"Oh, I always make it a point to deal with local people."

The waiter brought their coffee and Segal lit a cigar.

"I'm glad to hear you say that," said Gore, "because we're local, too. The bank, I mean. Rohrbough started with us, and we did all their banking until they went public and got too big for us and had to go into Boston. But they continued to maintain their connection by having us do their payroll. I don't mind admitting that I'd hate to lose it. It's a great convenience to the people working at Rohrbough, and we like to be of service to our friends and neighbors."

Segal cocked a quizzical eye at the younger man. "You get something out of it besides the chance to be of service to your friends and neighbors, don't you?"

Gore laughed self-consciously. "Well, of course, there's our fee for the bookkeeping, and it means extra people, a lot of extra people, coming into the bank. It gives us a crack at them for Christmas Club and personal loans and auto loans and occasionally a mortgage."

Segal smiled. "Not to mention the float on maybe a quarter to a half million dollars a week."

Gore grinned ingenuously. "Not to mention it. But it rarely goes up that high, especially these days. And while some deposit their checks in their own banks, so there's the delay of having it go through the Boston clearinghouse, and others maybe cash them at the supermarket, where it also has to go through Boston, an awful lot cash their checks directly with us the same day they get them."

"All right," said Segal. "I'll think about it. You won't forget about that membership, will you?"

"I'll take care of that right away."

7.

"Why should you want to be included in the minyan?" asked Rabbi Small petulantly. He peered nearsightedly from one to the other of the three women seated in front of his desk in his study. "You're exempt from the commandment to recite the morning prayers. Why should you want to assume an unnecessary burden?"

"Like we used to be exempt from the burden of voting?" Molly Mandell shot back, her dark eyes flashing. "Or the burden of holding property?" She had an air of assurance, and it was obvious that she had no intention of being led by Mrs. Froelich, who as president of the Sisterhood was the head of the delegation. She was smartly dressed in a charcoal gray pantsuit. On her lapel she sported her large plastic Women's Lib pin.

Rabbi Small was taken aback both by the question and by the tone in which it was asked. It was not merely sarcastic; it was also hostile. He shook his head slowly.

"No, Mrs. Mandell. It's not like that, not like that at all," he said earnestly. "Look here, you know what a sin is. Well, what's the opposite? What's the antonym of sin?"

"Virtue?" Mrs. Froelich offered.

"A good deed," suggested Mrs. Allen.

The rabbi nodded. "It's both of those things in English, but in Hebrew we have a single specific word for it. The word is mitzvah, and it means a commandment. When we perform what has been commanded us, we have done a mitzvah. The important thing to keep in mind is that a commandment carries with it the implication of something that you would not ordinarily do of your own accord. We do it because it is commanded. The reason for some of the commandments are obvious. The commandment to observe the Sabbath as a day of rest is something that we can readily understand, a day of rest once a week-that makes sense. You might do it without a commandment. But you might not be so willing to extend the privilege to your servants. Hence, the commandment. The commandment that proscribes the mingling of linen and wool in garments, shatnes, is harder to understand, but devout Jews do it even though they can't see the reason for it. Because it is commanded."

He paused to look at each of them in turn and then went on. "The important thing to remember is that while we are responsible for what is commanded, we get no extra points for doing what is not commanded. We are commanded to recite prayers three times a day, and there is no extra virtue in reciting them six times a day. In Christianity there is. The priest may prescribe the recital of a dozen Hail Marys as a penance. They have religious communities of monks and nuns who have vowed to pray all day long. While a pious Christian may spend a good deal of his time in prayer, it is not so in our religion. In study, yes, but not in prayer. Keep that in mind. It's important. If you recite the blessing on wine or bread, and then don't drink wine or taste a morsel of bread, it is not a mitzvah, but the reverse. The classic example is that of the person who, while away from home, hears fire engines and prays that it is not his house that is burning. Such a prayer is considered sinful for two reasons: because it implies that you want it to be someone else's house that is burning; or because you are praying for an impossibility, that something that has already happened will not happen. Do you understand?" He peered at them eagerly through his thick-lensed glasses.

"You mean," began Mrs. Froelich uncertainly as she tried to frame her thought, "that-I can understand the first reason, but-"

"Let me try to make it a little clearer," said the rabbi. "I have a relative, my cousin Simcha. Simcha the Apicorus, we call him in the family. An Apicorus is an agnostic, from Epicurus, the Greek philosopher, and a mistaken notion of his doctrine. Although Simcha is actually a pious and observant Jew, he has some queer notions about some of the commandments. For example, he does not consider chicken as meat in the context of the dietary laws. He argues that since the reason we do not mix meat and dairy foods is in elaborate adherence to the commandment, 'Thou shalt not seethe the flesh of the kid in the milk of the mother,' it does not apply to chicken, since chickens don't give milk."

"Say, that's cool," Mrs. Allen exclaimed.

