Someday the Rabbi Will Leave (24 page)

“I guess that would be all right,” said Magnuson. “I've run the tape, and he looks good to me. In fact, I think he's just the kind of man we want for the job. Of course, I realize I can't act alone and that we're going to need a consensus of members of the board. So I thought if you could round up a bunch of the boys and have them come here tomorrow night, or the next day maybe for a light supper—nothing elaborate, just sandwiches and drinks—we could show them the tape, and if they approve of what they see, we can bring the matter up at the next board meeting.”

“You don't want the whole board, do you?”

“No-o. I think it would be better if we just have those who are likely to react favorably. That would give us a majority, wouldn't it?”

“I think so. I'm sure of it. And for the others, we could have another showing the next day or—”

“Nothing doing, Morris. Let me tell you something about corporate management. If you have the votes, you railroad it through. It's not democracy, but it's the only way that works.”

42

Seeing the rabbi roll up his left sleeve and remove his phylacteries from the blue velvet bag in which he kept them, Miriam asked, “Aren't you going to the temple, David?”

“No, not this morning.”

She watched wide-eyed for a moment as he put on the phylacteries and the prayer shawl, and then facing the east, began his morning prayers. Then she went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. It was not raining. In fact, it was a crisp, clear Sunday morning, just the sort of day when he would be likely to enjoy the short walk to the temple. Once or twice she peered through the kitchen door, trying to discern from his appearance and attitude whether he was upset or disturbed.

When they were seated at the breakfast table, she said, “It's the board meeting again, isn't it?”

“That's right. The president asked me not to come.”

With a brave little smile, she managed, “Another raise?”

“I doubt it. Quite the reverse. This time our president made it plain that I was not to attend meetings from now on.”

“Why, what happened?”

“I told him that he ought to resign.”

“David! You didn't!”

“Yes, I did.” He proceeded to tell what had led up to it.

She shook her head wonderingly. “You do manage to get into rows, don't you?”

“No, I don't think so,” he said easily. “Although I admit that over the years various presidents have managed to get into, er—differences with me. It always works out, though.”

“But Magnuson is different.”

“Is he? In what way?”

“You remember what Morton Brooks said. Magnuson doesn't realize what a rabbi is. From his point of view, you're just an employee of the temple organization.”

“Well, some of the others thought so, too.”

“But Magnuson has been dealing with employees all his life. His natural reaction to one who is recalcitrant or obstreperous, or who just plain disagrees with him, is to fire him.”

“All right.”

“Well, then …”

The rabbi put down his coffee cup and touched his napkin to his lips. “I can't live that way. I can't admit to myself that my livelihood, my well-being, is dependent on the whim of one man, and that I must concentrate my energies on pleasing him, or even avoid offending him. If that's the nature of my relations with Howard Magnuson, then I'd just as soon break it off now.”

“But what if he asks you to resign?”

“I'll refuse, of course. If the board votes to ask for my resignation, I'll demand the reason, and I'll demand the right to argue my case before the general membership, and—”

“Oh, David, Howard Magnuson would never let himself get sucked into an open confrontation with you before the congregation. He'll simply persuade a majority of the board not to renew your contract when it expires. Then what would you do?”

He shrugged. “I'd probably notify the seminary that I was at liberty and to look around for another job for me. Or I might decide to try something else, teaching, or maybe I could get some kind of editorial job with a publishing house, or maybe a job as a correspondent on Jewish affairs with some newspaper, or—”

“But all of those involve being beholden to one man usually, a principal or a dean, an editor or a publisher, who could turn out to be another Magnuson.”

“Then I'll use my savings to start my own business.”

“What kind of business could you start?”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe I could start a school of my own, a Hebrew school for adults, or—or any kind of business, a shoestore or a candy store, or—or—”

“A rabbi running a candy store?”

