Someday the Rabbi Will Leave

by Harry Kemelman

  “I hope you won’t until after the election. A car that stands out like that can be good for campaigning.”

  “You think so?”

  “Of course. It gives you instant recognition. You’re planning to mount a sign on top, aren’t you?”

  “Oh sure.”

  “I’d do it right away if I were you. It’s recognition that gets you elected, and that’s the easiest way of getting recognition. You have a sign with your picture on it and your name.”

  “Say, you know a lot about this stuff.”

  “Not as much as I’d like to know.”

  “You interested in politics?” he asked curiously.

  “I think it’s the most interesting thing in the world.”

  8

  At the special meeting of the general membership called to elect a new president of the temple, the successful candidate was not even present. Neither was Rabbi Small, since he was not, strictly speaking, a member of the temple organization. He had gone home immediately after the minyan, before the meeting had begun. He received the results from Morton Brooks, the principal of the religious school, who was not a member either, but had been present because the school was in session on Sunday mornings, and the meeting took place in the school’s assembly hall.

  Shortly after noon, Morton Brooks zoomed up the street in his sports car and came to a screeching halt in front of the rabbi’s house. He rang the bell, and when Miriam opened the door, he struck a pose with arms spread wide and announced, “Ta-da!”

  He was wearing a light-fawn herringbone sports coat with chamois patches on the elbows and a leather tab with a buttonhole on one lapel. Underneath, he wore a cream-colored sport shirt, open at the throat, which was encircled by a bright red kerchief. His short, spindly legs were encased in sand-colored slacks, and his shoes were chocolate-brown suede with fancy laces.

  Miriam smiled and said, “You look very sharp, Morton. Come in.”

  “Sunday in the country,” he said, simpering, by way of explanation.

  “But the principal of a religious school—”

  “Miriam, you know that’s only temporary,” he said reproachfully. Although he had been the principal of the Barnard’s Crossing religious school for eight years and had been a Hebrew teacher in other schools for several years before that, he still considered it essentially temporary work while he awaited the call to return to his true vocation, the theater. This, on the strength of having been the bookkeeper and general factotum of a Yiddish theater group in New York, perpetually on the verge of bankruptcy, and had occasionally been given a walk-on part to save an actor’s salary.

  In the living room, Morton paced back and forth like a movie director sketching a scene to the actors. “Get the picture. Although the meeting was called for ten o’clock, a lot of them were already there by nine because they had to bring their kids to school. You’d think by ten o’clock they’d be anxious for the meeting to begin. But no, people keep coming in and standing around and shmoosing. It’s like a regular Old Home Week. It’s ten o’clock, a quarter past, half past. It gets to be eleven, and still nobody is impatient, nobody is calling to get the show on the road. Then I spot Kaplan, one of the candidates, in a corner—you can hardly see him—and his pals, that long drink of water, Herbie Cohen, and Harold Gestner, and Hymie Stern, they keep coming over to where he is, to whisper to him. He listens and he makes little check marks on a paper, the membership list, I suppose. And it all becomes clear to me. See, he’s still campaigning. Magnuson is not around, and Kaplan is making hay, lining up the membership.” He nodded his head and winked at his own perspicacity.

  “And how did you see all this?” asked the rabbi. “Didn’t you have classes?”

  “A class I’ve got at ten. All right, so I come into my office at ten to get my class list and who do I see behind my desk but our president, Sam Feinberg. ‘I hope you don’t mind my using your office,’ sezee. So what should I say? That I do mind? Well, you know how when I’m teaching, I’m always running next door to my office to get some text that will help bring out some special point. I couldn’t do that with Sam Feinberg there. He’d think I was spying on him. So I gave my class some writing to do. Then eleven o’clock is my time for staying in my office to see parents who might want to talk to me about their kids. But when I come in to put the papers from my ten o’clock class in the desk drawer, he looks at me like what am I doing there, like I’m a kind of inter—inter—”

  “Interloper?” Miriam offered.

