TEMPERS ABLAZE
Television liked to repeat images, and picture of Gabby lifting the Lachma anya, the Bread of Affliction, on Passover was used repeatedly throughout the remaining days of the holiday. Gabby's Semitic features and her message of humility in the midst of abundance touched the public's sensibility how privileged peoples need to be reminded about sharing their blessings with the dispossessed. Chuck Browner parried numerous phone calls seeking her follow-up presence on TV talk programs and when she politely declined, he pointed out that avoiding public exposure was no way to launch a political campaign. How better to gain name recognition than by being seen on the boob tube? "Congress needs a symbol of charity and decency," he quipped, knowing full well that she was not likely to be amused.
She replied tartly, "Remember the rabbinic proscription, 'Don't use the Torah as a spade with which to dig.' I have no intention of exploiting the pulpit to garner attention by the media. That isn't kosher and were I Toby Ryles, I'd be incensed."
"She's already running scared. Her supporters have asked for her to address members of Ohav Shalom on a Sunday morning brunch program."
Gabby huffed cautionary alarm. "I can't believe Toby would dare challenge me on my own turf."
Chuck liked to sound street savvy. "Didn't they teach you in Politics 101 that campaigning is a contact sport. You intend to run the high road into Congress without shedding a drop of your opponent's blood. I know you believe that votes can be won with superior ideas. Well, Good Lady, disabuse yourself of that notion. And don't assume Representative Ryles will travel the high road alongside you. She's a consummate politician who won't sit on the sidelines and let you steal her votes. Politicians are creatures of the sewer and all their pathways weave through the swamp. Toby Ryles will use whatever tricks she can to maintain her position in the Jewish community. And that means getting her friends here at Ohav Shalom to abandon their beloved rabbi."
"That doesn't worry me."
"Don't be smug. They won't assault you from the front, but from your blind side when you're not paying attention.
"You really don't think I should run, do you, Chuck?"
As he searched for his own meaning, there was a pained expression on his face. "No, Rabbi Gabby. That's not what I think. I believe you must get out of the rat race here. How long will you be able to maintain your current pace? Before you fizzle out like spent fireworks in a dark New Year's sky. There's life outside the rabbinate, Rabbi. But whether Congress is where you should go, that I'm not qualified to decide."
She looked dubious but knew him to be a good observer of what he often called "the human beast."
Changing the subject, he asked, "By the way, did you see the photograph of Asa I found? I put it on your blotter, but it might have gotten buried. Like you thought, it was lost in a pile of manuscripts on the windowsill. I hope it's what you want."
It took her minutes to shuffle through a stack of envelopes and articles that rose from her desk like a volcanic upheaval. A glance at the photo revealed it to be approximate what she recalled – Asa sitting behind his desk in a business suit, looking a bit scared yet professional, a shass, a set of the Babylonian Talmud, a symbol of Jewish scholarship, piled in utter disorder on the shelf behind him. She searched for the menorah he lent the Morgenstern girls. Her memory placed it beyond his right shoulder though the photo showed it on the shelf to his left. That it was heavily encrusted in wax was a credit to her memory. She recalled at the time feeling annoyed by his slovenly disregard for a religious object, what in a more charitable moment she attributed to his artistic temperament, aloof and unworldly, with sensitivities more attuned to sounds and rhythms than artifacts. She recalled his kitchen sink filled with dirty dishes and his clothing strewn around his apartment.
Normally, she remained at Ohav Shalom until after 6:30 p.m. in order to complete essential correspondence and plan for future gatherings. But today she broke away at 5:15, stopping by Asa's study to say goodnight. That he wasn't there was not surprising. She took the opportunity to confirm that his wax-encrusted menorah was not in its customary position on the bookshelf.
From Ohav Shalom, she drove along River Road into the countryside to Seneca, Maryland, where she had personal business at the Izaac Walton Shooting Range. The gun club was located on a 1,500-acre wild life preserve and managed in trust by the Izaak Walton League. A memorial to the late Joel Fox, dentist, ardent gun collector, and hunter, had been erected near the short .22 rifle range where he once instructed his students from Anacostia on gun safety. Gabby was aware that it was common for the memory of a loved one to grow in the mind of a bereaving survivor. But in her case she assured herself that Joel's memory neither was un-glamorized by his absence nor idealized by the brutality of his death. In her case, his memory was far simpler. Joel remained in her heart because he had given his life so that she might live. Interpret what happened in the park however you will, but a single fact returned to haunt her. She was alive and Joel was not.
In the fading light of day, the range was not in use and she saw no need to apprise the groundskeeper of her presence. A faint glow emanated from inside the log clubhouse and smoke from a wood fire wafted lazily from its stone chimney. A bronze plague donated by the National Rifle Association identified a nearby granite monolith as a tribute to Joel. A second plaque adorned a nearby painted park bench, placed there by friends from his beloved One Shot Hunting Club. Small pools of afternoon rain had spotted the bench, but Gabby felt no urgency to sit.
Her fingers brushed the coarse granite of the monolith as though drawing from it Joel's spirit and spoke in a soft voice to the stone. "Joel, there have never been secrets between us and I want to tell you about a man I've met. I've always believed you would want me to find a replacement, as I would have wished had I died in Fort Stanton Park and you survived me. You'll always be in my heart, as long as I live. But now I've found a man you would approve of. He's a dreamer like you, Joel. And these days, more than ever, I need someone to dream with, someone to feed my pedestrian mind with ideas I'm incapable of thinking on my own. Didn't Shakespeare say we're of the stuff that dreams are made of?"
She paused as the wind rustled leaves in a nearby laurel oak, restraining moisture in her eyes that neared tears. "Kye Naah is a wonderful person, Joel. He's a computer nerd, but has been known to think about other things from time to time. Perhaps, most importantly, I really care for him. A lot. But I need your approval. Nothing will be done without your approval, Joel."
