Hattie Mae went on, her voice just slightly less belligerent. “They went along with it, o’ course. Kids are smart, an’ they know which side their bread is buttered on. They’d go to ’im with hard-luck stories, and he’d fall for it every time, raising money for this and that when the kids were just takin’ it to buy drugs. He was too simple to know!”
The silence reverberated.
Grace responded, finally, in her cool, distant way. “Oh, it’s true enough that he was a young twerp. Anyone who knew him knew that. But he did do a great deal of work, even if his personality was not—charismatic.”
“But what about this award?” I ventured. “Surely the Religious Assembly—I mean, they must have researched . . .”
Six pairs of eyes looked at me pityingly, including Jake’s.
“If,” said Chris precisely, speaking for the first time, “the Chicago Religious Assembly were told that Jesus Christ had appeared in person on Michigan Avenue, announcing his candidacy for mayor against Richard Daley, the assembly would take out a full-page ad in the Tribune urging everyone to vote for Him. Without making a single phone call.”
“I see.”
The wind howled, the trees groaned, unknown things out there in the dark crashed and banged, and we sat in depressed silence.
6
ONE BY ONE we found excuses to go up to bed, but not, at least in my case, to sleep. Oh, I intended to. Feeling that it was a silly thing to do, I nevertheless jammed the back of my chair against the door. With the lever-style handle prevalent in Britain, it was actually a fairly effective deterrent against illicit entry.
So I had taken care of that, and that was absolutely as far as I intended to go in dealing with the absurd idea that I might be housed in the same building as a particularly clever murderer. The evening’s conversation hadn’t produced anything very productive, and I refused to analyze it further tonight. I was extremely tired, and when I get tired I get cross, and I do not think clearly in that condition. Tomorrow was time enough for pondering. Tonight was for sleep.
It’s just possible that I might have managed it, if it hadn’t been for the wind. Wind has always frightened me, far more than thunderstorms or blizzards or any of the other weather phenomena I grew up with. I understand it has the same effect on many people. In the parts of the world where a hard wind will sometimes blow for days or weeks, the chinooks in the American West, or the mistrals in France, people go crazy, suicides and murders multiply. Police departments dread the winds.
In my room upstairs, close to the roof of the old house, the wind seemed louder and more threatening than ever. It made me just that much more restless and nervous than I already was, and totally unable to settle myself for sleep. I thought of a hot bath but wasn’t sure I wanted to be immersed in water if thunder and lightning should come along to join the party. I said my prayers and recited the twenty-third psalm. I counted to a thousand twice, the second time backwards, and tried to work complicated multiplication problems in my head. None of the rituals worked.
What I wanted was someone to talk to, someone who would understand, a friend.
My best friend, my husband, was beyond human conversation. That thought didn’t bring tears tonight; perhaps part of me had healed at last, or perhaps—well, to be honest, the idea of Alan, alive and sensible and within reach of a telephone, was definitely cheering. I could call him.
I wouldn’t, of course. For one thing, much as I wanted to hear his soothing voice, he’d figure out immediately that something was wrong, and it wasn’t such a good idea to discuss unfounded suspicions over several hundred miles of international telephone wire. Besides, I wasn’t about to call some hotel in Brussels, where it was some unknown hour of the night—probably even later than here—and deal with an operator whose command of English might not be able to cope with an American accent. No, I wouldn’t call Alan until tomorrow, but the thought that I could if I wanted to made me feel better.
It didn’t allow me to sleep, however. At last I sat up in my rumpled bed and turned on the light. I’ve never been a smoker, and with the lung cancer statistics what they are, I’ve always been grateful, but right then I knew what it must feel like to long for a cigarette.
I knew what was wrong, of course. It wasn’t really the wind, nor even some stupid fear of a murderer slinking around the hotel. It was my own ambivalence. The sorry fact was that, no matter what might have happened, I didn’t want to get involved. I wanted to turn my back on the question of murder, shrug my shoulders, and enjoy my vacation. I’d always despised that attitude in other people, and here I was, searching for an excuse to turn a blind eye to an unpleasant situation.
