by Roger Herst
"Can you go this Sunday? We could talk on the rink."
"Where do you have in mind?"
"How about the rink on the Mall?"
"I have duties at the religious school during the morning and a wedding to perform at 6 p.m. But the afternoon is free. I might squeeze in an hour or two."
"Sounds good to me, Rabbi. Then, can I look forward to it?"
Before responding, she asked herself why waste Kye's and Lyle Carberri's time? Didn't she have enough on her plate without toying with politics? But her concern dissolved when she agreed to rendezvous with Kye at the ice rink.
Asa was waiting outside Gabby's study in a soiled trench coat and heavy black rubber boots. In the passenger seat of her Volvo, he was silent, lost into an impenetrable solipsism.
Gabby asked several questions which he ignored. In exasperation, she made a final attempt. "If you had a piano at this moment, what would you play?"
The question stirred him rather abruptly, "Oh, don't know. I'd probably just improvise. Nothing too taxing."
"In a minor key, I presume."
"Why presume that?" he sounded more animated. "If you believe that sadness requires a minor key, then think again. I could play you many somber tunes in major keys."
"I wish you would. How I'd love to play the piano."
"It's tough after adolescence. A Chinese kid speaks his native tongue effortlessly, but it's nearly impossible for someone to learn Chinese late in life, particularly to read all the characters. An early start on the piano helps."
"Easy for you to say, pal. You started in the crib."
A full parking lot at the First Methodist Church forced them to hunt for a space on a neighboring residential street, followed by a walk of several blocks. Mourners in dark attire milled beside the towering church edifice, greeting friends and sharing moments of grief. To avoid a cluster on the front steps, Asa squired Gabby along the edge of the foyer into the crowded main sanctuary, by then nearly filled, where they settled into the first empty seats near the rear of the transept.
A few moments later, Asa recognized Angus Klein, David's and Laura's brother-in-law, urging people not to clog the aisle. He moved among the bodies with the purposeful stride of a drill sergeant determined that the funeral begin precisely as scheduled. Asa and Gabby hunched low in their seats to avoid being spotted. They managed to stay out of Angus's vision as he eyes passed over their pew the first time, but their images must have left an impression because he returned for a second look. As soon as he recognized Asa, his light complexion turned ruddy. An artificial smile from Asa failed to soften his scowl. A moment later, Angus made a military about-face and headed toward the pulpit, disappearing through a door to the left. At the same moment, the church organ opened up with commanding volume. In the choir loft, a female soloist stood, her music folio open in her arms like butterfly wings, her chin high as she drew in air.
A tap on the shoulder surprised Gabby. She turned to find an usher leaning toward her from the pew behind, a grave expression on his sun-wrinkled face, partially hidden in mutton-chop sideburns. He addressed her, "Rabbi Lewyn, would you please scoot out to speak with me for a moment?"
In some confusion, she asked herself why anyone might need her just before the ceremony. There was a remote chance the family had changed its mind about adding Jewish prayers to the ceremony, but that she calculated to be quite remote.
An instant later, Angus Klein reappeared beside the usher, a perpetual glaze of sweat beading his brow. "The man said he'd like to talk with you, Rabbi. Before the service begins, if you will."
Simultaneously, the Right Reverend Claire Goldwater emerged on the pulpit from the same door Angus had used. A tall, lean woman, she held herself with ram-rod rigidity in a gray robe with three parallel black stripes on the arms to signify that she held a doctoral degree. The female vocalist opened with a hymn unfamiliar to Gabby, who turned a shoulder to the usher and Angus, hoping they would disappear the moment the service commenced.
Angus's voice cut through the music. "You don't get it, do you, Rabbi? The family doesn't want either of you here. This is a solemn moment of sadness. You busybodies have caused incalculable misery already."
Asa's temper propelled him onto his feet. Gabby attempted to hold him down, but failed to catch his arm before he slipped into the aisle. Meanwhile, Gabby rotated again to the rear and said, "Our presence here hurts no one. We have a right to grieve over Janean's death just like anyone else."