Again, she paused to listen, now gazing at a stand of dogwoods whose blossoms had just begun to open with flashes of spring white.
That the wind alone spoke she took as a substitute for Joel's breath… and his approval.
Later in her car, while inserting into her sound console the CD recording of Asa's A Jazzman's Sorrow, she continued talking to a ghost. "Listen to this, Joel. Composed by my associate, who has the talent of a Claude Debussy."
***
"Do you know Gina McQuire from the Washington Post?" Chuck approached Gabby the following morning as soon as she settled into her office.
The name possessed a very familiar ring, but Gabby failed to identify it.
"She's doing a story on female executives and would like to interview you. Says she saw you in From Slavery to Freedom and was profoundly impressed."
Gabby had to consider the political ramifications before accepting. "My politician friends say there's no such thing as bad publicity. Worse than having someone lambaste you in the media, is to be ignored by the media."
"Then should I set up an appointment?"
"No. Not until I formally announce my candidacy, but don't say that. Tell her I'd be happy to talk in about two weeks when my schedule eases."
Chuck had another matter to discuss. "You also received a call from Nelson McKesson's office at Dominion Mutual. He asked if you and Asa could be at the company's Baltimore offices next Tuesday morning along with Stan Melkin and his legal team to discuss future developments in the lawsuit."
A fist rose to her lips and her eyes narrowed. "What future developments?"
He shrugged and tilted his head sideways. "How should I know? I'm only the appointment clerk. But if you ask me to speculate, I'd say they're positioning themselves to offer the Morgensterns more money."
"What makes you think that?"
"Marc Sutterfeld is a killer lawyer. All he has to do is parade Tybee Morgenstern into court and a jury will start weeping. Every tear is worth a million dollars."
"If that's true, he'll reject just about any offer."
"Perhaps not. I've read you don't always collect everything a jury awards. But in a settlement, the plaintiff gets cold cash up front. You don't have to wait a decade before receiving the moolah. Otherwise, no deal."
"Okay, counselor, when do you start law school? Tell Mr. McKesson I'll be there on Tuesday. I'll discuss this with Asa."
***
Asa Folkman was conducting a funeral and did not respond to Gabby's message until late afternoon. When he finally came to her study, he was dressed in a tailored dark gray suit with a silver-striped necktie, a torn black funereal ribbon in his lapel. Gabby credited Anina with elevating Aas's attention to attire, fashioning a handsome male into an elegant male. Usually a funeral would drag him into a somber mood, but this afternoon he seemed unusually chipper.
"I listened again to A Jazzman's Sorrow," she reported, her voice upbeat and enthusiastic. "And now I understand what Reuben is raving about."
"It's unbelievable to me, Gabby," he permitted a smile of pride to spread over his lower face. "Word spreads like wildfire and so do pirated copies of the CD. A private foundation in St. Louis called to inquire if I wanted to submit my composition for a contest. First prize is a very generous commission to write a full symphonic work. And now the San Francisco Symphony Foundation wants to fly me there to talk about scoring Jazzman. I've tentatively agreed to travel west on Sunday afternoon, after Religious School. Monday is my normal day off. I expect to be back very late Tuesday evening. I hope that works in your schedule."
So this is why his spirits were so high, she thought to herself. At that moment, she experienced a premonition that Asa's agony about his work was coming to an end. Some of her premonitions were vague and necessarily uncertain. But this one was strong enough to bet a large sum upon. She felt elevated by being in the company of a skilled craftsman, one whom Reuben called a genius. Still, Asa's timing couldn't be worse for her race to win a seat in Congress.
"Lawyers for Dominion Mutual want us to meet with them Tuesday morning in Baltimore. Can you make it back Monday night?"
"My meeting with the foundation people is Tuesday morning. What's this Baltimore meeting about?"
"They didn't provide an agenda. Stan Melkin will tell us. Chuck thinks Dominion wants to sweeten a settlement offer."
"The best of all lousy worlds," he shook his head and mumbled. "The synagogue is only covered for ten mil. They've already offered seven and a half. There isn't much more to give."
"If we settle, that's an overt omission of guilt, you understand. It would say that Ohav Shalom acknowledges its responsibility, which I categorically deny."
"Does it matter, Gabby? The important thing is to care for Tybee's needs. I feel like a bad smell that everybody in this congregation wants to be rid of."
"Certainly not me, friend. When you're famous for writing music, people will flock around like bees to honey. And when you're an acclaimed composer, the same people who find fault today will boast that you were once their rabbi. People are like that, you know."
"If you think I should postpone my trip to San Francisco, I will."
She wanted to say yes, but knew it was not in his interest. His good nature had been exploited too often already. Since the congregation failed to acknowledge his rabbinical talents, he owed it nothing. "No, Asa. I want you to go. You deserve this. San Francisco is everybody's favorite city. If possible, take Anina and enjoy yourselves. Visit the redwood trees in Muir Woods and feel how puny things that disturb us really are. I'll go to the Baltimore meeting. Just let me know your feelings about a settlement and I'll present them there."
A fist went up to his face and stopped before his lips, through which he blew air. "Whatever the insurance company will pay. If I make any money from A Jazzman's Sorrow I'm going to give the proceeds to Tybee's medical expenses or her future education. That's the least I can do."
Gabby's sigh was audible. "Keep your money; you earned it fair and square. In my judgment you don't owe poor Tybee a cent. It was an accident, not of your making. Let Dominion Mutual pay the bill. That's why they collect premiums."
"I intend to write a concerto in Janean's memory."
"That would be lovely, Asa. I'm sure she would appreciate that. But please, when you do, don't make her ministering angels weep."
***
A feature profile of Rabbi Gabrielle Lewyn in Sunday morning's Style Section of The Washington Post caught readers by surprise. Yes, Chuck Browner was aware that reporters were asking questions about his boss, but that wasn't unusual. Her part in the televised seder convinced the paper's editors to run the story earlier than scheduled and included her picture at the seder, with Kye Naah, a well-known entrepreneur in Washington's info-tech industry, beside her. The language suggested but did not state in so many words that he was her steady beau.
