Rabbi Gabrielle's Defiance

by Roger Herst

  "A secret getaway. Pack for an overnight and bring along your jogging clothes," were his final words before she pulled away to unlock her front door.

  Gabby's duties seemed endless, and there was still one last unfinished item on her day's agenda. She showered and prepared for bed, then from her kitchen counter unhooked a CD player and reconnected it into a wall socket beside her bed-stand. Flannel sheets she used during the winter months felt warm and inviting to her touch. She rested her spine against the headboard and settled under a puffy goose-down comforter that had replaced a malfunctioning electric blanket.

  Cantor Blass's CD disk disappeared into the player and a slight adjustment to the volume prepared her to hear Asa's A Jazzman's Sorrow. It began with provocative clash of disharmonious chords, the way Asa often introduced his compositions to gather attention. But immediately, it resolved into an infectious syncopation of opposing rhythms, preparing for an overlay of melody. She knew the cantor to be something of a musical snob who reserved his praise for superb music, usually composed by the classical masters. Almost immediately she sensed why Reuben had been unreservedly enthusiastic. Here was no ordinary coupling rhythms and melodies, but a skilful weaving that seemed to transcend the piano, base violin, and drums in the recording. Asa's Sorrow spoke with an inner voice, conveying a mixture of emotions through syncopation and melody. Tired as she was, her attention remained focused. Part of her wanted to respond to her exhaustion, another to be transported by the notes. She always knew Asa to be a superb musician, but until this moment didn't appreciate exactly how good.

  The angel of rest took possession of her, but only after the CD player fell silent.

  ***

  The cycle of Jewish festivals is interminable. Gabby and Asa returned to the synagogue early the following morning to conduct worship for the second day of Pesach. Before the service, she was not surprised to find her voicemail filled with congratulations for her role in From Slavery to Freedom, which by most accounts had been successful. Non-members of the congregation left short messages of appreciation, among them effusive praise from Gordon Stack, Senior Vice President for Programming at Disney Productions. More meaningful were congratulatory words from Karla Foo, whom Gabby intended to call to express her gratitude. Too bad, she thought, Karla beat her to the punch. And there was a message from Stan Melkin, but it said nothing about the Passover presentation. He asked her to call his office about several business issues. He sounded distant and businesslike, foreshadowing the growing chill she could feel in their relationship.

  During the Pesach service, she found her mind thinking about being alone with Kye, free from interruptions. So when he arrived the following day in a Politicstoday van to take her away for a few days, she was ready in every sense of the word, including foresight to bring matzot to eat during the remaining days of the Pesach festival.

  Driving south into Northern Virginia in Kye's Ford van cluttered with electronic equipment behind the driver's seat, she tried guessing the secret place he had in mind. A turn in a westerly direction on Interstate 64 confirmed her suspicions. "We met on a mountain trail," he disclosed. "It's time to revisit the scene of this fortuitous crime."

  The van provided a single front seat, unobstructed by a gear shift. Gabby inched closer like a dating high schooler, close enough to plant a kiss upon his cheek before contributing her approval: "I like nostalgic men. Only I forgot to bring along my deer costume."

  Their first afternoon at Greenbrier Hotel in White Sulfur Springs, West Virginia, was devoted to working on joint laptop computers. She practiced storing and retrieving email, clustering multiple messages for dissemination to thousands of people simultaneously. Next came lessons on merging electronic address books and culling from them desired characteristics, then attaching to them audio and visual material. Politicstoday possessed a prodigious memory. And if required, additional memory could be borrowed from allied servers.

  Before sunset, Gabby and Kye jogged to the golf course and headed north into the hills along vaguely familiar fire trails, synchronizing their pace. His longer legs provided an edge, but her breathing was superior. As the grade ascended they drew together, their sweat-encrusted shoulders bumping.

  "No deer hunters in spring," he huffed.

  "And no dogs to trip over," she added.

