Thursday the Rabbi Walked Out

by Harry Kemelman

“Sure I liked him. And I think he liked me. Course, he didn’t ever say so, because—well, because that kind of thing he wouldn’t say to your face.” He canted his head to one side as he considered. “He was a funny kind of guy. Sometimes he’d seem awfully mean, but you couldn’t tell. Like, he’d say nasty things to Martha sometimes, and she’d flare back at him. And he’d just laugh. Afterward, he would explain that he did it to let her know she was like part of the family, and not just a servant. You understand?”

  “I think so.”

  “Some things he was very particular about,” the young man went on, “like time, for instance, because he said each person had just so much of it and no more. He had this clock on the mantelpiece in the living room, and he’d check it by the radio time signals every day. And if you were late to dinner, say, even if it was only a couple of minutes, he’d glare at you and point at it without saying a word. But you could see he was angry.

  “And money. Down to the last penny. Like Martha did the shopping. He’d give her money, and then at the end of the week, she’d give him the tapes from the supermarket, or the other stores, and whatever money was left. And if she was short, even if it was only like three cents, he’d tell her and make her give it to him. And once, when it was the other way, and he didn’t happen to have any change on him, she said it was all right, and that made him angry. He said, ‘It’s not all right,’ and went off to his bedroom and fished in his bureau drawer and got the necessary few coins.”

  “What did he call you?” asked the rabbi.

  “He called me Billy mostly. But sometimes when he was a little annoyed with me, he’d call me Sir.”

  “And when he was greatly annoyed with you?” asked the rabbi, smiling.

  “Then he didn’t call me anything,” said the young man promptly. “He just didn’t talk to me. Of course, when he got real wrathy, he’d send me to my room. And if it blew his mind, like—like the other night, he’d lock me in.”

  “And how did you feel about that?”

  “Well, the first time it happened, it was because I hadn’t written to my mother, and he’d promised her I would. He got all red and worked up and I was afraid he might have a heart attack. He had heart trouble, you know. So I just went into my room. But I was real kind of upset, being treated like a little kid like that. So I thought, what the hell—oh, I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right,” the rabbi said. “Everybody uses the expression these days.”

  “Well, anyway, I thought, why should I stay here? So I just raised the window and split. See, I promised Mr. Gore I’d help him with his silver stuff, and I didn’t want to disappoint him. And I came back the same way, but if he heard me, he didn’t let on. Then before he went to bed, I heard him turning the key in the lock. So that meant he knew I’d been out. And the next morning it was as though nothing happened. And that’s the way it was every time after that.” He began to laugh. “Once he kept me locked up for three days, and I went to the bank every day through the window. He even came into the bank one day, and of course he saw me, but he acted as though I wasn’t there.” He laughed again, joyously. “That was real funny. I’d get home from the bank, and there was my dinner in my room. See, it was like a game between us. I figured out, he couldn’t hit me, or withhold my allowance, or anything like that. And I guess he was afraid to yell at me, maybe on account of his heart, or maybe because it might lead to a real fight where we’d say things that—well, that we’d be sorry for.”

  “Then why did you run off to New York if it were just a sort of game?” asked the rabbi, curious.

  The young man sobered. “That was different. That was in front of Mr. Gore. He knew about my going out the window because I told him. It was like a joke. But to do it right in front of him like that. I thought I’d never be able to face him again. You understand?”

  “I think so. Tell me, have you informed your mother about—about what happened?”

  The young man shook his head.

  “Don’t you think you ought to, considering that he was an old friend of hers?”

  “What for? She might feel she had to come back to take care of me. Well, I’m all right. And she’s going great over there, so why should she cancel?”

  The rabbi nodded. He jumped off his perch on the railing and said, “I’ve got to be going now, but if you come into town, I’d like you to come and see me.”

  “Sure, why not? Any special reason?”

  “No-o, but if you should need any help …”

  “What kind of help?”

  The rabbi smiled. “Any kind at all.”

