by Roger Herst
Jonathan Zentner approached with a question for the rabbis. He knew he had a specific function in the ceremony, but was confused as to exactly what it was. Dov was quick to repeat what he had already explained. Gabby nervously glanced at her watch; she was concerned that Pinkus Reiner might be lost somewhere on the streets, unable to violate the sanctity of the Sabbath and telephone for directions. However, his surgical instruments lay on the dining room table. He must, having delivered them, surely know the way.
Most guests failed to notice the delay. Morgan was the first to become edgy. Concerned the baby would soon grow fussy, she asked Dov if he knew where Mr. Reiner was.
Dov, who was particularly fastidious about time, shrugged his shoulders. His curled lips expressed his condemnation of unprofessional tardiness.
“Do you know the mohel?” Gabby asked, addressing Morgan directly for the first time.
“No. He was recommended to us. He came from Baltimore yesterday. I agreed, of course, that we would cover his travel and lodging expenses. Why don’t we give him another ten minutes, then phone the Sheraton?”
“If he’s elderly, he might be lost. We can send scouts into the neighborhood,” Dov offered. “Since he left his instruments here yesterday, he’s probably nearby.”
Noah continued to chat amiably with those around him, paying little attention to the mohel’s absence. Eventually, he glanced at his watch and took note of the delay. It was clearly time for a fallback plan. “Can we postpone?” he asked Gabby. She noticed he had turned so that his shoulders blocked Dov.
“Yes and no. Yes, any ceremony can be postponed for a good reason, but no, it should take place on the eighth day. I doubt seriously that we can get a qualified mohel at this late hour, especially on Shabbat.”
“How about a surgeon? Maybe Malcolm Kullkick would do it,” Noah suggested.
“Get real, Noah,” Morgan objected. “Malcolm is a pulmonary surgeon. He probably hasn’t performed a circumcision since medical school—back when they were using leaches for phlebotomies. Besides, I’m not going to let an amateur lop off a piece of Alan’s penis. It could damage him for life. I’d rather forgo a brit altogether.”
“Got any ideas?” Jonathan Zentner, looking old and tired, addressed Dov.
“Not at this late hour,” Dov replied. “The eighth day is the proper time, but if it has to slip over until tomorrow, then that’s the way it must be. No kid goes around with a Post-it note on his Levis that says This Happened a Day Late!”
Morgan passed her son to Noah, who gazed lovingly at him, rocking from foot to foot. Gabby moved alongside him and tilted her head to regard the baby. With her index finger, she reached forward and traced a star on his forehead, a custom she had practiced with infants for as long as she could remember. “Got an idea,” she half-whispered to Noah. “When a grown male who isn’t circumcised converts to Judaism, the custom is to draw a small drop of blood from his penis to symbolize the full circumcision. It’s called a tipat-dam. The mohel left his medical instruments here. I could do the same for Alan. Then Dov and I will recite the brit milah ceremony and it will be kosher. You can take Alan to Georgetown University Hospital tomorrow. Any obstetrician can complete the full operation in a few minutes. Alan will then be circumcised on the eighth day.”
Noah pondered the idea for a few moments, and then shared it with Morgan. While she was thinking, he looked to Alan as if soliciting his opinion. He finally said, “Let’s search the streets first, then come back here in fifteen minutes. If we don’t find Mr. Reiner, then our rabbi will become the stand-in mohel.”
A surge of apprehension rippled through Gabby. What she had proposed shouldn’t be complicated, but she had never produced a tipat-dam before. Now that she had committed herself, the notion of jamming a needle into Alan’s foreskin struck her as bizarre. “I guess I should search through Mr. Reiner’s medical satchel for an instrument,” she said. “If I can’t find something appropriate, I can use a sewing needle sterilized over a flame. I’d better wash my hands with some strong soap.”
Noah and several associates agreed to search by car for the elderly man they had never met. How hard, they agreed, could it be to find someone in a dark suit, with either a skullcap or other hat, who was probably bearded and hunched over?