  The sun had begun to fall in the west, painting early blooming locusts and sycamore trees bordering a trail resplendent orange and yellow. Somewhere in the interlocking matrix of fire roads, they had become confused and were unable to identify where they accidentally met in December. Their pace eventually slowed and then stopped, their arms coiled around each other's waists, two bodies merging into a single form. Their lips found each other, then separated and pecked at different places along the neck, both soaked in perspiration.

  He whispered, "Gabby, I have some wonderful news. I wanted to wait for the right moment when you were free from pressure at Ohav Shalom. The reason I was late for your Passover at the synagogue is that Lyle Carberri and I are communicating again by email. Clandestinely, of course. He wrote yesterday that the president wants to establish himself as the first chief-executive to utilize the full potential of the Internet, like Roosevelt and Reagan did with radio broadcasts and Clinton, with television. He's agreed to go on an Internet chat site with you to inaugurate your campaign. The DNC will heavily advertise this event. We'll get thousands, maybe tens of thousands of hits. Who wouldn't like to chat with the president?"

  The notion sounded utterly preposterous and she could respond only with incredulity. "The President of the United States? With me?"

  "In Washington, nothing is free. You're perfect for him. He's getting a head start into the technology of the future with a charismatic candidate who just charmed the public on the Disney Channel. In exchange, you get awesome publicity and his name recognition. Toby Ryles can't begin to match this."

  They started jogging again, this time descending at a faster clip as their banter trailed off into silence. For Gabby, a chat session on the Internet with the President of the United States was utter dream world. She asked herself if she had lost her bearings altogether? Then followed up with a more important question: does falling in love make one abandon all sanity?

  The sun had set when they returned to the east lobby of the hotel. Once in their room, they repeated their embrace on the mountainside. Only this time, the merging of complementary bodies was accompanied by arousal. Both acknowledge it. For some time now, their path had been heading in this direction. Neither could think of a more fitting venue than the historic Greenbrier Hotel, after a wonderful jog together in the hills.

  "I need to shower first," she told him.

  "I love you sweaty and smelly and just the way your are." He sounded truthful, not impatient.

  "Just give me a few minutes to clean up."

  "Can I join you in the shower?"

  "An inviting suggestion. But a bathing woman isn't a graceful woman."

  He nibbled at her ear and folded his hand through her hair. "When I watched you explaining the Bread of Affliction at Ohav Shalom, I saw the most magnificent woman I've ever been close to. I can hardly believe she is with me at this moment."

  "There are so many differences between us, Kye. Neither of us can afford to be blind."

  Near her ear, he whispered, "True, but let's fly together in a poet's chariot, wild and free, letting our feelings overrule stubborn minds. Why not live as Shakespeare's lovers?"

  "I've always been trained to live with facts. They govern everything, you know. But tonight there's a new set of facts and I don't care about the old ones. Just give me a few moments in the shower first."

  "Pull back! Pull back!" a voice admonished her while stripping a jogging bra from her shoulders and stepping from a pair of running shorts. If ever there was a need for caution with a man, this is it. And yet a counter voice asked why should she turn away because God made Kye a Baptist. Every man she had wanted was flawed in some manner. Where was it writ
ten that all stars in a constellation must line up perfectly? By such standards, she would never find a man to love.

  All questions became moot when Kye knocked on the door and, without waiting her approval, slipped into the bathroom, dressed only in his Jockey shorts. Warring factions inside her ceased conflict as she studied his bronze, hairless skin and the strong definition of his shoulder muscles. For an instant, he let his eyes rest upon her breasts, then dropped over her waist to the groin. Her hands reached forward to remove the last impediment to their nudity. Inquiring if he was circumcised was not the kind of question a woman would ask while dining under candlelight. She knew she should have asked before this moment, but shyness inhibited her. She dreaded the moment as her eyes moved from his chest to his abdomen, descended to his groin and what she feared – his member partially erect, but uncircumcised, the symbolic difference between her race and his. Her trepidation, she hid.

  The tight confines of a hotel shower brought them into close proximity under the warm tap water. They took turns shampooing each other's hair, then lathering bodies with rich, aromatic soapsuds. Washrags permitted them to touch without embarrassment, but soon they substituted their hands, exploring new flesh and unseen crevices.

