spare the time and another one said he wasn't interested in organized religion, and several said they didn't think they could afford it. But I kept after them. If I had taken a vote and acted accordingly, would we have a temple with a cantor and a rabbi and a school with teachers?'
'But by your own figures, Mr. Wasserman, it's twenty-five, maybe even twenty-nine, out of forty-five.'
He smiled wanly. 'So maybe I'm figuring with a black pencil. Maybe the ones who want to think it over, maybe they really haven't made up their minds. And Al Becker and Irving Feingold and Dr. Pearlstein, can they be so sure that everyone who promised them will come to the meeting? The outlook, it's not very bright, but a chance there is. And I'll be plain with you, Mrs. Small. Some of it is your husband's fault. There are many in the congregation, and I don't mean only Becker's friends, who feel that above all and most important, the rabbi is their personal representative in the community at large. And these people object to your husband's general attitude. They say it is almost as though he doesn't care. They say he's careless about his appointments, careless in his appearance, even careless in his manner in the pulpit. His clothes, they're apt to be wrinkled. When he gets up to speak in front of the congregation, or at a meeting, it doesn't look right.'
She nodded. 'I know. And maybe some of these critics blame me. A wife should see to her husband. But what can I do? I see that his clothes are neat when he leaves in the morning, but can I follow him around all day? He's a scholar. When he gets interested in a book, nothing else matters. If he feels like lying down to read he doesn't bother to take off his jacket. When he's concentrating he runs his hands through his hair. So his hair gets mussed and he looks as if he just got up from sleep. When he's studying he makes notes on cards and puts them in his pockets, so that after a while they bulge. He's a scholar, Mr. Wasserman. That's what a rabbi is, a scholar. I know what you mean. I know the sort of man the congregation wants. He gets up in a public meeting to give the invocation. He bows his head as though the Almighty were right there in front of him. He shuts his eyes lest His Radiance should blind him, and then speaks in a low, deep voice-not the voice he uses in talking to his wife, but in a special voice, like an actor. My David is no actor. Do you think God is impressed by a low, deep voice, Mr. Wasserman?'
'Dear Mrs. Small, I'm not disagreeing with you. But we live in the world. This is what the world wants now in a rabbi, so this is what a rabbi has to be.'
'David will change the world, Mr. Wasserman, before the world will change my David.'
7
When Joe Serafino arrived at the club, he found a new hatcheck girl. He strolled over to the headwaiter, who acted as manager in his absence.
'Who's the new broad, Lennie?'
'Oh, I was going to tell you, Joe. Nellie's kid is sick again so I got this girl to stand in for her.'
'What's her name?'
'Stella.'
Joe looked her over. 'She sure fills out that uniform,' he admitted. 'Okay, when things settle down, send her into the office.'
'No funny business, Joe. No passes. She's like a distant cousin of my wife.'
'Take it easy, Lennie. I got to get her name and address and Social Security, don't I?' Joe smiled. 'You want I should bring the book out here?' He left to make his rounds of the dining room. Normally, he spent a good portion of the evening circulating among the customers, greeting one, waving to another, occasionally sitting down with one of the regulars to chat for a few minutes, after which he would snap his fingers at a passing waiter: 'Give these good people a drink, Paul.' But Thursday nights, maids' night out, the atmosphere was different. There were always a number of empty tables, and the people nursed their drinks, conversed in low voices, and seemed to lack spirit. Even the service was not the same; the waiters tended to huddle near the kitchen door instead of scurrying around filling orders. When Leonard glared at them or snapped his fingers to attract their attention, they would separate reluctantly, only to group together the moment his back was turned. Thursdays, Joe spent much of the time in his office working on accounts. This evening he finished early and was trying to catch a brief nap on the couch when there was a knock on the door. He got up and seated himself at the desk with his account books open before him. 'Come in,' he said, in a gruff, businesslike tone.
He heard the doorknob turn ineffectually and then, smiling, he got up from his chair and turned back the night latch. He motioned the girl to the couch. 'Siddown, kid,' he said. 'I'll be with you in a minute.' Casually he pushed the door closed and returned to the swivel chair at the desk and frowned at the books in front of him. For a minute or two he appeared very busy, making little marks on paper and checking against the pages of his ledgers. Then he swung around and looked at her, letting his gaze wander slowly over her. 'What's your name?'
'Stella, Stella Masfrangelo.' 'How do you spell it? Never mind; here, write it down on this piece of paper.'
She came to the desk and bent over to write. She was young and fresh, with a smooth olive skin and dark provocative eyes. His hand itched to pat her bottom, so enticingly encased in the black satin shorts of her uniform. But he had to play it cool, so in the same businesslike voice he said, 'Put down your address and your Social Security. And you better put down your telephone number too, in case we want to get in touch with you in a hurry.'
She finished writing and straightened up, but she did not immediately return to the couch. Instead, she leaned against the edge of the desk, facing him. 'Is that all you want, Mr. Serafino?' she asked.
'Yeah.' He studied the paper. 'You know, we might be able to use you from time to time. Nellie was hinting she'd like an extra night off. It'd give her more time with her kid.'
'Oh, Mr. Serafino, I'd appreciate that.'
'Yeah, well, we'll see about it. Say, you got your car here?'
'No, I came on the bus.'
'Then how were you planning on getting home?'
'Mr. Leonard said I could leave just before midnight. That way I could catch the last bus.'
'Aren't you afraid to go home that late at night alone? That's a hell of an arrangement. Tell you what, I'll drive you home tonight, and you can make some better arrangement next time. Pat, in the parking lot, can usually work out something for you with one of the cabbies.'
'Oh, I couldn't have you do that, Mr. Serafino.'
'Why not?'
'Well, Mr. Leonard said-'
He held up a hand. 'Nobody has to know,' he said, and his voice was easy and coaxing. 'This door here leads right to the parking lot. You leave at quarter of twelve and walk down to the bus stop and wait for me there. I'll get my car and pick you up.'
'But Mr. Leonard-'
'Lennie wants to see me, he comes here. He finds the door locked and he knows I'm grabbing a little shut- eye. He knows better than to disturb me when I'm having a little snooze. Okay? Besides, we got business to talk about, ain't we?'
She nodded her head and fluttered her eyelashes at him.
'Okay, run along, kid, and I'll see you later.' He patted her in dismissal, in a fatherly sort of way.
The Ship's Cabin served sandwiches, doughnuts, and coffee during the day. In the evening they offered hot dishes-spaghetti and meatballs, fried clams and french fried potatoes, baked beans and frankforts-which were described on greasy, flyspecked cards and inserted in the frame of the bar mirror. Each dish was numbered and regulars like Stanley would order by number, presumably to speed up the operation.
There was no heavy drinking either during the day or in the early evening. The patrons who dropped in at midday usually took ale or beer to wash down their sandwich. Those who came later might have a shot of whiskey before supper. But the regular customers, like Stanley, usually returned around nine. That was when the Ship's Cabin really came alive.
After leaving the rabbi's house, Stanley drove his yellow jalopy to the Ship's Cabin, had his regular evening meal, one of the three specials, together with a few glasses of ale. He sat at the bar eating stolidly, his jaws
