The Day the Rabbi Resigned (8 page)

“Well, we can only hope for the best,” said the rabbi as he rose from his chair.

But Clayman gave no indication of leaving. Instead, he leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs. “Well, I had like an idea, which is why I came to see you.”

“Yes?” The rabbi sat down.

“See, the old geezer has no living relatives, not only no children, but no relatives, not on his side and not on his wife's side, although he thinks there's maybe a second or third cousin of his wife living in Australia. Now I figure he's got a couple of hundred thou in his stock portfolio, and his house on the Point must be worth three hundred thou in today's market. And I know for a fact that it's free and clear—no mortgage. All right, so that's half a mil.”

“So?”

“Well, see, he was awfully set up by your coming to see him at the hospital, felt you were very intelligent and—”

“I barely spoke to him. He did all the talking.”

“Yeah, I know he likes to talk. So maybe he thought you were an intelligent listener. What I had in mind was that where he has no one to leave his money to, and it seems to bother him a lot, if you were to go over to his place, spend an evening with him, maybe play a game or two of chess with him—You play chess, don't you?”

“Yes, I play chess.”

“Well then, you could go over and play chess with him a couple of nights a week. Then when he starts harping on not having any relatives and no one to leave his money to—and he's sure to because he keeps harping on it—you could suggest he leave it to the temple.”

“Oh, I couldn't do that.”

“Why not?”

“I couldn't ingratiate myself in order to get his money. From then on, anytime I went to see someone in the hospital, it would be assumed that I was trying to insinuate myself in his good graces in order to elicit a contribution for the temple.”

They heard a key grating in the lock, and Miriam came in from visiting a neighbor next door. “Oh, I didn't realize you were here, Mr. Clayman. Will you have a cup of tea? I baked some cookies this afternoon. I took some over to Mrs. Estwick, and she loved them. They're lemon cookies, but I stirred in a bunch of nuts that I chopped up—” She stared as both men began to laugh.

12

On their honeymoon, Victor had not only been kind and considerate, but also most attentive. They knew no one and so they had only each other. But when they were ensconced in their new home, and Victor was back at school, the situation changed. For one thing, for the greater part of the day he was surrounded by people he knew and who had similar interests. When he came home, usually around four in the afternoon, even on those days when he had only morning classes, he had little to say to her, or for that matter, she to him.

He would ask, “Did you have a good day?” not out of interest, nor even to make conversation, but rather as a courtesy, like saying, Good evening. And she might answer, “Oh, I went into Salem to look for shoes to go with my beige dress.” Sometimes he might ask if she had been successful. More often, he merely grunted; question asked, answer given. Transaction completed.

When she asked about his day, he was no more explicit. He might reply, “Just the usual.” Or, “We had a dumb department meeting where nothing was decided as usual.”

She assumed his reserve and taciturnity were due to the difference in their interests. She could understand that he might chafe at her idle talk of shoes and dresses. So she began to read, selecting the books she thought he would approve of, the books on the suggested reading list in her course in literature. Her attempts met with little success, however.

“I've just finished reading
Pride and Prejudice
,” she announced one evening. “Do you like Jane Austen?”

“Not my period,” he said shortly.

“Well, it's about this awfully rich young man who is terribly stuck-up—”

“I know what it's about. I read it way back when. Look, I've a bunch of papers I have to correct and a lecture to prepare. Do you mind?” And he would repair to the little back parlor he had made into a study.

When she tried a writer who was in his period, he was no more encouraging. “Look, I had to read so much Bernard Shaw for my dissertation that I got heartily sick of the old faker.”

So she sat in the living room and watched TV while he remained in his study. Sometimes she wondered if he was really working in his study, or if it was just an excuse to get away from her chatter. He would usually join her for the ten o'clock news, after which he would announce that it was time to go to bed, by which he meant not that he was sleepy, but that he wanted sex. And this, too, had changed. During the honeymoon, although the act was distasteful to her, she had felt that it was due to his consuming desire to become one with her. She had thought, hoped, that she would get used to it at least, even if she never expected to enjoy the experience. But now she felt that it was not her he wanted, but it, and she felt dirty and cheapened by each episode.

When her infertile period ended, she told him that she was now vulnerable and that the doctor had recommended that she wait a while before becoming pregnant.

“Yeah, your aunt told me,” he said.

“Well, don't you think we should move the beds apart, so you know …”

“Aw, c'mon Peg, I'm no teenager. I know what's involved. I can control myself.”

And he did—at first. But after a week of abstinence, it was going on far too long; he knew it, she knew it. And he tried to take her. She managed to push him away and jumped out of bed.

Instantly he was contrite. “Gee, Peg, I don't know what got into me. I'm sorry. Please come back to bed.”

She finally came back to bed, but the next day when he came home, he found that the beds had been separated and pushed apart so that there was a yard or more of floor between them.

“I suppose I deserve that,” he said, “and it's probably best that way, but when you're not vulnerable, can we put the beds together again?”

“We'll see,” she said.

A few days later, on one of the days when he had evening classes, he called and said he would be home late. “Some of the evening courses end tonight, and a few of the guys thought we ought to celebrate.”

“Well, what time do you expect to get home?” she asked.

“Maybe not until after midnight. Certainly not much before. Don't wait up for me. You go to bed.”

She went to bed at her usual hour, half past ten, and fell asleep almost immediately. She was awakened by hearing his car turn into the driveway. She glanced at the clock on the night table and found it was after one. She heard him humming as he came up the stairs. He tiptoed about gathering his pajamas and slippers and then went into the guest room across the hall to undress so as not to wake her. When he came back a few minutes later, she pretended to be asleep and even managed a gentle snore.