  “That’s the word. Like I’m a kind of interloper. So I hung around the corridor near the assembly hall, figuring any parents who wanted to see me, well I was right there, wasn’t I?”

  “But the meeting was finally called to order,” said the rabbi patiently.

  “Natch. But when? At a quarter to twelve!” Brooks exclaimed triumphantly, as though he had scored a major point.

  The rabbi glanced at the mantelpiece clock. It was halfpast twelve. “So the meeting is still going on?” he asked.

  “It’s over. They started at a quarter to twelve and by noon it was adjourned.”

  “And the election? Did they hold the election?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, if you’ll only let me.”

  “Let him tell it in his own way, David,” Miriam suggested.

  Morton Brooks gave her a quick look of gratitude, and said, “Thanks, Miriam.”

  “All right,” said the rabbi. “Everybody was just standing around just visiting, and—”

  “And Kaplan was campaigning,” said Brooks, holding up an admonishing forefinger. “Don’t forget that. His lieutenants were circulating all this time, whispering to this one and that one, and then reporting back to Kaplan.”

  “All right, I won’t forget it,” the rabbi good-naturedly assured him.

  “So I figure,” Brooks went on, “that it was Kaplan’s men that were holding up the works. Why? So they could touch all bases, contact as many of the membership as they could before the voting started. And I figured he’d win in a walk, because he’s been a member practically from the beginning, and he’s observant and goes to the minyan every day, whereas Magnuson is a Johnny-come-lately, and who knows him? But then I notice that Kaplan’s face gets more serious, like things aren’t going so well. And then he and his boys all get into a huddle there in the corner and you can see that they’re arguing about something, and some are on one side and some on the other. But pretty soon they come to some kind of agreement because they all nod their heads like they’re on springs. Then Kaplan marches down to the front of the room where Melvin Weill, the secretary, is sitting, and leans over and whispers to him and I can see Melvin is surprised. Then he nods and he gets up and scoots out the door down the corridor. I’m standing at the door and he don’t so much as say Hi, Mort to me, even though I’ve been at his house I don’t know how many times. He goes into my office where Sam Feinberg is still sitting.

  “I thought I might go in after him, like to get some papers out of my desk, but before I could make up my mind, the door opens and Feinberg comes out and goes striding down the corridor, he stops at the door of the hall and as soon as they see him, everybody begins to quiet down and find seats, like a bunch of kids in a classroom when the teacher comes back after having gone out for a few minutes. He goes to the podium and calls the meeting to order. It’s a quarter to twelve now. Okay. Then Feinberg says, ‘I have an announcement to make. Mr. Kaplan, one of the two candidates in this election, has authorized me to say in his behalf that for the sake of greater unity he is retiring from the race and asks that Howard Magnuson as the remaining candidate be elected by acclamation.’ Well, for a couple of minutes there was regular pan—pan—what do you call it?”

  “Pandemonium?” the rabbi offered.

  “That’s right. Regular pandemonium. Everybody shouting, arguing. You see, while Kaplan’s lieutenants knew what was going to happen—they must have decided back there when they were in a huddle with Kaplan—they
hadn’t bothered to tip off those they had been pressuring to vote for him. Some of them thought Kaplan had sold out, that Magnuson had bought him off. You don’t look surprised, David.”

  “I’m not,” said the rabbi. “I figured Magnuson would win.”

  “You did? But why?”

  “And why would Kaplan surrender without a fight?” asked Miriam.

  “Oh, I think Morton is right about Kaplan counting the votes, and then he realized he was not only going to lose, but that he was going to lose badly. So he quit to avoid being embarrassed.”

  Morton Brooks raised his hands and shook his head. “I don’t get it. Why would they vote for Magnuson?”

  “No? Tell me, Morton, when you go back to New York for a visit, and you tell your friends that you are the principal of the religious school of the Barnard’s Crossing Temple, are you sure you won’t add that the president is Howard Magnuson, the Howard Magnuson?”