What situation? part of me whined. You created the situation yourself, out of your imagination. There’s no murder, no reason to poke around, no need to get any further involved with these people.
I twisted uneasily and punched my pillow, hard. The only trouble with that argument was that I didn’t, in my heart of hearts, believe it. With no proof whatever, and only the most tenuous evidence, I thought there was a real possibility Bob Williams had been murdered.
The more fool you!
I was unable to argue with that. The real question, I thought as I climbed out of bed to get a drink of water, was what I was going to do about it.
There were only two options, really. With no police readily available to help, and no friends around I could ask for advice, I could ask questions, trying to keep them innocuous, and always making sure I wasn’t alone with anyone. I wasn’t likely to find out a thing that was any use, I thought bitterly, and it would mean spending a great deal of time with people whose companionship, for the most part, I wouldn’t have chosen.
However, the alternative was to put the matter out of my mind, move to my cottage as soon as possible, and have nothing more to do with anyone involved. And while I could, presumably, carry out the last part of that program, my ill-regulated conscience was not apt to let me forget about Bob, nor about a patch of wet basalt.
I went back to bed resentfully wishing I were less observant, or my glasses less efficient. Eventually I slept.
THE WIND HAD gone by morning, though the watery blue sky, with its patchy clouds, left the day’s weather very much in doubt. I had slept late and barely made it downstairs in time for breakfast, this time avoiding Stan’s recumbent form on the hall floor.
The Chicago crew were all there, reasonably happy together for once, and I was able to get my table for one with no question. The first order of business was a large breakfast. All my life, any trying experience has had the effect of making me first exhausted, then ravenous. Which may help explain why I’m always trying to lose a few pounds. Life is full of trials, and for me they mean extra calories.
Eating alone, I was able to devote myself to one of the most useful tools of the dedicated snoop—eavesdropping.
“So it’s settled,” said Grace crisply. “We’ll go on the pilgrimage as planned. Now, if we’re to be at the Abbey at nine-thirty sharp, we don’t have much time. I propose that we assemble there, rather than going over together. Anyone who doesn’t make it on time can join us along the way; I understand the route starts off to the south, down to the Nunnery. And don’t forget to pick up your sack lunches from the hall table. Right?”
“Yes’m, Miz Gracie, yes’m,” muttered Hattie Mae in resentful irony, her lower lip jutting out, and I saw Chris snap off a flippant little salute behind Grace’s back, but the rest seemed at least resigned to her assumption of authority. They filed obediently out of the room, and when Jake passed my table he raised his eyebrows and shrugged elaborately. I grinned and put out my hand.
“Wait a minute, Jake. What is this all about? What pilgrimage?”
Another shrug. “So I’m supposed to know? Me, I just do what they tell me.”
“Jake, do you ever stop playing the stage Jew?” I asked in some exasperation.
“What do you mean, ‘stage Jew’? You want I should talk like a goy?”
I laughed in spite of myself. “I want you should talk like the educated man you are instead of a caricature of a street vendor. And stop answering every question with another question. I repeat, what pilgrimage?”
He raised eloquent eyebrows, but forebore to shrug, and when he spoke, he had dropped the Yiddish intonations. “I really don’t know, for sure. Kind of a ‘Following in the Footsteps of St. Columba,’ I guess. The Abbey people run it every Wednesday, and the big topic this morning was, should we go as planned, in spite of Bob, since it’s our only chance, and we’d already asked the hotel for sack lunches, blah, blah, blah. Princess Grace finally decided, because everybody else is a fence-sitter. All I know is, it’s an all-day walk, and if I survive I can go home and tell my cardiologist where to go. Why don’t you come?”
“With my knees?” I temporized, thinking furiously about my sleuthful resolutions. “Are you kidding? I’d have to be carried back.” Could I find out anything useful if I went?
