The Outsider (7 page)

His mind was traveling that path as Lucy entered the room. She stood at the door and asked, “What is it, David?”

“What is it? Me? The world? Leighton Ridge?”

“Come on. You're so low you could eat off your shoe tops without bending.” She dropped into a chair. “Maybe I can help.”

“Maybe, but not likely.” He managed a smile. “You were never cut out to be a rabbi's wife.”

“
Rebbetsin.
I hate that word.”

“Why ever did you marry me?”

“Dumbbell. I loved you.”

“And now?”

“Pushy, aren't you? Now I'm settled in. We have a child who has begun to walk very nicely, and I'm knocked up again. And I've become a prime Sunday school teacher. David, what has gotten into you?”

“I want to go to Israel.” There it was, out and said.

“What?”

“A Jewish state has come into being. A Jewish army is at war with five Arab countries that outnumber them ten to one. Lucy, can you sit here in this damned Leighton Ridge and pretend that the world doesn't exist?”

“I don't pretend that it doesn't exist. I know it exists. I also know that we're connected with it, Leighton Ridge or any other place.”

“You haven't heard a word I said.”

“Every word. You give up your job here, leave your pregnant wife and son to scrabble as best they may — and off to Israel. Another rabbi is just what they need.”

“You can be just lovely when you put your mind to it.”

“Why don't you call me a nasty bitch? No one here except the two of us, and nobody lived with the United States Army as long as you did without learning a few proper Anglo-Saxon words.”

“You can't understand one damned thing that happens inside of me, not my dreams, my hopes, my agonies.”

“Have you ever tried to understand what happens inside of me, David? A fetus is happening inside of me. And incidentally, what would be your mission there? Join the Haganah? Fight? Kill people?”

“You know better than that.”

“The strange thing is, I do. You're the gentlest man I ever met. I think that was the most important thing that made me want to marry you. War may bring out the best in some, but when you spend three years with the U.S.O., you can bet your bottom dollar that it brings out the worst in most. You really want to go to Israel?”

“I don't know. Maybe I only want to get away from here.”

“There are easier ways. We can burn down the house. I'm serious, Dave. I don't give two damns if you stop being a rabbi.”

“You never did,” he said with annoyance.

“So?”

“Oh, what the hell! I never could explain it to you. I've tried for two years, and that's long enough.”

“Explain what!”

“Come on, come on,” he said. “We're building up to a real fight. I don't want to fight with you.”

“Why? Because you're a rabbi?”

“Because it only hurts. It doesn't help.”

“Maybe it would help. Maybe it would help if we screamed at each other and let some pus out of the wound. You're a rabbi. I don't know what a rabbi is; I only suspect that he's supposed to reflect some aspect of civilization.” She was shouting now. “Fifty million people are killed in that lousy war — fifty million — six million Jews, one third of the Jews on earth! And now again, more killing, and my husband the rabbi tells me he has to be there! For God's sake, go.” She stood up and drove a finger at him. “You know something, David Hartman, this thing you and all the rest of the ministers and priests and parsons call God — this thing makes me damned uneasy!”

David sat, staring in astonishment, as Lucy stormed out of the room.

He was astonished, put off, hurt, yet absolutely intrigued by her response. He tried to remember her exact words — this thing, all right, God is a thing, this thing makes me nervous — no, damned uneasy was what she had said, and it put him back to when he was digging a hole, he and a G.I. named O'Brien. A spatter of machine gun fire had thrown them together, and when O'Brien yelled, “Dig, goddamnit, dig!” David obeyed without any discussion of rank. They dug insanely, and when they were three feet down, O'Brien said, “We don't need to go to China, Father.”

David dropped his trenching tool and wiped his brow. “We don't call rabbis father. My name is Dave Hartman.”

“Lewis O'Brien.”

“Catholic?”