  Drying each other continued the exploratory adventure. New flesh stimulated new intimacy. They clung together, stepping over to the king-sized bed, covered with a bedspread of spun cotton in emerald greens and ochre. Crisp sheets and puffy pillows awaited them below. They fell onto the mattress, devouring each other with uncensored appetite. As their breathing increased so did their words of endearment.

  CHAPTER TEN

  TEMPERS ABLAZE

  Television liked to repeat images, and picture of Gabby lifting the Lachma anya, the Bread of Affliction, on Passover was used repeatedly throughout the remaining days of the holiday. Gabby's Semitic features and her message of humility in the midst of abundance touched the public's sensibility how privileged peoples need to be reminded about sharing their blessings with the dispossessed. Chuck Browner parried numerous phone calls seeking her follow-up presence on TV talk programs and when she politely declined, he pointed out that avoiding public exposure was no way to launch a political campaign. How better to gain name recognition than by being seen on the boob tube? "Congress needs a symbol of charity and decency," he quipped, knowing full well that she was not likely to be amused.

  She replied tartly, "Remember the rabbinic proscription, 'Don't use the Torah as a spade with which to dig.' I have no intention of exploiting the pulpit to garner attention by the media. That isn't kosher and were I Toby Ryles, I'd be incensed."

  "She's already running scared. Her supporters have asked for her to address members of Ohav Shalom on a Sunday morning brunch program."

  Gabby huffed cautionary alarm. "I can't believe Toby would dare challenge me on my own turf."

  Chuck liked to sound street savvy. "Didn't they teach you in Politics 101 that campaigning is a contact sport. You intend to run the high road into Congress without shedding a drop of your opponent's blood. I know you believe that votes can be won with superior ideas. Well, Good Lady, disabuse yourself of that notion. And don't assume Representative Ryles will travel the high road alongside you. She's a consummate politician who won't sit on the sidelines and let you steal her votes. Politicians are creatures of the sewer and all their pathways weave through the swamp. Toby Ryles will use whatever tricks she can to maintain her position in the Jewish community. And that means getting her friends here at Ohav Shalom to abandon their beloved rabbi."

  "That doesn't worry me."

  "Don't be smug. They won't assault you from the front, but from your blind side when you're not paying attention.

  "You really don't think I should run, do you, Chuck?"

  As he searched for his own meaning, there was a pained expression on his face. "No, Rabbi Gabby. That's not what I think. I believe you must get out of the rat race here. How long will you be able to maintain your current pace? Before you fizzle out like spent fireworks in a dark New Year's sky. There's life outside the rabbinate, Rabbi. But whether Congress is where you should go, that I'm not qualified to decide."

  She looked dubious but knew him to be a good observer of what he often called "the human beast."

  Changing the subject, he asked, "By the way, did you see the photograph of Asa I found? I put it on your blotter, but it might have gotten buried. Like you thought, it was lost in a pile of manuscripts on the windowsill. I hope it's what you want."

  It took her minutes to shuffle through a stack of envelopes and articles that rose from her desk like a volcanic upheaval. A glance at the photo revealed it to be approximate what she recalled – Asa sitting behind his desk in a business suit, looking a bit scared yet professional, a shass, a set of the Babylonian Talmud, a symbol of Jewish scholarship, piled in utter disorder on the shelf behind him. She searched for the menorah he lent the Morgenstern girls. Her memory placed it beyond his right shoulder though the photo showed it on the shelf to his left. That it was heavily encrusted in wax was a credit to her memory. She recalled at the time feeling annoyed by his slovenly disregard for a religious object, what in a more charitable moment she attributed to his artistic temperament, aloof and unworldly, with sensitivities more attuned to sounds and rhythms than artifacts. She recalled his kitchen sink filled with dirty dishes and his clothing strewn around his apartment.