Kye saw the story on Sunday morning before attending his church on Wilson Boulevard in suburban Bethesda. Since he had plans to bring Gabby to the church's spring picnic at Great Falls Park that noon, there was no purpose trying to catch her at Ohav Shalom. No doubt her congregants were as surprised as he, though he had no way of evaluating their displeasure.
Members of the church could have agreed to attend the morning's worship in picnic clothing, but they wouldn't dare recite prayers and sing hymns to the Almighty in inappropriate attires. Multicolored athletic bags filled with a change of outdoor clothing were neatly rowed in the foyer. Despite the picnic, worship this morning proceeded with the formality and decorum of any Sunday.
Kye had planned to collect Gabby from Ohav Shalom and drive together to Great Falls Park, but the Post article persuaded him to leave a voicemail. Instead of going to her study they should meet outside on the street. Why add to the confusion?
Eleven minutes past the hour, Gabby approached his Ford van from the rear and unlatched the passenger door and jumped energetically into the seat, exclaiming, "Let's went, amigo. Quick, before somebody ambushes me."
Turning the ignition, he asked, "What do you think of your profile? It's a great sendoff for the campaign."
"The paper jumped the gun. I've still got a few more days before I must let Kyle Carberri know my final decision."
"You're not thinking of quitting on me, are you?"
"I can't quit if I don't start. I'm not trying to be cute, Kye, and I know what this means to you. That's a major consideration for me."
"How were things at the religious school this morning?"
"People stared at me as though I were a Martian. A few said nice things about the seder. They thought it was a refreshing twist. Others wanted assurance that we wouldn't repeat it next year."
***
The Potomac River cleaves a steep canyon between Virginia and Maryland at Great Falls, a seething convulsion of white water that drops 340 feet in a quarter mile. Spring was definitely in the air, but puffy cumulous clouds dotted the sky and a nippy northwestern wind blew along the river. In a picnic area, members of Kye's church shared the tasks of starting barbecue fires, setting tables, unpacking plastic containers filled with ginseng chicken, sticky rice flavored with garlic and kimchi, fermented mixtures of radish and cabbage with hot peppers, onions and heavy salt. Strips of lean beef were readied for the barbecue to be served with cold naengmyon noodles. Foreign zithers and Asian drums from a portable CD player drown out the roar of the river.
Though Kye assured Gabby that just about everybody at his church knew of her exploits, Korean courtesy demanded that they pretend ignorance. When Kye introduced her as a business associate and friend, none revealed suspicions of something more. She was happy to join Pastor Norman Woo in distributing cups for aromatic iced tea and learn of his keen interest in the biblical origins of Judaism. Questions he posed were schooled and intelligent. Reverend Woo commented that many at the picnic had watched her seder on television. Most were as surprised as he to find Kye Naah seated beside her at the head table.
The youngsters disappeared to explore the C&O Canal paralleling the river. Teenagers broke out Frisbees and footballs. Kye, a softball enthusiast, enrolled a half-dozen adolescents in the infield to practice catching his fly balls. Gabby felt useless around the older women preparing lunch and asked to be excused from domestic work to join the baseball players. Once in the field the kids marveled at her ability to throw from deep centerfield all the way to second base.
Later, she preceded Pastor Woo before a buffet-style selection of lunch foods, whose names resonated from a wholly foreign culture, but whose aromatic smells made her salivate. Pibimpap, bits of beef cooked with vegetables and eggs and seasoned with koch'ujang fiery red peppers, buckwheat noodles with chopped scallions, radishes, cucumbers, and sesame seeds. The women serving over-estimated her appetite and piled large portions on her plate. Word circulated that she was a vegetarian, which was technically incorrect, but it was easier to let the myth go unchallenged than correct the error.
"Do you think, Rabbi, that Jesus was celebrating the Passover seder during the final supper?" Pastor Woo asked as they moved in tandem toward a vacant picnic table.
While slipping onto a cedar bench, she said, "That's not my area of expertise. I'm confused by what we Jews call the Inter-testimental Period, years between the codification of the Old and New Testaments. I know equating the Final Supper with Passover is popular, but don't you think it odd that no women were present with Jesus? That's not like any seder we Jews know today, even for those celebrating it in the distant past. It's hard for us to imagine such a festival without women and children in attendance. After all, for us the main purpose is to teach our youngsters."
A studious expression emerged upon his face as he considered the point. Kye joined them. When it appeared that most of the picnickers were settled Pastor Woo nodded toward Gabby. "Rabbi, would you like to say Grace for us?"
"I'm afraid I don't say Grace, but we do have blessings to recite before eating."
"That amounts to the same thing, don't you think?" the Pastor asked.
"Absolutely," she answered while unraveling her legs from the picnic bench to stand and be heard. To the others, she raised her voice and bellowed over the sound of running water in the nearby river. "In Judaism, we have blessings for just about everything. Our custom is to single out the principle element of the meal, say rice or bread or vegetables and praise God for giving it to us. If it's impossible to determine which is the principle food before you waste away from hunger, you simple say, "Baruch… kol minay mizanot. Blessed is the Lord who gives us a variety of species to eat." With that she scooped up a wad of pickled cabbage with her chopsticks and brought it toward her mouth. Only at the last moment, her grasp on the chopsticks slipped; the wad sailed in a loop and dived onto Pastor Woo's lap.
A howl of amused laughter erupted. Gabby turned crimson with embarrassment.
"Not to worry," Kye consoled, a reprimanding scowl trained on those laughing. "Some of the elderly here still can't manipulate a fork."
