Someday the Rabbi Will Leave Page 9

  “With Howard Magnuson? I guess so. I haven’t seen very much of him. Just that time he came to my study. Come to think of it, that was to ask me why I hadn’t been coming to the board meetings. After that, I saw him at the few meetings that followed, but that’s all.”

  “Anything special happen at those meetings? I mean, as far as you were concerned?”

  “Nothing unusual that I can think of. Why?”

  “You didn’t oppose Magnuson in any discussion?” she persisted.

  “I didn’t take part in any discussion. Oh, in Good and Welfare, I said I thought that all members of the board ought to come to the Friday evening services, but—”

  “That’s it,” she said decisively.

  “What’s it?”

  “Howard Magnuson interpreted that as a personal criticism because he never attends the Friday evening services.”

  “Or any other.”

  “So there you are,” she announced triumphantly. “He thinks you were critical of him.”

  “Well, from that point of view, I suppose I am. What of it?”

  “Oh, David, don’t you see? You don’t criticize people like Magnuson. You do, of course, but I mean … What I’m trying to say is that people like Magnuson aren’t used to being criticized by people they regard as subordinates. You did, and it’s probably not the only time. So he’s determined to do something about it.”

  “Like what?” he scoffed. “Get the board to pass a resolution declaring that the rabbi must never say anything that’s critical of the president?”

  “You may laugh,” she said, “but I’m bothered. You know it’s not as though you had a life contract here. It’s just year to year.”

  “That’s the way I want it. If it leaves the temple free, it also leaves me free.”

  “But what if they decide they won’t renew?”

  He shrugged. “So I go looking for another job. And from what I hear, it would probably be a better one. Maybe a larger synagogue in a larger town, or in a city with members who are more understanding. The response to my paper in the Quarterly was pretty flattering, and I’m still getting letters on it.”

  “Then why not think of moving on? I mean, why not look around—”

  “Well, because I like living here in Barnard’s Crossing for one thing. And for another, I feel that I’m needed here. It’s harder, and there are frequent rows. There’s constant pressure from one group or another to move in all sorts of undesirable directions. I feel that I’m keeping them to the tradition. Someplace else, with an older and a more established congregation, life would be easier, but less rewarding.”

  This was Wednesday night. Although Miriam did not bring up the matter again, he knew it was on her mind by the questions she asked. Had Mr. Kaplan been at the minyan? Did he say anything? Had Morton Brooks said anything to him? He usually knew what was going on. Finally, he asked her outright what was bothering her.

  “I’m not really bothered. Yes, I suppose I am. I’m not too worried about your being able to get another job if you have to. But I like it here, too, and I’d rather you didn’t have to. But if you’re in trouble with the president—”

  “So what? I’ve been in trouble, as you put it, with presidents before. In fact, I’ve fought with about half of them. It’s nothing new.”

  “But Magnuson is different, David. The others, you knew where you stood with them. It was always about some basic principle, and you were right and they were wrong. You could always rally the congregation round you if it came to a fight. You could always explain how it was contrary to our tradition and why you had to oppose it. The point is, the other presidents were concerned about the temple, about our religion. They were Jews—”

  “And Magnuson isn’t?”

  “Well, of course he is, but he doesn’t give a hang about the temple. It’s just an organization to him, and because it is an organization, he wants to run it. And he can want you out of it because—because you get in his way. And if he wanted you out, he’d get you out. It wouldn’t have to be about anything in particular. He’d just convince the board, and he could, not to renew your contract when it expires. And your contract expires soon, or didn’t you realize it?”

  “Does it? No, I hadn’t realized. Then maybe that’s it. Howard Magnuson is a businessman with a concern for detail. Since my contract is due to expire, he feels that it should be voted on by the board. It’s only natural that he should want them to do it in my absence.”

  Sunday morning when Miriam woke him to go to the morning minyan, he stretched lazily and said, “I think I’ll pass it up. I’ll say the morning prayers at home today.”

  “Anything the matter, David? Are you feeling all right?”

  “I’m feeling fine,” he assured her, “just lazy. I just thought I’d indulge myself a little.”

  Later at breakfast, after he had recited the morning prayers, he explained, “The meeting comes right after the minyan. The board members who are present at the minyan drift down the corridor to the boardroom where those who didn’t come to the minyan are waiting, Magnuson usually among them. Then after a few minutes, he calls the meeting to order. All right, so after the minyan, if I go in the other direction, towards the stairs to my study, someone is sure to ask me if I’m not planning to go to the meeting. And of course, I’ll have to say that I’m not. Then, most likely they’d ask why not, and I’d find it a little embarrassing to say that I was requested to stay away.”

  “But if it’s just what you think it is, a formal vote on the renewal of your contract, wouldn’t they get it out of the way the first thing and then maybe call up to your study to have you come down to participate in the rest of the meeting?”

  “Possibly. But then I don’t want to appear to be at their beck and call. Anyway, our board meetings don’t work like that even under Magnuson who tries to keep them businesslike. They do a lot more talking than transacting business. If Magnuson brought it up right after committee reports, say, in an effort to get it out of the way, they’d still spend the whole time discussing it, even though it’s purely routine. He’d call for discussion, and every one of them would take the opportunity to say something about me, how I had shown bad judgment in this, or failed to do that.”

