Rabbi Gabrielle's Defiance

by Roger Herst

  "Easy for you," she muttered. "You were born with a monitor in your crib."

  "And you, with dreams in your little head," he said while placing his hands on her and drawing her against his chest. She liked the easy familiarity of his touch and folded her arms around him. Their lips met then wandered over unexplored regions of the chins and necks, followed by deeper arousal. Rolling on the sofa she felt the strength of his interest against her upper thigh. A part of her cautioned against further sexual intimacy. How many times had she witnessed other women besotted by the men they slept with? And it was never clear to her as an observer whether they had slept with their partners because they loved them or whether they loved them because they slept with them. Despite reservations that rumbled within, part of her welcomed the fires of love, whatever their mad consequences. The world, she told herself, was moved as much by madness and passion as rational design. Had not God endowed his creatures with as much emotion as reason? Her fingers fumbled with small, resistant buttons on Kye's flannel shirt, but then stopped abruptly.

  Her telephone on the breakfront further deadened this foreplay. Both pretended not to hear until the answering machine answered and her out-going message cycled through the speaker. The in-coming message brought a familiar voice. "Gabby, it's Asa in San Francisco."

  San Francisco had slipped from her mind. She paused to lift her head from Kye. It was no longer urgent to speak with Asa, yet she knew that making contact with him later might be difficult.

  "I've got wonderful news to share with you about Jazzman's Sorrow…." His voice continued through the speaker.

  She placed a hand under Kye's chin and stroked affectionately along his cheek, then untangled herself to step over to the breakfront and snatch the receiver, her eyes remaining on him.

  She said, "Hey, Asa, it's Gabby. I'm here. Good to hear your voice. I wanted to report about today's meeting with the insurance people in Baltimore. But first, tell me your good news. We could use some."

  "The San Francisco Symphony Orchestra wants to play my work next season and has offered me a ton of money to score it, giving me a big bonus if the work is fully ready for rehearsal in four months. I also got a call from Jonas Demarco, musical director of the Los Angeles Symphony. He wants me to fly down tomorrow and talk about a commission to write two new compositions. I never thought anybody was listening."

  "That's fabulous news, Asa. You deserve every ounce of this recognition and more, too! I want you to become the most successful composer in the country. How's San Francisco?"

  "Yes. Yes. Absolutely," excitement echoed in his voice. "Gabby, I can breathe here. In Washington, everything feels so stifling. But it's the cool air and the vitality of this city, the colors, the vistas, the ambience. Does that make any sense?"

  "Remember, I am a California girl. Of course, it makes sense. Once people plant their feet in the Golden State, they're lost forever in paradise. Nothing has changed since the Gold Rush. That's why California has over forty million residents, four times as many as when I was born there."

  "Tell me what happened in Baltimore," he changed subject abruptly.

  "My news isn't as good as yours. Dominion Mutual has offered to settle with the Morgensterns for up to ten mill. That's the limit of Ohav Shalom's insurance. But Marc Sutterfeld is adamant about receiving all forty-six. Ohav hasn't got the money to make up the shortfall. Looks like we're going to court. Dominion attorneys are preparing for trial."

  A long pause elapsed on the other end. "That's more than I expected. I didn't think the insurance company would cough up even their share of the money. Do you think we could talk with David Morgenstern?"

  "He hasn't wanted to talk with us in the past. Why now?"

  "Because he would be ten million dollars richer. It may not compensate for his suffering, but then would a hundred million make his loss any easier? Or a million million. Perhaps he's mellowed."

  "I'll have a word with Stan Melkin about it, but don't hold your breath. In the meantime, enjoy California. I'm so proud of you, Asa. Reuben Blass boasts about you as if he gave birth to Ludwig Beethoven. Someday, I hope you'll put the entire Shabbat service to music and lift our worshippers into heaven on angels' wings. Don't rush back. Enjoy your glory and the sunshine. I'll cover for you at the synagogue. Can Anina join you?"