The rabbi smiled. "He also refused to affix a mezuzah to his doorframe on the grounds that the commandment is 'To write them on the doorposts of your house,' and he argued that it wasn't his house, that he was only renting. Now, I grant you that that's a pilpul, a matter of splitting hairs, and pretty extreme at that, but it gives the general idea that a commandment is an obligation, not necessarily welcome, that one carries out because it is commanded. In the same vein, a famous rabbi said that one should not say of the foods forbidden by our dietary laws-pork, shellfish, and the others-that we will not eat them because they are unpleasant and unpalatable, but rather that they are tasty and even delectable, but we will not eat them because there is a commandment forbidding it. Do you get the idea? Now, women are exempt from the positive commandments that have to be done at a particular time, so they are exempt from attending the minyan for the morning and evening prayers."

"But why are they exempt from those commandments, Rabbi?" asked Mrs. Froelich.

"Because observing them would interfere with their more important work of managing the home and the family."

"Naturally," said Molly Mandell sarcastically, "the idea is to get as much work out of them as possible."

"No." The rabbi shook his head. "No, Mrs. Mandell. It's because with us, the synagogue, or as we call it, the temple, is not the center of our religion. With us, it's the home. It is there that the Sabbath is celebrated, there that the Feast of Passover, the most important liturgical ceremony in our religion, is held, there that the Succah is built. On the practical side, Mrs. Mandell, I can imagine a case in which a husband, overzealous in reciting the Kaddish for a dead parent, might insist on his wife accompanying him to the minyan to insure that there are the necessary ten, even if it means neglecting to prepare breakfast for the children."

Mrs. Froelich nodded vigorously. "When his father died, Harvey went to say Kaddish every single day, morning and evening, for a year. Before that he never went to the daily minyan, and he hasn't gone since. But he certainly was Old Faithful that year. And you know, he wasn't even close to his father. They never really got along."

"Sure, he had guilt feelings," Mrs. Allen offered.

"To hear you tell it, Rabbi," Molly Mandell said, "the whole Jewish religion is practically dedicated to making things easier for women. It sounds nice, but it's a crock, and I can prove it. Because in those daily prayers you say every morning, you start by thanking God for having been born a man."

The others were taken aback by her vehemence and looked at the rabbi to see his reaction. He had colored but he managed a smile. "I don't see how you can object to that particular blessing, since it is in such complete agreement with the thinking of your movement."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, your Women's Lib movement maintains that life is easier for the man than it is for the woman, doesn't it?" he asked.

"Well sure, but-"

"So why shouldn't men thank God for it? And is it wrong for them to try to equalize the differences a little by according women special privileges?"

8.

Laura Maltzman was not a pretty woman; in fact, she was plain. She was tall and angular with square shoulders. She had a long face with a square chin, which seemed a little off center, as though she had just been struck a blow, or was on the point of turning her head. But her eyes were large and kindly and understanding. As her husband, rubbing his hands in satisfaction, came into the living room from the hallway, where he had been on the phone, she looked up inquiringly.

"Just got word," he said, "that the loan is going through, pretty sure anyway."

"Oh? Who called?"

"Molly Mandell. She spoke to Gore about it, and she thinks he'll go along. She thought I'd like to know." He strode up and down the room and then stopped in front of her. "Look, this dinner you're having, how about calling the Mandells and inviting them?"

"But they're so much younger than the others," she objected.

"So what? I want her-them-to know that I'm appreciative-"

"You appointed Herb Mandell to the board last week."

"Yeah, but he's active in the Brotherhood, so she might think it was for that. I want her to know I'm appreciative. See? She's got a lot of influence in the bank. And she's been friendly to me, like this phone call tonight. That can be pretty important, having someone you can count on right there in the bank. So I want her to know-"

Laura dropped her eyes to the knitting in her lap. "You think she's pretty?" she asked.

Instantly he was wary. "Well now, she's no cover girl, but yeah, I think she's kind of cute. She's eager and alive and fresh-"

"I guess she's fresh all right. Lillian Allen was telling me that she was with the group that went to see the rabbi, and she was pretty fresh to him."

"Oh, Lillian Allen! What did she say?"

"She said that Molly said the whole Jewish religion was sexist and she practically called the rabbi a male chauvinist pig."

"Did she?" He chuckled. "Well now, that's not what I would've called him. I figure him for more the namby-pamby type. I mean, a real he-man wouldn't become a rabbi and spend his life praying. I know these guys. You'd think butter wouldn't melt in their mouths, but in their own quiet way, they screw up the works. So don't expect me to get uptight because Molly Mandell told him off. I intend to do a little of it myself if he gets in the way. The temple belongs to the members, and I and the board of directors are the people they elected to run it for them. The rabbi is just somebody we hire to do a job, and the sooner he realizes it, the better. Now, will you call up Molly Mandell and invite her?"

"If you insist."

His face got red and his eyes protruded. "Yes, Goddammit, I insist."

9.

Ellsworth Jordon paced the living room of his old Victorian house, glowering at the clock on the mantelpiece each time he passed it. Billy was late getting home from work, and he was worried, and annoyed with himself for being worried. By the time he caught sight of him hurrying up the long driveway, his annoyance with himself had turned into anger at the young man.