  “Don’t you have any friends among the board, David?”

  “Oh sure, if you mean people I get along with. Most of them, maybe all of them. But if you mean, do I have a clique, the rabbi’s party, no, definitely not.”

  “Maybe that was a mistake, not having one, I mean. You know what Rabbi Bernstein said—”

  “Saul Bernstein is a politician from way back. He was a politician at the seminary. That kind of thing comes natural to him. It means cultivating a few important people, dining with them, going places with them. I can’t do it. There are only three or four at whose homes I could dine. The rest don’t keep kosher kitchens. Besides, it works both ways, you know. If you expect them to support you in your projects, you’ve got to support them in theirs. I’d rather be my own man.”

  He spoke somewhat testily, the matter having come up before between them. Miriam thought it best to change the subject. “When do you suppose you’ll hear? Will they send you a letter?”

  “Well, Magnuson, being a stickler for businesslike methods, will send me written notice, I expect. But no doubt, the secretary will call me around noon or right after the meeting is over.”

  However, it was not the secretary who called; it was Magnuson himself. “Rabbi? Howard Magnuson speaking. I thought you’d be pleased to hear that we have just voted to increase your salary by six thousand dollars a year, to take effect immediately.”

  “Oh, why—why, thank you. I appreciate that. It was very kind and generous—”

  “Just good business practice, Rabbi. It’s been a cardinal principle with me never to underpay personnel, especially key personnel.”

  “It’s a wonderful principle. Thank you again.”

  There was no need to tell Miriam for she had been standin
g at his side. “Oh, David, isn’t it wonderful! But I feel awful after what I said about him, because I’m sure it was all his doing.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it was.”

  She eyed him searchingly. “Yet, somehow you don’t appear terribly pleased.”

  “Oh, I am, believe me, except …”

  “Except what?”

  “Except that I’m not sure I haven’t just been co-opted into being one of the president’s men.”

  18

  For the week before the primaries, Laura persuaded Scofield to stay away from his law office in Salem and devote himself full-time to the campaign. Early every morning she had him down at the railroad station—either in Revere or Lynn—distributing cards to the commuters going in to Boston. He would approach them on the platform with hand outstretched and say, “Hello. I’m Jack Scofield, candidate for the Republican nomination for state senator. I’d appreciate your support.” Then he’d give them one of his campaign cards with his picture and the slogan underneath, “Let’s keep things the way they are.”

  Most of the time, the people addressed merely nodded or mumbled something and took the card, only to drop it surreptitiously when they thought he wasn’t looking. At first he found it disheartening, when the train pulled out, to see how many cards were littering the platform. But he got over it after a while.

  And sometimes, someone would say, “I was planning to vote for you,” in which case he would give the hand a little squeeze and say, “Thanks, and please tell your friends.” On rare occasions, someone would say, “Sorry, but I’m voting for Cash (Or Baggio).” In those cases, Laura had taught him to say, “He’s a good man. As long as we get a Republican in. That’s the main thing.”

  “If he says he’s a Democrat, don’t argue with him,” she instructed. “Just offer him the card and say, ‘In case you change your mind, I’d appreciate your support,’ and let it go at that. Whatever you do, don’t argue. You won’t change anybody’s mind and you’ll be wasting time, losing the chance to speak to someone else. And keep moving. Don’t stand in one place waiting for people to approach. Go after them.”

  After that, they went to the supermarkets and shopping centers. Here, the technique was a little different. “They’ll be mostly women,” she pointed out. “So you don’t hold out your hand unless they offer theirs. You just give them the card. And try to approach them as they’re entering the store, not when they’re leaving and loaded down with bundles. And for God’s sakes, keep moving. Don’t get stalled.”

  “What do you mean, stalled?”

  She gave him a curious look. “Some of these gals can be on the hungry side—emotionally.”

  Scofield was tempted to say—lightly, jokingly—that he himself was on the hungry side emotionally, but he hesitated and the opportunity was lost. The truth was that he was a little in awe of her. She was so assured, so self-possessed, so—so rich. He thought of the girls he had taken out at school or picked up in bars, as chicks or broads, and his interest in them was primarily sexual. But Laura was a lady. Laura was class. Of course, if he were to win the election …

  The first couple of days she chauffeured him around in her car just to make sure he got there, and to watch and then give her opinion of his performance. In the evenings she scheduled meetings for him, sometimes two or three for the same evening. These were brief visits to people’s houses, where he would make a little speech, answer a few questions, and then, in response to a signal from her, say, “I’m sorry, folks, but I’m on a tight schedule.” He would smile and nod in her direction, “The boss is signaling me and I’ve got to run.” He would drive to those meetings in his own car with the sign on the roof because, as she explained, “It does a lot of good to have your car seen outside some of these homes.”

  As the campaign drew to a close, Scofield was concerned about their lack of an organization. “These other guys, they’ve got people to stand around each of the precincts to hand out cards, and to drive people to the polls.”

  “Well, so have we,” she assured him.