He grinned. “Sure, why not? Well, perhaps not a candy store because with my sweet tooth I'd eat up all the profits. The point is that unlike a Catholic priest or a Protestant minister, I am not dedicated to things religious. As a rabbi, I'm a secular figure. And earning a living in a trade or a business or a profession is quite within the tradition. Many of the great rabbis in the old days earned their livings as carpenters, blacksmiths, wood gatherers. More recently in the ghetto towns of Russia and Poland, some of the rabbis had to earn their livings in some sort of secular enterprise. My own grandfather, when he served as a rabbi in a shtetl, before he came to this country, operated a store, albeit the town gave him preferential treatment by limiting his competition.

“In a sense, it's even the more proper way, since our tradition dictates that one should not use one's learning as a spade to dig with. The present system of remunerating a rabbi is based on a fine bit of pilpulistic casuistry in which the contention is that the congregation is not paying him for his learning and knowledge, but for the time that he is prevented from earning a living by functioning as a rabbi.”

“Tell me, David, are you tired of being a rabbi?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because you've been a rabbi for twenty years. If you had gone into something else, law or business, I'm sure we would have been a lot better off financially. So if you were to give it up now, I'd always have the feeling that that twenty years was somehow wasted.”

“No, Miriam, I'm not tired of being a rabbi. Taking one thing with another, it's been a very pleasant twenty years.” He rubbed his jaws to aid cerebration. “But if the rabbi really cares about his congregation, and if they are not just a flock of sheep who think of him as their pastor, then there has to be an occasional fight. Just as in a good marriage,” he added.

She giggled. “Men's or women's shoes?” she asked.

“What?”

“In this store, would you be selling men's shoes or women's shoes?”

“Oh, women's, of course, and I'd limit my trade to small sizes so as to attract the young and pretty ones.”

They heard the clumping of feet on the stairs, and Jonathon came in, yawning and stretching. “Hey, Dad, are we riding or walking?”

Before the rabbi could answer, Miriam said, “Your father is not going to the minyan today, Jonathon, and I think it would be better if you said the morning prayers at home, too.”

“Okay. I'll go upstairs.” Jonathon said his prayers at home except on Saturdays and Sundays—that is, when he had no school—and would accompany his father to the minyan. And of course he preferred to pray at home, since it was quicker and there was no need to wait to complete the ten needed for the minyan.

When he had gone, the rabbi said, “You know, Miriam, it just struck me that Jonathon is not much younger than the Kramer boy.”

“So?”

“So if he got caught up in something—” He stopped and was silent for a while. Then he said, “I think I'll take a little ride along Glen Lane.”

Rabbi Small drove the length of Glen Lane all the way to High Street, and then turned around and started back, going very slowly. When he came to the clearing where D'Angelo had left his car, he parked and got out. Although he was not unfamiliar with the road, he realized as he walked that it was longer than he had previously thought. Also, there was a considerable rise about halfway to Maple Street that he had not noticed when driving. When he reached the top of the rise, he was able to see all the way down to Maple Street. He turned and walked back to where he had left his car, counting the paces as he walked.

43

“Got the lab report on Halperin's car,” Lieutenant Jennings announced as he took the visitor's chair.

“And?” Lanigan asked eagerly.

“Well, one of the prints is a possible.”

“What's that mean?”

“It means that if you got other prints that are positive, you can use this one, too.”

“What for?”

“Oh, you know, for its position on the hood to indicate how he might have fallen.”

“But without a positive?”

Jennings shook his head. “Nothing. Ah, here's something. One of the fibers taken from the headlight rim on Halperin's car matches fibers taken from the rim of Kramer's car.” He looked up from the report. “See, we got two chances, the action on the top of the hill in Glen Lane where the guy was hit, and the action involved in the breaking of Kramer's headlight. Obviously, the same guy did both, so if we can pin the headlight thing on him, it would mean that he was the one who did the hit-and-run. It says here: ‘Possible source—Turkish toweling.'”