“I’d like you to handle the recitation of the Psalms,” Gabby told Dov, as soon as the scouts had left. “Mr. Zentner will be Sandek and I’ll draw Alan’s blood on his lap. Since I’m the stand-in mohel, let me say the mohel’s barucha and we’ll ask Noah and Morgan to recite the barucha of the parents. Why don’t you read the Kiddush? Then, if I don’t cause a major hemorrhage, I’ll say Torah, Chupah, and Ma’asim Tovim. And you conclude with the Priestly Blessing.”
“You really want to try this?” Dov asked. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and a disapproving squint narrowed his eyes in an expression she’d become familiar with. His back stiffened as he declared, “You know you’re skating on thin ice from a hallachic point of view.”
“Sure, but you’ve got to improvise once in awhile. Otherwise, you become a dinosaur.”
“Since we’re going to violate tradition, we might as well wait until tomorrow and violate it fair and square.”
“And disappoint all these guests? They probably won’t even know the difference.”
In the dining room, Gabby searched for a proper instrument and selected a stainless steel dowel that looked sharp enough to puncture easily. She sterilized it using the gas flame from the kitchen range.
One by one, the men sent out to the streets returned without Pinkus Reiner. Dov and Gabby gathered the family in the dining room and seated Jonathan Zentner beside the mahogany banquet table. The guests pressed around them. Morgan removed Alan’s swaddling and carefully laid him in her father-in-law’s lap, then stepped back to join Noah. Gabby dropped to her knees, directly in front of the infant. Just behind her, Dov Shellenberg began reciting Psalms 8 and 128 in Hebrew.
She rubbed alcohol over the tiny shank of Alan’s member and, with her thumb and forefinger, elongated the spongy flesh of the prepuce as she had watched many mohels do. But instead of following their procedure and administering a circumcision clamp, she pulled out the foreskin as far as it would go and, with her right hand, plunged the pointed dowel through the flesh, careful to stay behind the urethral opening at the tip. Alan began to wail immediately and kicked his tiny, frog-like legs, but to Gabby’s alarm the wound did not bleed. Morgan comforted her son as Gabby, fearful that she had failed to penetrate the flesh, prepared to make a second attempt. She massaged the flesh behind the initial incision hoping to force blood through it, but none emerged. With a glance, she sought Noah’s permission to make a second incision. The perspiration that had accumulated in the palm of her hand forced her to look for a clean cloth. The sheet on Jonathan’s lap was the only towel available. During that brief moment of inattention, the existing penetration released a tiny red spot, barely more than a drop, but enough to fulfill the symbolic ritual. “There it is,” she exclaimed. “Dam, blood! That’s all that’s necessary for now.”
Her left shoulder suddenly felt heavy. As she turned to see what had happened, Dov’s knee jabbed into her back and his Rabbi’s Manual brushed her head, smacking her neck. In the instant it took to secure her balance, she saw that that his face had blanched and his eyes had rolled backward. He was not pitching forward but wilting from his center of gravity, collapsing almost straight down. Damn, she scolded herself, why hadn’t she remembered her advice and sent him into another room? Her immediate impulse was to protect Alan from Dov’s body. She arched her torso above the baby, her arms draping Jonathan Zentner’s knees. Simultaneously, Noah snatched Dov’s arm and hauled upward, providing him with a moment to catch the back of Jonathan’s chair and arrest his fall. When Gabby ventured a look behind her, she found Dov fully restored to his feet, though his head still slumped forward. Color had already begun to replace the ghostly pallor of his face. There was moisture on her neck
from the contents of the Kiddush cup in his hand. Along with the white towel draped over Jonathan Zentner’s thighs, her shoulder and lapel were spotted with wine. Somehow, Dov had managed to control the cup before its entire contents were lost.
As if nothing untoward had occurred, Gabby reached back into the Kiddush cup, painting her finger with wine to smear as an antiseptic over the puncture she had just made. Wine she knew to be a magic potion at circumcisions. As soon as she placed a few additional drops onto Alan’s lips, his crying ceased.
A chorus of good wishes resounded from those nearby.
After Dov recited the Priestly Blessing, waiters passed around flutes of champagne. Guests raised their glasses in tribute to the newest Zentner. Pastries arrived on silver platters, with the promise of more food and drink to follow. Within a few minutes, the celebrants seemed to have forgotten about the delay. No one felt cheated by Pinkus Reiner’s absence.
