Гарри Кемельман - Wednesday the Rabbi got wet

The rabbi's lips twitched. "Then what happens? Do I say anything?"

Morton Brooks frowned for a moment as he set the scene in his mind, then his face cleared. "Sure, that's it. You're playing it cool, so you say, 'Would someone be kind enough to enlighten me as to the subject under discussion?' Then you kind of look around and you notice a lot of red faces and maybe some that are too embarrassed to look you right in the eye. So you focus on one of them and he starts to squirm. You let him stew for a minute, and then you say, kind of sharplike, 'Well, Mr. Meltzer?'" He looked expectantly at the rabbi who nodded and clapped his hands in applause.

"One of your best performances, Morton, then I suppose Meltzer breaks down and confesses that they were just going to vote to convert the temple into a roller-skating rink. No, Morton, nothing is going to happen at the meeting Sunday that doesn't happen at any other meeting. If someone comes up with a new idea, they talk about it and then lay it on the table for the next meeting, and usually for the next and the next until they've talked it to death and finally put it to a vote, as for the parents. I'll see them because their kids are important to them, and what's more, because they're important to me, a lot more than the board meeting."

"If that's the way you want it—"

"That's exactly the way I want it," the rabbi said in dismissal.

"Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you."

Unlike his three colleagues, Dr. Daniel Cohen, the newest member of the Barnard's Crossing Medical Clinic, was a general practitioner, actually, although Alfred Muntz was a heart man. Ed Kantrovitz an internist, and John DiFrancesca an allergist, they all did a great deal of general work, as is necessary in small-town practice.

With his close-cropped hair, bow tie and sports jacket, Dr. Daniel Cohen looked like a college senior of a generation ago. But he was not a youngster who had just completed his internship; he was thirty-two years old and had been practicing for some time. Previously, he had had an office in Delmont and then closed it after a couple of years to open another in Morrisborough, where he had been equally unsuccessful. Yet he was a good doctor who had received excellent training and who showed sound diagnostic judgment, and he was a sincere, friendly man.

Perhaps he was too friendly, a former classmate suggested, he was lunching with a colleague when Dan's name came up. "You take the average patient, he's not looking for friendship, he's hurting and he's worried, he needs assurance that his doctor knows just what's wrong with him and just what will cure him. I don't say a doctor has to be cold and aloof, although you take a sonofabitch like Jack Sturgis— and you know how big his practice is— well, he's so downright nasty that it inspires confidence, they figure that nobody could afford to be so nasty unless he was also damn good. What I'm saying is, your patient has to look up to you, with Dan Cohen, he's like your uncle who tells you to rub yourself with chicken fat to cure your arthritis. See what I mean?"

"Yeah, but how about Godfrey Burke," said the other. "Now he's a real friendly guy, always laughing and joking with his patients, and look at the practice he's got."

"Jeez, Godfrey Burke, he's six four or five and he must weigh two hundred seventy or eighty, a big bear of a man like that, if he weren't friendly, he'd scare the pants off you. But he's friendly like he's sorry for you, like you were a puppy or something, and he's going to fix you up. I guess what I mean is, Dan is like the old-fashioned family-type doctor, the kind that used to sit up half the night with a pneumonia patient waiting for the crisis, well, that attitude is out nowadays. People are suspicious, they think if vou're too anxious, you must have some sort of angle, like maybe you don't know what's wrong and you don't want to admit it. Or maybe you made the wrong diagnosis and gave the wrong medication."

Dr. Cohen used to agonize over the question himself, there were reasons that he could adduce. In Delmont the medical fraternity was a closed corporation who had shut him off from the local hospital facilities, either because he was the stranger or perhaps merely to reduce competition. But why had he done no better in Morrisborough? He told himself it was because he was the only Jew in town. On the other hand, the townspeople, for the most part Yankees, had been friendly enough when he met them on the street. Why hadn't they come to him for medical treatment?

But that was all in the past. Now, he was doing well in Barnard's Crossing, where he had been for less than a year. It was an ideal arrangement, the clinic had excellent facilities with plenty of parking space, they had a bookkeeper who took care of the billing, a technician to do electrocardiograms, blood and urine analysis, and even a graduate nurse who gave flu shots and could assist in minor office surgery or therapy.

And the town, too, was a pleasant place to live, with a large active Jewish community, he was a member of the temple, his wife belonged to the Sisterhood and the two children attended the religious school. His colleague Al Muntz was a close friend of Chester Kaplan, the president. Muntz had even hinted that if he were interested, he would be made a member of the board of directors at the end of the year. "It's a good thing for your practice. Dan. Ed and I are both members of the board." He laughed. "Hell, if I could manage it, I'd get John DiFrancesca on."

"I'm not particularly religious, though."

Dr. Muntz was stout, with a fleshy face and pale blue protruding eyes. When he opened them wide, he gave the impression of being shocked or amazed, he opened them wide now. "And I'm religious?" he demanded as though the imputation were an insult.

"Well, I mean as a member of the board you're expected to go to services on Saturday, aren't you?"

Muntz laughed coarsely. "I don't know who expects it. Whoever he is, he's been waiting a long time. I go on the High Holy Days, of course, and to the Friday evening services pretty regularly, but Saturdays? Cummon! Now Chester Kaplan, he goes, he goes every day morning and evening."

"Well, he's the president." Dan said.

"It's not that, he's the first president I remember since Jake Wasserman who does, he went before he became president, he's that kind of guy, he likes it, he really does. If he had his way, he'd make a regular shut out of the temple, and that's another reason I'd like you to be on the board, to preserve some kind of balance."

"You mean you'd like me to be on the board so I could oppose your friend Kaplan who'd be appointing me?"

"Nah." With a wide sweep of the hand, Muntz made elaborate denial. "In most things you'll find yourself agreeing with Chet. But he's an enthusiast and he's got this bunch on the board that are the same way, well, I say if a bunch of guys have a kind of religious hobby and they want to get together and pray and talk religion, it's all right with me. It's a free country. But that doesn't mean that everybody has to go along. Like I've got nothing against people who collect stamps, but I wouldn't want them running the post office. Now you're just the kind of man we want on the board to keep a sort of balance. I've been puffing you up to Chet. But of course you've got to show him you're interested. You're coming tonight, aren't you?"

"You mean to Kaplan's house? I don't know. I have a date with my wife, we're going to drive out to the western part of the state to look at the foliage, she has an aunt in North Adams and we were planning to have dinner there. You know, make a full day of it."

Muntz shook his head reprovingly.

"Well, I figured this invitation was sent to all the new members of the congregation—"