The Day the Rabbi Resigned

by Harry Kemelman

  The other winked. “We’re not really expected to, you know. None of us have the knowledge of what’s involved. How could we, when we come down for a couple of hours four times a year? Take this Black Studies thing, for instance. We don’t know what’s involved in getting teachers, or students, for that matter. We have no idea of what money is involved and whether we can afford it or not. See, we don’t set policy because we can’t. That’s what Prex is for.”

  “You mean this is all a charade? We don’t make policy? We just come and sit around for a couple of hours, are given lunch, and then go home so we can tell our friends we’re involved in running an educational institution?”

  “Is it any different in a large business corporation? Doesn’t the chairman usually decide what he wants to do, and then doesn’t the board go along with it? We don’t make policy, but we do have a function. We act as a kind of brake.”

  “A brake?”

  “That’s right. If Prex goes off his chump and gets some crazy notion in his head, we’re here to tell him he can’t do it. See, we don’t tell him what to do; we just tell him what he can’t do. Take last year when Prex wanted to change the name. Now that called for a two-thirds majority, so there was no trouble voting it down. Most things call for a plain majority, though, and it’s not so easy vetoing them because this Macomber is a wily bird, and he’s usually pretty sure he’s got a majority before he brings it up for a vote.”

  And now, several years later, the question of changing the name of the school was again on the agenda. And this time it was the first item listed. He wondered if that meant that Macomber thought he had a chance of getting it passed. Or was it his last desperate effort to get the matter settled one way or the other? He decided to see President Macomber.

  The next day he made a point of driving into Boston. After lunch he drove to the college. Instead of waiting in the anteroom as he usually did, he asked the secretary to tell the president that he wanted to see him, and a few minutes later he was ushered into the office.

  “I got the agenda for the Board of Trustees meeting yesterday, and I thought I’d drop by and see if I could be of any help to you on any of the items you’re particularly interested in and want to be sure of passing.”

  “Well, that’s very kind of you, Cyrus. I can’t think of anything at the moment. Over the last few months I’ve heard from various members of the board, and there seems to be pretty general agreement.”

  “I notice the first item, the change of name, that calls for a two-thirds majority. Is there, er—general agreement on that?”

  “Anything that calls for a two-thirds majority is an iffy thing. I put it in because one of the board members suggested we vote on it again.”

  “That was Levine, I suppose, who made the suggestion, I mean.”

  “No … I haven’t spoken to Mark in some time. I think it was Raymond Oliver who suggested it. He came to see me because he was concerned about the course in Medieval History and the man who’s giving it, a George Spenser, friend of his, I think, or a relative. The History Department put up his name for tenure. Know anything about it?”

  “Spenser? No, Professor Sherwood hasn’t given me the names of the History candidates yet. Actually, the names go to the dean and he passes them on to me as soon as he gets them.”

  “How about the other departments?” Macomber said. “How about the English Department?”

  “No, I haven’t heard from Sugrue yet. Is there any urgency?”

  “Not really. I won’t be announcing the appointments until after the board meeting. Because sometimes the board approves an item that involves a sizable increase in our expenditure, and as a result the money involved in the salary increases that go with tenure just aren’t there.”

  As he left the president’s office, Cyrus Merton tried to assess what he had learned, if anything, from the meeting. Macomber had said nothing about the name change, except that the chances were iffy. Did that mean that he thought he had the necessary votes, but wasn’t sure? And then he had shifted the conversation to the matter of tenure. And he had asked specifically about the English Department. Why not the Math or the Physics or the Sociology departments? Was he, perhaps, hinting that if Merton wanted tenure for Victor Joyce, he’d better vote the right way on the change of name?

  He would have liked to consult with other members of the board, but he had never become friendly with any of them. They were polite to him when they met at the quarterly meetings, but that was all. Most were from old New England families, and their money was old money. Their values were different, and so were their interests. And they were all college men, graduates of New England colleges, for the most part.

  Then he thought of Charles Dobson, who was the only other Catholic on the board. Dobson was a large friendly man who had played football for Dartmouth. Occasionally he would make some remark about nuns or the Pope, and then turn to him as another Catholic and wink. He felt he could talk to Dobson, and he remembered that he was another who had voted against the change of name the last time it had come up. He owned a large Cadillac agency in Boston. Well, although his car was barely two years old, there was no harm in checking out the Cadillac line. If Dobson had a really good deal …

  To the salesman who came forward, he said, “I’m just kind of looking around. Er, Mr. Dobson around?”

  The salesman pointed. “He’s in his office there.”

  The door of the office was open and Merton walked in. Instantly, Dobson’s broad face broke into a smile. “Merton, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right, Cyrus Merton.”

  “Sit down, Cy. Trade-in time? The old bus acting up? I got something out in the yard.”

  “Oh, I was just driving by and I remembered that you had this place, so I thought I’d stop and say hello.”

  “Well, that was mighty thoughtful of you, Cy. But now that you’re here—”

  “I’ve just been to see President Macomber,” Merton went on hastily. “See, I got a copy of the agenda yesterday. Did you get one, Mr. Dobson?”

