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Conversations with Rabbi Small
By Harry Kemelman OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1981 Harry Kemelman
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1616-2
CHAPTER 1
The vacation in the mountains was Miriam's idea. With the children going to camp there was no reason why she and her husband, Rabbi David Small, had to stay in Barnard's Crossing all summer long. The Friday evening services ended in June and there were no holidays until the celebration of the New Year in September.
"There's just the minyan, and you're not needed for that," she said.
"Yes, but why do we have to go away?" Rabbi Small asked plaintively. "Barnard's Crossing is pleasant in the summer. We're at the seashore. People come here for vacation."
"People coming here can get a vacation," she pointed out, "but living here you can't. People call you and come to see you just because you're here and available. The only way you can get a real vacation is by going somewhere where you can't be reached. And you need a vacation. You haven't been sleeping well and you've been irritable. A couple of weeks in the mountains will do wonders for you. Now Gladys Shilkun was telling me about this perfectly wonderful hotel, strictly kosher —"
"A hotel!"
"They have cabins scattered throughout the grounds, each one separate," Miriam hastened to explain. "And they are furnished with a little fridge and a hot plate and some dishes so you can make your own breakfast or have tea in the afternoon without going up to the dining hall, where you get lunches and dinners."
"But what will I do there?"
"You'll rest. You'll sleep late in the morning. You'll take a walk through the woods. You'll have a chance to read and to work on your Vilna Gaon paper."
It wasn't that Rabbi Small really objected to taking a vacation; it was only that the idea had never occurred to him. So mid-June found him and Miriam at Hotel Placid in Grenardsville, ensconced in a small rustic cabin with a screened porch that looked out on the valley and the mountains beyond. He had feared that as a rabbi staying at a kosher hotel, he would be caught up in all kinds of activities that would interfere with his work on the paper he was writing, and had suggested that perhaps reservations should be made for Mr. David Small rather than Rabbi Small.
"Then you won't get the rabbinical discount," Miriam had pointed out. "Don't worry about it. When I call, I'll explain that you have important work to do and don't want to be disturbed." When, on arriving, she had been approached by the social director as her husband was registering at the desk, she had explained that her husband was there to work and did not want to be distracted by social activities.
He had winked at her and said, "Gotcha." Then cautiously, "But how about the daily minyan? Won't he go to that?"
"What time does it begin?"
"Well, the morning minyan, Shachriss, is at seven —"
"Then don't count on him. I want him to sleep late. Maybe Mincha, Maariv ..."
"Gotcha." And another wink.
Later, at dinner, Miriam told her husband of the conversation. She laughed as a sudden thought struck her. "He kept winking at me, David. Do you suppose he thinks we're not married, that we are having an affair?"
The rabbi laughed. "Why would he think —" His eyes widened as she reached for a roll. "You're not wearing your wedding ring."
She looked at her hand, fingers spread, in dismay. And then she remembered. "Oh, I took it off to wash my hands and forgot to put it back on."
"Why did you take it off? Do you always?"
"Of course not. But, David, this is a very kosher place. There was one of those ring holders in the bathroom, so I thought I'd use it. Didn't you notice that they had a special cup for washing on the stand?"
"Come to think of it. Well, if you walk around without a wedding ring it's understandable. And you shouldn't leave things like that lying around in a hotel room."
"Oh, I'll get it right after dinner. Maybe I'll wear it on a chain around my neck, where it can't be seen, and let them gossip. It might be fun."
"That's all I need — to have people think I'm having an affair." But Rabbi Small smiled. He looked around the dining room and noted that fewer than half the tables were occupied. "It's certainly not crowded."
"It's early in the season," she explained. "I was talking to one of the guests. She said they always come at this time in June. In July and August she said it's mobbed."
He nodded. "Understandable. I suppose most of these people are from New York. The weather doesn't really get bad in the city before July."
The waitress, blonde, busty, and middle-aged, served them the first course, a scoop of chopped liver on a lettuce leaf. Miriam took up a forkful and sampled it. "Oh, you'll like this, David. It could use a little more salt, though."
He tasted. "M-hm. I expect the food will be good. It usually is in these places." He looked around again. "They seem to be an older group."
She leaned back in her chair, the better to survey the other tables. "You're not kidding, David. It's an old-age home. Do you mind? It will be quiet and they won't be likely to bother you. You came here for a rest. Remember?"
"I don't mind. Oh, there's a young woman, the one with the red hair, two tables over."
Miriam turned casually and then leaned forward to whisper across the table, "She's sixty if she's a day. No, I'm afraid we're the youngest people here. I'm sorry. Maybe later in the season ... The Shilkuns come up in August, I understand."