  Normally, she remained at Ohav Shalom until after 6:30 p.m. in order to complete essential correspondence and plan for future gatherings. But today she broke away at 5:15, stopping by Asa's study to say goodnight. That he wasn't there was not surprising. She took the opportunity to confirm that his wax-encrusted menorah was not in its customary position on the bookshelf.

  From Ohav Shalom, she drove along River Road into the countryside to Seneca, Maryland, where she had personal business at the Izaac Walton Shooting Range. The gun club was located on a 1,500-acre wild life preserve and managed in trust by the Izaak Walton League. A memorial to the late Joel Fox, dentist, ardent gun collector, and hunter, had been erected near the short .22 rifle range where he once instructed his students from Anacostia on gun safety. Gabby was aware that it was common for the memory of a loved one to grow in the mind of a bereaving survivor. But in her case she assured herself that Joel's memory neither was un-glamorized by his absence nor idealized by the brutality of his death. In her case, his memory was far simpler. Joel remained in her heart because he had given his life so that she might live. Interpret what happened in the park however you will, but a single fact returned to haunt her. She was alive and Joel was not.

  In the fading light of day, the range was not in use and she saw no need to apprise the groundskeeper of her presence. A faint glow emanated from inside the log clubhouse and smoke from a wood fire wafted lazily from its stone chimney. A bronze plague donated by the National Rifle Association identified a nearby granite monolith as a tribute to Joel. A second plaque adorned a nearby painted park bench, placed there by friends from his beloved One Shot Hunting Club. Small pools of afternoon rain had spotted the bench, but Gabby felt no urgency to sit.

  Her fingers brushed the coarse granite of the monolith as though drawing from it Joel's spirit and spoke in a soft voice to the stone. "Joel, there have never been secrets between us and I want to tell you about a man I've met. I've always believed you would want me to find a replacement, as I would have wished had I died in Fort Stanton Park and you survived me. You'll always be in my heart, as long as I live. But now I've found a man you would approve of. He's a dreamer like you, Joel. And these days, more than ever, I need someone to dream with, someone to feed my pedestrian mind with ideas I'm incapable of thinking on my own. Didn't Shakespeare say we're of the stuff that dreams are made of?"

  She paused as the wind rustled leaves in a nearby laurel oak, restraining moisture in her eyes that neared tears. "Kye Naah is a wonderful person, Joel. He's a computer nerd, but has been known to think about other things from time to t
ime. Perhaps, most importantly, I really care for him. A lot. But I need your approval. Nothing will be done without your approval, Joel."

  Again, she paused to listen, now gazing at a stand of dogwoods whose blossoms had just begun to open with flashes of spring white.

  That the wind alone spoke she took as a substitute for Joel's breath… and his approval.

  Later in her car, while inserting into her sound console the CD recording of Asa's A Jazzman's Sorrow, she continued talking to a ghost. "Listen to this, Joel. Composed by my associate, who has the talent of a Claude Debussy."

  ***

  "Do you know Gina McQuire from the Washington Post?" Chuck approached Gabby the following morning as soon as she settled into her office.

  The name possessed a very familiar ring, but Gabby failed to identify it.

  "She's doing a story on female executives and would like to interview you. Says she saw you in From Slavery to Freedom and was profoundly impressed."

  Gabby had to consider the political ramifications before accepting. "My politician friends say there's no such thing as bad publicity. Worse than having someone lambaste you in the media, is to be ignored by the media."

  "Then should I set up an appointment?"

  "No. Not until I formally announce my candidacy, but don't say that. Tell her I'd be happy to talk in about two weeks when my schedule eases."

  Chuck had another matter to discuss. "You also received a call from Nelson McKesson's office at Dominion Mutual. He asked if you and Asa could be at the company's Baltimore offices next Tuesday morning along with Stan Melkin and his legal team to discuss future developments in the lawsuit."

  A fist rose to her lips and her eyes narrowed. "What future developments?"

  He shrugged and tilted his head sideways. "How should I know? I'm only the appointment clerk. But if you ask me to speculate, I'd say they're positioning themselves to offer the Morgensterns more money."

  "What makes you think that?"