The Day the Rabbi Resigned (29 page)

“Oh, he'll show up all right,” said Macomber bitterly. “Believe me, this is one meeting he's not going to miss.”

“Look, Don, maybe he's been held up by traffic, or he could have had a flat tire or something. It's ten o'clock right now. Why not call the meeting. Maybe we can put it to a vote before he gets here.”

“It's tempting, Mark, but there'd be hell to pay if he showed up right after the vote was taken. We'll wait a little while longer.”

Mark Levine shrugged and turned away. But at half past ten he decided to take a hand in the matter. “Hey, Don,” he called out, “it's half past ten. When are we going to get started?”

“Cyrus Merton is not here yet,” someone said.

“So? We've got a quorum, haven't we?”

“Yeah, but—look, he's got to come all the way from Barnard's Crossing.”

“So what? I had to come all the way from Dallas, Texas.”

“Yes, and I came down from Bangor, Maine,” said another. “Let's get the show on the road, Prex.”

“Very well,” said Macomber. “Will you all please take seats.” And when they were seated, he said, “This meeting is now called to order. Will the secretary please note and record in the minutes that we are starting at ten thirty-five.”

Although sorely tempted, Macomber resisted the temptation to rush the business of the meeting so that they could vote on the change of name before a possibly tardy Merton might arrive. So they listened to the reading of the minutes of the previous meeting, and to the reports of the several committees, and it was after eleven before they took up the motion to change the name of the school.

There was desultory discussion on the motion, largely by the opponents of the measure in an effort to delay the vote as they kept glancing at the door in the hope that Merton would appear. When Macomber finally called for a vote, Charles Dobson, true to his promise, moved that it be by secret ballot.

Macomber shrugged. “I don't think there's any need to discuss this or to put it to a vote. If Mr. Dobson prefers a secret ballot, fine. The vote will be by secret ballot.”

The secretary passed out small pieces of paper, and then after a minute or two, collected them. Then he opened the folded pieces of paper and arranged them in two piles. He counted and announced, “The vote is carried sixteen to four.”

Immediately, McKitterick, the man from Bangor, moved that the vote be made unanimous. There was an interchange of glances from the opponents, then some head nodding, and the motion was carried.

Mark Levine had to run off immediately after lunch to take care of some business of his own downtown. But he returned to the college, to the president's house, early in the evening, so that he and Macomber could take a leisurely stroll to dinner. As they walked along, Levine asked, “Did Merton call you to explain why he didn't come to the meeting?”

Macomber shook his head. “No. I thought of calling him to inquire, but decided not to. He might interpret it as crowing over his defeat. I assume something important, some big business deal, must have come up and he was just unable to make it.”

“Maybe. And then maybe he knew the vote was going to go against him, and just couldn't face it.”

“That's not really in character. He's got plenty of guts. And I suspect if he had been present, he might very well have brought it off. I figured he had six votes and his own, would have made seven, which would have been just enough to have beaten us. I was surprised that only four voted to oppose.”

“I wasn't,” said Levine. “I was canvassing ever since I got here, Sunday. I didn't just call people and ask them how they were going to vote. I talked to some of them at some length. I thought there was a chance with this McKitterick from Bangor. He sort of hedged and kept asking me if I were sure it would be a secret ballot. I got the impression that while he would like to vote our way, he did not want to offend Merton, and that if it could be handled in such a way that Merton wouldn't know, he might come along. Another one—Bridges from Worcester, I believe—was involved in some deal with Merton, and wasn't about to take chances.”

“Like that, was it? Hm, I wonder if he might not take it so hard as to resign.”

“Would it bother you if he did?” asked Levine curiously.

“Well, except for this matter of the name, he was very useful. A college is more or less in the real estate business, you know, and he was good at it.”

Levine smiled. “Then let's hope he doesn't take it too much to heart. In any case, we ought to celebrate. You'll be coming to dinner tonight, won't you? We'll have champagne.”