“Swell,” said Lanigan in disgust. “You wipe your headlight with a bit of Turkish toweling, or a gas station attendant does, and you get some fibers in the crack where it joins the fender. I'll bet you'll find some on my car or yours.”

“Yeah, guess so,” said Jennings despondently. “So do we forget about Morris Halperin?”

“Well, let's say we put him on the back burner for a while. Right now I've been kind of concentrating on Tom Blakely.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I went down to Maple Street last evening and stopped in front of the Desmond house. And, you know, sitting there in my car I could see all the way to the Kramer house in my rearview mirror.”

“So?”

“So, let's say Tom Blakely goes calling on Aggie Desmond. We know he did because he said so at the Ship's Galley that night. Billy Dunstable heard him. He parks his car just about where I did. He's waiting for her to come out, see. Now, while he's sitting in his car waiting, along comes the Kimball gal. Maybe he hails her. He used to be sweet on her. Maybe she waves back. Or maybe she just kind of tosses her head and walks on. So he follows her in his rearview mirror and sees her go into the Kramer house.”

“Okay.”

“The Desmond girl stands him up, or she comes out and tells him she can't go out with him. He gets sore at the Desmond girl, or maybe he's sore at the Kimball girl for passing him by like that. When I asked her if she'd seen anyone who knew her on her way to Kramer's, she kind of hesitated before she said no.”

“All right.”

“He stays down at the Ship's Galley until around ten o'clock, according to Dunstable, and then he leaves because they refuse to serve him. Dunstable thought he probably went on home. But if he did, he's not like any drunk I know. I figure, more likely he'd get in his car and go looking for someplace where he could get served. That wouldn't be anyplace in Barnard's Crossing because we're pretty careful here. But in Lynn or Revere they have all those dinky little nightclubs where you wouldn't have any trouble getting a drink unless you were lying on the floor.”

“Hell, some of these places are so dark, you wouldn't know anyone was lying on the floor unless you fell over them.”

“Well, anyway, I thought it was worthwhile checking it out. So I had one of the boys go around to some of these places with a picture of Blakely.”

“Where'd you get the picture?”

“From his yearbook. They keep them at the town library. And we made some photocopies from the machine they have. The pictures aren't very good, and he was five years younger when it was taken, but they're good enough.”

“And?”

“And bingo. In one of the places there was positive identification. They were a little hazy about time, but they thought he came in around ten and left around eleven.”

“All right, so you can prove that Tom Blakely got drunk in Lynn and started for home around eleven o'clock. Where does that get you, Hugh?”

“It gives me the basis for some guessing.”

“Like what?”

“I'm guessing that Blakely came home by way of Glen Lane. If he was drunk, he'd want to avoid the main road as much as possible. Besides, it's a short cut.”

“All right. I'll go along with that.”

“And that he hit the guy on the hill—”

“Just a minute.”

“The time is about right. He'd accelerate going up the hill, and then suddenly there's a man on the road where you don't expect to see a pedestrian. He's drunk and his reactions are slow.”

“All right. It's possible.”

“Okay, so he's scared. And he can't report it in the normal way, even if he could prove that it was the pedestrian's fault, not even if he had a moving picture of the guy throwing himself in front of his car, because he's drunk and so is automatically presumed guilty. At the very least he'd lose his driver's license. How can someone work in a garage without a driver's license? He might not care very much about the job, although they're kind of scarce these days, but—”

“Okay, you mean that he would be likely to run rather than report it to the police. I'll buy that.”

“So he drives along Glen Lane, and just as he approaches the corner, I'm guessing he saw a light.” Lanigan leaned back in his seat and folded his hands over his belly, obviously much pleased with himself.

“What light?”

“A light in the Kramer house, upstairs, probably in a bedroom that faces Glen Lane. Maybe he saw her shadow on the blind, or maybe the blinds weren't even down, since there are no houses on that side and he actually saw her, or maybe he just assumed she was up there—”