"Just wanted to let you know."
When the rabbi hung up. Brooks, who had been able to hear both sides of the conversation, said. "Why didn't you tell him, David?"
"To vie with him for the credit?"
"To let him know you were on the job, and that you pulled it off, he accused you of neglecting your work."
The rabbi shrugged.
Brooks shook his head pityingly. "David. David, you just don't understand. In a job like yours, or like mine, you've got to be covered every minute. You can't let them get a single thing on you. Remember, they are the enemy."
"Who are 'they'?"
"The president, the board of directors, yes, the congregation, the parents. Remember, we are public figures, which means the public is always looking for something to criticize in us, and that means we've got to fight back." He got off the desk and began to stride up and down the room, and as he continued, it was in the tone of a professor lecturing to a class. "There are two reasons why it's important. One is to set the record straight, and the other, and perhaps more important, is to let them know you can't be kicked around. It makes them think twice before they tangle with you. Now, this Maltzman, he doesn't like you, David."
"How do you know he doesn't like me?"
"I can see it. I can see it when he talks to you. Your vibes don't harmonize."
"Vibes?"
"Vibrations. You know, everyone gives off vibrations like a—like a tuning fork, and when two people get together and their vibes don't match or harmonize, there's a discord."
"I see, and my vibrations don't match his?"
"To tell the truth. David, yours don't match most people's. You're not everybody's cup of tea. You're not an easy man to like, /can because of my training."
"Really? What training is that?"
Brooks showed astonishment. "Why my training in the theater, of course, an actor takes on the personality of the character he is playing. Right? So this gives him practice in understanding people, and remember. David, to understand is to forgive, even to like."
"I'll try to remember."
The sarcasm was lost on Brooks. "All right. So we can take it for granted that Maltzman would like to get rid of you, and for a man like Maltzman, to want is to act. So what else is new, you say. It comes with the territory. But this time. David, it's different." He stopped his pacing in front of the desk and looked down sympathetically at the rabbi. "You know what's kept you here all these years. David? I'll tell you. Inertia. Just plain inertia, the presidents and their good friends on the board may have wanted to get rid of you on occasion, but the congregation wouldn't go along. Why? Inertia. It was too much trouble. It meant argument and fighting and taking sides. But tha situation is different now. I’ve heard women say that the only way they'll ever get equality in the service is to get another rabbi first. See, it's the congregation, or at least the women in the congregation, that wants you out now. So, I ask you, what are you going to do?"
"I'm getting out of here." said the rabbi, pushing back his chair.
"You are?" Brooks was aghast.
"That's right. I'm taking the afternoon off. It's too nice to be indoors."
"Oh, for a minute there. I thought— Gosh. I'd go with you, but I’ve got to coach a couple of Bar Mitzvahs."
40
IT WAS NOT ANNOYANCE WITH MORTON BROOKS THAT LED Rabbi Small to leave his study so abruptly. Secretly, he rather enjoyed his cheekiness, his theatrical pomposity. While Brooks' little lecture on temple politics may have triggered the reaction, the reason for walking out was that he was fed up—with the temple, with Maltzman, with his own position as rabbi, he wanted to get away, if it were only for an hour or two, from the reach of the telephone, to where he would not be likely to meet a member of his congregation with a question or a complaint.
He got into his car and set out on the road to Boston with the vague idea that in the city he would achieve the anonymity that, for the moment at least, he craved. But as he drove along the main road, with its heavy traffic, it occurred to him that once he reached the city, he would have to drive around looking for a place to park, and that by the time he found one, it would be time to head for home. So instead, he turned off and took the road to Revere, the nearby resort town with its long stretch of beach faced by an equally long stretch of amusement booths, most of which would be closed at this time of year, there he could perch on the seawall, or sit in tha public pavilion facing the ocean, and watch the waves roll in, there, if anyone approached him, it would be to ask for the time, or a match, or to make some observation on the weather.
There were very few people about, and as he had surmised, most of the amusements had closed down, their bravely decorated fronts made tawdry by the unpainted wooden shutters that were intended to protect them during the winter, here and there, however, one was open, the proprietor leaning over his counter, looking hopefully up and down the street on the chance of interesting one of the few passersby, calling out when one went by, "Step right up. Everyone a winner. No losers. Step right up."
A few of the ice cream and hot dog stands were open, and in the distance the rabbi saw a store that looked as though it might serve coffee, he hoped he could get it in a paper cup and take it to the pavilion to sip at while he did nothing, he heard his name called, and stopped and looked around, the only one in sight was a tall young man in a T-shirt and blue jeans leaning across the counter of the shooting gallery he had just passed, he retraced his steps.
"Gee. I wasn't sure it was you. Rabbi. I mean, seeing you here."
Then he recognized him. "Sumner, isn't it?"
"Uh-huh. Sumner Lefhvich. I was in your postconfirmation class a couple of years back. You come down here often?"
"No, not often. You work here all the time? I thought you were at school."
"I am. Mass State. I just work here off and on. It belongs to my girl's father. I help him out once in a while, with business as slow as it is. I can study here just as good as at home or in the library, and I get a few bucks for it." He looked at the rabbi shyly. "Care to test your skill. Rabbi? Ten shots for a quarter."
"I’ve never shot a rifle."
"Nothing to it, Rabbi. You just aim and squeeze the trigger. You don't pull it, you kind of squeeze it."
The rabbi looked up and down the street and decided the young man had not had many customers that day, he fished a quarter out of his pocket and watched with interest as the young man slid a tube of cartridges into the chamber of the rifle.
The rabbi put the rifle to his shoulder and peered through the sights at the row of clay pipes, the moving line of ducks, the rabbits hopping one after another, the giant pendulum swinging slowly back and forth, then he vaguely remembered that there was a recoil when a gun went off, and he removed his glasses and carefully put them in his breast pocket. This time when he sighted, he saw only white blobs and splotches. But what of it, there were plenty of things to hit.
He pulled at the trigger again and again until a click told him that he had exhausted his ammunition, he laid the gun down on the counter and put on his glasses.
"Perfect score," said the young man, grinning broadly at him.
"Really?"
"That's right. Ten shots and ten misses, the sights must be off, here try this one. On the house."
"No, really—"
"Go on. Rabbi."
The rabbi shrugged, and once again took off his glasses and put the rifle to his shoulder. When he put it down on the counter again, the young man shook his head to signify that he had done no better this time.
"I guess it's you, Rabbi, not the rifles."
"I'm afraid I'll never be a marksman," said the rabbi. "I was heading for that shop to get a cup of coffee. Can I get you one?"