“It’s nothing that my cleaners can’t remove,” Gabby said later, responding to Dov’s apology. They had gone into the kitchen and she was diluting the wine spots with tap water. “Please, don’t give it another thought. Anybody can faint. I’m just glad you woke up before you fell on Alan. We both did a great job improvising.”
When he cornered Gabby during the reception, Harvey Skulkin was philosophic. “One life is smothered out and another one replaces it. Nature is bountiful in some respects and cruel in others.”
She said, “I know how you and Florence suffer. Closure is impossible until Bart’s killer is caught.”
“I’m convinced it’s not going to happen,” Harvey said.
Gabby exhaled her frustration and pressed his hand in sympathy.
When the reception ended, he sought her again, out on the street, and threaded an arm through hers. “Anacostia is a dangerous place,” he said in a low voice so as not to be overheard. “Flor and I wouldn’t want you to get hurt, Rabbi. Whoever murdered my boy has no aversion to killing. He could strike again.”
“Thanks, Harvey. Don’t worry about me. Rabbis have special prerogatives, you know. And isn’t it written somewhere that the Good Lord looks over them?”
“That’s your jurisdiction, not mine. I pray you’re right.”
***
Gabby's answering machine was blinking with messages when she returned to her condo. One was from Morgan and Noah, thanking her. They included the news that, shortly after the guests departed and they were settling down, who should turn up at the door but an embarrassed Pinkus Reiner. It seemed that his internal compass had gotten scrambled. When he left his hotel, he walked a mile in the wrong direction. Each residential street grew more confusing than the last and he found himself in Rock Creek Park. Students from American University eventually sent him in the right direction. If ever he needed a taxi, it was then, but, of course, that was forbidden.
Noah further reported that Reiner had done some quick calculations and informed them there was still sufficient time for a brit before sundown. Grandfather Zentner had not left and was restored to the sandek’s seat. The circumcision went without a hitch.
A second message was equally encouraging. It came from Marcel Clipper and provided a day and time when he would be staying with his aunt. He wanted to talk about the tennis program at Anacostia High.
“At least some things work out well,” she told herself that night, as she lay awake in bed. She silently recited her personal evening prayers, then rolled to her side and squeezed a pillow to her chest.
CHAPTER SIX
MARCEL CLIPPER
Late March
A month later, Gabby had not lost her interest in the Anacostia tennis program. She called Marcel Clipper to check on the team’s progress.
“I’m still interested in playing tennis with you,” she said. “Do you remember our bet? If you win, the entire team goes to dinner, my treat. But don’t get cocky. I’ve been practicing to beat you, Marcel. How’s the team doing?”
“Just getting started for the season. Been too wet to play much outdoors. In winter, Mr. Skulkin used to find spot time for us in the bubble at Potomac Park. I don’t know how to do that. A few of the guys dropped out. I only got seven left.”
“Has Dr. Shaboya identified a substitute for Mr. Skulkin?”
“He promised he’s gonna get another gym teacher, but nothing’s happened. When I ask, he says he can’t put a teacher on when there’s so few players—not enough to play against other schools.”
“How will you guys be able to compete?”
“Don’t know. They made me captain. I’m gonna go to the other schools and talk with the coaches. Maybe they’ll let us fill in. Or just play practice matches. Don’t know yet.”
“Are you guys drilling?”
“When the courts are dry. But we’ve had a lot of bad weather”
The seven remaining stalwarts reminded Gabby of Isaiah’s Sherit ha-Pletah, the tiny group of loyal believers who kept the Hebrew faith after the Babylonians sacked ancient Jerusalem in 586 BC. Marcel’s players could barely keep the program going, let alone lay the groundwork for a future team at Anacostia. “Can I come meet the fellows and let you have a stab at beating me on Tuesday?” she asked. “That’s normally a light day where I work and I can get my associate to cover for me.”
“That’s okay if the courts are dry. We begin at 3:30. First, I run the guys through exercises, then ground strokes. We break up for practice games after that. You know the courts in the park near the school?”