  “We have? Where’d we get them?”

  “I was able to sell the Barnard’s Crossing Republican Committee a bill of goods,” she replied airily. “I pointed out the obvious, that you were the only local person running. In theory they’re supposed to be neutral until the Republican candidate is picked in the primaries, but I convinced them that it would be to their advantage if you should win. I also contacted Josiah Bradley, the former senator, or rather his people, and they contacted some of their supporters. Don’t worry, we’ll have troops to man the precinct stations.”

  He looked at her in wonder. “You know, I never thought of that.”

  “You’re not supposed to,” she assured him. “That’s what a campaign manager is supposed to do. All you have to do is run.”

  “Like a racehorse with you as my jockey, huh?”

  She smiled. “Something like that.”

  On Saturday before election day, Laura received in the mail a leaflet issued by The Committee of Concerned Citizens. It showed a badly reproduced photograph of a group of six men, seated at what appeared to be the head table at a banquet. Five were named, and below each name was a note to the effect that he had been indicted or convicted of a major crime. The sixth, unmistakably Thomas Baggio, was not named but circled. Below the photograph ran the single line: “Do You Care?”

  She drummed on the desk with her fingers as she studied it. When Scofield came in, she showed it to him. “Have you seen one of these? It came in this morning’s mail.”

  He looked at it and said, “That’s Tommy Baggio, isn’t it?”

  “No doubt about it, and it’s dirty pool. Have you ever heard of The Committee of Concerned Citizens?”

  He shook his head slowly.

  “Neither have I,” she said, “and if there were such a committee, I’m sure I would have. It’s obviously a phony.”

  “Who do you suppose put it out?”

  “Maybe Al Cash’s people.” She stooped to retrieve the envelope from the wastebasket. “Postmarked Revere. Or it could be one of Baggio’s political enemies in his own town. With the election Tuesday, the poor devil can’t do much about it, either. Even if he tries to arrange a press conference for his denial, it probably wouldn’t get into the local papers until Tuesday. I doubt whether Boston papers would bother with it at all.”

  “But it’s a photograph, and pictures don’t lie.”

  “What difference does that make?” she demanded. “This was probably some sort of benefit or testimonial. Baggio is a pol. He must get invited to all kinds of affairs of this kind. Somebody says to him, ‘So-and-so just got out of the hospital, or is getting a new job on the West Coast, or has just been elected president of the Left-handed Salesmen Association, and we’re giving him a benefit. Can you come and say a few words?’ So he goes, says a few words of greeting, has his picture taken, and he leaves. From his point of view, there are people there who vote, and that’s enough reason for going.”

  “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

  A sudden thought came to her. “Sa—ay, we should do something about this.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, we can’t just ignore it. We’ve got to take a position on it. It might even do us some good. I tell you what, we’ll repudiate it. You will issue a statement saying you deplore this kind of politics, and you believe—no, you are certain that Thomas Baggio is an honorable man. I’ll call the local papers right away. Maybe we can get into the Monday paper.”

  He considered for a moment and then nodded. “Yeah, let’s do it. Write up a statement and we can give it to them over the phone.”

  19

  Millie Hanson laid out half a dozen strips of sizzling bacon on a paper towel, placed another towel over them, and patted them dry. She put three strips on each plate beside the French toast, hesitated, and then transferred one of the strips to the other plate. Bacon was fattening and she had to watch her figure. She brought the two plate
s to the table and set the one with four strips in front of Tony.

  “Thanks, Baby. Geez, I’m starved.” After spreading out his paper napkin, he reached for the bottle of maple syrup and liberally doused his French toast. “What time did you get in last night?”

  “After two. You know Saturday nights.”

  “Busy, huh?”

  “Boy, was it! For a while they were running me ragged. Hey, I saw that guy. He was with a couple of other guys—”

  “What guy was that, Baby?”

  “You know, the guy whose picture was in the paper. You remember. You had a picture of a bunch of hoods at a banquet and one of them had his picture in the paper you said was running for something.”

  “Baggio? Tommy Baggio?”

  “Yeah, they were calling him Tommy.”

  “You sure it was him?”

  “Oh sure. He looked just like the picture in the paper.”

  “Recognize anyone else?”

  “There was a redhead they called Mike. He’s been in before. That’s the only one.”

  “Kind of squinty eyes? That’s Mike Springer, his campaign manager. Did you happen to hear what they were talking about?” he asked casually.

  “They were talking kind of quiet-like, almost whispering. And when I’d come over to serve them their drinks, they’d stop talking. But then after they’d had a few, they weren’t so careful, and once I heard this redhead say, ‘So how’d they get the picture?’ And this Baggio character said, ‘I tell you it’s a frame. I swear I was never even there.’”

  “That’s all you heard?”

  “I told you we were busy. I was running back and forth to the bar. I had all the booths on the left and three tables, and they kept me hopping. I got snatches, mostly about some Election Commission. And once I heard Baggio say he was going to put the boots to his brother-in-law. Do you suppose that’s the guy that framed him? His brother-inlaw?”

  Tony raised his shoulders in expressive denial of any knowledge. “These Revere pols, who knows? They’d frame their own mother.”