  38

  Wednesday evenings, the Board of Selectmen met, and the rabbi had made a note of it on his calendar. Shortly after dinner, he called Lanigan at the stationhouse to ask if he were planning to attend.

  “I’m expected to be present at the selectmen’s meetings, and I usually go unless something special has come up. You’re concerned about the traffic light business? How about dropping over here so we can plan our strategy?”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “How does it look?” the rabbi asked eagerly as soon as he was seated in the chief’s office some fifteen minutes later.

  “I had a brainstorm right after you called,” Lanigan said. “Those fellows on the board are pretty considerate of each other. I’ve seen it happen any number of times. One of them asks for reconsideration of some motion, and the others go along as a matter of courtesy. Then, if he withdraws his request for reconsideration, they go along with that, too. So I called Albert Megrim. My idea was that maybe we could convince him to withdraw the request he made last week.”

  “And?”

  “He wasn’t in. I spoke to his wife. She says he doesn’t come home for dinner Wednesdays. He goes to the Agathon and eats there and then goes on to the meeting. So I thought we’d go and see him at the Agathon.”

  “You mean both of us?”

  Lanigan looked at him quizzically. “Does it bother you going there? Because it’s the same for me as it is for you. They don’t have Catholics any more than they have Jews.”

  “Well, we’re going there on business.”

  “That’s the way I feel about it,” said Lanigan. “I’ve been invited there to dinner on occasion, and I’ve always made some excuse. But as you say, this is business.”

  As they drove, Lanigan explained the reason for his strategy. “Chances are, if we let matters take their natural course, we’d probably come out ahead anyway. But you can never tell. The other night, Sturgis was sounding off at the Republican Club about how important it was for the town to hold down expenditures. He might vote against it just because it costs money, and he might feel he has to be consistent. And Cunningham, who is on a pension, is always worrying about the tax rate. Then Megrim might vote against it just to be consistent with his having asked for reconsideration. And there you have a majority, and we’d be sunk.”

  “And this way?”

  “This way, well, if we can persuade Megrim to withdraw his motion to reconsider, and if the rest go along and permit him to, then we’re back to the original vote to install the traffic lights.”

  At the club, the steward informed them that Megrim was in the bar. “Down the corridor as far as you can go, and it’s the door to the left.”

  Only Albert Megrim and Dr. Springhurst were present when they entered the room, and the selectman rose when he saw them. “I’ve been expecting you, Hugh,” he said. In response to Lanigan’s inquiring look, he explained, “I called home a little while ago, and Alice told me you’d called and were coming out. Rabbi Small? I’ve seen you around, but I don’t think we’ve ever met. Do you know Dr. Springhurst?”

  “I know Rabbi Small,” said the elderly minister.

  “We met at the Ministers’ Conference,” said the rabbi.

  “We came about the traffic light business, Al,” said Lanigan when they were seated.

  “I figured as much when you brought the rabbi with you,” said Megrim
. “Let’s see, I guess it comes up tonight. What do you want?”

  “Well, after you voted for it a couple of weeks back, you asked for reconsideration last week,” said Lanigan. “I figured it was because Ellsworth Jordon asked you to.”

  “That’s right. He was an abutter, and he hadn’t been notified.”

  “Yeah, but he’s not concerned anymore,” said Lanigan brutally.

  “You want me to vote against it, when I was the one that asked for reconsideration?”

  “Why not? You asked for reconsideration after you voted for it. But I don’t see why you have to vote at all. Why can’t you just withdraw your motion to reconsider?”

  “Because the board already voted to reconsider,” Megrim said.

  “So what? They voted it because you asked them to, as a courtesy to a member of the board. If you said you’d like to withdraw your motion to reconsider, would any of them object?”

  “Well, maybe not.”

  “What’s it all about?” asked Dr. Springhurst.

  Megrim explained, and Lanigan added, “My interest is that it would save me posting a man there every day.”

  “And what was Jordon’s objection?” asked the doctor.

