Harry Kemelman - Sunday the Rabbi Stayed Home

“Over appointing Roger Epstein head of the Ritual Committee?”

“That and other things.” said Marks defensively. “This thing has been building a long time.”

She looked at him. “So where does that leave you?”

“That’s just it. I’m like betwixt and between. I was appointed by Schwarz, and I got another year to go on my term. Ben Gorfinkle and Roger Epstein and the rest I’m kind of friendly with, but on the other hand. I’m friendly with Meyer Paff s gang, too. After all, if God forbid somebody needed an operation, we’d call Doc Edelstein, wouldn’t we? So I can go either way. And my guess is both sides will be pulling for my vote.”

Their daughter. Betty, sauntered into the room. She was short like both her parents. Her long blond hair was parted on one side and hung straight down over her shoulders, although one strand was looped over her ear with a barrette and pushed forward to partially conceal her left eye. Where the hair was parted, one could see a trace of dark hair, suggesting it was time for another color rinse. Her innocent dark eyes were made knowing with eye shadow and a thin line of darker coloring that edged the lids. Her breasts pushed aggressively against her sweater, and her little rump rotated suggestively as she walked.

Her mother looked up in automatic question.

“A bunch of the kids are having a cookout tomorrow evening, at Tarlow’s point.” she explained. “That was Didi Epstein. She wanted to know if I could make the scene.”

Mr. Marks shot a significant glance at his wife, but she appeared not to notice. “Did you say you would go. dear?”

“I guess so. She said Stu Gorfinkle would pick me up—around five tomorrow.”

“Did Didi say who else was going to be there?” asked her mother.

“Sue Arons and Gladys Shulman and Bill Jacobs and I think Adam Sussman—you know, the kids who have been away to college and are back for the vacation.”

“It’s a lovely idea,” said her mother. “It’ll be nice to see all your old friends again.”

When she left the room. Mr. Marks said. “See, it’s started already.”

“What’s started already?”

“Buttering us up. All the time she was in high school they never gave her a tumble—that Epstein girl and the Gorfinkle boy, they always acted as though she wasn’t good enough for them.”

“That’s ridiculous. Didn’t she go to Didi Epstein’s for the after-prom breakfast last year?”

“Sure, the whole senior class was invited.”

“Well, you’re wrong. They started making up to her before that—when she was accepted at Connecticut College for Women. She got more brains in her little finger, let me tell you—and they know it. That Stu Gorfinkle was turned down by all the schools he applied to, and he had to go to his fallback. Mass State. And Didi ended up at an art school in Boston, for God’s sake, and she was so sure she was going to Wellesley because her mother was an alma mater there. And that little Sussman pipsqueak. I remember his mother distinctly telling the girls at her table at a Sisterhood lunch that her son had applied to Harvard, Yale, and Columbia. So he ends up at a dinky little college out in Ohio that nobody ever heard of.”

“All right, all right, but you mark my words—”

The telephone rang. “It’s for you, Dad,” Betty called out.

“Who is it?”

“Mr. Paff.”

Mr. Marks favored his wife with a triumphant smirk and left the room to answer the phone.

Sunday night supper was usually a pickup meal in the Gorfinkle household, where dinner was served at midday. But with Stu home, Mrs. Gorfinkle felt guilty about not providing him with a hot meal. So when he came in and asked what was for supper, she answered, “How about some hamburgers? I’ve got buns and potato chips.”

“Oh, sure, anything.”

“Why, I’d like hamburgers for a change,” said his father. “And a Coke.”

“I’ll take milk,” said Stu.

“Milk with hamburgers?” questioned Mr. Gorfinkle.

“You suddenly kosher since you became president of the temple?” Stu asked sarcastically.

“No. but in my own house I don’t like to see them eaten together.”

“But in a restaurant you don’t mind? That doesn’t make sense to me.” said his son.

Gorfinkle resented being challenged by his son, but he tried not to show it. “Tastes in food never make sense, Stu. That’s just how I feel about it. Your mother never serves butter, for example, when she’s serving meat. When I was a youngster, the thought of it turned my stomach. But I always expect butter for my bread when I’m eating in a restaurant.”

He was even more annoyed when his wife brought a pitcher of milk to the table, and automatically—as always happened whenever he was angry or crossed—the corners of his mouth turned up in a frozen little smile that had no humor in it, as some of his subordinates at the plant had found to their cost.

“He’s so thin.” she said apologetically as she filled Stu’s glass.

Gorfinkle looked away from her and said abruptly to his son, “Where were you all afternoon?”

“Oh, some of the kids dropped in to see the rabbi. He sort of expects it. I did it during Christmas vacation, too. It’s a kind of open house.”

“And what did he have to say?” He could not help adding. “I’m sure he didn’t talk about the kashruth regulations.”

“Oh no. We just talk about what we’re doing at school. Didi Epstein kind of kidded him about what they were teaching her in art school—learning to make graven images, you know.”

“That Didi” said Mrs. Gorfinkle. “I bet he thought she was fresh.”

“I don’t think so. He said he didn’t mind as long as she doesn’t worship them. So then she told him about this painting she’s doing on Moses receiving the Law. And he said he’d like to see it. She promised to bring it over tomorrow.” Stu chuckled. “He’s a pretty free-minded guy. You should’ve heard him down at Binkerton at this party they gave for him.”

“Oh?” his mother remarked.

“There was this Father Bennett who’s head of the Newman Club—like the Hillel Club but for Catholics. He came over while I was sitting with him, and the rabbi kind of needled him about his religion. Very smooth, very cool. And then this priest comes right back and asks how he stands in the faith department. ‘Do you believe?’ So the rabbi kind of smiles and says. ‘I guess I’m just like you; sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t.’ Pretty sharp.”

“Well. I don’t think that’s the proper thing for a rabbi to say.” said Mrs. Gorfinkle flatly.

“Why not?”

“Well, if he’s a rabbi, it seems to me the least he could do is believe all the time.”

“That’s just exactly where you’re wrong. Do you believe all the time? Does Dad?”

“Now, just a minute, just one minute.” said his father sternly. “I don’t, and I don’t suppose your mother does, but, then, we’re not rabbis. What your mother means is that as a rabbi, it’s his duty to believe. I can see him talking that way with a priest when they’re alone together. After all, they’re both in the same profession. But I certainly don’t think he should have said it in front of you or any of the other young people who were there.”

“Why not?” demanded Stuart.

“Because you’re not old enough or mature enough to—”

“And this business that’s happening right here in the temple. I suppose I’m not old enough or mature enough to understand that either?”

“And what’s happening here in the temple?” asked his father quietly.

“There’s going to be a split.” his son said hotly. “That’s what’s happening.”