  "No, I don't think so. She's busy. Besides, after a few bars of anything but hard rock she falls asleep."

  "Oh, I doubt that. I know how she admires you. Remember, friend, it takes all kinds of people to make this crazy world run. Keep in touch, please. I'm positively ecstatic about your success."

  "I'm worried about you and Ohav Shalom."

  "Don't be. We'll take care of ourselves. Somehow, things will work out. They always do."

  Kye was standing in front of his laptops, straightening his clothes as she returned to take him in her arms with a silent bear hug. Moisture from her eyes smeared his neck but he said nothing and just listened to her labored breathing.

  "What's wrong?" he eventually asked.

  She enlarged the space between them, though her hands remained on his waist. "Asa is going to be the success Reuben Blass predicted. I know what happens when people move to California; they seldom come back. He won't be here to cover for me during the election. And I can't ask him to sacrifice his career to facilitate mine. I'm going to lose him, Kye. It's inevitable now."

  "If you ask him, he might remain in Washington through your sabbatical."

  "That wouldn't be fair and, besides, you can't do that to an artist. They work by inspiration not an appointment calendar."

  "I don't see how that will affect your race," he said, suddenly sounding boorish to himself because he knew exactly where her logic was heading.

  "If Asa isn't here to cover for me, I can't run. This isn't complicated."

  "Why sacrifice your future for Ohav? Since when have they honored their pledges to you?" His voice was studded with injury. "They're constantly asking what have you done for them lately. When have they considered your feelings? Or your sabbatical?"

  She pursed her lips. "I don't think they have. But that's not what I signed up for. Nobody who enters the clergy expects equal or even fair treatment. It isn't tit for tat. What else can I tell you? That's just the way things are. Members of Ohav Shalom aren't saints. But they're not devils either."

  He unhooked her arms and leaned over the laptops to close down software and detach the cabling. Given Gabby's frame of mind, there was no purpose in continuing their work.

  "Stay with me tonight," she said, her voice devoid of its usual clarity.

  He continued to gather his equipment. "Not tonight, Gabby. I've got things to think about, too. Let's talk tomorrow. I understand what's happening. In the end, you're unlikely to leave your congregation. They've got you caught like a fly in a spider web. If you weren't so damn good at what you do, I'd advise you to fight like crazy for your freedom. But when I heard you explain the Bread of Affliction on Passover, something snapped inside me. I knew then that you'd never run for Congress. Sure, you might go through the motions, like learning my software programs and perhaps making a few speeches on the Internet. But in the final round, you'd return to your synagogue. Who the hell am I to tell you that's a mistake? It probably isn't."

  She snuggled against him again, but he unhooked her arms and stepped back. "And the other thing I learned when you lifted that matzah before the camera is how much I admire you."

  "Stay with me tonight," she pleaded, her hands on his arm.

  "Sorry, Love. This has major repercussions for my business. If you're not going to be my showcase candidate, I've got to make changes at the shop and make them fast. By tomorrow, maybe I'll have a clearer picture."

  His laptops fit into two leather carrying cases. When all was packed, he needed both hands to lift them and was unable to return Gabby's hug. She planted herself in his path and delivered a half-dozen small kisses to his cheek, then pulled away, her eyes ready to flood with tears.
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  "I'll wait for your call tomorrow," she said in the vestibule as he prepared to move through the front door toward the street.

  "Absolutely," he responded, sounding eager to get away.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  BROKEN HEART

  You could argue that Asa's phone call from San Francisco was the catalyst that forced Gabby to face reality. She had permitted herself to consider running for Congress by the attentions of the Democratic National Committee, the president, Kye, and, not the least in importance, by personal ambition and growing uneasiness with her rabbinical career – all powerful inducements. She had asked herself how different leaving Ohav Shalom was from ambitious politicians who constantly abandoned their supporters to seek higher, more prestigious office. Yet an honest appraisal of her qualifications left gaps that could not be ignored, particularly a dearth of political skills or the desire to acquire them, as evidenced by her continuous conflict with Ohav Shalom's Board of Directors. And now that Asa Folkman was transitioning into a new career, the delicate balance she had nurtured disappeared. For Ohav Shalom to be one rabbi short was undesirable but manageable, a condition that had occurred when she filled-in after Rabbi Greer's resignation. For the congregation to be without rabbinical services was intolerable. She simply could not leave her congregants high and dry.

