Harry Kemelman - Sunday the Rabbi Stayed Home

Gorfinkle’s voice was tight, controlled. “Did the rabbi say that? Did he say there was gong to be a split?”

“No. not exactly—but he didn’t seem surprised when Sue Arons asked him about it.”

“I see.” said the elder Gorfinkle. “And what did he say?”

“Well, if you must know.” said Stuart belligerently, “he said there was no reason for a split and that if one occurred, it would be as much the fault of one side as the other.”

Gorfinkle drummed the table with his fingers. “I see. And did he indicate what his attitude would be in the event of this supposed—split?”

“Yeah. A plague on both your houses.”

“A plague on—?”

“He didn’t use those exact words, of course.” Stu showed his exasperation with his father’s literal-mindedness. “What he said was that if a split should take place, well, he wouldn’t care to serve any longer.”

The corners of Gorfinkle’s mouth turned up now. “He shouldn’t have said that, not to you kids.”

Stu was aware that his father was angry, but he resented the implication that he and his friends were not concerned. “What do you mean, ‘you kids’?”

“I mean that he was trying to influence you, and he has no right to.”

“Isn’t that what rabbis are supposed to do, influence people, especially kids?”

“There’s legitimate influence, and there’s influence that’s strictly out of line.” said his father. “When the rabbi gets up in the pulpit and explains about our religion and its traditions, that’s legitimate. That’s what he gets paid for. But the rabbi is not supposed to interfere in temple politics. If he prefers one side to another, he’s supposed to keep it to himself. And when he urges his point of view on a bunch of kids who don’t know what’s involved, then he’s out of line. And I think I’m just going to have a little conference with him and tell him so.”

“Look here.” said Stu, suddenly worried. “You can’t do that.”

“And why can’t I?”

“Because he’ll know it came from me.”

“What do you suppose he told you for? If he didn’t think it would get back to me—and to the other parents?”

“He did no such thing. He wouldn’t, not the rabbi. He’s straight.”

“Straight? He’s just a guy who’s trying to keep a job.” Stu put down his half-eaten second bun and, pushing his chair back from the table, he rose, his face white with anger. “Yeah, you can go and wreck an organization, and that’s all right, an organization that’s just a sideline with you, a hobby that makes you feel like a big shot. You don’t even care about it enough to keep kosher or anything like that, but if someone whose whole life is involved in it tries to preserve it, then you got to rub him out.”

“Finish your meal. Stu,” pleaded his mother.

“Sit down.” ordered his father. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But the young man flung away from the table.

“Where are you going, Stu?” his mother called after him.

“Out!”

A moment later they heard the outer door bang.

“Why do you always fight with him?” asked Mrs. Gorfinkle plaintively.

“Because he’s an idiot.” He, too, rose from the table.

“Where are you going?”

“To make some telephone calls.”

But the phone rang just as he reached for it. It was Ted Brennerman on the other end. “Ben? Ted. I got it via the grapevine that Paff and his gang are beginning to line up people.”

“You mean to vote against my appointments? Naturally—”

“No. Ben, not to try to outvote us—to pull out and start another temple.”

“Where’d you get that from?”

“Malcolm Marks. Paff called him.”

“And I just found out that the rabbi has been shooting off his mouth to the kids to have them bring pressure on their parents. I think I’m beginning to understand. Look, we’ve got to have a meeting on this, and tonight. You got a list of the board members? Well, you know which ones are with us a hundred percent. Start calling them. You take the ones from A to M, and I’ll take the rest. We’ll meet here at my house, say around ten o’clock. That’ll give everybody plenty of time.”

From the bureau drawer Moose Carter selected a pair of Argyle socks. Though it was Monday and nearly noon, he still wasn’t dressed. He sat on the edge of the bed as he drew them on absentmindedly while contemplating the immediate problem—money. In the room next door his sister Sharon, he knew, was lying on her bed reading. She was always reading.

“Hey. Sharon.” he called through the wall, “got any scratch?”

“No.” He had not expected anything else, but it was worth a try. He leaned close to the wall and spoke with great urgency. “You see. I’ve got this job lined up. The guy’s in town, in Boston—” He heard the squeak of her bed and then a door slam closed. She had gone out.

“Bitch,” he muttered.

He raised the edge of the mattress to remove the gray flannel slacks he had placed between the box spring and mattress the night before. As he drew them on he considered the possibilities offered by his brother Peter’s room. The kid had a paper route and always had money. He wouldn’t lend a nickel, though. He thought more of money than of his skin. But he wasn’t home now. On the other hand, the kid was good at hiding it, and if Sharon heard him moving around in his room, she’d rat on him. His shoulders gave an involuntary twitch as he remembered the last time he had been caught borrowing from Peter’s hoard; his father had showed his disapproval—with a half-inch dowel rod.

Still debating with himself the chances of a quick foray into Peter’s room, he selected a yellow shirt from his meager supply. He heard the downstairs door open and close, signaling the return of his mother from her shopping. Hell, she’ll give it to me, he thought and quickly finished dressing. The black tie, already knotted, needed only a quick jerk to tighten. He squirmed into his sport jacket, and with the aid of a forefinger, worried his feet into his loafers. Then he hurried down the stairs.

She was in the kitchen putting away the groceries. “You going to see a girl?” she asked sourly, seeing the way he was dressed.

He grinned at her, a wide infectious grin. “Girls is for nighttime. Ma, you know that. I’m going into town.”

“Town?”

“Yuh, Boston. I gotta chance for a job. It’s a special deal. I might be late gettin home.”

“Your father doesn’t like it if you’re not at the table at dinnertime.”

“Well, gee, sure, I know, Ma, but I’ll be hitchhiking back.”

“You mean you haven’t even got bus fare back?”

“I only have a dime. That’s the truth. I had to get some stuff at the store for a job that I was doing for old man Begg, and he forgot to pay me back, and I forgot to ask him.”

“Didn’t he pay you for the job either?”

“Oh no, he never pays me until Friday, the end of the week.”

“And that Mr. Paff at the bowling alley?”

“He’ll pay me tonight.”

“And how does it look that a boy like you should be thumbing rides,” she demanded. “Why don’t you get yourself a regular j ob?”

“Carpenter like Pa? No thanks. I’ve been able to manage since I got back, haven’t I? Once in a while a fellow gets strapped. Well, that can happen to anyone. Now if this deal that I’m working on comes through. I’ll be all set.”

“What kind of a deal?” she asked.

“Oh, it’s kind of promotion work. This fellow I knew—I met him in school when I was in Alabama—he’s coming up North and he’s building up an organization.”

“And you’re going to see him without a penny in your pocket?”