“Oh, I meant to talk to you about that. My old professor, Simon Cotton, is in town. He came to attend the Anthropology Society meeting that's going on right now, and I've invited him to dinner.”

“So what's the problem? Bring him along.”

41

Macomber picked up his old teacher at the Harvard Club and then the two walked over to the Ritz Carleton, where Levine met them in the lobby and escorted them into the dining room. When they were seated, and a waiter brought over an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne, Cotton raised his eyebrows and asked, “Is this your usual tipple, Mr. Levine?”

“Oh no, this is by way of celebration. When we place our orders, I'll select a proper wine for your meal.”

“And what are we celebrating?”

“At the meeting of my Board of Trustees this morning,” Macomber said, “it was voted to change the name of our college from Windermere Christian College to Windermere College of Liberal Arts.”

“I see. You mean you've cut your ties with the Church. And what church is it?”

“It wasn't any church,” said Macomber. “Christian was inserted in the name when it was a ladies' seminary to indicate that it was a moral institution.”

“Donald thinks the vote today gives him greater control,” Levine offered.

“Believe me, it will,” Macomber asserted. “A two-thirds majority was required, and I got it by gradually getting people on the board who were likely to back me. Now, perhaps I can develop a college that will be a real educational institution instead of an intellectual rat race, the sort of thing you have always urged, Professor Cotton.”

Cotton shook his head doubtfully. “I wish you luck, of course, but don't be too sanguine about your chances. You'll be bucking the development of the American college for the last fifty or sixty years.”

“Why, what happened fifty or sixty years ago?” asked Levine.

“That was when college administrators saw that research was more profitable than teaching, so the focus of interest turned from student to faculty. The professor used to be someone who'd found satisfaction in the scholarly life and pleasure in imparting his knowledge to eager young minds. If he came across some special aspect of his subject, or some special problem, he might write it up for publication in a scholarly journal, or even a book. But he did it on his own time, because he wanted to. And when things changed, what he'd done for pleasure was now required as a term of his employment.”

“Publish or perish.”

“And XYZ University became the place where that fellow discovered a new planet or the new treatment for cancer. That also attracted endowments.”

“And I suppose,” said Macomber, “when someone at ABC University was on the verge of publishing something that might be important, XYZ might approach him with an offer.”

“That's normal enough,” said Levine. “It happens all the time in large corporations.”

“Ah, but in a corporation the inducement is a bigger salary, I suppose, and more responsible work. In the college, though, the inducement is apt to be a smaller lecture load, and in some cases the professor won't be required to teach at all. So while XYZ gains prestige, the ordinary student profits not at all.”

“But that didn't cut down on student applications, did it?” asked Levine.

“Quite the contrary,” said Macomber. “XYZ couldn't accept all the qualified students, so they took only the cream—and then only the cream of the cream. And secondary schools gained prestige from the number or percentage of their graduates who were admitted to XYZ.”

Cotton said, “In general, students come to XYZ because they want to know more—about themselves, about society, about the world, about the universe. But in truth such colleges have become a professionals' camp where rookies come to compete for the few available positions on the team. The result is a rat race. We produce a bunch of superbly trained young people with second-rate minds.”

“Why would they have second-rate minds?” Levine demanded.

“Because they compete with grades. And when you're intent on grades, you quickly learn that the way to get them is to suppress original thought and give the professor's thoughts back to him. You spend learning years doing that, and you'll go on doing it for the rest of your life.”

“Where did you get your Ph.D., Professor?” asked Levine.

“I don't have one,” Cotton said simply. And then, arrogantly, “Who could grant me one?”

Macomber laughed while Levine blushed in embarrassment.

The waiter removed dishes and served coffee. Levine lit a cigar and asked, “Are you going to be here for a few days, Professor?”

And Macomber said, “If you are, I'd like to talk to you about some of the changes I'm planning.”