  “As an abutter, he’s supposed to be notified,” Megrim said, “and he didn’t receive notification. He was pretty indignant about it. Claimed the board was high-handed. So I asked for reconsideration. I don’t even know if he objected to the traffic lights down at the temple. He was just sore that he hadn’t been informed.”

  “Oh, I think he probably did,” said Dr. Springhurst. “I think his objection was that the temple would be helped by the arrangement.”

  “What makes you think so?” asked the rabbi.

  “I’m quite convinced of it,” said Dr. Springhurst. “Ellsworth Jordon was a lonely old man without friends or family. He’d come here to the bar about once a week or so. Why here? Because in a bar, you can sit around and talk with anyone informally. You’d never see him in the dining room, or anywhere else in the club. Just here. In a bar you can talk freely and say the most outrageous things and be indulged. If it’s quite bad, people tend to assume you’re in your cups and they tolerate it.” He smiled wanly. “Maybe that’s why I come here, too. Anyway, I remember a little while ago, he was here when he were talking about admitting to membership this Ben Segal who has taken over the Rohrbough Corporation. Ellsworth said he would blackball him because he was a Jew, although it was fairly obvious that those around the table at the time were favorably disposed to admitting him. It’s true we don’t have any of your people on our rolls, Rabbi, but then I don’t believe there have ever been any applications from them. The curious thing is that the one who sponsored Segal was Larry Gore, who is kin to Jordon, I understand.”

  “Was Gore here when he said it?” Lanigan asked.

  “Oh no.” Dr. Springhurst shook his head. “Occasionally, Gore would bring him and then call for him here to take him home. Ellsworth didn’t like to drive at night. But Gore never stayed. He would immediately go down to the pistol range and spend time there. He’s quite rabid on shooting, I understand. Club champion, I believe.”

  “That’s right. Larry doesn’t drink,” said Megrim. “I remember that night when Jordon sounded off on Segal and your people in general. Sounded a little crazy to me, to tell the truth. Said he hated them because all Jews had become Christians, or some such nonsense. And I’d heard him at other times, too. He’d make little digs, sly remarks. All right, I’ll go along. I’ll ask the boys to let me withdraw my motion.” A thought crossed his mind, and he looked curiously at Rabbi Small. “I suppose from your point of view Jordon’s death was punishment from on high for his attitude toward your kind.”

  “Oh no,” said the rabbi quickly. “I’d hate to think so.”

  Megrim opened his eyes wide. “You would?”

  “Naturally,” said the rabbi. “Because the corollary would be that either any wicked person who was alive and prosperous was not really wicked or that God was unaware of his actions.”

  Dr. Springhurst chuckled. “Ah, then you believe as we do that the wicked are punished after death.”

  “No-o, we don’t believe that either,” said the rabbi. “That would mean depriving men of free will. We feel that virtue is its own reward, and evil carries with it its own punishment.”

  “But if he’s healthy and prosperous and happy,” Lanigan objected.

  “But he is diminished. He’s less than he was by virtue of his sin. It’s like a speck of dust on a fine mechanism. It doesn’t stop it, but it prevents it from functioning with the accuracy that was its original potential. And every additional sin or wickedness decreases the potential of the machine still more.”

  “And a good deed is like a spot of oil on the mechanism?” Dr. Springhurst suggested.

  “Something like that.”

  Megrim glanced at his watch and rose. “We better get going if I want to get to the meeting on time.”

  “Just a minute, Albert,” said Dr. Springhurst. “I’d like to ask the rabbi what he meant when he said that punishment and reward after death deprived man of free will?”

  The rabbi, who with Lanigan had also risen, paused and said, “Well, I suppose it depends on what you mean by free will.”