When music failed to drown out the verbal skirmish, Claire Goldwater gazed through thick bifocals to find a blurred vision of Asa staring down Angus and daring him to throw the first punch. Near-sighted, Reverend Goldwater squinted to clarify the distant blur. "Please, please," she said into the pulpit microphone. "We need quiet to begin our tribute. I ask all in the rear to take their seats, please."
"Get out!" Angus Klein thundered, his voice amplified by the high ceiling of the sanctuary. "David has specifically asked that you leave immediately. Why do you insist on remaining where you're not wanted?"
By this time, Gabby had extracted herself from her seat and drawn alongside Asa. One instinct demanded that she defend her right to mourn, yet another, that she not disrupt the funeral. Her response to Angus satisfied neither. "Like the rest of the people here, we loved Janean. We feel her loss."
"Could somebody please tell me what the problem is?" Goldwater asked into the microphone, her hand a visor against strong overhead flood lights as she squinted to see for herself. "We cannot proceed until we have quiet."
Angus's fist shot forward to snatch Gabby's arm but was diverted by a firm chop from the bottom of Asa's hand. He responded with a thrust at Asa's chest. Gabby immediately wedged herself between the warriors, holding them apart by their forearms. Looking now over the congregation, she spoke in a voice trained to project. "Our deepest apologies, Reverend. To you and the Morgenstern family. We came to pay our respects. But since our prayers are unwanted, we will leave immediately and recite them privately. Please, let this funeral continue without us."
Asa's eyes filled with fire. A reaction drilled into him as a Marine officer dictated that backing down was both unmanly and unnatural. Yet saner counsel told him that Gabby was not wrong. Nobody was going to take their cause seriously at a moment like this.
"Sorry," Gabby called out to the mourners as she herded Asa toward the foyer. "Very, very sorry. Please accept our apologies. We never meant to disrupt the sacred."
"Sunnavabitch, who the shit does Angus Klein think he is?" Asa blurted as Gabby steered her Volvo into traffic, headed back to Ohav Shalom.
"Policeman of the Western World. Some people are born law-enforcers. First they take it out on their siblings, then their associates. I guess he believes he's helping his brother-in-law in a time of grief."
"It wasn't courteous."
"I'd be off the wall mishuganah if my little girl died."
"Why make excuses for assholes?"
"I'm not. Can't say I've ever been thrown out of a funeral before. Bars and saloons are regular occurrences for me, but not funerals."
He failed to respond as she had hoped, but fell into silence.
"I'm losing you, Asa, aren't I?" she said more as a declaration than a question.
The proclamation seemed to rest in circulating air from the car heater.
"The lousiest part of the rabbinate," she responded to her own question. "It's certainly not the profession we both aspired to."
"No rewards," he suddenly came alive. "Just knee-kicks in the kishkas. There's more money in doing just about anything. All you get for your efforts are an occasional compliment. But for the most part, the congregants offer either indifference or hostility."
In the Ohav Shalom parking lot, she turned off the ignition and slumped into the driver's seat, waiting for Asa to get out. "There must be some sunshine for you, friend."
"Maybe for you, Gabby. But all I see are squalls and thunderclouds. The problem is there isn't much time
for me to make a career change. If I wait longer, it will be too late. Haven't you thought of leaving?"
Her smile opened, trenching dimples in her cheeks and for the first time in several days, laughter in her eyes settled upon him. "Every day, friend. Almost every hour of every day. It's a recurring dream. I ask myself isn't there something better to do with one's mortal life. But if there is, I can't think of it, so I persevere. Day after day, week after week. At least you can play the piano. I wouldn't be much good at other jobs."
"Bullshit!" he exclaimed, while pushing open the door and hauling his body onto the pavement.
***
From the steps of the National Archives on Washington's Mall, you peer down at National Sculpture Garden and adjacent Ice Rink. Gabby, who made a habit of being punctual, arrived at the rink a few minutes early. To kill time before meeting Kye Naah, she ambled eastward along Jefferson Drive, a pair of white figure skates dangling from her shoulder by long shoestrings. No matter how often she visited the Mall, she was moved by the expansive majesty of the capital city and, like many Americans, enjoyed gazing upon the familiar capitol building with its majestic white dome, flanked by the House of Representatives and the Senate. The whiteness suggested to her purity and decency while a mélange of nearby institutional masonry buildings, appearing like courtiers to a monarch, conveyed self-assurance and historic purpose.