The picnickers suddenly realized their rudeness and immediately fell silent. Gabby rallied by snatching a second pile of cabbage and holding it for others to see that she knew how to use chopsticks. "Well now," she said, "let's see if I can do it right this time," then moved it toward her mouth.
By the end of the afternoon, she was feeling comfortable among Kye's friends. And he, too, displayed his comfort by holding her hand in public.
***
"Sorry to impose upon you to drive," Stan Melkin said as he dropped into the passenger seat of her Volvo with a rectangular brief case on his lap, prepared for the early morning trip to Baltimore. "This is a bad day for me. I must read this brief before a meeting late in the afternoon and I haven't got an extra moment. Afraid I won't be much company until we get there."
"That's okay," she glanced to her right to find him already coiled around his papers. "I'm used to driving by myself. Sometimes I listen to the radio and sometime a book-on-tape. But more often, I just use the quiet time to let my thoughts roam."
From the synagogue, she headed north on Wisconsin Avenue to pick up a ramp onto the Capitol Beltway, then Interstate 95 to Baltimore. A light trickle of rain forced her to activate the windshield wipers and headlights. Stan adjusted a thick legal brief atop of his briefcase, aligned reading glasses over his nose, preparing to jot down notes with an old-fashioned brass point fountain pen. He was so engrossed that he failed to notice a speeding motorcyclist weaving between vehicles in front. The young man's antics triggered a sense of danger in Gabby, whose foot moved back and forth from the brake pedal to the accelerator.
Stan lifted his eyes to catch the cyclist's bravado and exclaimed, "Damn fool. Did you know that bikes kill more people every year than guns? "
"It doesn't surprise me – not when drivers like this burn up the road."
Stan glanced at his lap, before moving over to Gabby. "We'll probably arrive in Baltimore a bit early. This will probably be the most important meeting of my presidency at Ohav Shalom. That's why I invited the Board of Directors. Five have agreed to meet us there."
She was about to respond when brake lights ahead indicated slowing traffic. Her uneasiness about the cyclist returned. Within an instant, cars in the right lane were slamming hard on their brakes, while those in the center and left continued to roll forward. Gabby swerved into the outside lane but was forced to brake hard as cars bunched up below a ramp leading from the Beltway. The sight of an upturned Harley Davidson bike, its forward wheel spinning in the air, sent a chill of terror along her spine. She assumed the driver had been thrown off his bike and was somewhere on the ground amid a tangle of stopped vehicles. Perhaps in the chaos one or more had run over him.
"Stan, my cell phone is in the glove compartment. Call 911 for an ambulance!" she barked with no remorse for the dictatorial tone. "We're only a hop-skip-and-a-jump to Holy Cross Hospital." While he scrambled to find a place for his briefcase and legal papers, she pulled on the parking brake, switched on the emergency lights, then flung open the door. "The motor's running. Move the car when there's room. The kid will be lucky to be alive."
Stalled vehicles forced her to weave a path to the accident site. A half-dozen other drivers joined her on the tarmac to determine what happened. About thirty feet from the overturned motorcycle, she observed a black figure motionless on the ground – the same youngster who had been weaving recklessly among the cars. The dark visor on the helmet shielded his face from view. A quick survey revealed that other spectators were bewildered, none willing to determine if the cyclist was breathing. An instinct told her to blend into the crowd and let another take this responsibility, but another instinct chided such inactivity. A similar situation had occurred when she was a rabbinic student. It was snowing in Cincinnati and she witnessed from her car a pedestrian hit by a skidding automobile. Instead of leaving her vehicle to offer assistance, she remained frozen behind the wheel, waiting for others to step forward. Her humiliating passivity resulted in a personal pledge – never again to remain a spectator in an emergency.
She knelt on the asphalt over the biker and called. "Can you hear me? Can you hear my voice?"
There was no response. She clasped onto the wrist with one hand and probed under the chin for the jugular with the other. If there was a pulse, it was impossible to feel. To the motorists who had gathered around she said, pointing with the hand she removed from the jugular, "See that there's a lane free for an ambulance. He's probably in shock. Ask if anybody's got a blanket. We'll need to get blood flowing back toward his heart."
"Don't touch him," she recognized Stan Melkin's voice over her shoulder. "Gabby, this isn't a good idea. You're not a doctor. People get sued all the time for impersonating physicians. If anything goes wrong, they'll blame you for interference."
"If we don't prevent him from going into shock, there won't be anything to argue about," she growled back. "Now, please. Let's see if he can raise his legs very slowly."
"This is stupid, Gabby," Stan persisted. "That's how people end up with hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of law suits. This isn't necessary. The ambulance will be here soon."
She ignored him and spoke to the biker's face, still hidden behind the dark visor. "Can you hear my voice?"
"Yeah, yeah. It's ringin' in my ears." The response was feeble but audible. And to Gabby's astonishment it was female. She had missed the slight protrusion of the bust line and the narrow hips.
"Good. Now just hold on. We've called for an ambulance. Don't move because you could injure your spinal cord. Can you feel my fingers squeezing your wrist?"
"Yep."
"That's good," she answered, aware of a siren-like sound in the distance. Another siren cawed from a different direction. Perhaps, she surmised, the police were also en route.
"Is there enough room for the ambulance?" she asked a spectator.
"There's a snarl of cars."
"Well then, get moving and unsnarl them!" She snapped impatiently. "Work your way from the outside in."
A policeman in heavy leather boots and a belt full of jangling paraphernalia arrived on the scene before the Rescue Squad, his mobile radio bristling with voices. Before tending to the injured biker, he surveyed the area and called into his radio for support. "Anybody call an ambulance here?" he asked in a throaty but confident voice.
"Yes, sir." Stan Melkin answered. "Can't you hear sirens approaching?"
The officer addressed Gabby. "Don't move him, Lady. He's breathing, isn't he?"
"Yes, but it's a woman. I want to roll her over gently to lift her legs before she goes into shock."