“Not even lapsed, Rabbi. Begging your pardon, I spit when I hear the word. I have resigned. Would you believe it, I was a candidate for the priesthood once? I intended to be the most outstanding, smartass Jesuit the world ever saw, and I even talked myself into the possibility that I would give up women.”

“What changed it?” David asked.

“The war — and contemplation on that peculiar thing that you and the other sky merchants call God.”

David brooded over the memory, wondering what Lucy's response would be if he asked her why she thought of God as a thing. Then he went downstairs and asked her, trying to be as soft and appeasing as possible.

“Did I say that?”

“Yes.”

“I don't know what I meant. You can't talk about God, David. You know that.”

“But I do talk about —”

“You were going to say ‘Him,' weren't you? And then you stopped yourself. Why did you stop yourself? Isn't it
him
anymore? Then what do I do with that Bible I teach the kids. It doesn't say he made woman in his own image. Too much confusion of gender.”

She knew all his weak spots, his confusion and fears. “Why are you doing this, Lucy?” he asked her.

“I'm sorry. Oh, David, I'm sorry as hell. It just put me off and scared the very devil out of me when you started that business about Israel. David, I love you so much and I get so confused.”

“I'm not going to Israel,” he admitted.

“I'm pregnant again. You know that. I mean, if all you wanted in the world was to get over there, you'd need every dollar we have saved up, but if being pregnant —”

He grabbed her in a bear hug and cut off her words. “Lucy, I do love you so much.”

“I'm glad. I have a treat for you tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Blintzes.”

“You're kidding. Where did you learn to make blintzes? From your mother?”

“My mother? I'm not even sure she knows what one is.”

“Then where?”

“Millie Carter,” Lucy said smugly. “You see, you don't have to be Jewish. She has a Jewish cookbook, and we worked it out together. And Della Klein brought over a quart of homemade strawberry jam. I've learned to accept anything given. I guess it's a rule of the business that preachers must be beggars —”

“Lucy —”

“Just kidding, forgive me. A gift of love, and I do love Della. She's dear.”

David ate the blintzes. They were very good, as was the strawberry jam Della Klein had provided. As a boy he had lived with a mother who disdained blintzes. They were a product of Russian-Jewish cookery, whereas the Hartmans were of German-Jewish extraction. This only added a pleasant zest to the taste of the blintzes.

“Just delicious,” David said. “The jam too. Della is talented. I'm glad you've been able to make so many friends here.”

“Of course, it's you Della adores. But I do have friends. Do you know why?”

“You're a sweet and friendly person. Why shouldn't you make friends here?”

“No. You're not even scratching it, David. We've been here two years, and you're telling me you don't realize how lonely and miserable most of the women here are, Jew and Gentile alike?”

“I've had indications.”

“We cling to each other.”

“What are you telling me?” David asked softly. “That you're miserable and unhappy?”

“Sometimes.”

“What does sometimes mean?”

“It means —” She broke off and rose and went around the table. “The hell with it,” she said. “I love you. I hear the baby crying, and you have a meeting tonight with all the big wheels, and if you want to talk about it, we'll do it some other time.”

The meeting with the committee was at Mel Klein's place, about a mile from the old Congregational church that had become David's synagogue. It was a lovely spring evening, the new leaves making a pale, lacy froth over the trees, the sky reddening behind thin strips of cloud, the air as sweet as honey. Bit by bit, the place had gotten to David, in spite of intervals of irritation and boredom. He had to admit that for sheer, quiet beauty, Leighton Ridge took second place to no other spot he had known. His work still intrigued him. On the other hand, being here in this old Connecticut town constantly raised the question of why he was here. When he saw himself in the third person, he would argue that this was David Hartman passing through, only passing through. But never permanently. To live in this place, to grow old in this place — that was inconceivable. Lucy might not believe it, but he understood quite well what she was saying. But where was her understanding of him? She had no inkling of the meaning of his desire to be in Israel. He envied her certainty. Her validity was deep inside her and unquestioned, and that perhaps was a quality of being a woman; his own validity was vague and disoriented, changing from day to day.

