"A minute, a minute only," the rabbi said, removing the yarmulke from his head so that he could run a broad palm over his moist hair. "Even the Lord gave Joshua a minute.
Even the great Rabbi Eleazar could always spare a minute for anyone who sought his counsel or his company."
The rabbi's coat was partly open now and Lieberman could see that he was hi his pajamas.
"I don't want to be rude, Mrs. Nathanson," Lieberman said, avoiding the open chair near the table. "But I've had a long day and as you can see…," he said, looking down at his robe and slippers.
"You are a policeman," said Nathanson with a knowing nod of his head. "The stories you must have. The things you must have seen. We live in a world of chaos, in a time of violence. We need, our people need, salvation and comfort in the word of our God."
"Amen," Mrs. Nathanson said dutifully.
"Amen," said Lieberman. "Now, Rabbi, if you-"
"I wanted Leah to see this house, this perfect house, and I wanted to urge you to cash the check I gave you. Every day we delay is a day further from the realization of a new home, a much-needed home, for my congregation and my family."
"Rabbi," Lieberman said. "I have to talk to my lawyer."
"Why?" asked the rabbi, looking at his wife, who had no answer. "I'll pay your price. My wife will have no other house."
Mrs. Nathanson was, for the first time, looking around the room, at the walls, into the semidark living room, toward the closed door of the kitchen.
The sound of a key in the front door gave Rabbi Nathanson no pause.
'To be homeless is a curse of our people, Lieberman. Delay creates anxiety. Anxiety results in neglect of one's duties and places a burden on those we love and who depend upon us."
Lieberman's grandchildren, Barry, approaching thirteen, and Melisa, eight, stepped in with their father, Todd Cresswell, behind them.
Mrs. Nathanson smiled at the trio. The rabbi didn't seem to notice their arrival.
"Lieberman, who knows?" he said intently, leaning toward Abe, who stood dripping before him. "Who knows how much time God has given us for the work we are to do on this troubled earth? Do we delay over the obstacles of civilization heaped high with distrust?' "Rabbi, Mrs. Nathanson," said Lieberman, "this is my son-in-law Todd and my grandchildren, Barry and Melisa."
"We saw Beethoven's Second," said Melisa, who, Lieberman thought, looked exactly like her mother at the age of eight. Serious, studious, suspicious.
Todd, tall, with a handsome, lopsided face, cornstalk-straight hair, and rimless glasses, nodded at the Nathansons. Barry, who closely resembled his father, looked at Abe for an explanation of the presence of the night visitor in pajamas.
"Rabbi Nathanson and his wife are interested in buying the house," Abe explained.
Todd, whose hair was a rain-scattered mess, nodded and said, "Lisa's…?" Todd began looking toward the kitchen.
"Working late," Lieberman said.
Todd nodded.
"Do not pain a hungry heart," Rabbi Nathanson went on. "And do not anger a man who is in want. Do not increase the troubles of a mind that is incensed. And do not put off giving to a man who is in need. Make yourself beloved in the congregation, and bow your head to a great personage. Listen to what a poor man has to say and give him a peaceful and gentle answer."
"Rescue a man who is being wronged from the hand of the wrongdoer, and do not be fainthearted about giving your judgment," Todd said, looking at Lieberman.
Rabbi Nathanson turned in his chair to face the challenging presence of Todd Cresswell.
"The Wisdom of Sirach from the Apocrypha," explained Todd. "The rabbi left out a line."
"Todd's a classics professor at Northwestern," Lieberman explained. "Cresswell's his name. Greek tragedy's his game."
"The Apocrypha was written in Greek," Todd explained to Barry as if the assembled adults all knew this already.
"It's part of the Greek version of the original Jewish Bible. The parts not included in the final, accepted version of the Hebrew Bible are called the Apocrypha, the hidden or secret books."
"Your father was a rabbi?" asked Rabbi Nathanson.
"My father was a Methodist minister in Dayton, Ohio," said Todd.
Rabbi Nathanson, truly perplexed, looked to Lieberman for explanation and, finding none, said, "Lieberman, I must press you for a decision."
"Saint Bernards drool a lot. Even in movies. Can I have some ice cream?" Melisa said.
"Yes," said Lieberman.
"I'll get some too," said Barry.
Melisa and Barry hugged their father and hurried into the kitchen, closing the door behind them.
Todd made no move to leave, so Lieberman said, "Todd and I have some things to discuss. So…"
"Open ye the gates, that the righteous nation that keepeth faithfulness may enter in," said Rabbi Nathanson.
"Isaiah," said Todd. "Houses clear in their right are given children in all loveliness."
"Numbers?" tried an obviously challenged Rabbi Nathanson.
"Aeschylus," said Todd. "Agamemnon."
"Rov," said Lieberman, "I think you've been outquoted."
"Ira, let's go home," Mrs. Nathanson said, rising and moving around the table to touch the arm of her husband, who was desperately searching his memory for a quote- Maimonides, Eleazar, the Talmud, Franklin Roosevelt. Nothing came. He rose, and his wife reached up to button his coat.
"We'll talk tomorrow," Rabbi Nathanson said as his wife led him to the door.
Lieberman followed, moving past Todd. He opened the door and ushered the Nathansons out into the drizzle. The tall, gangly rabbi stepped down the concrete steps, and his wife turned to whisper quickly to Lieberman.
"I'm so sorry. Ira has been… distraught."
"Leah," the rabbi called, moving down the narrow cement path toward the street.
Mrs. Nathanson turned and hurried to join her husband as gentle thunder echoed far away. Lieberman closed the door and turned back to Todd Cresswell, who was still facing the dining room.
"I was in the bath, Todd," Lieberman said, moving into the dining room to face his son-in-law.
"I'm sorry," Todd said. "Abe, I'm… I'm agreeing to the divorce."
Lieberman shook his head. Beyond the closed kitchen door Barry and Melisa were arguing about something.
"This doesn't surprise me," Lieberman said.
"I didn't think it would. By nature all men are shy and…"
"No," Lieberman said, holding up both hands. "No Sophocles."
"I was going to quote Euripides."
"No Greeks," said Lieberman. "I'm having a long night You want to marry…?"
"Faye," Todd said softly, glancing at the kitchen door. "Yes."
Lieberman nodded. He had met Faye Cunningham once when Todd had picked up the kids for a weekend. She was, as Lieberman remembered, a good-looking dark woman with an honest smile and large teeth. She was definitely older than Todd, and though Lieberman had been prepared to dislike her, he had found her pleasant and obviously in love with Todd.
"Abe, Lisa and I are too much alike," Todd said.
"I know," Abe agreed. "It's a curse. It doesn't work if you're too much alike or too different from each other. The answer is somewhere in between."
"You're joking," said Todd, adjusting his glasses. "I'm serious."
"I'm dripping. You're serious."
The kitchen door flew open.
Barry was holding a plastic bottle of Hershey's chocolate syrup over his head. Melisa was trying to reach it.
"Mom says she shouldn't have chocolate at night," Bany said. "It makes her wild and abstract."
"Grandpa," Melisa pleaded. "The ice cream needs chocolate sauce. It's vanilla."
"A little chocolate sauce, Barry," Lieberman said. "Vanilla ice cream without chocolate sauce is a tragedy."
"OK," said Barry, handing his sister the bottle. "It's your call, but if she goes nuts, you tell Mom."