  “Charlie. Call me Charlie. Everybody does. Yeah, I got one. It’s around here someplace. What about it?”

  “Did you notice that the first item was on the proposal to change the name of the college?”

  “So?”

  “So I wondered if he had the votes for the change. It takes a two-thirds majority, you know.”

  “I know. And what did Prex say?”

  “He didn’t say anything. He said it was iffy. Now, you voted against it the last time it came up.”

  “And you wonder if I will again? Probably. But it’s a damn silly business. The school was never Christian and was never endowed by any church of any denomination whatsoever. The net effect of calling it Windermere Christian is to establish it as parochial.”

  “Then why do you vote against changing the name?”

  “Because our fellow trustee, George Farquahr Ridgeway the Third asked me to. And George Farquahr Ridgeway the Third comes all the way down from Augusta, Maine, to trade in his Cadillac every three years no matter how well it’s running. He’s against changing the name because his great-grandfather, or maybe it was his great-great-grandfather, who was a Congregational minister, was on the first board, and that gives him a sense of continuity. And the others, why do they vote against the change? Well, there’s Billy Chamberlain, who is against change in general. He’d be using a horse and buggy if he could get a stable boy to harness it up for him. And Burton Stover who opposes Prex and the majority in everything to show that he’s an independent spirit. The others are in opposition for equally petty or frivolous reasons, although I guess with you, Cy, it’s because you feel you’re defending the faith.”

  “Well, I think it’s important. And I don’t understand why the rest of the board, and President Macomber, are so anxious to change it.”

  “You don’t, huh? Have you ever wondered why they want to serve on the board at all?”

  “I—I suppose they’re—that is, w
e’re all interested in education.”

  “You really think so? And those who are on twenty other boards, ranging from the Seaman’s Retirement Home to the local hospital and the town library, are interested in all those things? No, Cy, it’s because it’s considered a kind of honor. Now if you’re interested in honor, which would you rather be, a trustee of say, Holy Cross, which is unknown outside of New England, or of Harvard, which is known throughout the world? Even if you were a bishop, I’ll bet you’d choose Harvard. Of course, those who come from the wilds of northern Maine and New Hampshire and Vermont might serve because it gives them a chance to visit the big city a few times a year. And some, like my friend Ridgeway, have a family tradition of public service which they want to retain. They’re too delicate to soil their hands by running for public office, so they go in for this kind of thing instead.” His face relaxed in a broad grin.

  “And you think that’s why Macomber is so anxious to change the name, so he won’t be president of a parochial institution?”

  “I’m sure of it.” He studied Merton’s glum face. “Something bothering you?”

  “I’ve been sort of wondering. I went in to see him about the agenda, and he immediately switched the conversation to the subject of tenure. Now, Victor Joyce, who is married to my niece, is up for tenure in the English Department, and I’m wondering if—”

  “If he offered you a quid pro quo? Tenure for your niece’s husband in exchange for your vote on the name change? Oh, very possible. He’s a cunning, artful rascal, our Prex.”

  “He said he wouldn’t announce the list for tenure until after the board meeting,” said Merton gloomily.

  “Then you can be sure that’s it.” He shook his head in admiration of Macomber’s craftiness.

  “So what can I do? I can’t, I just can’t vote against my conscience.”

  “It’s a tough one,” Dobson admitted judiciously. Then his face relaxed in a smile. “Tell you what. When next you see him, don’t get involved in any conversation about the name change. If he should ask you outright how you are going to vote, tell him you haven’t decided yet. Then at the board meeting, when the matter comes up, you ask for a secret ballot. Or if you think that’s obvious, then I will.”

  “You will?” Merton considered, then he, too, smiled. “Yes, that should do it. Thank you.”

  With a deprecatory shrug, Dobson said, “Don’t mention it. But when you get around to trading in your car, give me a crack at it, will you?”

  “Oh, I will, I will.”

  18

  On the one or two nights a week that Alice Saxon and Victor Joyce saw each other, she was careful to shoo him out by nine o’clock. When he protested that he had hoped to stay the night, she said, “Look, use a little common sense. If word got out that we were having an affair, you might just as well forget about tenure.”

  “How would word get out?”

  “In this section of town, I’m surrounded by college students, and faculty, too. There are two students from B.U. living right in this building.”

  “But you say they’re from B.U.”

  “And you’re certain they don’t know or date any students from Windermere? Look, Victor, we’ve got to be circumspect. Where did you park your car?”

  “Around the corner. It was the only place I could find.”

  “Well, you plan on parking it there, or some distance away every time you come. We can’t be too careful.”

  “But when I get tenure?”

  “We’ll still have to be circumspect.”

  “Why, if we both have tenure—”

  “Windermere is a pretty conservative school. The Board of Trustees certainly is, and a good portion of the faculty, too. I’m an associate professor. I’d like a full professorship someday. If there were any question about my lifestyle, it would probably be withheld. When you get tenure, and a Church-approved separation, and a civil divorce, then maybe we can relax a little because it would be considered legitimate courting.”

