still alive fifteen years after transplant.”
“The new organs give out?”
“No, the organs are fine. They get cancer from all the drugs they have to take.”
“Do the McConnells have any kids?”
“Doesn’t say.”
“Which means no, because politicians always flaunt their kids. They’re photo ops from birth.”
“Maybe the drugs affect fertility too.”
“If they do, I’m sure you’ll find out. You’ve been doing amazing research.”
“I’ve had plenty of time while you’ve been out.”
“Was there a pout behind that?”
“Not at all. You should get to see Boston.”
“See if McConnell has any events coming up. We can both get out.”
She moved her wireless mouse and clicked. “Aha. The congressman and the missus are both planning to attend Slow Art Day at the Institute of Contemporary Art between eleven and two tomorrow.”
“Slow Art Day?”
She moved and clicked again. “It is, and I quote, a global grassroots movement that encourages people to look at art in a new way, by spending a few minutes looking at each piece, really taking it in and making a connection with it, instead of rushing through. It says here the average person spends eight seconds looking at each object or exhibit when they’re not regular museum-goers. They wind up taking in too much info and they get tired and grumpy.”
“It says that? Tired and grumpy?”
“It does. And not inclined to visit again. They want people to take their time, just see one part of the museum instead of the whole thing, and see the rest another time.”
“In other words, it’s not a global grassroots movement, it’s a membership drive. Does it give the name of McConnell’s PR person?”
“It lists the museum’s and-yes, here’s the congressman’s too. Tim Fitzpatrick, communications adviser. You want to try the
“Not on a political operative. He’d check it before he returned the call. Let’s just go. Come up and shake the congressman’s hand. Ask why David wanted to meet him. See the look on his face.”
“And check out what an heiress wears on Sunday,” Jenn said.
Rubin’s Kosher Deli was on Harvard Street in Brookline, in the middle of the stretch of Jewish shops we had canvassed. A plain place with red vinyl booths and tabletops sticky with rings from soda glasses and coffee cups.
I walked in and looked for a burly bearded man in his fifties, which is how Rabbi Ed Lerner had described himself on the phone when he’d returned my call. “Look for me in a window seat,” he had said, but there was no one fitting his description at any of the booths at the front. I took a seat at one, assured the waitress that I was meeting someone and ordered coffee to start with. It had just arrived when a heavy man with a salt-and-pepper beard came in the door, breathing heavily. He looked around, saw me and raised his eyebrows.
“Jonah Geller?” he said.
I got up and extended my hand. “Thanks for coming.”
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I ran into someone outside who absolutely, positively needed to know why I left Adath Israel. It’s no one’s business but in this community, it’s everyone’s.”
He was about five-eight and easily 200 pounds, maybe 220. Early fifties, a mop of curly hair under a skullcap that looked more African than Jewish, brightly coloured and raised up on a circular brim. His eyes were a shade between green and blue.
“You going to eat,” he said, “or just have coffee?”
“I could eat.”
“And I, as you probably guessed, can always eat. I should stay out of places like this but what can I say? There is no better food in the world than deli. A soup, a sandwich, a pickle on the side. This is how man was meant to eat. This man, anyway. And everything’s kosher, by the way, in case you observe.”
He waved the waitress over and she greeted him with a big smile. “Hello, Rabbi. I thought maybe you weren’t coming in today.”
“Did the world end and I missed it? I was just held up outside.”
“You need a menu?”
“Nope. I’m going to start with a matzo ball soup,” he said. Then he looked at me: “You like a good matzo ball soup? Yes? No insult to any of your family members but you won’t find better than here. And if you promise not to tell my daughter,” he said to the waitress, “I’ll have a pastrami on rye and an order of latkes.”
“What size sandwich?”
“Regular.”
“And you, sir?” she asked me.
“Have a sandwich,” the rabbi said. “Don’t make me look bad.”
I told the waitress I’d have the same thing as Rabbi Ed and she said she’d be back in a few minutes.
“If my daughter had her way, I’d be eating poached salmon on mixed greens,” he said. “Granted, I could lose a few pounds, but we all have our vices. Pastrami is mine.”
“There are worse.”
“I know. I heard them all in my years as a rabbi.”
I could see why people would confide in him. He seemed warm, hearty, down to earth. A sizable man with a rumbling baritone.
“So,” he said. “This is terrible news about David Fine. For him to drop out of sight is totally out of character.”
“You hadn’t heard about it till now?”
“Being away from the shul, I’ve been a little out of touch. And that was my main connection to him.”
“When did he join?”
“He started coming maybe four years ago. He would have been in grad school, I guess. Shabbos services at first, and then a few other things, like our communal Friday-night dinners.”
“How well did you know him?”
He looked toward the kitchen, nostrils flaring as if trying to scent out our lunch. The waitress wasn’t in sight. “Adath Israel was a big congregation. Too big in the end, over a thousand families from the two dozen we started with. It’s one of the reasons I left. But we don’t have to get into that. You want to know how often we spoke.”
“Yes.”
“Not much at first. I could see right away he knew his stuff, and enjoyed doing it too. Especially the Torah service. He sang out, which not everyone does. Put his heart into it. You’re smiling. Why are you smiling?”
“Because everyone describes him as shy, introverted. I’m having a hard time picturing him singing.”
“Then picture it this way. A bright young man, very gifted, with tremendous responsibilities. Entirely self- imposed, you understand, but still very real. And once a week he can come and envelop himself in his tallis and close his eyes and sing melodies he has known since childhood.”
“You’re making me want to come.”
“So you’ll come to my new shul.”
“Where is that?”
“At this point, it’s more a question of when. I’m hoping to start something new, a little different, a little more intimate. There’s a place I have my eye on. But some things still have to come together. Another story for another time.”
“Did he ever come to you for guidance?”
“If he did, could I tell you? If David is in trouble, I would want to do everything I could to help him. But there is also the matter of confidentiality.”
“Trust me, Rabbi, he is in trouble.”
“You know this for a fact?”
“I’m convinced.”
“Is that the same as knowing?”
