Before retiring for the night he wrote himself a note: “Buy new drill on way to work.”
EXCERPT FROM “THE BILLY & GILLY SHOW,” OCTOBER 27TH
Gilly: Say, Billy, did you see the newspaper stories about the special religious service that’s planned for our own King’s Neck?
Billy: You mean at the Jewish temple?
Gilly: Yes, where they’re going to feature a rock ‘n’ roll group.
Billy: Wild.
Gilly: I know, it’s too fascinating. I’ve heard about using jazz as part of the liturgy, but rock ‘n’ roll! To say the least, that’s a bit different.
Billy: Of course, the rabbi there, Rabbi Joshua Turnbull, is well known as an innovator.
Gilly: He’s a comparatively young man, too.
Billy: You know, he might make an interesting guest.
Gilly: Yes, I think he would be extremely interesting. I’ve never drawn out a rabbi before.
JOSHUA TURNBULL
IT was too simple, too easy. Ernie Miklos … Morton Earbrow … Gillian, weary of automatic conquests, was tempted to abandon her plan. What was needed at this juncture was a challenge. Something that would permit her to test her … mettle.
Joshua Turnbull, spiritual leader of the tiny Jewish community in King’s Neck, had in recent months become a figure of modest controversy. It began when he announced plans to amplify a Friday night service the following month with a rock ’n’ roll group known as “Jonah and the Wails.” It was this announcement that qualified the rabbi for a guest appearance on the Billy & Gilly Show. And the rabbi’s public relations man had said Rabbi Turnbull would be delighted to come.
So it was that William Blake—philanderer, cuckold and moderator—looked on naïvely that Monday morning as Gillian hoisted sail. Rabbi Turnbull was difficult from the outset. Not only was he oblivious to Gillian’s charm, he even seemed unaware of her presence, and he directed his conversation to the radio audience. He wasn’t responding properly to her sallies. He answered them obliquely and continued following a course of his own charting. Gillian added canvas, sailed recklessly after him.
Turnbull, a product of Union Theological Seminary in Cleveland, was a beefy, thick-muscled man in his mid-thirties who sported an ash-blond Vandyke, jaunty salt-and-pepper tweeds and no yarmulke. William noted a resemblance to Skitch Henderson. Rabbi Turnbull sprang from a family of Reform rabbis that had emigrated to the Midwest from Germany before the Civil War. Rabbi Turnbull was considerably more than reformed; he was reconstructed. American to a fault, he was the residual of four generations of reformed Jewry that had refined the stiff-necked, insulated, and anachronistic worship of a desert God into a white precipitate of acceptability and consensus that bordered on the Episcopalian.
Rabbi Turnbull’s Sunday School, for example, happened on Sundays. The rabbi had constructed a Temple of steel and glass that was the envy of all the other faiths in King’s Neck. (He sometimes took delighted malice in the Greek epigram: “The crucified martyr made light of his loss/ Till he spotted another on a higher cross.”) The Temple was built with three prongs jutting skyward, symbolizing the Hebrew letter “shin,” a symbol that burst with significance in Jewish lore but was also a symbol that could represent any trinity that one cared to apply. Detractors said it looked like Neptune’s trident thrust through the earth, and they claimed it would not be surprising if a huge pagan fist reached up from the waters of Long Island Sound to reclaim it. Vandals from the city had once desecrated the building by painting the words, “By you, this is a shule?” across the front doors.
But the most unpleasant incident connected with the Temple occurred during the dedication ceremonies. Rabbi Turnbull had arranged to liberate a hundred balloons and, as the balloons soared aloft, the string on one of them became entangled on the forked tongue of the Temple’s left prong and bobbed there insistently. In effect, the letter “shin” was dotted on the left which, unfortunately, turned it into the letter “sin.” And to the rabbi’s anguish the balloon remained there for half a day until one of his congregation shot it down with an air rifle.