"I really don't mind," he assured her, and added, "if you don't."
She shrugged elaborately. "I didn't come to establish lasting friendships. Just not to have to keep house or cook meals and wash dishes and make beds for a couple of weeks is all I was looking forward to."
"But what will you do here all day?"
"Oh, they have a swimming pool, and there's a tennis court. Someone must play. Or I can just lie in the sun and do nothing. Don't worry about me."
The manager, who had been at the desk when they had registered and who now seemed to be in charge of the dining room, approached, smiling and rubbing his hands. "Everything all right, folks?"
"Everything's fine," the rabbi assured him. And then as the manager was about to turn to another table, Rabbi Small asked, "What do you do here evenings?"
The manager pursed his lips as he considered. "Well, there's the TV room, and the game room where you can play cards or checkers or chess. And let's see, Thursday nights we have a beano, and then some folks like to go into the village to the movies."
There was further amplification of the evening activities when the Smalls had finished dinner and were standing on the steps of the lighted veranda before plunging into the darkness along the gravel path that led to their cabin. They were joined by one of the guests, a short fat man with a gleaming bald head encircled by a halo of curly gray hair. He patted his considerable paunch with the palms of his hands, took a deep breath, and let it out in a low whistle. "Now that's what you call air, folks," he proclaimed. "Finest air in America. I've been all over. Ten years I've been coming here, and I say you can't beat it. Every now and then the missus says we ought to try one of the fancy places like the Concord or Grossinger's, but we always end up coming here."
"I imagine there's a lot more activity at those places," said Miriam.
"Activity, shmactivity," the man scoffed. "Lady, the air here is so full of oxygen that come nine or ten o'clock you can hardly keep your eyes open. Those places, young fellows go to meet girls, and vice versa. But if you're an old married man like me, what you want is rest. And believe me, this is the place for it."
After a couple of days the rabbi settled into the rhythm of the place. In response to long habit, he would wake up early, half past six or a quarter to seven, realize where he was, and luxuriating in the thought that he did not have to get up, roll over and doze again. Later, around half past eight, awakened perhaps by the smell of coffee perking on the hot plate, he would rise, recite his morning prayers, and then shower while Miriam prepared breakfast.
Afterward they would walk to the village about a mile away for the morning papers. They could have bought them at the hotel, but Miriam insisted that he needed the exercise.
At first the leisure he had at his disposal was actually counterproductive. On the assumption that hehad all day free to work, he spent most of the morning reading the newspapers and the paperbacks that he had bought in the village. And in the afternoon, surfeited by a heavy lunch, he took a siesta. But before the end of the week, the inactivity palled. Immediately after breakfast one morning he resolutely set out his papers on the wicker table on the porch and began making notes.
"Aren't you coming down to the village?" Miriam asked.
"You go. I want to do some work."
When she returned about an hour later, her husband was still at work, his thick-lensed glasses pushed up on his forehead as he squinted at three-by-five cards. Miriam kept out of his way until noon, when she approached to ask if he was ready for lunch.
He leaned back in his chair and looked up at her lazily. "I'm not really very hungry," he said. "And they give you too much to eat up there. Would you mind going alone? Maybe you can get them to give you a sandwich and a bottle of beer for me. I don't want to stop right now. All right?"
"Oh, sure, David. Is it going well? I'm so glad. Any particular kind of sandwich?"
"Anything, anything at all."
Rabbi Small worked all through the afternoon while Miriam took a nap, washed her hair, did her nails, and then left him to go to the pool. Not until it was time for the evening prayers did he stop. He attended the minyan at the hotel and then waited in the lobby for her to join him so that they could have dinner together. Then they sat on the cabin porch watching the moon rise over the mountains in the distance as he talked of what he had done during the day.
"I feel that for the first time in years I've done a day's work," he said. "It's been so long since I've had a full day all to myself with no interruptions. It's nice."
"I'm so glad you're enjoying it," she said.
Then the telephone rang.
Miriam went inside to answer it. It seemed that she was gone a long time, and when she came out, he saw that she was frowning.
"Who was it? Anything important?"
"It was Mother. Dad is in the hospital. He's going to be operated on tomorrow morning. I'll have to go to New York."
"The prostate?"
"Uh-huh. He'll be in the hospital for about ten days. And I'll have to be with Mama. She can't stay alone. I called the desk and they said there's a bus I can take at nine tomorrow morning. That's the earliest I can get away."
"What do you mean, I? We'll both go."
"No, David. It's not necessary. And there's no place for you to stay. I'll be sleeping with Mama."
