“Well, fire is fire, and a little one is just as much fire as a big one.” His shoulders went up in a resigned shrug. “But with the advent of electricity, the bureaucracy decided that an electric spark was also fire, and what’s more, that every time you turn on an electric appliance of any kind, you create a spark. So the poor devil who walks up ten flights of stairs to reach his apartment is not doing any work, but his nonobservant neighbor who uses the elevator is, because he had to push a button and thereby made an electric contact. And that first one sits in the darkness rather than push a button that will turn on the electric light. If his daughter, say, is in the hospital, he can’t call her on the phone to ask how she is because it is electrical and presumably makes a spark. And of course he can’t go to see her unless the hospital is within walking distance.” He shook his head in annoyance.
They arrived at the temple and stopped momentarily so that Simcha could look around at the fine lawn surrounded by hedge and shrubbery and divided by the broad walk that led to the large, ornate doors of the sanctuary. There was a narrower walk that led to the short flight of stairs beyond, which was the vestry at the end of a long corridor.
“This is where the minyan holds its services weekdays and Sundays,” said Bergson. “On the Sabbath we use the sanctuary, of course.”
“I’d like to see it,” said Simcha, “but I suppose it’s closed now.”
“It’s closed from the outside, but you can go up those stairs.”
As Simcha started for the stairs, the rabbi called after him, “We’ll be starting in a few minutes.”
“Oh, I’ll be right down,” said Simcha.
The rabbi pointed. “It’s the last door on the right.”
When he left them, Bergson said, “He’s a very interesting man. Is he staying with you for a while?”
“I’m putting him on the train for Boston right after lunch. He has a conference he has to attend for a couple of days. Then perhaps he’ll come back and spend the rest of the week with us.”
“Then I don’t suppose you’ll be coming to the board meeting today. There’s nothing important on the agenda today anyway. When he comes back from Boston, I’d like to meet him again.” He hesitated. “You know, David, I’m observant because it’s the way I’ve been brought up, but I’m not very knowledgeable. Do you think—is it proper for an atheist to join the minyan in prayer?”
The rabbi chuckled. “We are not concerned with a man’s thoughts; only with his actions. The mind has a will of its own. Even controlling it for five or ten minutes is not easy. It tends to wander—to something you see out of the corner of your eye, or to a sound you hear, or something you smell, or accidentally touch. We are governed by the Commandments. And what is a commandment? It is something imposed by a superior—in this case, God—to an inferior, Man. And it is usually an order to do something we would normally not do, or would rather not do. But it is always well within our capacity. We are not asked to pluck out our eye if it offends us, or to cut off our right hand if it has caused us to sin.”
“Yes, but—”
“Even the most devout of us have doubts. My cousin merely expresses them. I’m sure he has doubts about his atheism. He said that sometimes he was an agnostic rather than an atheist. And what is an agnostic? It is someone who is not certain; who thinks sometimes that there is a God, and at other times that there isn’t.”
As Simcha and the rabbi strolled home from the minyan, several people whom they passed said hello or good morning or waved a greeting.
“You seem pretty popular,” Simcha remarked.
“I don’t know how popular I am,” said the rabbi, “but I’ve been here for twenty-five years, so a lot of people know me. And in a small town like Barnard’s Crossing, even people who don’t know you are apt to say hello when you’re strolling along like this.”
On reaching the local drugstore, they were hailed by Herb Rosen, the Sunday newspaper under his arm. “Oh, Rabbi, I received a card from the temple saying I had Yahrzeit for my father Monday. But they got the date wrong; he passed away in the middle of May.”
“No, I’m sure the date is right,” said the rabbi. “We record the date by the Hebrew calendar, and that differs from the regular calendar by a few days each year.”
“Oh, is that it? Well, I’ll be there. Let’s see, I go to the evening service and then to the morning service the following day. Right?”
“That’s right.”