Despite its beginnings, the Temple prospered. As did Rabbi Turnbull. Gaining some small fame as an ecumenical bridge, the Temple primarily served as the social locus of the Jewish community of King’s Neck. The Jews of King’s Neck, thoroughly assimilated and distributed, were members of that ultimate ghetto—the dispersed one.
Turnbull always observed that tolerance breeds selectivity. If a community bends over backward to be publicly liberal, it can give itself the bonus of private snobbery. In such a hotbed of tolerance it was perhaps inevitable that the rabbi and his Temple would flourish. Only last year, Turnbull, the father of three, had been named one of the ten most outstanding young rabbis in America. This was followed by a genuine heaven-sent gift—the King’s Neck (Reform) Temple Beth Manasseh received a three-page color spread in a Life Magazine series entitled “The New Look in Religion.” Shortly thereafter, Rabbi Turnbull received a CORE citation for his Civil Rights efforts. He had marched in Washington and St. Augustine, and his picture had been flashed across the nation when an Associated Press photographer spotted him attempting to reason with an outraged redneck in Selma. Turnbull circulated five hundred of these photographs to leading church, state and community officials at his own expense.
But Rabbi Turnbull’s latest venture, hiring Jonah and the Wails for his Friday night service, had caused a stir even among his fellow reformers, most of whom objected on aesthetic rather than ethical grounds. The rabbi dismissed this as so many sour grapes. He had simply stolen a march on them again.
The controversy spread throughout Long Island, with the community about evenly divided. A Newsday poll revealed that the division was among those who thought the rabbi was a charlatan (5 per cent), those who thought he was sincere (5 per cent), those who thought Jonah and the Wails were sincere (20 per cent) and the rest who had not yet formed an opinion. In the face of criticism, Rabbi Turnbull stoutly maintained that Judaism was an organic faith which must adapt or die.
“I am improvising on the keyboard of faith,” he told Gillian, or rather, the microphone. At that moment Gillian decided, if the rabbi planned to champion reform, she would fight the battle of tradition.
Rabbi Turnbull noted that music had been malleable and contemporary in Jewish culture from the time of King David’s harp; as evidence he named such composers as Arabanels in Spain and others such as Mendelssohn and Halévy. Gillian countered by observing that no one on the list composed ritual music. Rabbi Turnbull recalled that even the pious Hasidic rabbis had composed a march of welcome when Napoleon entered Galicia.
“Yes,” Gillian said, “but surely you will recall that they scrupulously refrained from using that march in their liturgy. And certainly you’re not going to compare the Hasids to … Jonah and the Wails?”
The rabbi turned red around the neck but went on ignoring Gillian. He pointed out that, if the tradition were literally adhered to, the great commentaries on the Bible, the Mishnah and Gmorrah, would never have been written, and the Jews would still be mired in pre-Herodian ritual. What were the commentaries, he asked, but a restatement of the Bible in contemporary terms? He likened the Bible to a Rorschach ink blot and the commentaries to the thought associations of generations of rabbis.
“Careful, rabbi,” Gillian said.
“And what is the Reform movement,” he continued, “but a restatement of Judaism in contemporary terms? And, consequently, in the direct tradition of the great rabbis. Like your own earlier Christian Reformation, it is an attempt to breathe new life into an ancient faith. And if we are to rephrase the religious idiom, would it not be a breach of faith to stop short at the music?”
Gillian had majored in Far-Eastern Religion at Bard College—that was before she left school and lived off-campus with Charlie, a blind jazz pianist—and she was not so easily put off.
William turned away and sighed. He knew what was going to happen. Whenever a male guest sho
wed a flourish of intellectual vigor, Gillian would first attempt to match erudition—this through an instinctive ability to marshal the right quote, cite the differential case and, at times, invent the properly unnerving statistic. And if she didn’t win in this manner, she would resort to banter, ruse and twittering. Then, if the guest genuinely knew what he was talking about, Gillian would ever so deftly suggest that he was a wee bit pompous, lacked humor, took himself more seriously than was absolutely warranted. And, in extreme cases, when the guest was preparing to lash back, Gillian would simply cut him down with a fusillade of charm. Which would it be this time?