  In a mental replay of her dialogue with Kye, there was much she would have liked to rephrase. In retrospect, she was forced to admit that her ambivalence about running for Congress induced a sort of vagueness. The last thing she wanted was to jeopardize Politicstoday, yet she also bore indisputable responsibility to those in her congregation. She chided herself not for Kye's debts, but for feeding him with false hope. How could she have led him down a false path?

  Gabby didn't wait for him to initiate a new conversation, but called his mobile phone and left emails at several addresses.

  Her own email box was stuffed with messages from friends, but regrettably nothing from him. It was maddening not to speak with him and she blamed herself for not doing a better job of communicating when the opportunity availed itself. Her brain counseled her to be patient and let the dust settle so that saner minds might prevail. But a fire burning inside continuously upset her deliberations. She wanted to hold Kye in her arms and smother him with kisses, to let their bodies speak in a language their minds did not recognize. Over and over, she repeated his parting words in which he promised to call and, she told herself, it was unlikely he would not fulfill his word.

  The timing of Gabby's decision couldn't have been worse. Gina McQuire's article in The Post fueled gossip in Washington's Jewish community, as it no doubt did among Koreans. Chuck Browner's antenna picked up rumors that she failed to hear. People speculated that troubles with the Board of Directors would eventually translate into her dismissal from her pulpit. Some who favored conspiratorial theories speculated that the board intended to cover its embarrassment about her political ambitions by trumping up charges related to role models and ethnic solidarity. How, these unidentified voices asked, would the normally conservative leaders of the synagogue regard a marriage between their rabbi and a Korean Baptist?

  ***

  A second week passed without word from Kye. She wrote him additional emails and sent none. Her thoughts kept running into each other. When younger, she and her giddy girlfriends believed that love with the right man could overcome all obstacles. A rash of bitter divorces and among their friends knocked the stuffing out of that adolescent fantasy. Further, in the course of her career, Gabby had witnessed hundreds of failed marriages, the majority of which she knew to be badly flawed from the very outset. Instead of sending such rambling thoughts to Kye ,she deleted them one after another. Poignant messages she composed and recomposed dissipated into emotional drivel.

  With Asa in California, Gabby spent long hours at the synagogue, fulfilling the duties of two rabbis. Normally spunky, she became withdrawn, slow to enter into conversation with others and then for only brief periods. Chuck observed her emotional tailspin and camped protectively nearby, resisting an urge to ask questions to which he knew there were no answers. His contribution to her therapy was to keep her occupied and her schedule of meetings full.

  From the vestibule of her office, he studied her examining the Fire Marshal's Report on the Morgenstern accident, printed on orange-pink paper, matching he thought, the hue of flames in a blazing conflagration. This was not the first time he had seen her with it. Though he made no sound, she felt his presence and lifted eyes lazily over the rims of her reading glasses. "Neu?"

  "I'd like to invite you to dinner with the sexiest fag in Washington," he replied.

  Smiles seldom occurred these days, but she worked one onto her cheeks, punctuating the dimples he found alluring. "So what's in it for me, besides good food?"

  "Good company."

  "The best," she returned, falling into their natural badinage. "But I don't know how long I'll be here tonight. Asa was supposed to be returning this afternoon, though I haven't heard from him yet. He'll want to hear about the meeting in Baltimore."

  "Sounds like he's hit the jackpot in California."

  "I think he's been smitten by the Golden State."

  "That will end your sabbatical, won't it?"

  She nodded her agreement by letting her eyes fall back over the report.

  "And there goes my fantasy as secretary to a congresswoman."