“And the evening service is what time? I noted the day on my calendar, but I didn’t put down the time, and I must have mislaid the card.”
“The evening service starts at half past six, and we try to start promptly. So I’ll see you tomorrow evening—”
“Oh, it’s not for tomorrow; it’s for next Monday, that is, a week from tomorrow.”
“Ah, then in that case, it will be at seven. We hold the evening service a little later starting in June.”
“Okay, I’ll be there.”
Simcha had been staring at Rosen as he talked with the rabbi. Now, he said, “Don’t I know you? Did you ever take a course with me?”
“I don’t think so,” said Rosen uncertainly.
“But you did sit in on one of my courses,” Simcha insisted.
“Not that I know of.”
“But you did go to the University of Chicago.”
“No, I went to Juilliard.”
As they walked on, Simcha said, “I’m sure I know that young man, unless he has a double living in Chicago. I should have asked him if he has a brother.” He shook his head in bafflement. “I’ve always prided myself on my being able to remember faces, even if I can’t always associate names to go with them. Students come to see me, some who studied with me twenty years ago, and I remember them instantly. Sometimes I can even remember where they sat in my class.”
“He probably looks like someone you once knew. Sometimes if you think of something else, it will come to you. It’s not particularly important, is it?”
Simcha halted in his stride. “When you get to be my age, David, this kind of thing becomes very important. I suffer from SCS—”
“SCS?”
“That’s right, Senior Citizen Syndrome. You wake up in the morning and you find that you have an arthritic pain in an arm or a leg. Or you turn suddenly and you get a stitch in your side. Or it might be a touch of vertigo when you look up suddenly from a book you’re reading. Or a cramp in the belly right after eating. It doesn’t last long, maybe a few minutes, or at most a couple of days, but it’s annoying. And mentally you find yourself forgetting things, mislaying your keys or your wallet, or unable to remember something you’re supposed to do, or unable to follow the train of thought in something you’re reading. I suppose it’s an augury of the ultimate dissolution,” he said gloomily.
“You’re a long way from that, Simcha. And remembering whom Herb Rosen reminds you of is certainly not very important. I’m sure it will come to you, probably quite suddenly when you’re thinking of something entirely different.”
“I suppose,” the other admitted, “but it’s annoying just the same. The other day during a lecture I referred to The Golden Bough and I couldn’t remember the name of the author.”
“Frazer?”
“Of course, but I just couldn’t think of it. For me that’s like not being able to remember the name of Isaiah the prophet would be for you.”
They spent the rest of the morning talking about the rabbi’s plans for the future and his chances of getting a teaching job, while Miriam busied herself preparing lunch.
“It’s not going to be easy, David,” said Simcha. “I made some inquiries, general inquiries, to get the feel of the problem. For one thing, your age is against you.”
“I realize that.”
“For another, there is the matter of publication. Getting papers published is all-important.”
“Well, I have published.”
Simcha shook his head. “I’ve read all your papers, at least all you’v
e sent me.”
“I sent you every one.”
“And very good papers they were, very thoughtful and very well-written. But they’re not the kind that a modern Semitics or Judaic department would be interested in; what they want now is something like an analysis by computer of the J and E elements, something dull and scientific. But don’t worry, I’ll be meeting with people from all over the country in the next week or ten days and I should be able to get some leads.”
After lunch the rabbi took Simcha to the train. “When will you be coming back, Simcha?”
“I’ve got appointments all this week. Then Monday of next week, the Anthropological Society meets, and I’ll have to be there. And the next day, I am to read a paper, and oh yes, I am to be given an honor, so I suppose I have to be there. Let’s say Wednesday, unless something comes up.”
“Well, you call us and tell us when you can come out, and I’ll meet your train.”
“Fine.” The train came down the track and a moment later stopped. As Simcha grasped the handrail to board, he stopped and said, “Oh David, if you should happen to run into that fellow, would you ask him if he has a brother living in Chicago?”