“But isn’t it true,” she began the assault, “that medieval rabbis had interpreted the Law within the traditions of ritual—which you are clearly not doing? And isn’t that ritual which you are forsaking essential to Judaism, not necessarily for its own sake as you imply, but because it reaffirms the holiness of each human act?”
“My dear lady.…”
“Just let me finish, rabbi,” she interrupted him. “As for the analogy between Jewish and Christian reformations, I’m more than a little surprised that you would overlook such a basic matter as intent. The original spirit of the Protestant Reformation was to purify, to return to the past, whereas the Jewish Reform sought to streamline and move toward the future. And finally, it will seem strange to some of our listeners that a man of God would allow what is most crude and frivolous in our society into the sacred halls of a temple—not as penitents, but as preachers.”
“Is there a question in all that?” For the first time Rabbi Turnbull took note of the opposition.
“Take your choice,” Gillian said.
“It was Rabbi Meir,” Turnbull said, “who was once asked why he remained friends with an outcast. His reply should serve me as well: ‘I found a pomegranate; I ate its contents and threw away its husk.’”
William was getting nervous. Not only did he question the relevance of pomegranates, he could almost hear the radios being turned off. (That talky kike is worse than my gabby wife, he thought.) He was aware that he had become less than peripheral once again. He had vanished, vanished like a rabbit through the magic of others being unaware of his presence. The one thing he was certain of, the conversation was becoming too damned metaphysical for a chatty morning radio show. Who did she think was listening, Reinhold Niebuhr? That crack about Protestants purifying the church, that was going to go over big with the Catholics.
“Gilly,” he interrupted, “darling, don’t you think that what the rabbi is trying to say is that religious music can benefit from new sounds, even rock and roll?”
“Not exactly, Billy,” she said—control, control—“sweetheart, I think the rabbi is saying much more than that. I think he is suggesting a religious structure that is not so much opposed to tradition as outside it. Isn’t that so, Rabbi Turnbull?”
They were off once again, Gillian leading Turnbull a merry chase through the forest of tradition and reformation. The rabbi was dazzled by Gillian’s fund of knowledge, dazzled but not cowed, and he took to the game with relish. But when he cited an arcane Babylonian scholar, Gillian managed to recall what the sage’s equally arcane nemesis had said to refute the argument. Turnbull was fascinated. Up until that moment it had been a game. Suddenly it was a contest.
In the next fifteen minutes, Rabbi Turnbull had invoked the sum of his learning at Union Theological and beyond. Gillian had, by this time, changed her tactics, shifted to intellectual guerrilla warfare, sniping, hitting available targets, retreating, twitting and teasing. When the show finally ended, Gillian reflected the infuriating impression that she had won. The issue of Jonah and the Wails had somehow been put in camphor.
“You are an army of scholars, Mrs. Blake,” the rabbi conceded. “We must continue this some other time.”
“I’d love to, rabbi.”
The rabbi nodded absently at William and left. He had hardly closed the studio door—
“What the hell did you think you were talking about?” William was asking. “Where did you think you were, one of your Radcliffe seminars?”
“Bard,” she corrected him. “And kindly be quiet for a moment and do some thinking. It doesn’t matter what I say. We could be talking Urdu—all that matters is that all those little housewives think I come out on top. In case you’ve missed the point, that’s what this show is all about.”
“Try talking Urdu a few times,” he said. “And see what happens.”
The following day Rabbi Turnbull phoned Gillian and asked for some program tapes. She said she would have them the next evening if the rabbi wouldn’t mind stopping over at the house for them. He said no, he wouldn’t mind. She said fine.
Gillian had figured right; Wednesday had become Phyllis night. When Rabbi Turnbull arrived at the Blake home, Gillian greeted him in a low-cut dress which covered her mid-section and not much else. She had completed the costume with hooped earrings and matching silver bracelets.
“Rabbi, how good of you to come,” she said. “I didn’t hear you drive up.”
“I parked up the block,” he said. “I was afraid I might clutter your driveway.”