  Brooks shrugged casually. “I suppose I might. All right, say I do, but—”

  “And so will every member of the temple. Kaplan is just an ordinary, decent man, but Magnuson is a somebody. He’s been written up in Time magazine, and the shares of Magnuson and Beck are traded on the stock exchange. Maybe it occurred to some of the members that if Magnuson were president, he would be likely to contribute to various temple projects, but I imagine that most were content to be associated with a big name.”

  “All right. So why would he want the job?”

  The rabbi shook his head. “That I don’t know.”

  “Maybe he got religion,” suggested Brooks.

  The rabbi smiled. “Maybe. I suppose that’s the way a tycoon would get religion, by becoming president of the congregation.”

  9

  Tony D’Angelo’s small furnished flat in Revere was curiously at odds with the dashing figure he cut. It was in a lower-middle-class neighborhood, and the sparse furniture was cheap and shabby at that. A largish room served as kitchen, living room, dining room, and bedroom, and there was a tiny bathroom. But it didn’t matter—he never brought anyone important there.

  Millie Hanson, who had been living with him for several months now—like being married, he thought sometimes in wonderment—was forty and blond and buxom. Originally from a small town in Nebraska, she had drifted east, maintaining herself by a succession of odd jobs—salesgirl, supermarket checkout cashier, waitress—and had finally come to Revere, where she worked as a cocktail waitress in one of the nightclubs on the promenade. She was easygoing and friendly, and it had required no great effort on Tony’s part to get her to come home with him. There was no lengthy courtship. She moved in easily and although nothing was ever said, it was tacitly agreed she would simply move out, if either of them wanted a change.

  She continued to work at the nightclub. Sometimes he would drop in near closing time and take her home. When he did not, she would take a cab. If the apartment was dark when she got home, it meant he was sleeping, in which case she would undress in the bathroom, finding her way there with the aid of a pocket flashlight, and then slip into bed beside him.

  Normally, he was up first and made toast and coffee for both of them. If he stayed home, she reciprocated by preparing their lunch, usually canned soup and sandwiches. In the evening they ate out at small, inexpensive Italian or Chinese restaurants, and then came back to the apartment to watch television until it was time for her to go to work.

  During the day she hung around the apartment in housecoat and flapping slippers, reading the newspaper or romance novels she got at the drugstore, or watching soap operas. Sometime during the day, she would make the bed and clean the apartment, and occasionally she would go shopping for the few groceries they needed.

  Sundays they both got up late, and while he lounged about in bathrobe and pajamas, she prepared a special breakfast of French toast and sausages. They ate in front of the TV set so that he could watch the political panel shows. This Sunday, when she began to dress, he asked, “Going someplace, Baby?”

  “Just down to the drugstore to get the paper.”

  “Get me some cigarettes, will you? Got enough money?”

  “Yeah, I got enough.”

  She was back in less than a half hour. She drew a pack of cigarettes from the paper bag she was carrying and tossed it in his lap. Then she took out a yellow envelope. “I got the pictures from that roll you gave them to develop.”

  “Oh yeah? Any good?”

  “I haven’t looked at them yet.” She handed him the envelope and looked over his shoulder as he drew out the photographs. “You cut off part of my head there,” she said as he held up the first.

  “I guess I was focusing on your legs.”

  The next one he had snapped as a sudden gust of wind had blown her skirt up. “Oh, that was mean,” she exclaimed. “My whole whatsis is showing.”

  He slid his hand under her dress along her thigh to the buttock. “It’s a very nice whatsis,” he said and massaged it affectionately.

  “Oh you.” She took the package of prints from him and began to shuffle through them, commenting on each. “This is a little out of focus … Oh, this is a good one … You moved on this one … What’s this?”

  He took the print from her. “Oh, that was taken at the Blainey testimonial dinner a couple of months ago. See those five guys at the head table?” He laughed loudly. “That’s Rocco Vestucci and Charlie Mayes, and that’s Jim Blainey in the middle, and then on the other side of him is Frank Callahan and Whatsisname Peterson, Nels Peterson. And every single one of those guys has been indicted and is going to jail. What do you think of that?”