Cumulous clouds swept overhead in an easterly breeze. The air was damp but without precipitation. Spirited rock music emanating from the ice rink punctuated the growl of motor traffic on Constitution Avenue. She hadn't been ice-skating since outings at New York's Rockefeller Square Rink with her old flame, Tim Matternly. Together, they would giggle and stumble, race and saunter over the ice as they grooved their strokes to the music of Viennese waltzes. She often resisted an urge to dial Tim's Manhattan number. Though they had separated as "good friends," there had been no communication between them since his wedding at St. John the Divine on Fifth Avenue. Her girlfriends were adamant about dragging into the present lost lovers from the past. They were right, of course, but she nevertheless missed Tim.
Kye Naah was not in the changing area when Gabby returned to the rink, now crowded with Sunday skaters. While standing in line to buy an entry ticket a voice beckoned her from the ice. "Hey, Rabbi. I already bought a ticket for you!"
Kye sailed across the ice toward the gate, but was forced to wait behind a group of teenagers before stepping off the ice onto a rubber carpet to greet her. "Arrived a bit early to practice up. Don't want to make a fool of myself like I did at the Greenbrier."
She stripped off a ski glove to shake his hand. "Consensus has it that I, not you, was the fool on that mountainside. Looks like you handle yourself pretty well on skates."
"To stay on your feet you've got to compete with a mob of frustrated hockey players. The kids insist on burning up the ice. Slowing them down is like hog-tying a mustang. There's already been one collision since I arrived."
"Don't the ice-guards help?"
Good teeth flashed from under his upper lip as he grinned widely. "They're part of the problem. Guess who gets hired to police the ice? Not figure skaters, I can assure you. When was the last time you saw a rink guard who wasn't trying to become a star in the National Hockey League?"
The upbeat music and his good humor conspired to make her chuckle. "Let me get my skates on and we'll show those youngsters a little class."
Getting one's sea legs on the ice after a long hiatus required practice. Mounds of ice flakes left by previous skaters slowed Gabby's blades, though pain she expected to occur in her ankles failed to materialize. Kye stayed nearby, his eyes observing how she favored the outside edge of her blades. A Mendelsohn waltz adopted for the pipe organ provided the perfect skating music. Six teenage youngsters on hockey skates moving at double the speed of the pack forced her to make a series of rapid directional changes. When other youths cut her off, she dug the teeth of her figure skates into the ice and came to an abrupt halt.
Kye braked alongside to commiserate. "You skate well."
"You look very comfortable yourself."
"Wait until you see one of my Charlie Chaplin falls. One trip to the ice and the comfort factor disappears. There's a little space in the center, if you want to practice turning or figure-eights."
Looking beyond the rink to the white dome of the Capitol, she said, "Thanks. It's not necessary. I'm quite satisfied to circle a bit longer and enjoy the view. This setting is majestic."
He drew himself alongside, their shoulders touching as they made last-second adjustments to stay in tandem. "I had hoped you'd say something like that, Rabbi Lewyn."
"Gabby, please. If we're going to run interference for each other here, you had better call me what most people do. I'm not fond of titles."
"How about the title Congresswoman Gabrielle Lewyn? You'd make a great representative, certainly better than the jokers who inhabit that august house up there on the hill." His eyes glanced eastward to the House of Representatives. When they returned, Gabby swerved to avoid a teenage girl who had tumbled in front, dragging her screaming girlfriend behind. Gabby veered right, but Kye was forced to a halt by turning his blades parallel and shearing ice onto the fallen girl. She accepted his hand to lift her back onto her skates.
Seconds later, Gabby and Kye reunited, this time skating slower. Unsupervised children, who couldn't be more than 10, darted from the sides with youthful abandonment. Kye waited until Gabby was facing the Capitol again before continuing, "I can make you into a Congresswoman, you know," he boasted.
This kind of talk embarrassed her. "Why, Dr. Naah, I thought one had to be elected in order to sit in Congress. I'm sure you're talented, but last I heard you don't appoint our representatives by fiat."