Was it possible? Was it possible that even the rabbi would be so willing?
“But that’s what the driveway is for, rabbi,” Gillian said. She led him by the hand into the living room. The decor was Spanish—everything low and wide except the mortgage.
“From the outside,” the rabbi said, “I expected to be greeted by Henry VII.”
“Imitation Tudor,” she said. “And I hate imitation anything. William always says that all this castle needs is Anne Boleyn—but I guess I’ll just have to do.”
“She ended badly,” Turnbull observed.
“But she lived so well.”
“May I ask,” he went on, “where Mr. Blake is tonight?”
“William is working late tonight,” Gillian said. “He works late on Wednesdays and on Mondays and sometimes on Sundays. And on those occasions, he leaves me with his dog. Rolf. I don’t like dogs, however, and I especially dislike Rolf.”
“Where is Rolf?”
“I’ve locked him in the garage,” she said. “I always lock him in the garage when William’s gone.”
“But isn’t that cruel?”
“Not at all,” she said. “He’s supposed to be a watchdog. He watches over our broken lawn mower.”
Gillian offered Turnbull a drink. His rapid acceptance of the offer amused her.
“What’s the blessing on a martini, rabbi?”
“It depends on how well you make it, Mrs. Blake.”
Gillian returned to join Turnbull on the couch. The conversation went from the tapes to the show and then, with increasing animation, to the age-old struggle between good and evil. Turnbull mentioned that evil was known everywhere, even in the rabbinate. He concluded that even the sages—no, especially the sages—were not free from temptation.
“Why the sages especially?”
“There is a saying, Mrs. Blake,” he said, “‘The greater the man, the greater the inclination toward evil.’”
With this Turnbull snorted, as if to clear his nostrils, and reached out to grasp Gillian’s wrist. She twisted her arm from his grasp, went into the dining room and returned a moment later.
“Here are the tapes, rabbi,” she said. “I believe these were what you came for.”
“I mistook you, Mrs. Blake.” Turnbull rose and strode over to her. “I hope I didn’t upset you.”
“No,” she said.
“I hope we can still be friends.”
“I understand, Rabbi Turnbull, that you’re married and that you have three children.”
“Yes.”
“And your marriage is considered a model for the community?”
“Models are for show windows,” he said.
“Then you are unhappily married?”
“That is a redundancy, Mrs. Blake.”
“Have you been unfaithful before?”
“Why a
ll this?” he asked. “Is this another taped interview?”
“Before you buy the goods, rabbi, you want to know the quality.”
“I will talk straight with you,” he said. “I have a need for variety which my wife, dear woman, cannot fulfill. I am not a believer in abstinence.”
“But isn’t abstinence the sign of a holy man?”
“Only according to your saints, Paul and Augustine, both profligates of the worst order trying to repent for their own sins. Abstinence and profligacy are two sides of the same coin. To be obsessed by one, you must be fascinated by the other.”
“This is beginning to sound like an interview, rabbi,” she said.
“Let us return to the goods, Mrs. Blake. Have we made a sale?”
“Call me Gillian,” she said.
“I take it then”—reaching for her—“that the goods are in hand.”
“Not until you get your hands on them.”
Gillian laughed, slipped away, behind the couch, into the master bedroom. Snorting, the rabbi gave chase. His beard was bobbing. He cornered her in the bedroom against a low Spanish bedpost and pushed her toward the bed.
“Wait,” she said, “I must ask you something.”
“Honey,” he said, “we have talked enough.”
“But do you really believe that you’ll be damned in hell for this, for what you’re trying to do?”
Turnbull studied her for a long moment. Was she joking, crazy? What then? “‘There is neither judgment nor judge’—Rabbi Elisha.” With that he thrust Gillian back onto the bed and made a flying leap with the clear intent of pinning her down to stay. But she swerved to one side and the holy man, stiff with lust, came down standard-first on the bedpost. For a full two minutes he did not rise; he lay there, crumpled up, hissing incoherently.
Naked Came the Stranger Page 7