  “Nice bunch of friends you got.”

  “Aw, Baby, it’s business. You do business with them, so when they ask you to buy a ticket to a testimonial for a friend of theirs, you got to buy a ticket.”

  “But you don’t have to go.”

  “Well, it’s usually a good feed, and you’ve paid for it. Besides, they almost always have entertainment. That’s why I took the camera with me. Know what I mean?”

  “Sure, you mean naked girls.”

  “Not this time, there wasn’t. There was a priest there, one of the guests. I bet the guy that sold him a ticket got hell when he told the committee.” He dismissed the idea. “Nah, a priest wouldn’t buy a ticket. He’d get one free. Maybe on Blarney’s orders. He’s a very religious guy, Jim Blainey. Goes to church every Sunday.”

  “And if he’s in jail?”

  “Think they ain’t got a church there?”

  “I suppose. Say, who’s this guy at the end. He been indicted, too?”

  “Lemme see. Gee, I don’t remember him sitting there. Maybe he came in for a minute to talk to Nels Peterson or one of the others. He remind you of somebody?”

  “Nobody I know.”

  “How about Tommy Baggio?”

  “Who’s Tommy Baggio?”

  “He’s a city councillor here. He’s running for state senator. His picture was in the paper yesterday. You got yesterday’s paper? Did you throw it out?”

  “I don’t think so. Just a minute, I’ll see.”

  She went to the cabinet kitchen, rummaged in a large basket, and found the paper, which she handed him. He turned pages, scanning each page quickly. Then he exclaimed, “Ah, here it is. Now, don’t he look just like the guy in the snapshot?”

  Although wanting to please him, she could not help shaking her head. “No-o, Honey. This guy in the snap has no moustache.”

  “So we give him one. Look.” He covered the lower part of the face in the newspaper with a fingernail. “Look at the eyes, the forehead, the hair.”

  “Ye-ah, maybe …”

  “It’s nothing to add a moustache,” he mused, his eyes focused on the ceiling, his mind far off.

  “But why would you want to?” she asked.

  He smiled. “It could pay off, Baby.”

  “How could it? What would it do?”

  He smiled broadly. “Make me some money, Baby.”

/>   “But how?”

  “There are angles, Baby. I got to think about it.”

  10

  “You got a minute, David? It was Morton Brooks, the Principal of the religious school.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll be right up.”

  The rabbi replaced the receiver, wondering at the principal’s politeness. Usually he didn’t bother to call to inquire if the rabbi were free when he wanted to see him. His normal procedure, even if the door of the rabbi’s study was closed, was to knock perfunctorily and barge in. A few minutes later, the length of time it took him to mount the stairs from his office in the vestry to the rabbi’s study on the second floor, Morton Brooks entered and flung himself in the visitor’s chair in front of the rabbi’s desk.

  He was dressed in a sober gray business suit, a blue shirt, and a knitted black tie. His outstretched feet were encased in highly polished black shoes. It was not his usual costume, which tended to be on the sporty side and ran to loud tweed jackets and even knotted kerchiefs in place of a necktie.

  The rabbi raised his eyebrows and asked, “Been to a funeral, Morton, or were you asked to read for a part in a play?”

  “Nah”—with a wide sweep of the hand—“show business is lousy.” Then understanding came. “Oh, you mean the square-type threads. That’s on account of the new president.”

  “You mean Howard Magnuson suggested you wear more sober clothing? He asked you to change from your usual attire?”

  “When they ask, David, it’s already too late. Then it’s criticism, see? It means you’ve done something—not wrong, maybe, but not right either. You’ve got to understand about these tycoon types, David. They can dress any way they please. They can come into the office in overalls, but the peasants, the underlings, they got to dress strictly square. Maybe he wouldn’t say anything, but in his mind, he’d think this one is not a team player.”