"You can't do that, Lady. Wait for the emergency people. They know what to do." He glanced through the crowd of people." Anybody see how this happened?"
Dead silence. The short bursts of a siren announced that an ambulance was making progress through the congestion. "Okay now, everybody into your cars. I need people in the rear to back up and make a path. Move onto side streets, over lawns or anything, but just get off the road."
Alternating red and white strobe lights indicated that the ambulance was still at some distance. Before it could get close, two medics in navy-blue uniforms were running forward hauling a stretcher. Seeing that there was nothing more for her to do, Gabby eased back on her haunches. A second later, she shifted to her knees, then onto her feet. After providing a newly arrived police officer with her phone number, she looked around for her car, which Stan had obviously moved. A spectator said to her, "You should have been a doctor."
It took ten minutes for Gabby to find her Volvo parked on a residential street. Stan was seated comfortably in the passenger seat, studying his legal brief as if nothing untoward had occurred. Without speaking, he exited to reseat himself on the passenger side. Clearly, they were now going to be late for their appointment in Baltimore.
He finally spoke as she navigated a secondary Beltway ramp leading northeast on I-95. "I'm sorry for what I said back there. I know you were trying to help. Only I've seen too many Good Samaritans find themselves with hellish legal problems. Even if the court exonerates them, they wind up with astronomical legal fees. We've got enough trouble with the Morgensterns."
His caution annoyed her. "You're the lawyer, Stan. It's a sad day when someone can't help a fellow human being in trouble."
"It was probably her fault for reckless driving. We saw with our own eyes how she was hot-dogging it."
"When a skier arrives at the bottom of a slope with a broken arm, the doctor doesn't tell her that she shouldn't have been skiing. You've got to fix what's broken first. Then later, you might consider future prevention. I'm afraid I'd make a poor attorney."
He fell back into a silence, but this time did not return to his papers. At least five miles later, he said, picking up the thread of the previous conversation. "On the contrary, Gabby, I think you'd make an excellent lawyer. But I'm certain you're a better rabbi. I wish like hell we could keep you at Ohav Shalom."
"Now what does that mean?" she asked, knowing exactly what he meant.
He didn't rise to her bait, and eventually returned to his brief. That worked to her benefit because she needed time to compose herself. During the accident, reflexes governed her responses. Things had to be done in sequence. In such circumstances she possessed the ability to put herself on autopilot. But once the emergency was over, she was subject to delayed emotion. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly to prevent her limbs from trembling.
***
Fifty minutes late, a receptionist at Dominion Mutual's regional offices on Charles Street escorted Gabby and Stan to a studio where a videoconference with the company's headquarters in Cleveland was in progress. The discussion broke to introduce Gabby and Stan to the Cleveland team. Horace Corcoran and several of the Dominion Mutual personnel in Ohio had seen From Slavery to Freedom on television and were complimentary about Gabby's role. This was also the first opportunity several members of the synagogue board had had to express themselves about the production.
"Since our last meeting," Corcoran summarized for the benefit of Stan and Gabby, "we've made additional phone contact with Marc Sutterfeld, counsel to the Morgenstern family. We feel it is in everybody's interest to settle this lawsuit as soon as possible. The very last thing we want is to have Mr. Sutterfeld put Tybee Morgenstern on the witness stand. We're monitoring her medical situation and, I can tell you, it's pretty ugly. We're not talking logic here, but pure, unadulterated emotion. Unfortunately, that's Marc Sutterfeld's trump card. He won't budge from the original demand of forty-six million."
The insurance company's counsel in Cleveland, Jameson Terry, spoke with a chiseling Chicago twang. "Ladies and Gentlemen. It looks from here that we have a thirty-six million dollar delta. There's two and a half million left in our pot, so to speak. We know Sutterfeld will eventually come off his outrageous figure, but not apparently by gentle persuasion." He addressed Stan Melkin as president of the synagogue. "I hope that Ohav Shalom has benefactors willing to reach deep, very deep, yes, very deep into their pockets to close the gap."
Melkin knew the issue would come up and reported, "We've already had discussions with several of our more affluent benefactors. We might raise another million or two, but that's the ceiling. So I'm afraid your suggestion doesn't solve our problem."
To the silver-haired Delmont D'Foro of Jameson, Crew and Gottwin, litigating counsel to Dominion in Washington, he declared. "Litigation is inevitable, wouldn't you say?"
Delmont D'Foro showed no discomfort at the prospect of a trial that guaranteed his firm's involvement in the case for many more months. "Yes, sir. We're making preparations as we speak."
"Do you intend to make further contact with Mr. Sutterfeld?"
"He knows our phone number. If you ask my opinion, I don't believe he wants to settle when there's an opportunity to have his day in court. Since he's confident he can win before a jury, he can always argue that he serves his client best by choosing the battlefield. His firm has been known to take cases on a contingency basis, though we have no evidence of this so far."
"And are you satisfied with our position, Mr. Melkin," asked Jameson Terry in Cleveland.
"Have I an alternative?"
"Rabbi Lewyn?" asked Jameson Terry. "You understand that you and your colleague Rabbi Folkman will be on the hot seat, so to speak. We're not pleased with Rabbi Folkman's deposition, but we'll have to work around it. He admitted things that Mr. Sutterfeld will exploit in a trial."
"He's not a lawyer, Mr. Jameson. Rabbi Folkman is an superb rabbi and, for your information, also a very talented musician and composer."
"He'll have to convince a jury of that, Rabbi," sighed Jameson.
Stan Melkin interceded in his interrogator's tone. "Mr. Terry, what is the sum you feel Dominion would pay to have this problem go away?"
"Ten million and not a penny more. Frankly, we feel fleeced at that sum. But we must be practical. Many of our clients are non-profit and religious institutions. Were Ohav Shalom not a respected synagogue, we'd dig our heels at less than five Ms."