“Sure, Simcha.”
25
When he came in Monday morning, Lanigan gave his usual cursory inspection to the events listed on the blotter Saturday night and Sunday when he had been off duty. There were the usual list of drunk and disorderlies to be expected on a Saturday night, as well as the usual petty thefts of hubcaps, minor vandalism, reports on noisy parties continued late into the night, at least beyond the bedtimes of the complaining neighbors. And there was the story of the accident on Pine Grove Road. From his point of view, none of it was unusual. He did not expect to see anything unusual reported, if only because he knew that if anything of importance had happened, he would have been called. There was also the report of the theft of Merton’s car. This was not in itself unusual, although he sensed that because it was Merton who was involved, it might be troublesome. Merton would expect immediate results. Then he got a cup of coffee from the urn in the wardroom and sat back to read the Barnard’s Crossing Reporter.
The report of the accident appeared on page four. There was a picture of the car taken just before the tow truck had hauled it away, showing the front end against the trunk of a tree. Although the picture was two columns wide, the story was covered in a couple of short paragraphs which told little more than that the victim was a Victor Jones who was a teacher in a Boston school, and that he had been taken to the Salem Hospital, where he had been pronounced dead on arrival. Lanigan sipped at his coffee and made the mental note that the car must have been going at least sixty miles an hour to have got wrapped around the tree as shown, and that he must have been drunk to have driven that fast on Pine Grove Road at night. The name of the victim meant nothing to him. Then he turned to the sports section which devoted a full page with several action photos to the basketball game between Barnard’s Crossing High School and their archrivals, Swampscott High.
When he got home that evening, his wife, Amy, thrust the newspaper at him. It was open at page four and folded over in such a way that little except the story of the accident was showing. “Did you see this?” she asked in a tragic voice.
“The auto accident? Yeah.”
“It was Victor Joyce who was killed. They got the name wrong.”
“So? Who’s Victor Joyce?”
“Don’t you remember? He’s that handsome young man who married Margaret Merton, Cyrus Merton’s niece.”
“Oh yeah. Let’s see, they took a house in Shurtcliffe Circle, next door to the Rosens, a couple of months ago.”
“And she’s such a lovely girl. Not pretty, to be sure, but awfully kind and sincere. That auction I ran for the scholarship fund of St. Joseph’s, she offered to help and, well, she was there every minute that I needed her. I don’t know what I would have done without her.”
“Yeah, I remember her. Sad eyes and prominent teeth—”
“But awfully good-hearted, Hugh.”
“I guess she’d have to be, wouldn’t she. Cyrus Merton—there was something on him on the blotter. He had his car stolen. That same night, come to think of it.”
“Well, wouldn’t you know it. Troubles—they never come singly. Hugh, we’ve got to go over there tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Where?”
“We’ve got to go see Margaret Joyce and offer our condolences.”
“But gosh, tomorrow I’ve got a thousand things lined up.”
“It’s only for a half hour or so. Just to show that we care.”
“Well, all right, but I won’t have time to change. I’ll just call you and then run home and pick you up and go over there.”
“Well, you could at least wear the uniform that just came back from the cleaners.”
“All right. I’ll wear the uniform that just came back from the cleaners.”
As the Lanigans drew up in front of the Joyce house shortly before noon, a group of half a dozen women all dressed like Amy, in appropriately dark, sober suits, emerged. Amy knew all of them, and they stopped to talk with her before making for their cars. Lanigan, self-conscious in his uniform, stood a little apart, his uniform cap in hand, and waited. He caught snatches of conversation:
“Isn’t it terrible? And she’s so brave …”
“Bearing up wonderfully …”
“Such a fine couple and …”
“You know, Amy, I think perhaps she’d like to be alone.”
“Oh, we don’t plan to stay long.” This last from Amy, much to her husband’s satisfaction.