Instead of going to his own bed, however, he came to hers. She felt the mattress sag under his weight, and then, before she could make a move, he had his arms around her. She struggled, but he held her tight and pressed his mouth against hers so that she could make no sound. She writhed and twisted in an effort to get away, but she was no match for him. When he was finished and released her, she jumped out of the bed and ran to the bathroom and locked the door.

He sat on the edge of the bed for a minute or two, and then went to the bathroom and put his ear to the door. He heard her sobbing.

“I'm sorry, Peg. Please come out.”

He waited, and when there was no response except the sound of her weeping, he said, “I know you think I'm a horny bastard, but I swear I won't so much as touch you again until you ask me. Please forgive me and come out.”

Again he waited. And then, “Look, I'm going to the guest room. I'll sleep there.”

When she heard him cross the hall, she crept out. Before going back to bed, she closed the bedroom door and jammed a chair under the doorknob.

The next morning when he came down to breakfast, he found no place had been set for him. She had the newspaper propped up in front of her and was drinking her coffee.

“Look, about last night, I'm sorry. I had a couple of drinks and I guess I lost control.”

She did not answer and she did not look up from her paper.

“I won't be meeting my three o'clock class, so I'll be home early.”

She gave no indication that she had heard him or even that he was there. He waited for a moment on the chance that she might at least look up, and then turned and left the room and the house.

As he drove to the city, he debated the matter. Sure, I can see where she might be worried about getting pregnant right now, but hell, the chances of getting pregnant from the first shot are mighty slim. She ought to know that. I guess maybe she's just a kid and just doesn't know what it's all about. But she ought to realize that a guy is only human and that he's bound to make an occasional mistake. She must realize that where I teach, in a coed college where the coeds are flaunting themselves all the time, many of them not wearing bras so you can see the nipples against their dresses, and some with these skin-tight jeans which show everything, and this one in the front row last night with her skirt hiked up—I guess that got me going. And then a couple of drinks helped matters along. Oh hell, she probably won't talk to me for a day or two, and then maybe she'll talk, but she'll be cold and distant, and then she'll forget about it.

He considered bringing her flowers as a peace offering, and then decided against it. Although admittedly at fault, he thought it would be better to downplay the incident. Later, when he could discuss it with her rationally, he would explain that these things happen, pretty much had to happen when a man lives with a woman, and that the adult thing to do is to forget about them and not let them interfere with the relationship.

She was not home when he arrived. He went upstairs to change into a sport shirt and sweater, and found that his things had all been removed to the guest room. Even worse, however, she had installed a sliding bolt on the bedroom door. This was too much. He was now the aggrieved party. What he had done was an accident, at least something done on the spur of the moment. This was a deliberate act on her part. She could not have mounted the bolt herself. She must have engaged a carpenter. There was permanence and finality about it. And it engendered in him a feeling of great indignation.

As he thought about it, he told himself that he had made a bad bargain. She could be sickly all her life. And although she was fairly intelligent, she was obviously terribly immature. True, she was certain to inherit her uncle's money. But suppose Merton were to lose it? Seemingly, all his money was tied up in real estate. Well, real estate values were high right now, but they could come down. And in any case, the money would not come to her for a number of years. Cyrus would probably leave his money to his sister, and it would come to them only after her death. But Agnes was less than sixty. She could live for another twenty years or more.

He decided to have it out with her. She was his wife and he didn't have to shilly-shally. He would talk straight turkey as soon as she got home.

But she anticipated him. No sooner had she closed the door behind her than she said, “Victor, I want a divorce.”

He was taken aback by her bluntness. “But—but we can't. Our church doesn't permit it,” he stammered.

“I know, but we can get a civil divorce and a Church-sanctioned separation.”

“This is because of what happened last night?”

“It made me realize that our marriage was very, very wrong.”

“You want to know what's wrong with our marriage?” he demanded. “It's you. You're frigid. You don't want a man, not any man. You took me because—because you wanted to get away from your uncle and aunt. Maybe that's why they pushed you onto me, too. Because they wanted you out of their house. Sex for you was a few minutes of unpleasant annoyance that was the price you had to pay for your freedom.” He had raised his voice and was almost shouting, out of frustration and perhaps out of apprehension of the consequences of a divorce. And there was also the thought that he might be able to induce a real bang-up fight that could end in reconciliation.

She did not shout back, however. She remained very quiet, and when she spoke, it was calmly, with no trace of anger or of hurt. “You may be right,” she said, “and I'm not blaming you. All I know is that I can't go on like this.”

“All right.” He sat down, his hands on his knees, leaning forward. “If you're sure that's what you want, let's talk about it rationally.”

“All right.”

“Have you talked to your uncle and aunt yet?”

“Not yet.”

“But you're planning to.”

“I'll have to.”

“Okay, but you ought to know all the facts before you do. I don't know if you realize it, but this was pretty much an arranged marriage. Your uncle made it pretty plain that the husband of his niece would eventually be a rich man. And in my case, for the immediate future, he practically promised me tenure at Windermere.”

“I realize that now. I think I may have suspected it from the beginning.”

“So where does that leave us? I kept my part of the bargain. But you know what will happen when you tell your uncle? When the question of tenure comes up, your uncle will see that I don't get it. I don't know how it works exactly, but I know he has a lot to do with it, and if he doesn't want me to get it, I won't. And then, maybe, I'll be notified that my services won't be needed for the next academic year. And—”

“I wouldn't want that to happen,” she interposed quickly. “I'm not vindictive. I know you weren't trying to hurt me. It's just that—that I feel we're not suited for each other. I'll keep his part of the bargain since I suppose I was a party to it. That is, until your tenure is announced, I won't say a word to my uncle. We could go on living here, but not as husband and wife. We could live here like—like a couple of strangers living in a hotel or a rooming house. The decision on tenure comes up pretty soon, doesn't it? In a couple of weeks?”