"So there's no figure a bit more generous to make this problem disappear?" "No, sir, as I said, not a penny. Of course, you're free to supplement with anything Ohav Shalom can raise."
The videoconference ended with the sour prospect of an unpleasant trial.
In Dominion Mutual's reception area, Stan Melkin and the Ohav Shalom board members gathered to commiserate about the unfortunate turn of events. Stan looked at his watch to note it was nearly lunch time, and declared, "Since we still have some things to discuss with the rabbi, let me take you to lunch at the Sheraton, just up the street. It's early and we can get a quiet table."
On the short walk from Charles Street to the Sheraton Hotel, Gabby moved on the outside of the pack, certain Stan wanted to talk about her intention to run for congressional office. A frigid wind gusting against them presaged Gabby's growing sense of isolation. People who should be her strongest supporters now seemed distant and aloof.
At lunch, there was an agreement not to s peak about the Morgenstern lawsuit. Food service in this austere white tablecloth restaurant decorated with a colonial motif was friendly and efficient. Gabby ordered simple green salad and iced tea. Others, with more robust appetites, ordered sandwiches and fish entrees from the Chesapeake waters. Between service from the kitchen, Sally Medford-Quine, who has been most active in opposing Gabby's entry into a race against her childhood friend and political heroine, Toby Ryles, opened a polished leather briefcase and extracted Gabby's profile in the Washington Post.
After receiving a nod from Stan Melkin, she said, "Rabbi you've no doubt read Gina McQuire's piece. Most people would be flattered, but I don't mind telling you we've been deluged by phone calls from our members. It's quite disturbing, you know."
Gabby glanced around to gage the response from others and failed to discover signs of sympathy. "What exactly are their objections, Sally?"
"The picture."
"Many people saw the same frame on television and nobody complained to me."
"Perhaps, but Gina McQuire suggested the man beside you was a significant and steady companion. That's news to us."
"People put lots of labels on relationships. I certainly never told Gina about this. In fact, I never spoke a single word to her. Had she asked my permission to print that, I would not have approved. But then everybody knows Gina McQuire's style of journalism."
"Let's not argue about degrees of relationships, Rabbi," Marvin Jankelrod intervened. He was not a member of the synagogue board, but had been invited to attend the meeting at Dominion Mutual because he chaired Ohav Shalom's legal committee. "May I ask if Ms. McQuire is accurate?"
Gabby knew she was headed into quicksand but the thought of prevaricating never entered her mind. She detested the Washington sport of parsing words. "Yes, Marvin. Kye Naah and I are good friends."
He was a hound on scent. "But that doesn't answer the key issue, Rabbi, if I may be so bold. What we need to know is whether your relationship with Mr. Naah is romantic or platonic?"
"Why is that necessary?" her guard rose still higher than before.
Stan interjected himself in the conciliatory role of president. "Because, many members are concerned about the image this presents. Our rabbis are supposed to be guardians of Jewish family life. We expect them to be strong advocates for Jews dating and marrying within the Jewish community. The congregation has a sorry history of battles over role models and I don't have to remind anybody about Rabbi Greer. If it's true that Mr. Naah and you are more than close friends, then doesn't this send the wrong signal to our young people?"
"I could pretend I don't understand your drift, Stan, but that would be disingenuous. If you're referring to the fact that Kye is Korean, then say so."
He hesitated. "Don't make this into a debate over racism, please. We're not suggesting the slightest disrespect for the Asian people. But the Jewish community is attempting to maintain it's ethnic homogeneity – not by fiat but by setting a good example, especially its leadership?"
"I'm not sure this is the time or place to debate that. I don't believe Judaism will be able to sustain itself by rigid adherence to notions of racial homogeneity in the twenty-first century."
"So you are condoning intermarriages with Asians?" Sally Medford-Quine almost trumpeted.
"I didn't say that, Sally. You did."
Two waiters fussed over the delivery of lunch. Room had to be made on the table crowded with glasses and butter plates. New silverware was added to the clutter. Harry Dealson, a mild-mannered, chubby owner of racetracks in Delaware and northern Maryland, asked to modify his order of baked sea trout.
As soon as the waiters disappeared, Devorah Chattrel from the sisterhood spoke. "I feel terrible about delving into your private life, Gabby. Lord knows, we're all entitled to some privacy in this world. But unfortunately, you're not only a public figure, but have become something of a celebrity. It wasn't as if you and Mr. Naah had a private relationship. The media broadcast his image throughout the nation. Each time the camera returned to you at the seder, he was nearby. It sends a message that we Jews are encouraging inter-racial relationships and ultimately interracial marriages. And that's not what I think you have in mind, now is it?"
It saddened Gabby that the matter had come up, but then Chuck had warned her. About such things he was seldom wrong. "No, Devorah, I'm not trying to promote anything. The fact that Kye Naah is Korean is incidental. We're good friends. I brought him as my escort to the community seder because it is considered a mitzvah to invite Gentiles. Passover is a popular holiday in the Christian community and Kye is a church-going Baptist and curious about Jewish observance."
"Then you don't take responsibility for the message this sends?" pursued Sally Medford-Quine.
"I do, Sally," Gabby barely hid her irritation.
"And this relationship is romantic?" Marvin Jankelrod recast his previous question.
"That's a movie word, Marvin," she said. "But let me answer with a little history. First, my friendship with Kye Naah is more than an acquaintance. Many of you know that he's the founder and CEO of Politicstoday.com. We're working together on a congressional campaign. He's been very supportive and encouraging."
Sally Medford-Quine said, "There are people who think you engineered the Disney seder to publicize your campaign. I can tell you, Rabbi, the Ryles for Congress people are steaming mad about this exploitation."
"Now wait a second, Sally," Stan jumped in to defuse an explosion. "That's unnecessarily provocative. From almost all quarters, even our Conservative brethren, the seder was a great success. We've gotten sterling reviews in the Jewish press. There's no purpose to impugn the rabbi's motives."
