Because there isn’t a place that ain’t covered, or at least that a man of the cloth couldn’t get to on six or seven hours’ notice given good weather and the right bush pilot.
So why not Lud? Why not Lud, New Jersey? Why not this funerary, sepulchral, thanatopsical town?
two
SO I’M WALKING DOWN Lud’s main street one fine Tuesday morning figuring I’ll pop by Sal’s, see can I hear anything worth listening to. I’m fresh from my prayers, the modified Shachris I do on my own about nine or nine-thirty, after my shower, before my breakfast. To keep myself honest, if you take my meaning. Because, in case I haven’t made myself clear, theologically speaking this is the sticks — ultima Thule. God — and I’m talking in my rabbi mode here — forsaken. I don’t even bother with the phylacteries anymore and haven’t since maybe my second or third year in Lud, since, that is, what was supposed to be temporary began to feel permanent. My wife, Shelley, thinks I still lay t’phillim every morning, but Shelley’s a little eccentric in her ways and doesn’t question me too closely about Jewish practices anymore — not since she saw those leather straps bound about my forearm and head and confessed they were a turn-on for her.
“You know what you’re saying? There are parchments inside these boxes with sacred quotations from the Holy Scriptures.”
“I can’t help it,” Shelley said, “I think you look sexy in them.”
“If that stays fair it’s blasphemous, Shelley,” I a little relented. Shelley always knew how to get to me.
“Well, you do” she said, and tried to get me to promise I’d wear my tallith when I came to bed that night.
“Shelley!”
“It’s the fringes, Jerry. They do something to me.”
“Cut it out, Shelley.”
“If you’d taken a post in Williamsburg I’d get to see you in those swell hats and long gabardine coats all the time,” idiosyncratic Shelley pouted.
“You don’t even keep kosher.”
“Would you put your yarmulke on?”
I’ll tell you the truth, now I think of it, maybe my backsliding had more to do with Shelley’s preposterous attitudes than with my growing awareness that I was playing to an empty house. I’m no Graham Greene rabbi, I never was. I don’t burn out so easy. What, because I have a lousy job and I’m stuck in the sticks, there’s no God? Who am I to say? I’m not even good at what I do. But even I have to admit it’s futile. What, it isn’t futile? In this travesty of a community? It’s futile. And face it, who’s to say if that extra hour or so of sleep I get by modifying the morning prayers to my own specifications doesn’t put me in a better mood for the day and make me not only a better husband to my wife but a better father to my daughter, Constance? Surely it does. Because, frankly, you have to be in a good mood to deal with some of Shelley’s idiosyncrasies. Although there’s never been any question in my mind of not dealing with them.
Do declarations of love embarrass you? I suppose it is difficult to accommodate to other people’s passion. Rapture’s the only feeling state that looks silly from the outside. Even, I guess, the other person’s absorption, your own partner’s in the bed. Listen, did I make the world? Was I around when they poured the foundations of the earth? Did I command the morn or cause dawn to know its place? I can’t draw out Leviathan with a fishhook, run a rope through his nose or put him on a leash for my maidens. The wild ox never spent the night at my crib. I never bound the chains of the Pleiades, I never loosed the cords of O’Brian. You’ve got no quarrel with me, what I’m saying. Close your eyes, shut your ears — I’m nuts about my wife. It’s a federal case, almost pathological, past pathological.
I’ll lay my cards on the table. I’m a licensed, professional rabbi, a certified, bonded spiritual counselor. Good and evil are my stock in trade. I carp and I hector, or would if I had anything like a real congregation and not just a bunch of dead people. I cavil, crab, deprecate and reprove. I chalk talk temperament like a coach of character. Yet despite what it says in the job description, and that for all my faults I’m no hypocrite, I tell you that if, on Rosh Hashanah, on Yom Kippur, I were to catch some fellow merely glance in my wife’s direction, at her legs or her figure, in what I construed as a lascivious, concupiscent manner, on the highest holiday, the highest holiday, I would stop whatever I was doing, it could be the holiest prayer on the most sacred day of the year, and beat the son of a bitch over the head with a Torah.
So past pathological. Way past.
I don’t care she’s eccentric, what I’m saying, I don’t care she’s idiosyncratic — I’m nuts about my wife. Smitten. Smited, I sometimes think. Yes, a visitation from the Lord, love like the Plague of Lud.
No, really. I get this bolus of lust whenever I look at her, in my throat, in my gut. Well, she’s a looker, of course, enough to drive even a high-minded religious like myself to apostasy. Great big bedroom eyes and this really sultry mouth and smashing, come-hither schnoz and hair. If I’d known her back on the atoll it’d have been curtains for this rebbe’s concentration. And, believe me, her face is the least of it. I don’t much care for locker-room tales or the men who tell them. Smut isn’t my métier, and even the mildest suggestiveness or whispered, low-key insinuation passed among the good old boys like loose change laid down on a table for a tip gets my Irish up and makes me want to sock somebody and do righteous things, but if I’m to be honest I have to admit that Shelley’s figure, even now, at thirty-seven, makes me think that the Creator has got to be at least part pornographer. She’s got these really incredible knockers and these long hubba-hubba legs and thighs. She’s built like a brick shithouse, my Shelley is, and has a behind on her, God bless, could make old Solomon sing all over again. Her scarlet lips and the halved pomegranates of her cheeks and those twin-fawn, lily-fed titties and her wheat-heaped belly and all those apple exhalations … So when I warned her about blasphemy that time she caught me in my phylacteries, in my prayer shawl and leathers, it wasn’t her soul I was trying to save, it was my own. Shelley, for all she’s the rabbi’s wife or speaks longingly about ultra-Orthodox Williamsburg, is essentially soulless. But does that bother me? It does not. What bothers me is something else entirely.
I swear it on the Bible, Shelley today is even lovelier than when we married. Her hair is longer and softer, her figure is shapelier, her breath sweeter in the mornings. She’s taller! I’m crazy about her. Do you know what this can do to a man? Always to go around like some goony, love-struck schoolboy? I could be burying somebody, no kidding, I could actually be saying Kaddish over some poor sap’s fresh grave, and all I have to do is see, oh, say, a dress that Shelley might have had once in a similar shade and that’s it, I’m a goner, my concentration is shot and I lose my place, not just in the text but literally. It’s as if I’m not in Lud anymore, not in New Jersey, and I’m horny as hell and off somewhere in fantasy cuckooland, and all I can think of is how soon it will be before I’m with Shelley again, grazing in my head her varied parts and wondering which square inch of her to nuzzle first.