“I was planning to,” said Cotton, “but my wife called me earlier this evening and asked me to come home. Nothing wrong—she was taking care of the grandchildren while their mother was in the hospital, and they did a job on her; she's a soft touch—but I told her I'd take the morning plane out.”

“I'm flying, too,” said Levine. “What time is your flight? The reason I ask is that the company I'm doing business with here has put a limousine and chauffeur at my disposal.”

“My flight is at eight o'clock.”

“Mine is a little later, but if you like, I'll pick you up at seven.”

As they drove along next morning, Professor Cotton explained, “My wife is a nervous sort. I warned her that taking care of a couple of kids at her age was silly. And it isn't as though my son-in-law couldn't afford to get someone in for the two weeks. But no, it was a grandmother's duty.” He shook his head in annoyance at her obduracy. “On the other hand,” he went on, “I've been away almost two weeks, and I'm tired of eating in restaurants. I was planning on spending a few days with my cousin in Barnard's Crossing—oh, good Lord!”

“What's the matter?”

“I told them I'd be out today. They'll be expecting me there.”

“Well, you can call him when we get to the airport,” said Levine.

“No … he's at the temple for the morning service at that time.”

“Oh, observant, is he?”

“He's the rabbi of the congregation,”

“Of Barnard's Crossing? Rabbi Small is your cousin?”

“Oh, you know him?”

“He gave a course at Windermere one year, a few years back. And he's your cousin?”

“That's right. Second or third cousin. Let's see, my grandfather and his great-grandfather were brothers.”

“Then how do you happen to have different names, Cotton and Small?”

The professor smiled broadly. “Do you know any Hebrew?”

“Well, I went to a Hebrew school when I was a youngster.”

“Pronounce my name, but accent the last syllable.”

Levine looked at him doubtfully and then said, “Cot-
ton
.” Enlightenment came. “It means little, small.”

“That's right. His grandfather translated the name; mine transliterated it. I think the original was Cottonchik, either because he was short or perhaps because he was very tall, in the same way that we might call a fat boy Slim.”

“You can call him when you get to Chicago, or if it's important, you can even call him from the plane.”

“Yes, I could do that, couldn't I? Actually, it isn't terribly urgent. He's leaving the rabbinate, at least the job in Barnard's Crossing, and thought he might like to try teaching for a while. I met somebody from Iowa who thought there might be an opening at his school.” They had reached Levine's airline and the chauffeur was handing his bags to a porter.

He shook hands with Cotton and said, “Well, it was nice seeing you again, Professor.”

“Yes, and thank you for the dinner and the ride.”

Levine had his baggage checked in and then made his way to a phone booth. He called President Macomber. “Don? That Rabbi Small you thought so much of, the one from Barnard's Crossing. He's a cousin of Professor Cotton. And you know what? He's leaving his job and is planning to go into teaching for a while.”

“Hm, he's just the man I think we want. I'll write to him.”

“Don't write to him, Don. Call him.”

“Perhaps you're right.”

The call from Simcha came while the rabbi was having his breakfast after his return from the minyan. “That was Simcha,” he said. “He's not coming today. He's not coming at all. He's on his way back to Chicago. In fact, he was calling from the airplane. Imagine that. He thinks he might have something that would interest me, in Iowa. He said he'd write me.”

It was while he was having a second cup of coffee that the call from Macomber came. “Well, well, well,” he said in response to Miriam's inquiring glance, “that was President Macomber of Windermere. It's not entirely clear, but somehow he heard through one of his trustees, who got it from Simcha, that I might be interested in a teaching job. He wants to see me.”

42

As the rabbi drove into Boston he thought about the call he had received from President Macomber. Rabbi Small did not think that it concerned a teaching position, unless it was to take over the three-hour course he had taught some years before when Rabbi Lamden, who normally gave it, had asked him to substitute for him. He had enjoyed teaching it, to be sure, but if that was what Macomber had in mind, he would not accept since it would preclude his taking a full-time job if one came along. Certainly, if it was anything more than that, Simcha would have mentioned it when he had called earlier.