  She ignored the remark and drew his attention to what was on her desk. "I'm trying to understand firemen's jargon. Listen to this: equipment involved as source of ignition, form of heat of ignition, type of material ignited, form of material ignited, act or omission origin of fire, main avenues of fire spread, type of material most responsible for fire spread, act or omission most responsible for fire spread… it goes on an on. I never thought fires could be so complicated."

  He stepped forward to sit in a Naugahide interview chair opposite the desk. "Why do you care? Have you found something?"

  "A couple of things. First, according to this report, the fire started in the Morgenstern kitchen. Flames from newspapers ignited grease on a kitchen table and spread to the gas range. From there, they jumped to painted walls. An inspector found Asa's menorah. Because it was caked with melted candle wax he drew the conclusion the candles had burned wildly, transferring flames to the newspapers."

  "Sounds like you're not certain," Chuck said.

  "I'm not. Remember the photo of Asa in his office. When I originally saw Asa's menorah I thought to myself, why the hell doesn't he clean off the surplus wax. Instead, he let it cake up from year to year until it looked like one of those Chianti bottles used for candle holders in inexpensive Italian restaurants. What's important is that melted wax doesn't build up evenly under the eight candles. Because we start each of the eight nights with the shamash and add an additional candle each successive night, there's more residual wax under the shamash and first candles than the rest. Over eight days of Chanukah, eight candles are lit in the first holder, seven in the second, six in the third and so on. When the inspector examined Asa's menorah, he noticed lots of excess wax and concluded that the flames burned wildly. That often happens on the eighth night when all nine candles are burning simultaneously, but not during the first few nights. Think of eight candles burning side by side. They develop so much heat they burn erratically. If there's a draft fanning the flames, ignition is even faster."

  "So the marshal was right."

  "Wrong, Chuck. The accident didn't happen on Shabbat, December 17th. And it wasn't the eighth night or even the third night of Chanukah. The 17th was the first night. If the Morgenstern girls were following lessons from the religious school, they would have been burning only the shamash and the first candle. The melted wax the Marshal believed to be from this year actually occurred years before, residue from previous years. The picture from Asa's study proves it."

  "That doesn't prove either the shamash or first candle didn't start the fire."

  "That's
right, but it makes one think twice about the marshal's judgment, now doesn't it? Maybe a jury will take that into consideration."

  "If you're right, what did start the fire?"

  "Don't know for certain. I read someplace that most home fires start in kitchens because that where there are multiple sources of fuel. It was Sabbath so it could have been the Shabbat candles. This report says that two silver candle sticks were discovered, both in the kitchen area. I found a note in the addenda that all pertinent items removed from the fire were being stored at the Fire Department's Forensic Laboratory. It gives identification number for the menorah and the silver candle sticks." She fumbled through notes attached to the documents. "Yes, you see," an upbeat expression of discovery spread over her face, "The bin number is 8875; the carton number 9765-09."

  "Where does all this lead? Who cares whether the fire started from the menorah, Shabbos candles or the pilot flame from the kitchen range?"

  "That's just the point. Asa admitted to teaching the kids about lighting Chanukah candles. He lent the Morgenstern girls his menorah, caked with years of unburned wax, which they took home. But he didn't teach them blessings over the Sabbath candles. That was probably done by one of the religious schoolteachers. And we don't know if these teachers did or didn't warn their children about lighting matches. My guess is that they did. Teachers are trained to be cautious. But what's important is that there's no proof they didn't issue warnings. This bites at the nub of the case against Ohav."

  "Very speculative," he added. "Are you thinking there's no merit in the lawsuit?"

  She rose from behind the desk and withdrew glasses from her nose in a meditative manner, like a college professor lighting his pipe. "That, my sexy fag, I don't know. Merit is in the eye of the judge or the jury. But if a jury buys my logic, that would be disastrous for Tybee, leaving her nothing for her suffering, medical and educational expenses."

  "So a settlement is better," he added.