Sally turned her frustration on the president. "It looks to me as if Ohav Shalom is now fighting a war on multiple fronts. We've got one rabbi with political ambitions and another who has become a nightclub performer. We're facing the costliest lawsuit in our history and our own members are saying that we're promoting the wrong family values. I ask you, without trying to be facetious, Stan, is this the way to run a shul?"
Stan Melkin delayed defending his presidency while waiters settled main courses before the diners. He felt like Abraham Lincoln, who had become President of the United States in the midst of bitter political haggling and a brewing civil war, then ended his tenure with a united nation, the South in ruins and even nastier political squabbling. Unfortunately, the late president didn't live long enough to understand how much the American people owed to his genius.
Harry Dealson characteristically attempted to assuage raw tempers. "We're sorry, Rabbi, that this has come up. There's a lot on our plates. We would be remiss in our duties were we to hush up the criticism over Dr. Naah. Jews are matchmakers by nature and I guess we've all jumped to conclusions. The bottom line is," and here he paused to emphasize what he felt, "we really don't want you to run for Congress, not because you're unqualified, but because we want you in the shul, not on Capitol Hill. And we want you to have a happy Jewish family with a nice Jewish boy. And, I guess, Dr. Naah threatens that. First and foremost, we want this terrible lawsuit to go away. I think I speak for the other board members when I say we feel trapped. Our alternatives are very limited."
"Thanks, Harry," Gabby said. "I appreciate your honesty. I'm not insensitive to your conclusions. All I can say is that we'll have to move forward step by step and see what evolves." She put down a fork that had remained inactive in her hand since the salad arrived and glanced around the table. "Besides the public side to being a rabbi, I also have a private life and, yes, private ambitions and private needs. I have never believed them to be inconsistent with the welfare of the synagogue. When they diverge, I shall resign immediately."
This short oration produced silence, an opportunity for the diners to return to their food. When a solicitous waiter stopped to ask if any wished to see the dessert menu there were no takers. Only Marvin Jankelrod ordered coffee. The others began looking at their watches to estimate when they might expect to be back in the Washington area.
En route home with Gabby, Stan Melkin resumed making notes on his legal brief. He was in contact with his office by cell phone, estimating his time of arrival at 2:30 in the afternoon. Gabby was relieved that he had other things to occupy his mind and did not wish to rehash the luncheon conversation. Through her cell phone, Chuck reported that two afternoon appointments had been postponed. Danzansky's Funeral Home urgently needed a reply about setting a time for a funeral. Asa called her twice from San Francisco and had left a hotel phone number. For once, the rat race sounded like relief.
***
When Gabby phoned Asa at the Clift Hotel in San Francisco, he was not in his room. She left a short message on the hotel's voice mail system, purposely failing to mention her unpleasant confrontation with members of the synagogue board. Coming to grips with her feelings about that meeting required ruthless honesty, something never easy under the best circumstances and particularly difficult when her feelings about running for office were hopelessly scrambled. She appreciated the caution of the Board of Directors – each individual, assuming personal responsibility for the synagogue's long-term welfare. Nor was she insensitive to concerns about her running for public office against Toby Ryles and a dating relationship with a Korean. Still, she was also deeply disappointed that after years of service she had failed to engender a reserve of trust in her judgment. Didn't they know she would never willfully harm the congregation? Or the Jewish community?
That evening, Kye's presence was reassuring. She stopped at a Safeway on the way home to buy fresh asparagus and pasta to show off what, by now, had become a recurring joke between them, were extremely limited culinary skills. He liked being in the kitchen, cleaning pots and utensils as fast as she managed to dirty them. Together, they produced a pasta dish, flavored with the hot Jalapeño peppers from New Mexico, which his palate savored more than hers. Both were fast eaters, claiming the same excuse of working in jobs where they were constantly on the run and were accustomed to wolfing down food. They did not linger over tea. As soon as they had loaded the dishes into a dishwasher, there was work to be done.
On a coffee table in the living room, Kye booted three parallel laptop computers and a single palmtop. Gabby joined him on the sofa to practice toggling, upgrading and downgrading screens, then transferring packets of data between them. During an election campaign, most candidates rely heavily upon technicians to manage requests from potential voters. In Kye's view, a candidate able to react immediately, without the intervention of helpers, expedites the process and thereby creates a dedicated voter. Personalize email from a candidate, he declared, was equivalent to a handshake on the stump. And what voter shakes a hand, then votes for the opposition? Gabby was required to learn a dozen what-if situations; each demanding repetitious practice until her reactions were honed. During these exercises Kye remained patient and encouraging.
"Easy for you," she muttered. "You were born with a monitor in your crib."
"And you, with dreams in your little head," he said while placing his hands on her and drawing her against his chest. She liked the easy familiarity of his touch and folded her arms around him. Their lips met then wandered over unexplored regions of the chins and necks, followed by deeper arousal. Rolling on the sofa she felt the strength of his interest against her upper thigh. A part of her cautioned against further sexual intimacy. How many times had she witnessed other women besotted by the men they slept with? And it was never clear to her as an observer whether they had slept with their partners because they loved them or whether they loved them because they slept with them. Despite reservations that rumbled within, part of her welcomed the fires of love, whatever their mad consequences. The world, she told herself, was moved as much by madness and passion as rational design. Had not God endowed his creatures with as much emotion as reason? Her fingers fumbled with small, resistant buttons on Kye's flannel shirt, but then stopped abruptly.
Her telephone on the breakfront further deadened this foreplay. Both pretended not to hear until the answering machine answered and her out-going message cycled through the speaker. The in-coming message brought a familiar voice. "Gabby, it's Asa in San Francisco."
San Francisco had slipped from her mind. She paused to lift her head from Kye. It was no longer urgent to speak with Asa, yet she knew that making contact with him later might be difficult.