  “Why freedom of choice, of course. The right to choose—”

  “Between bread and toast?” the rabbi challenged. “Between turning right or left at a crossing? The lower animals have that kind of free will. For man, free will means the freedom to choose to do something he knows is wrong, wicked, evil, for some immediate material advantage. But that calls for a fair chance of not being discovered and punished. Would anyone steal if he were surrounded by policemen and certain of arrest and punishment? And on the other hand, what virtue is there in a good deed if the reward is certain? Since God is presumably all-seeing and all-knowing, no transgression goes undetected, and no good deed fails to be noted. So what kind of free will is that? How does it differ from the free will of the laboratory rat that is rewarded by food if he goes down one path of a maze and is given an electric shock if he goes down another?”

  “Then what happens after death according to your people?”

  The rabbi smiled. “We don’t pretend to know.”

  Dr. Springhurst looked bemused. “That’s a very interesting point of view.” He rose and held out his hand to Rabbi Small. “Tell me, do you take a drink occasionally? Or is it against your principles, or your religion?”

  “No, I drink on occasion. In fact, it is enjoined us every Sabbath and most of our holidays.”

  “Then would you do me the honor of coming down here some evening and having a drink with me?”

  “I’d be happy to, Doctor.”

  39

  Although Rabbi Small preferred working at home, on Thursdays he made use of the rabbi’s study in the temple, because on that day the cleaning woman came to help Miriam ready the house for the approaching Sabbath, and the whine of the vacuum cleaner and the odor of furniture waxes and polishes made concentration all but impossible.

  He had no sooner entered, doffed his topcoat and seated himself behind the desk, when there was a knock at the door, and before he could answer, it opened and Morton Brooks, the principal of the religious school, entered. He was a flamboyant youngish man of roughly the rabbi’s age, that is, in his early forties. Because he had once been a bookkeeper in a Yiddish theater in New York, and had occasionally been given a walk-on part to save the cost of another actor’s salary, he considered himself essentially of the theater and was presumably merely marking time while waiting for a call from an agent to return to it. He was dressed very modishly in a leisure suit with flared trousers and a fancy shirt, open at the throat. His neck was encircled by a colorful kerchief, negligently knotted at the side.

  “Why do you knock, when you don’t wait until you’re invited in?” asked the rabbi petulantly.

  “Why? I saw you from the end of the corridor, so I knew you were a
lone.”

  “Then why do you bother to knock?”

  Brooks perched unceremoniously on the corner of the desk, crossed his legs and said, “Oh, just to give you a chance to get dignified and stuffy.”

  The rabbi smiled and tilted back in his chair. “All right, I’m as dignified and stuffy as I’m likely to get. Anything special?”

  “I came to ask you about the decision of the selectmen on the traffic lights. They met last night, didn’t they?”

  “I’m sure they did.”

  “Then you didn’t go? Look, David, that was important. You should have been there.”

  “Oh, I did better than that,” said the rabbi with quiet satisfaction. “Before the meeting I went to see Albert Megrim, the man who asked for reconsideration, and he agreed to withdraw his motion.”

  “You did?” He looked at the rabbi with a new appreciation. “How’d you happen to do that?”

  “Oh, it was Chief Lanigan’s idea. The police are as interested in getting those lights as we are. We decided it would be best if I didn’t go to the meeting so that Megrim’s request would be regarded as a straight parliamentary procedure.”

  The phone rang. It was Henry Maltzman. “I called your house, Rabbi, and you weren’t home.” The tone was accusing.

  “No, I’m here.”

  “I just wanted to let you know that the board of selectmen agreed to go ahead with the traffic lights.”

  “Oh, that’s good news.”

  “I expected to see you at the meeting, Rabbi. It’s your job.”

  “Well, I—”

  “However, it worked out all right. I spoke to Megrim just before the meeting started, and he agreed to withdraw his motion.”

  “Well, that’s fine.”

  “Just wanted to let you know.”

  When the rabbi hung up, Brooks, who had been able to hear both sides of the conversation, said, “Why didn’t you tell him, David?”

  “To vie with him for the credit?”

  “To let him know you were on the job, and that you pulled it off. He accused you of neglecting your work.”