Or it might be that She was no longer there because he had divorced her, he had finally realized that She was unworthy of him and that he could not continue to live with her.
Then she might picture him as remarried. His new wife was a shadowy figure, vaguely resembling a buxom Polish maid she had once had, who would give birth almost every year, all boys, and all looking like Herbert, they would crowd around their grandmother, each like one of the pictures of Herbert, at different ages, as he was growing up, pushing and jostling each other to claim her attention. "Grandma, look at me." Herbert would be beside her and would good-naturedly push them away with. "Go on and play. You're tiring Grandma." Their mother never appeared in any of these scenes, with so large a brood, she was naturally busy, cleaning, cooking, washing dishes—
She heard Molly answer the phone but could not hear what She said, of course, she lay in bed debating whether to put on the light and read for a while, or try to go back to sleep, or maybe even get up and go downstairs for a cup of tea. Before she could come to a decision, she heard footsteps on the stairs, slow, careful footsteps, and then the door of her bedroom quietly opened, she pretended to be asleep, the door closed and the footsteps retreated down the stairs, a little later, she heard the sound of an automobile starting up, seemingly right below her window. Mystified, she got out of bed, went to the window and cautiously drew back the curtain just in time to see Molly's coupe ease down the driveway.
Where could She be going? Had something happened to Herbert? Had the call come from the temple? But what could happen to him in the temple?
Mrs. Mandell snicked on her bed lamp and looked at her watch. It was a little after half past eight. Gathering a kimono around her, she went downstairs, the lights in tha living room were still on, and she padded about in her mules, looking at the papers on the desk where She had been typing. It occurred to her that She might have gone to mail something. But why now? The next collection would not be made until tomorrow morning, and it couldn't be to buy something, like cigarettes or a magazine at the drugstore, all the stores were closed by this time. Besides, her leaving must have something to do with the phone call She had received. Some friends must have called her and—could it have been a man friend? Was She taking advantage of Herbert's being at the temple to meet a lover?
Mrs. Mandell felt faint at the idea and thought she had better get back to her own room to take a pill, to lie down if necessary, the more she thought about it, the stronger grew the probability of her daughter-in-law's unfaithfulness. Curiously, it had not been one of the scenarios that she had fantasized as a means of ending the marriage, because—because in her mind it would make her son look ridiculous. But now she thought about it because she had to. What should she do? How should she proceed? Of course, if Herbert came home first, that would take care of it. On her return, he would confront her and demand an explanation. But what if She got back first?
She heard a car turn into the quiet street, her breast filled with a great hope that it might be her son. But a glance at the clock showed that it was a little after nine, too early for him to be coming home from the temple. It must be She returning.
Gripping the handrail, she hurriedly mounted the stairs and got back into bed, a few minutes later the car pulled into the driveway, and shortly after she again heard footsteps on the stairs and then the door of her room being eased open, again she pretended to be asleep, breathing deeply and stertorously until she heard the door pulled to and footsteps retreating down the stairs.
20
IN AN EFFORT TO INCREASE THE ATTENDANCE, HENRY Maltzman had suggested to the temple Brotherhood that they actively sponsor the Friday evening services.
"What do you mean, sponsor?" asked Howard Jonas, the president of the Brotherhood.
"You know, sponsor. Get behind the idea and push. Drum up attendance. Decorate the pulpit. Make arrangements for the collation afterward."
"But that's what the Sisterhood does."
"Yeah, so why shouldn't the Brotherhood take a crack at it for a change? It will spark things up, the competition."
"You mean, at the collation, the men would pour the tea? For the women? 'One lump or two, Mrs. Feldman?' Cummon! That's a woman's job, Henry."
But Maltzman was persuasive, and they finally agreed to do it one Friday in the month, the other Fridays continuing under the supervision of the women. So this night found Herb Mandell, as chairman of the Brotherhood Committee for the affair, standing at the front door of the temple with Howard Jonas, greeting congregants as they arrived. For this, the first such service, they had sent out cards to all the members. More, they had gone through the Barnard's Crossing phone directory and sent cards of invitation to any whose names suggested they might be Jewish. "So if we make a mistake and send a card to a Gentile and he takes us up on it and comes, what harm will it do? It's like ecumenical."
Mandell took his responsibilities seriously. Whenever there was a lull, he would leave his post at the door to dash down to the vestry to see how the arrangements for the collation were going. Since he was the lead tenor in the Brotherhood barbershop quartet, which was to join the cantor in front of the Ark to lead in the singing of the En Kelohaynu at the end of the service, he was also concerned about a slight hoarseness he had developed that afternoon. So each time he went down to the vestry, he would use the opportunity to dodge into the men's room to examine his throat in the mirror above the washbowl for signs of redness, then he would shake some salt from a small packet he had brought from home into a paper cup of warm water and gargle for a few seconds.
On the podium two pairs of thronelike chairs, upholstered in rich red velvet, were set on either side of the Ark, the two on the left were reserved for the rabbi and the president of the congregation, while those on the right were customarily occupied by the vice-president and the cantor, at quarter past eight, fifteen minutes before the services were scheduled to begin, only three of the chairs were occupied, Henry Maltzman had not as yet arrived.
"I wonder where he is." Howard Jonas mused. "It doesn't look right that he shouldn't be here."
"He'll probably be along a little later." said Herb Mandell. "He was late last week, too."
"Did he take his seat next to the Ark?"
"Oh no, he slid into a seat in one of the back rows."
"I don't like it." said Jonas. "Frankly, I'm pissed off. It was his idea in the first place, and he rammed it down our throats. So the least he could do is be here and see how it was going. I suppose it's a business matter that came up, and I'd be the first to admit that your business comes first. But where he's president of the congregation, it seems to me that's like a commitment. Not that I'm criticizing, you understand."
"Oh, sure." Mandell turned to greet an arrival. "Hello Mr. Kalb. Glad you could make it—. No, take any seat at all."
Jonas nudged him. "Say., Herb, what's your arrangement with Maltzman? You know, about announcing that this is sponsored by the Brotherhood."
"Well, just before we begin the service, he's supposed to say that he is calling on me for a few words, then I go up and explain that the Brotherhood is sponsoring the service, and I'd like to welcome everybody."
"Then I think you better go up and take that seat beside the rabbi right now, herb, because if Henry doesn't get here on time, the chances are the rabbi will just start the regular service."
"You think it's all right?"
"Sure. I'll hold the fort here by myself."
Diffidently, Herb Mandell walked down the aisle and mounted the steps of the podium. To the rabbi's questioning look, he responded in a whisper. "Howard thought I ought to come up now seeing as Henry Maltzman might not get here in time."