“No, but if I can find the school, I can find the park. The courts shouldn’t be hard to spot. I’ll try to make it as close to 3:30 as possible.”
Since Alan Zentner’s brit, Gabby and Dov Shellenberg had only spoken on congregational business. They no longer shared working lunches. It saddened Gabby to remember her associate relationship with Seth Greer; they would call each other seven or eight times a day, on the inter-office phone, or just pop in to each other’s offices for a chat. That was the relationship she still wanted with Dov, but he had shut down verbal communication and confined himself to strictly professional interactions. Whenever possible, exchange of essential information occurred by e-mail. It was brief and impersonal, and there was an electronic record of everything said. She’d made gentle overtures and left openings for him to soften his position, but he remained obdurate. And isolated, she thought, in a way he doesn’t yet fully understand. Still, she’d committed herself to a course of patience, so she emailed him a request to cover for her on Tuesday afternoon.
His reply was immediate: “Sorry, Tuesday afternoon I have commitments.”
She knew he resented covering for her while she played tennis. To Dov, a tennis-playing rabbi simply encouraged synagogue youngsters to abandon Hebrew and Bible classes for after school sports. That wealthy Jews were becoming owners of multimillion-dollar athletic franchises was a bad omen for Jewish life. He considered the popular adoration of professional sports personalities just short of idolatry and liked to point out that, while the ancient Greeks had deified their athletes and warriors, Hebrews had emphasized religious devotion and scholarship. No wonder that the ancient Greeks had disappeared from the earth, while Jews survived for an additional two thousand years.
Dov’s passion was national politics. He had leveraged a volunteer position in the Democratic Party into an endless series of receptions and briefings, each providing the opportunity to mix with representatives, senators, and their staffs. His adoration of political office holders spoke of a personal ambition for a political career—something much higher than a seat on the neighborhood school board or the city council. Such ambitions would eventually bring him into conflict with his rabbinical profession, but that, Gabby reminded herself, was something he had to learn for himself.
She decided not to make an issue over coverage for Tuesday and to keep in touch with her office by cell phone.
Not surprisingly, Chuck was unhappy with her plans. “I don’t like you going to the other side of the tracks on your own,�
�� he said, standing in the doorway between their offices. “I’ll ride shotgun for you. Nobody in that part of town is going to mess with a gay sonavabitch like me.”
“You concern is appreciated, Chuck, but I don’t need a chaperone. Remember, I’m going to be with seven jocks who live in the neighborhood.”
“I still don’t want you there after sundown. Need I remind you that Anacostia Park is only a stone’s throw from where Bart was murdered?”
“Now how would you know that, Sherlock?”
“I’ve been adding to the file you asked me to make after Bart’s death. I’ve clipped just about everything that’s appeared in The Post and Times. Even got what the kids at Anacostia wrote in their school paper, which, I might add, could stand some help in the spelling department. While Thomas sleeps, I study the file. I’ve made diagrams from National Park Service maps.”
“And do you have any ideas about the killer?” Gabby asked, her interest rekindled.
“No. But I now understand the murder scene. I’m planning to be at the hospital Tuesday afternoon. If you’re driving to Anacostia, stop by and see Thomas. I keep the file there. I’ll show you what I have.”
“That’s a tough invitation to pass up. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Thomas. How is he?”
“Terrible.”
“And you?”
“My hands are still on the plow and holding on. Barely, but still holding on.”
***
Tennis practice in Anacostia prevented Gabby from accepting Joel’s invitation for dinner that night. The rest of the week was already filled with synagogue meetings. Since he planned to be in Southern California, visiting his kids, during the following week, they agreed to meet during the only time mutually available—Friday evening after services.
“You must be excited about seeing your boys,” Gabby said. It struck her again, as it did every time they spoke, how easy conversation with Joel was.
“Yes and no,” he replied. “Yes, I love to be with them, but no, Southern California culture sickens me. It’s as unreal as a mirage in the desert. The Founding Fathers were prescient when they guaranteed California kids life, liberty, and the pursuit of materialism. I fear that the only reality benchmark my boys will have in the Golden State is what they see on screen. I always return home feeling sick.”