"We could go to a hotel. Or I could sleep on the couch in the study."
"No, you'd just be in the way. And it would end up with Mama insisting on giving us the bedroom and her sleeping on the couch. And what would you do all day? What's more, if we're both there, Mama will feel she has to make meals for us. No, I'll go alone. Actually, it's just perfect our being here. I don't have to worry about how you're going to manage for meals the way I would if we were in Barnard's Crossing. You can make yourself some coffee in the morning. Or you can take all your meals in the dining room. And you'll be able to work undisturbed all day and half the night if you wish."
They continued to argue about it but in the end, when her husband agreed because it was obviously the most sensible plan, she said, "I'll go up to the hotel now and make the necessary arrangements."
"What arrangements?"
"Well, since I'm not going to be here for the next few days, there should be some reduction in our bill, shouldn't there?"
The next morning the rabbi got up when Miriam did, and because it was early enough, he attended the morning service at the hotel, and afterward she joined him for breakfast in the dining room. They lingered over their meal until the manager came to inform them that the car was ready and waiting for them. They arrived early at the bus stop. As they paced back and forth in front of the one-story wooden shack that served as a waiting room, neither seemed inclined to talk. When the bus finally came, the rabbi helped Miriam with her bag and then stood at the curb smiling up at her and nodding reassuringly until the bus left. Then he walked home.
Although he tried to work, he found he could not concentrate. Finally he gave up in annoyance and picked up a paperback. Nor was it any better after lunch. He missed her presence, the sound of her movements in the cabin, the knowledge that she was within call. Late in the afternoon she telephoned to tell him that the operation had been successful and that her father was now in the recovery room.
"And you're all right, David? Did you get a lot of work done?"
"Oh, yes," he lied. "It's going well."
"That's wonderful. I'll call again tomorrow."
"Er, Miriam —"
"Yes?"
"I miss you."
After dinner he wandered into the TV room. The set was in the corner opposite the door, and facing it were half a dozen armchairs and a sofa, all of them occupied. He stood near the door and watched a hospital drama which concerned the problems of a brilliant surgeon who had become addicted to drugs. During a commercial an elderly woman on the sofa exclaimed, "Who knows what goes on in hospitals!" There were murmurs of agreement, and thus encouraged, she began to narrate what had happened to her when she was operated on for gallstones. Catching sight of the rabbi, she made motions of pushing over to make room for him on the sofa, nodding to him to indicate that there was a place for him. He smiled and shook his head and left the room.
He had no better luck in the game room. Four men were seated around a card table playing pinochle, slapping cards down on the table with frequent exclamations of triumph or disappointment. Although he knew nothing of the rules of the game, he watched for a few minutes. The players paid no attention to him, and after a while he sauntered out.
He returned to the cabin, thinking that perhaps now he might be able to work on his paper. But the only light inside the cabin came from the bed lamp, which did not quite reach the narrow table at which they breakfasted, and the cord was too short to reach the only other outlet. Up till now he had worked on the porch at a round, glass-topped, wickerwork table, but always in the daytime. At night, the only available light was the twenty-five-watt bulb in the porch ceiling.
He was tempted to go back to the hotel to see if he could borrow a lamp with a long cord, but finally decided that he really did not feel like working. He removed his jacket and kicked off his shoes and lay down on the bed to read. After a while he dozed off, and when he awoke he realized it must be late since the hotel was dark. It was after midnight.
Nevertheless, the next day when Miriam called, he assured her that everything was fine, that he had spent the evening working on his paper, and that it was coming along nicely.
"Are you sure?" she asked anxiously.
"Of course I'm sure," he answered indignantly. "I ought to know if I'm working."
"But you don't want to work too hard," she said soothingly. "Why don't you walk down to the village tonight and go to the movie?"
"Well, I'll see. Just don't worry about me. I'm getting along fine."
After dinner he sought out the manager.
"A lamp with a long cord? What kind of a lamp?"
"A floor lamp. I thought maybe from one of the vacant rooms ..."
"I couldn't take a lamp from another room." He sounded as though he had been asked to steal it. "I see you don't know very much about the hotel business. With us, we've got an inventory with the furnishings of every single room listed on a separate card. If we start moving things around, taking something out of one room and putting it in another ..." He raised both hands ceilingward to express the unthinkable. "Look, you're going back to your cabin? Good. So I'll see if I can get hold of Maintenance, if he hasn't left yet, and maybe he can do something for you."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Conversations with Rabbi Small by Harry Kemelman. Copyright © 1981 Harry Kemelman. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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