Enough of that! It was too beautiful an evening to cloud with vague and unrewarding thoughts. He tried to clear his mind as he strode down the road. He was the last to arrive at the Kleins' place, and as Della opened the door and kissed him, she said, “The wolves are here in the den. Now don't be upset, David.”

“What makes you think I'll be upset?”

“I know what's on the agenda. And I know you.”

“Everybody knows me these days. I wish I knew myself.”

“Terrible thing for a rabbi to say. Next I'll hear you're being psychoanalyzed.”

“Hardly.”

“But you did have a fight with Lucy.”

“You're too wise, Della. I prefer the wolves.”

The “wolves” were waiting in what Mel Klein called his den — Jack Osner, president of the congregation, Mel Klein, the treasurer, and Joe Hurtz, the secretary — and as he looked at them and shook hands with them tonight, David toyed with the notion that the governing of the congregation might be helped by the presence of a woman.

They were pleased to see him. After two years, they had the feeling that he belonged to them. They were blessed with this tall, handsome young man who was both firm and amiable; he was theirs; and sometimes they were pressed with the notion that they had created him.

“Sit down, David,” Mel said. He was very proud of his den, with its large leather chairs and its entire wall of books. The books were bought and read by Della. Mel was not much of a reader beyond the daily newspaper, and neither of them had enough pretentiousness to call the room a library. “We've been looking forward to tonight.”

“Oh?”

“I thought it might be best to call a meeting of the whole board,” Joe Hurtz said, “but the colonel thought differently.”

Hurtz was the only one who still called Osner “the colonel,” and his use of the term irritated David greatly. He had his own opinion of the virtues and titles war pins on people, but there was no way to explain this to fat, easygoing Joe Hurtz.

“I think there may be some contention,” Jack Osner said. “Might as well keep it among ourselves until we reach a decision.”

“About what? For heaven's sake, let's get down to it and end the mystery.”

“No mystery intended, David. But I must review some facts. When you came to us, two years ago, fourteen Jewish families had come together and pledged themselves to the support of a synagogue. When you finished your first sermon, David, twenty-two additional families joined the synagogue.”

Della entered with a large tray of cups, a coffee pot, and cakes. David took the tray and helped her to serve. No one else moved to help, and David thought of the attitude Martin Carter referred to as “parsonitis.” Della flashed him a surreptitious grin and whispered, “Be stout of heart.” She left the room, and Osner took up his narrative while the others munched cake and drank coffee, David thinking, We drink so little alcohol. Marty Carter's board would get themselves loaded a bit, and everything would flow more easily.

“That was two years ago,” Osner continued. “Since then, we've grown to over a hundred families, families from Ridgefield and Wilton and even Weston and Westport and Redding — well, I don't have to tell you that, David; you've watched the process. And though it's still insufficient, we've tripled your salary, and earlier this evening we decided upon another annual raise of a thousand dollars, which we intend to place before the full board at our next meeting, three days from now.”

“Thank you, that's very kind of you,” David said.

“So, you see, things change.”

“They do indeed.”

“And we have the obligation at the right moment to hasten the change, if the change is needed.”

David grinned and said, “I don't need all this prologue, Jack. Let's get to the point.”

Osner nodded at Klein. “Mel, the ball's in your court.”

Klein cleared his throat, coughed, and said, “David, we have come to the conclusion that we need a new synagogue, a real synagogue.”

“So that's it. You know,” David said slowly, “we have a real synagogue, a very real synagogue.”

“No, sir, Rabbi, if you will permit me,” Osner said. “We do not have a real synagogue. We have an old, converted Congregational church.”

“We have painted that church, repaired it, reroofed it, scraped the floors and the pews, replaced the broken windows, and built a sanctuary for our Torahs. It's a beautiful building, and except on the High Holy Days, we don't fill it.”

“David, David,” Mel Klein said, “it's still a church. We are Jews and we worship in a church. Is that fitting?”