“I’ve heard rumors,” said Jake, leaning close to my ear and hissing in the manner of a late-movie conspirator, “that there are Abbey cars that show up at noon with coffee and tea, and can be commandeered to take the faint-hearted, or weak-kneed, back to civilization.” He straightened up and looked at me soberly, for once. “I’d be glad if you came. I could use somebody to talk to.”
“Well . . .” Surely there was no danger in such a crowd. And it would be a good opportunity for conversation, with Jake and the others . . .
“I have a compass, so if we fall behind we won’t get lost.”
“Boy Scouts?”
“YMHA summer camps when I was a kid.” He looked at me over the tops of his glasses, his sad-spaniel eyes evoking the little boy who proudly found his way out of the woods with his brand-new compass. I wondered if he’d taught his grandson woodsmanship, and blinked back a sudden tear.
“Jake, you are a man of parts. Certainly I’ll come, but the hotel people won’t have a lunch ready for me; I didn’t ask for one in time.”
Jake scooped up the rest of my breakfast rolls in a napkin and added an apple from the sideboard. “I’ll get some butter and cheese from the kitchen, and meet you at the Abbey in—” he glanced at his watch “—five minutes.”
I didn’t make it in five minutes, of course. I don’t move that fast anymore, and I wasted a few minutes trying to decide whether to call Alan. Probably, I thought, he would be out by now anyway; I’d wait until I got back. I jammed on my hat and managed to catch up with the group as they straggled past the hotel on their way down the hill.
The New Age types were there in force, as well as a number of other people. It looked as though every tourist on Iona was taking advantage of the fleetingly pleasant weather to see the island. The gale had left its mark; bits of trees littered the road, with now and then a slate or two from a roof, but the sunshine held—for now.
“What did I miss?” I demanded as I fell into step beside Jake.
“A prayer, a song. Or hymn, I guess. I didn’t know it.” His voice had taken on its ironic lilt again, and I looked at him curiously.
“Jake, for a rabbi, you don’t seem very interested in religion. Any religion, I mean, not just Christianity. I’d love to know why you became a rabbi.” And then I could have kicked myself. He had good reason to question the ways of God to man.
He walked in silence for a few minutes, talk flowing around us, while I tried to think of a way to change the subject.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“I was getting my thoughts together. It’s a long story, but I’d like to tell you if you really want to know.”
“I do.”
We had reached the Nunnery by this time, and had to be quiet to listen to the leader’s brief history of the place, together with her somewhat indignant speech about the Abbey, devoted to monks, having been restored at great expense, whereas the building devoted to nuns—women—had been left in ruins. She seemed to feel that this bit of history demonstrated once more men’s indifference to women’s concerns, and it was obvious from Teresa’s vigorous nods that she agreed wholeheartedly; myself, I found the ancient serenity of the Nunnery ruins much preferable to the modern bustle of the Abbey, but to each his—or her—own.
There was a Bible reading and another prayer; when we set off again to a ragged chorus of “Marching to Praetoria,” Jake told me his story.
“‘Rabbi’ means teacher, you know,” he began.
“I did know, in fact. I’ve read all Harry Kemelman’s ‘Rabbi’ books.”
“Ah. A most informative series. Then you also know that there is no established body of belief—no dogma, no creed—that one must accept to be a Jew. The Shema—you know the Shema?”
I was pleased that he didn’t automatically assume my ignorance. “‘Hear, oh Israel, the Lord thy God, the Lord is One,”’ I recited.
He nodded approvingly. “That’s about as close as we come to a statement of belief, and it doesn’t say a lot—by Christian standards. And of course you know that there are a lot of Jews who don’t practice their religion at all. They’re still Jews.”
I nodded.
“I entered study for the rabbinate because I was in love with learning, not because I was in love with God. I wanted to know, I wanted to be able to argue, I wanted to be a leader for my people. I had a lot of cockamamie ideas back in those days.” He shook his head ruefully and was silent for a few minutes while we panted our way up a steep bit of path.
