He unscrewed the cap and took an experimental nip. “Just as I said, Einstein, old friend, it’s the right brand.” He took another drink and then recapped the bottle. “Yes, sir, it seems to be clearing the cobwebs out of the brain. And tonight of all nights we need a clear head.” He set the car in motion.
Several times along the way he stopped to toast Charlie’s good health. Behind him, he heard the loud blare of an automobile horn. He swung his car to the right; the wheel grated against the road divider and he swung left. Once again there was the blare of a horn, and a car swept around him and hung alongside for a moment as the driver cursed at him.
“You know what, Einstein? Traffic here on Route 128 is moving just a little too fast for us. The old brain is clear as a bell, but the reflexes are a bit slow. What say we stop for a while? There’s a turnout ahead just a couple of hundred yards before we get to the lab where we can let things kind of catch up.”
He pulled to a stop. He fumbled clumsily with the wrapper of the bottle. Then, in annoyance, he ripped off the wrapping paper and cardboard box and with a lordly gesture threw them out the window. “The big trick is to time yourself. You time yourself, and there’s no problem.” He turned off the motor and headlights. “Better wait half an hour or so, grab a little shut-eye maybe, and then go on to the lab. You mark my words, Einstein, old friend, if past experience is any guide, when I wake up the old brain will be ticking like a regular computer.”
CHAPTER SIX
The Smalls arrived at the temple just in time. The rabbi left Miriam to make her way through the front door where stragglers were still coming in, and hurried to a side door that led to the vestry and the narrow staircase to the enrobing room adjoining the altar. The room had become something of a catchall for old prayer books, florists’ baskets used to decorate the altar, piles of cantorial music, and two coils of BX cable left by the electricians when the building was constructed some three years before. The rabbi hung up his topcoat and hat and put on his skullcap and the white robe which was the conservative compromise on the orthodox kittel or grave vestment. Then bracing against his locker-there was no chair-he changed from street shoes to white rubber-soled canvas shoes, a modern compromise on the ancient Mishnah ban against wearing shoes during the day of prayer. Lastly he draped his silk prayer shawl over his shoulders, and after a glance in the mirror opened the door that led to the altar.
On either side of the Ark were two high-backed red velvet chairs. The two on the far side were occupied by the vice-president and cantor; the two nearest the ante-room were reserved for himself and the president of the congregation, Mortimer Schwarz. He came forward and shook hands with the president, then crossed in front of the Ark to shake hands with the cantor and Ely Kahn, the vice-president. He returned to his chair and looked around at the congregation, nodding to members who happened to catch his eye.
“You cut it rather fine, Rabbi,” said Schwarz. He was a tall, youngish-looking man of fifty, with thin gray-black hair slicked back as if to emphasize his high forehead. He had a long thin face and a thin, high-bridged nose. His mouth was small and the lips full and round, almost as though pursed or kissing. He was an architect; and something about his dress, the long points of his shirt collar, the thickly knotted tie, suggested some connection with the arts. He was good-looking, even handsome; and his posture and general movements-not studied, but controlled-suggested he knew it. With the rabbi he maintained an armed truce which manifested itself in a kind of jocose teasing that occasionally developed an unpleasant edge.
“For a Hadassah meeting, or a Sisterhood committee meeting,” he went on, “understandable. Ethel tells me that they don’t even expect you to remember. They have an unofficial Rabbi Delivering Committee whose job it is to keep reminding you of the meeting date, and if necessary to go fetch you. She thinks it adds spice to the meeting: will the rabbi turn up in time or not? It’s a convenient trait, since I suppose it enables you to miss an occasional meeting. But Kol Nidre, Rabbi! I wonder you were able to find a parking place.”
“Oh, Miriam and I plan to walk home. I’m a little old-fashioned about these things.”
“You walked? Why didn’t you tell me and I would have arranged to get you a ride?”
“I did ride. As a matter of fact, I rode in style, in a Lincoln Continental, I believe. Just as I was leaving the house, Ben Goralsky called and insisted I had to see his father. A matter of life and death, he said. So I couldn’t very well refuse. Ben drove me down afterward.”
Schwarz sounded suddenly concerned. “Something’s the matter with the old man? It sounds serious if they sent for you.”
The rabbi grinned. “He wouldn’t take his medicine.”
Schwarz frowned his disapproval of the rabbi’s levity. In his relation with the rabbi, humor was a one-way street. “This is serious business. Tell me, is something really wrong?”
“Any time a man that age gets sick, it’s serious, I suppose. But I think he’ll be all right.” He went on briefly to describe his visit.
The frown did not lift from the president’s handsome face; if anything, it grew more pronounced. “You mean to say you threatened old man Goralsky with a suicide’s grave, Rabbi? You must have offended him.”
“I don’t think so. I think he rather enjoyed fencing with me. He could see that I was more than half fooling.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“Why this tremendous interest in Mr. Goralsky? He’s a member, to be sure, but a relatively new one and rather a cantankerous one at that.”
“Yes, they’re new. When was it they joined? About a year ago, wasn’t it, when the old lady died and they bought the big center lot in the cemetery? But with their kind of money, they’re important. Surely I don’t have to tell you, Rabbi, that when you’re running an organization like this, you need money. And if you don’t have money-and what synagogue does?-the next best thing is to have members who do.”
“I’ve heard something to that effect. But surely it must be the son, Ben, who has the money.”
Schwarz’s face brightened and he looked straight out at the congregation. Then he leaned toward the rabbi and said, “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But actually the father is everything, and the son, at least while the father is alive, is just a messenger boy.”