"I didn't mean that. Future elections will depend upon the Internet and my company has more experience than anybody else. We already have two elections under our belt. I'm looking for a third, but this time I want to do things differently. Reginald Meredith ran a conventional campaign in Alabama and came to Politicstoday in the eleventh hour when he was about to get whipped. We turned things around for him at the finish line, though only by a narrow margin. Now, I need to show how an election can be won through the net from the getgo. No television, no radio, no stump speeches, no direct interviews with the press. That doesn't mean that the media won't be involved. It will, but only indirectly. My company would like to manage your campaign from start to finish. Quotes, pictures, videos, everything necessary to make you a representative should emanate from your web site."
Kye Naah's crusading enthusiasm worried Gabby. Washington, she had learned, was full of partisans – self-confident, ambitious people, selling their wares with the same verve as door-to-door peddlers. On less crowded ice in the middle of the rink, she spiked the teeth on her skates into the surface to stop. "Let me get this straight, Kye. Are you asking me to be your guinea pig and run for Congress from the Internet exclusively? I'm no politician but I can't imagine a candidate who doesn't get out and pump the flesh. You and the DNC don't have a clue; I'm a clergywoman, not a politician."
"Nobody is born to politics. In this country, elections make politicians, not the other way around. Congress is filled with lawyers, zoo keepers, university professors, cattle ranchers and shoe salesmen. Why not a rabbi?"
"Because this particular rabbi couldn't get elected to the library commission."
Together they moseyed from the center back into the stream of skaters scratching and clawing for free ice. "Lyle sent me a file of newspaper clippings about you," he said. "You're exactly the person who can get elected and not just to the library commission. You're articulate, presentable and highly respected. You're perfect for Politicstoday. We can get you tremendous exposure which translates into notoriety and, need I remind you? Famous people get elected."
"You're pitching too hard. I've done a little homework on Politicstoday myself. Your website invites criticism. Every vote won there will scare
another away."
He flailed his arms in a gesture of exasperation. "You've been reading my creditors' propaganda. The business owes a lot of money. Nobody pioneers anything in this country without debt. But we're different from hundreds of e-commerce startups. Once they burn through their initial funding, they go public to make the founders and original investors wealthy. We haven't gone the public route and I doubt we will. We’re going to remain private and independent. As a public company, we'd be forced to redefine our goals. Shareholders would demand we stop innovating and start making hard cash. For now, we're holding on by our fingernails. That will change."
"I'd have to be a millionaire or be married to a millionaire," she said.
"That would help, but isn't a prerequisite. Let me ask a simple question. What's screwing up the federal government these days?"
"Money," she shot back without having to think of another possibility.
"Right. And you've seen how Congress has dodged election reform for the past half century. The beauty of the Internet is that it levels the playing field and takes much of the money out of politics. And that will eventually translate into less compromised representation. The day when only the highborn, wealthy and well-connected govern this land is coming to an end. I need somebody like you to demonstrate the potential."
Gabby could not afford to take her eyes off the stream of skaters in order to telegraph her suspicion.
He narrowed the distance to her and said, "I know you think I'm crazy. Many people do. So before you commit me to a sanatorium, let me invite you for some hot chocolate."
She immediately angled toward the gate to accept. Two young hockey skaters swooped by at accelerated speeds, adroitly weaving around skaters hugging the sideboards. Kye followed to wait behind a father and his little girl as she shuffled on double-bladed learning skates, walking rather than sliding. He was about to step off the ice when a teenager, in sloppy pants that hung over his skates, threaded into the narrow space separating Kye and the little girl. Kye dug the teeth of his skates into the ice to block a certain collision. A second youth, skating behind his friend at the same speed snagged Kye's forward blade, propelling him forward against the young girl. Both Kye's arms jutted forward to cushion the girl from impact as a pack of bodies collided. Behind them, other skaters scrambled to avert a massive pile-up, though some failed to avoid adding to the confusion. As the pack began to unravel, the little girl screamed hysterically. Rink guards, in maroon jackets with white lettering, joined the mayhem to deal with a second kid who had ricocheted from the sideboards and knocked down another teenager. Tempers flared, prelude to a shoving fight.