“If you’ve read Kemelman,” he went on when the path leveled out and we had caught up with the rest of the pack, “you will remember that there are no specifically religious duties a rabbi must perform—any adult male can lead prayers. We’re not priests.”
“Yes, I know all that, but surely—I mean, you do believe in God?”
“I did, once.”
The simple phrase fell like a stone.
“Oh, Jake, I’m sorry. I am prying into something I have no right to know.” I couldn’t tell him that I already knew. I stumbled forward, wishing I hadn’t been so stupid as to bring it up.
We had reached a rocky area, the footing uncertain and treacherous. Teresa, far ahead of us, close to the guide, bounded over the rocks like a mountain goat. Hattie Mae took one look at what lay ahead, turned on her heel, and headed back, muttering, her lower lip jutting ominously. Jake and I toiled at the rear of the column, my knees beginning to hurt, his face beginning to turn purple.
“Should we stop?” I said anxiously. “We could still find our way back.”
Jake didn’t waste his breath, just shook his head stubbornly and forged ahead. Well, if he was willing to risk a heart attack, I could stand a painful knee or two. And I had no intention of leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Perhaps fortunately, neither of us had enough breath for talking until our leader took pity on the decrepit members of the group and stopped for a break. Jake and I collapsed onto the nearest big rock, and he took out a bottle of water. Once more I hadn’t thought to bring any; Jake offered to share.
“I didn’t bring a cup, though.” He wiped the mouth of the bottle with his shirt sleeve.
“Niceties be damned.” I took a long draught and sat back against a very lumpy rock.
“So do you want to know why?” asked Jake after a little silence.
“If you want to tell me.” I didn’t have to ask what he was talking about.
“The last straw was my grandson. He was infected with HIV. He killed himself when he found out. He was thirteen.”
Even though I knew what was coming, his matter-of-fact tone twisted my heart. “Jake, I—that’s—” His voice had been perfectly steady. My own broke, and I could think of nothing at all to say.
Talk flowed around us, the quiet, aimless chatter of people glad to be resting. We sat, marooned in silent thought.
“We’ll be moving on now,” said our leader after a while, standing and brushing herself off, “up to Loch Staonaig, which is the only source of
fresh water for Iona. It seems ironic that an island this small, surrounded by nothing but water, must be very careful about her water supply, but fresh water is a precious gift from God, who provides for all our needs.”
She went on for some time in the same vein as the group got to their feet, with bounds or grunts depending on our age, and began to straggle up the hill. I couldn’t look at Jake, but he spoke again as we reached the summit.
“You see why it’s easier not to believe in God. You believe in a loving, caring God, you’re angry all the time, you scream ‘Why?’ all the time inside, it eats you up. If there’s no God it still makes no sense, but you can get on with your life. What’s left of it.”
“You were very close, you and your grandson?”
“He was all I had left. My wife died when my little Rachel was three—breast cancer. But Rachel was the love of my life, and I got along. She was beautiful, my Rachel—you should have seen her as a bride. I was so excited when she got pregnant, you wouldn’t believe. I was like a crazy man.”
“What happened to Rachel?” Jake still seemed to need to talk about it.
“You think these things don’t happen anymore, but they do. She died in childbirth.”
“Your grandson.”
“Aaron, yes. His father—” A grimace passed over Jake’s face, and his eyes turned even sadder than usual. “Bernie didn’t want anything to do with Aaron. Wouldn’t even see him; said the kid had killed Rachel. I was the one who took the boy home from the hospital, and he lived with me until . . .”
“What was he like, Jake? A bookworm or an athlete?”
His face regained a little animation. “Both. Put a book in front of him and he was lost to the world. He read everything—encyclopedias, atlases even—he always wanted to travel, and we had plans—” He stopped, cleared his throat, and went on. “And he was a star athlete. Baseball, soccer, basketball—he was tall for his age, and gangly, but he was strong. He played all over town, not just at his school—I didn’t want him to spend all his time with other rich Jewish kids.”
Holy Terror in the Hebrides Page 7
