hygienist is so ancient most people mistake her for a mummy.”

  “I want to try a new dentist. On my desk, stuck in the blotter, is a card for Dr. Joel Fox in Chevy Chase. You know the routine. Get me an appointment first thing in the morning or over the lunch hour. Now that I’m training for Wimbledon, late afternoon appointments are absolutely impossible.”

  Chuck paused to turn in Gabby’s direction. “Who’s this Fox fellow?”

  “I met him on New Year’s Eve.”

  “Won’t his dental hygienist do the cleaning?”

  “I suspect so. But I’ll get a feel about his practice for if and when I need real dental work.”

  “Will do, boss. Consider your teeth sparkling clean,” were his last words from the street.

  Gabby got into the car beside Lydia, who turned on the ignition and pumped the accelerator with a heavy foot. Gabby said, “I didn’t know you had a roommate.”

  “I don’t.” Lydia was matter-of-fact.

  “Then who is Kate?”

  “Rabbis can be naïve,” Lydia snorted, turning her head to observe approaching traffic. Turning back, she continued, “Kate isn’t a roommate, Gabby. She’s a lover. Or more accurately, she’s an ex-lover. Things between us have been falling apart for months now. That’s the history of romance. Romances always unravel.”

  Chagrined by her own naiveté, Gabby realized she’d simply assumed that beautiful Lydia had a battalion of distinguished men trailing her night and day. She’d not only failed to consider that Lydia might be a lesbian, but missed a dozen signs along the route —the last of which was Chuck’s remark about children. It hadn’t tallied then; suddenly, it did.

  Lydia reached across to pinch Gabby’s bicep. “Don’t judge the Browner family too harshly. We’re actually pretty neat people, only our X and Y-chromosomes got scrambled in the genetic soup. That’s not our fault.”

  “Is scrambled the right word?” Gabby covered for her embarrassment.

  “Many people think so. Others believe we just want to be the way we are. Bizarre, how Charles and I turned out.”

  “Is that common?”

  “There have been innumerable studies of families like ours, but I ignore them. We’re certainly not the only siblings like this.”

  There was a lull in the conversation. Gabby used it to fill in pieces of the Browner family puzzle.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  PURIM

  February

  Joel Fox’s hygienist, a blond in her early thirties with heavy jowls, puffy cheeks, and imposing, bleached teeth, worked with a scaler and floss below Gabby’s gums. She carried on a lively monologue that she cleverly disguised as a dialogue. First, she would pose a question to which Gabby couldn’t possibly reply, and then, acting as a proxy, answer it.

  “An artist at his craft,” she proclaimed the dentist who had sculpted Gabby’s inlays and promised to draw Dr. Fox’s attention to them later.

 
In the course of the monologue she confided that she’d had a crush on a Jewish boy, but had been discarded like a bald car tire when his parents learned she wasn’t Jewish. Gabby was thankful she didn’t have to reply. Any comment, especially one made with a mouthful of dental paraphernalia, would either be misheard or misinterpreted.

  At a signal from the hygienist, Joel entered the operatory, his pale blue medical tunic open at the collar. A mask protected his mouth and nose and, before addressing Gabby, he worked a fresh pair of surgical gloves onto his fingers while moving himself into position on a stool. His ebony eyes were enlarged behind the thick glasses that corrected his astigmatism. One temple arm rested crookedly atop his left ear, angling the lens so much that that she wondered what he could actually see through it.

  “You saved my fanny on New Year’s Eve, Rabbi Lewyn,” he said, gazing into a circular mirror to survey her upper teeth. “Your friends at the Coalition were ready to tar and feather me.”

  She had to wait until he’d removed his instruments to reply. “What you did was quite courageous. Clearly, you were the only one there experienced with handguns.”

  “Another day’s work,” he said as he replaced his instruments and continued his examination of her teeth. “I deal with foolish people every day. My patients don’t want to take care of their teeth until something goes wrong and they’re in pain. When it’s too late, they come to me. It’s the same with guns. Most people don’t know what they’re talking about when it comes to firearms. Yet they get bent out of shape the moment a thug or juvenile delinquent misuses one. They expect the government to make the danger go away. I can appreciate a difference of opinion about what should be done. But how valid is an opinion from somebody who doesn’t know a muzzle from a breech? And you know the real villains here? Not the hoodlums or gangsters. Sooner or later society locks them up. It’s the movies and television. Just about everything people know about guns comes from the screen. And that’s like learning to practice medicine from a witch doctor in the jungle. The reporters who covered the story at the Coalition gala bent over backward to condemn the terrible perpetrators. That’s okay. But did you read a single word about how irresponsible Helen Pendergas and Gershom Green were? There wouldn’t have been the slightest danger if those two nitwits hadn’t tried to manipulate the incident. Anybody with more than mashed potatoes for brains would have unloaded those weapons without fanfare and let the party go on. But that wasn’t the script, now was it?”