"I've got wonderful news to share with you about Jazzman's Sorrow…." His voice continued through the speaker.
She placed a hand under Kye's chin and stroked affectionately along his cheek, then untangled herself to step over to the breakfront and snatch the receiver, her eyes remaining on him.
She said, "Hey, Asa, it's Gabby. I'm here. Good to hear your voice. I wanted to report about today's meeting with the insurance people in Baltimore. But first, tell me your good news. We could use some."
"The San Francisco Symphony Orchestra wants to play my work next season and has offered me a ton of money to score it, giving me a big bonus if the work is fully ready for rehearsal in four months. I also got a call from Jonas Demarco, musical director of the Los Angeles Symphony. He wants me to fly down tomorrow and talk about a commission to write two new compositions. I never thought anybody was listening."
"That's fabulous news, Asa. You deserve every ounce of this recognition and more, too! I want you to become the most successful composer in the country. How's San Francisco?"
"Yes. Yes. Absolutely," excitement echoed in his voice. "Gabby, I can breathe here. In Washington, everything feels so stifling. But it's the cool air and the vitality of this city, the colors, the vistas, the ambience. Does that make any sense?"
"Remember, I am a California girl. Of course, it makes sense. Once people plant their feet in the Golden State, they're lost forever in paradise. Nothing has changed since the Gold Rush. That's why California has over forty million residents, four times as many as when I was born there."
"Tell me what happened in Baltimore," he changed subject abruptly.
"My news isn't as good as yours. Dominion Mutual has offered to settle with the Morgensterns for up to ten mill. That's the limit of Ohav Shalom's insurance. But Marc Sutterfeld is adamant about receiving all forty-six. Ohav hasn't got the money to make up the shortfall. Looks like we're going to court. Dominion attorneys are preparing for trial."
A long pause elapsed on the other end. "That's more than I expected. I didn't think the insurance company would cough up even their share of the money. Do you think we could talk with David Morgenstern?"
"He hasn't wanted to talk with us in the past. Why now?"
"Because he would be ten million dollars richer. It may not compensate for his suffering, but then would a hundred million make his loss any easier? Or a million million. Perhaps he's mellowed."
"I'll have a word with Stan Melkin about it, but don't hold your breath. In the meantime, enjoy California. I'm so proud of you, Asa. Reuben Blass boasts about you as if he gave birth to Ludwig Beethoven. Someday, I hope you'll put the entire Shabbat service to music and lift our worshippers into heaven on angels' wings. Don't rush back. Enjoy your glory and the sunshine. I'll cover for you at the synagogue. Can Anina join you?"
"No, I don't think so. She's busy. Besides, after a few bars of anything but hard rock she falls asleep."
"Oh, I doubt that. I know how she admires you. Remember, friend, it takes all kinds of people to make this crazy world run. Keep in touch, please. I'm positively ecstatic about your success."
"I'm worried about you and Ohav Shalom."
"Don't be. We'll take care of ourselves. Somehow, things will work out. They always do."
Kye was standing in front of his laptops, straightening his clothes as she returned to take him in her arms with a silent bear hug. Moisture from her eyes smeared his neck but he said nothing and just listened to her labored breathing.
"What's wrong?" he eventually asked.
She enlarged the space between them, though her hands remained on his waist. "Asa is going to be the success Reuben Blass predicted. I know what happens when people move to California; they seldom come back. He won't be here to cover for me during the election. And I can't ask him to sacrifice his career to facilitate mine. I'm going to lose him, Kye. It's inevitable now."
"If you ask him, he might remain in Washington through your sabbatical."
"That wouldn't be fair and, besides, you can't do that to an artist. They work by inspiration not an appointment calendar."
"I don't see how that will affect your race," he said, suddenly sounding boorish to himself because he knew exactly where her logic was heading.
"If Asa isn't here to cover for me, I can't run. This isn't complicated."
"Why sacrifice your future for Ohav? Since when have they honored their pledges to you?" His voice was studded with injury. "They're constantly asking what have you done for them lately. When have they considered your feelings? Or your sabbatical?"
She pursed her lips. "I don't think they have. But that's not what I signed up for. Nobody who enters the clergy expects equal or even fair treatment. It isn't tit for tat. What else can I tell you? That's just the way things are. Members of Ohav Shalom aren't saints. But they're not devils either."
He unhooked her arms and leaned over the laptops to close down software and detach the cabling. Given Gabby's frame of mind, there was no purpose in continuing their work.
"Stay with me tonight," she said, her voice devoid of its usual clarity.
He continued to gather his equipment. "Not tonight, Gabby. I've got things to think about, too. Let's talk tomorrow. I understand what's happening. In the end, you're unlikely to leave your congregation. They've got you caught like a fly in a spider web. If you weren't so damn good at what you do, I'd advise you to fight like crazy for your freedom. But when I heard you explain the Bread of Affliction on Passover, something snapped inside me. I knew then that you'd never run for Congress. Sure, you might go through the motions, like learning my software programs and perhaps making a few speeches on the Internet. But in the final round, you'd return to your synagogue. Who the hell am I to tell you that's a mistake? It probably isn't."
She snuggled against him again, but he unhooked her arms and stepped back. "And the other thing I learned when you lifted that matzah before the camera is how much I admire you."
"Stay with me tonight," she pleaded, her hands on his arm.
"Sorry, Love. This has major repercussions for my business. If you're not going to be my showcase candidate, I've got to make changes at the shop and make them fast. By tomorrow, maybe I'll have a clearer picture."
His laptops fit into two leather carrying cases. When all was packed, he needed both hands to lift them and was unable to return Gabby's hug. She planted herself in his path and delivered a half-dozen small kisses to his cheek, then pulled away, her eyes ready to flood with tears.
"I'll wait for your call tomorrow," she said in the vestibule as he prepared to move through the front door toward the street.
"Absolutely," he responded, sounding eager to get away.