  “But when we get here around four or five o’clock, and I stay till nine, don’t you think it would occur to anyone who might be interested that part of that time is spent in bed?”

  “Sure, to people whose minds run that way. But we are both legitimate scholars, and most people would assume that we’re working on a paper together, or that you’re editing my manuscript of a book.”

  And to give verisimilitude to the idea, when he was leaving, she would make a point of calling out to him as he started downstairs, “You won’t forget about those notes, will you? And be sure and check that quotation.”

  Occasionally, she did let him stay over on a Friday night. “Because all the kids go away for the weekend, and we don’t have to go in to school the next day, and because every now and then I like to wake up in the morning and feel a man in my bed.”

  She was convincing, and yet there was always in back of his mind a tiny shred of doubt. When she sent him away in what was still the early part of the evening, was it because she was worried about him, or was it possible that she was expecting another visitor? And what of those nights when she refused to see him? He recalled that once or twice when he had arranged to spend the evening with her and she had canceled the appointment, he had seen her earlier lunching with Mordecai Jacobs and seemingly enjoying it.

  The faculty dinner was held at the end of the week of final exams. On Friday, Alice cooked dinner for him and he stayed the night, but the next day she insisted that he leave early, shortly after noon.

  “You’re going to the dinner tonight, aren’t you? Well, you’ll have to change and—”

  “But that won’t take any time at all,” Victor objected.

  “And I’ve got a bunch of blue books to grade so that I can get my marks in.”

  “You’ve got all week for that.”

  “You have because you’ve got only freshmen and sophomores, but I’ve got seniors, and their grades have to be in by Monday.”

  “So you’ve got all day Sunday.”

  “I’ve got other plans for Sunday.”

  He knew better than to ask what they were. She had made it very plain, early on, that their relationship did not give him the right to intrude on her private life. “So how are you getting to the dinner?” he asked.

  “I’ve made arrangements. Arlene Winsor, French Department, is picking me up.”

  He finally left, but he was reluctant to leave the city and go back to Barnard’s Crossing, if only because Margaret did not work Saturdays and might be around the house all afternoon. It was a warm, sunny day and he found it pleasant to just stroll along the streets. When he got hungry, he stopped in at a fast-food restaurant and had a hamburger and coffee while he stared out of the window at people passing by. It was only when he thought of going back to the counter for dessert and another cup of coffee that it occurred to him that he did not have enough money to pay for them. He had planned to cash a check and forgotten. And now the banks were closed.

  He was not too concerned, however. He had no plans for the evening except to go to the faculty dinner, and he had a ticket for that, and he thought there was some money in the top drawer of his bureau. He stayed in the city until late in the afternoon, reluctant to go home before he actually had to.

  It was also late in the afternoon when Professor Mordecai Jacobs called Alice Saxon. “Hey Alice, my girl just called. She’s really insistent about my coming to her kid brother’s Bar Mitzvah party tonight. Do you really think I have to go to the faculty dinner?”

  “Your department head is on the committee.”

  “But I bought a ticket.”

  “Not good enough, Mord. You want him to see you. And Victor Joyce is going to be there. Keep that in mind. I don’t know how things work in the English Department on the business of tenure, but I’m sure that Professor Sugrue has a lot to say about it. All right, you and Joyce are competing for the one tenured position. Suppose that in Sugrue’s view of things you’re all even, you and Joyce. But Joyce sho
ws the old team spirit, whereas Jacobs doesn’t appear to give a damn. Get it?”

  “All right, all right, I’ll go. Clara said Breverton was not far from Barnard’s Crossing. I suppose I could go to the Bar Mitzvah party after I get out of the dinner.”

  “That’s the spirit, Mord. If I get there before you, I’ll save a seat for you, and you do the same for me if you get there first. Otherwise I’ll have to sit with Arlene Winsor, and she’ll be with members of her department and they’ll talk French all evening.”

  “Okay. See you.”

  19

  Except for Sundays, when they went to church together and to the Mertons for dinner, Victor and Margaret tended to avoid each other. They were indeed like a couple of strangers living in the same rooming house. They were polite to each other when they happened to meet, but nothing more. He ate all his meals out, and when he was home for an evening, he stayed either in his study or in his bedroom. She usually sat in the living room and read or watched TV, or went up to her bedroom, in which case she always locked the door with the bolt lest he misinterpret her retirement and try to follow. On the rare occasions when he, too, wanted to watch the TV program that she was watching, he came into the living room and took a seat at the back of the room, at some distance from her. Because he still felt guilty, he was never comfortable in her presence.

  On the evening of the faculty dinner, Victor dawdled in the city and contrived to get home shortly after six o’clock, which gave him just enough time to shave, shower, and change. He transferred the contents of the pockets of his slacks, including his wallet, to the trousers of his dark gray suit. His wallet was empty of money and he’d found none in the bureau, but it held his driver’s license and his ticket to the dinner. For a moment, it occurred to him that he might ask Margaret to lend him some money, but he immediately dismissed the idea; he did not expect to need money for the evening, and he disliked the idea of asking her.