"Where have you been?" he demanded. "You're late."

Billy was contrite. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I missed the bus and I decided to walk instead of waiting for the next one. It was so nice out."

"Don't you know Martha has an engagement for tonight and has to leave early? She mentioned it this morning."

"Gee, I forgot."

"And I am due at the Agathon."

"Gee, I'm sorry. But Martha can leave the dishes and I'll do them."

"Well, we'll see. Wash up now and let's not keep Martha waiting any longer."

They ate in silence. Normally, Billy would have prattled about his day at the bank, but having been reprimanded, he was reluctant to speak. Jordon occasionally shot furtive glances at the boy and wondered at his sullenness. He had reproved him for coming home late, which was his right and duty. But when he had told him to go and wash up, Billy should have realized that in effect his explanation and apology had been accepted. So why didn't he speak? Did he expect him, so much his senior, to make the overture?

Though he continued to glower over his plate, after a while, Jordon reflected philosophically that young people naturally lacked subtlety, that in the few months that Billy had been with him, he had adjusted quite well, that in the evenings and on weekends when they were together, the boy had even proved companionable, albeit in the gauche, awkward way to be expected in the young. To be sure, the boy was graceless and uncertain, but he presumed all young people of that age were. He didn't look you in the eye, and he slouched and was slovenly in his dress. His glasses kept sliding forward on his nose, and one of the bows was attached by a bit of wire. On the other hand, he was obedient, even docile, and thank God, his face was not pimpled. And, a positive plus-he seemed to enjoy his work at the bank, where he worked as a teller. Gore had even reported that the customers seemed to like him.

It had been no problem getting him the job. "I've got a young fellow coming to stay with me for a while, Larry. I've known his family for a long time. I'd appreciate it if you'd give him a job in the bank while he's here."

"How long is he going to stay?"

"Months. Maybe a year. Maybe longer. For some time I've thought I ought to have someone sleeping in."

Lawrence Gore smiled knowingly and nodded.

Jordon frowned. He had a reputation as a pinchpenny, and he knew what Gore was thinking-that rather than hire a companion, he was having Billy come for just the cost of his keep. But he didn't feel it necessary to explain. "And I'd consider it a personal favor, Larry," he went on, "for any kindness you can show him. I don't mean for you to grant him any special privileges that the other employees don't have, but you know, a friendly word of encouragement now and then. I guess he's something of a mama's boy and doesn't have the confidence-"

"Sure, I understand, Ellsworth. Tell you what. I'm starting a class of pistol shooting. He can join and I'll teach him how to shoot."

"Goddammit, Larry, this isn't the Wild West. Use some common sense. Learning to shoot a pistol isn't going to help make a man of him-"

"That's where you're wrong," said Gore earnestly. "I was the runt in my class in high school. Most of the girls were taller than me. Once at a party they rigged it so I had to dance with this big, tall girl, Florence Richardson. My eyes were just about level with her breasts. God, it was embarrassing."

The older man grinned lewdly. "Your face right up against her tits, eh? That might not have been so bad."

Gore grinned back. "Yeah, nowadays it wouldn't bother me, but it sure did then." He shook his head in reminiscent reflection. "It wasn't just with girls, you understand. Being short makes some men assertive, but most people become shy and cautious and withdrawn. Well, in college you had to go out for some sport, and I chose the pistol team, figuring it was something where my being short wouldn't matter. And you know, as I learned to handle the weapon, I began to grow."

The older man looked down at him and said, "Not noticeably."

"Yes, noticeably. I didn't get taller, but feeling comfortable with a handgun gave me confidence in everything. It gives you a sense of power, and that makes you sure of yourself. When I won the intercollegiate Regional Championship, I was a giant. You leave the boy to me, Ellsworth. I'll make a man out of him."

Not until Martha came in to serve the main course did Jordon break the silence, and then it was to address her. "Big date tonight, Martha? Somebody special?" he asked jocosely.

"No, just a date," she said.

"Anybody I know?"

"I don't guess so. It's a feller from Lynn I met the other night when I went bowling."

"Well, don't worry. You'll get out in good time. Just leave the dishes and Billy will do them." There, he thought, I've called him by name. That should let him know that I'm not angry any longer. But the young man did not take the hint and kept his eyes on his plate and remained silent.

When Martha came in to serve the coffee, she was already in street clothes. "I'll be going now," she said. "I've stacked the dishes, and the soap powder and towels are on the drainboard."

"Okay, Martha, have a good time." Moodily Jordon sipped his coffee, his eyes abstracted. When he finished, he left the table without a word and went into the living room. Presently Billy joined him there, and Jordon looked up from his paper and asked, "Dishes all done?"

"Yes, sir."

"And put away?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, that's good. That's fine. You written to your mother yet?"

"I thought I'd do that tomorrow."

Jordon's face darkened. "I promised your mother that she'd get a letter from you every week. I want you to do that right now."

"But I told Mr. Gore I'd be over to help him with the photos of the silver collection."