Finally, the women went off to their cars, and the Lanigans mounted the steps to the front door, which had been left ajar so that they did not have to ring. They pushed it open and entered. Margaret Merton, wearing a black skirt and jacket and a white blouse with a black ribbon at the throat, came forward to greet them. Amy embraced and kissed her, and then her husband came over and said, “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Joyce.”
She nodded and said, “Would you like some tea? Or perhaps a glass of sherry, or—”
“Tea will be fine. Please don’t bother to get up. I’ll pour it myself.”
“And you, Mrs. Lanigan?”
“Amy.”
Margaret Merton smiled faintly. “All right, Amy. Will you have something?”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Peg. Actually, right now I’d like to freshen up.”
“It’s upstairs. Down the hall.”
“I’ll find it.”
As Amy Lanigan mounted the stairs, the widow said, “I’d like to consult with you, Chief Lanigan. I was planning to call you, or come down to the police station, but—”
“How about right now?”
“All right.” She rose and went to a door at the side and motioned him to follow her. It was a small back parlor which had been converted to a study. There was a bookcase and a desk, and against the wall, a couch. From the top drawer of the desk she drew a large manila envelope, which she opened, dumping the contents on the desk.
“This is what your police brought me,” she said.
There was a wallet and a handkerchief, some loose change, a key case, a ballpoint pen, a comb, a small notebook, and a wedding ring.
Lanigan nodded and looked at her questioningly.
“His watch is not here. My husband’s wristwatch is missing. I think it’s terrible to take someone’s watch when they’re—when they’re dead.”
“You think one of my men took it?” He shook his head, “Very unlikely, ma’am, very unlikely. Was it an expensive watch?”
“Not very. It was gold-filled, not solid gold. It was my father’s watch, and I gave it to Victor when we got engaged. My mother bought it for my father when they went to Rome for their tenth anniversary. And she had a relic mounted on the dial, a relic of Saint Ulric.”
“What kind of relic? I mean, what did it look like?”
“Oh, I was told it was a little bone chip, but it was
enclosed in a tiny silver tube. It was the tube that was mounted on the watch dial just above the twelve, where it wouldn’t interfere with the minute hand. I think they had a watchmaker shorten the hand a little because it was a large watch and the hand seemed sort of small. My father used to wear it inside his wrist because that way it was closer to his heart, to the blood vessels in the wrist, you know. And there was also a Sacred Heart painted on the dial. When I told Victor how Dad wore it, he said he’d wear it that same way, too. Dad was not wearing it when he, you know, died. He’d gone in swimming and—”
Lanigan nodded. “I understand. Tell me, what kind of strap did it have?”
“It was metal. Gold-colored. There was a kind of curved bar that folded over and snapped.”
“Ah, well, that might explain it,” he said. “Your husband must have been driving very fast when he hit.”
She nodded.
“So the strap could have opened and been flung off his wrist. I’ll make inquiries, and I’ll send someone up to the scene of the accident and have them rake over the area.” Then he added, “Are you sure he was wearing it that night?”
He could tell by her reaction that she had not considered the possibility, but was somehow pleased by his suggestion, for she smiled. But then she said, “Yes, I’m quite sure. Otherwise it would be in his dresser drawer, and it isn’t.”
“All right. We’ll look for it. Oh, and it would be a good idea not to mention it, not to anyone, because they might mention it to someone.”
“I understand.”
He hesitated, reluctant to obtrude on her grief with questions, but then he essayed, “Had he gone any place special that evening, or—”
“Oh, he’d gone to the Windermere faculty dinner at the Breverton Country Club,” she answered, seemingly surprised that he did not know.
“And he went alone?”
“Well, Uncle Cyrus was planning to go up with him, but Victor had already left by the time Uncle Cyrus called. If he had waited a few minutes, they would have gone up together. And, of course, they would have driven home together, and this—this wouldn’t have happened.”
The Day the Rabbi Resigned Page 13
