"And for that, you told him-"

"For that and on account of the words we had about it. When I strike a bargain with someone, I expect to keep my part of it, and I expect him to keep his. He said I engaged him just to plane down the door, and my point was that I hired him to fix the door. Now that means it's got to be right."

"Well, all I can say is, it's a lucky thing for you that I was here. He was in an ugly mood, and you could have got yourself a punch in the nose."

"Oh, I could have handled him," Billy said airily.

Both men laughed and Jordon said, "You, Billy? What could you have done? Doble is as strong as an ox. He could toss you over his shoulder with one hand."

"Yeah, but I got me an equalizer." Billy tugged at his belt and with a flourish brought forth a revolver.

Gore shouted, "Put that damn thing down."

"You crazy?" cried Jordon. "Where'd you get it?"

"It's from my cage in the bank," said Billy sheepishly. "Mr. Gore asked me to ride shotgun taking the silver to the museum."

"You young idiot! I don't need any protection." Gore turned to Jordon. "I said it jokingly when I invited him to come along with me tonight. Everybody knows it just means sitting beside the driver."

"Don't you know that in this state if you're caught with a gun you get a year in prison and no one can get you out?" Jordon raged. Contemptuously, he went on, "Every time I think you're beginning to grow up and be a man, you pull some damn fool stunt like this and I know you're still nothing but an immature kid. Now you put that gun on the table there and march straight into your room. And I'm locking you in."

"Oh stink!" But nevertheless, the young man deposited the gun on the table, and sheepishly with head lowered and not looking at either of the two men, he went to his room and closed the door behind him.

Ellsworth Jordon calmly turned the key that protruded from the lock and then returned to the recliner. Gore looked at him uncertainly, went to the door of Billy's room and listened for a moment. Then he rejoined the older man.

"That was pretty harsh on Billy," said Gore.

"Harsh? I should have taken a stick to him."

"Maybe that would have been better, instead of sending him to his room like a child, especially in front of me. After all, you're not his father."

The old man remained silent. The ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. Gore noticed it and a wild idea came to him. "Or are you?" he asked. "Is Billy your son?"

Jordon leaned his head back against the cushion of the recliner and closed his eyes.

"Is that it? And you wanted him to work in a bank to get training in handling money."

"You're beginning to annoy me, Larry," the older man murmured without opening his eyes. "Beat it. The bowl is in the carton near the door. Take it and be off. This is my regular time for Transcendental Meditation."

"And Billy? You going to leave him there?"

With his eyes still closed, Jordon smiled and said nothing.

Gore rose and stood looking down uncertainly at the now placid face of his host. Jordon was breathing slowly and regularly, his lips moving barely perceptibly in the recital of his mantra. Finally, Gore picked up the parcel.

18.

Lawrence Gore eased his car slowly down the driveway, looking carefully from side to side. Gaining the street, he drove to his own house on the outskirts of town to pick up the cartons of the Peter Archer silver.

By eight o'clock he was on the highway heading for Boston. As he drove, he thought of the events of the evening. He was quite certain now that Billy was Jordon's son. He wondered if Billy knew, if that was the reason for his docility. He tried to think of himself at Billy's age. Would he have tolerated such discipline if he had been visiting with a friend of his parents? Or would he have packed up and gone home? But suppose he didn't have a home? That his parents were dead? Or suppose his parents had explained to him that they were indebted to his host and that he must on no account offend him? He smiled wryly as it occurred to him that he himself tolerated a lot from Ellsworth Jordon. But, of course, that was business.

In the distance he saw the lights of a gas station, and he decided to stop there rather than take a chance that there would be another open at this hour. He pulled in and circled well beyond the pumps. Leaving his car, he walked over to the office, and extending a dollar bill, he asked, "Can I have some change so I can use the pay station?"

"It's out of order. The phone company fixes them, and the next day they're on the blink again. Kids come along at night after we close and plug them up so they can get whatever coins have dropped in the meantime. Or sometimes out of pure cussedness."

"Is there another pay station this side of the road before the tunnel?"

"There's one in the office. You can use that." He led the way into the office, and ringing up No Sale on the register, handed Gore change for his bill.

Gore dialed and whistled tonelessly as he waited. When the answer came, he said, "Molly? This is Lawrence Gore. How are you coming along with the report?"

"Well, I've gone over it again and again, but I couldn't make the two columns balance. So I typed it up anyway."

"You sure you put all the items I marked A in one column and the L's in the other?"

"Uh-huh. I've checked it and checked it."

"Then I must have marked one of them wrong."

"Maybe I could ask Herb to look it over and-"

"Oh no, you mustn't do that, Molly," he said quickly. "It's bank business and strictly confidential."

"Oh, I just thought-well, of course I won't. Was Mr. Jordon angry about your not bringing it with you?"

"You better believe it. I thought he was going to have a fit. All that got me off the hook was that I pointed out that the day exended to midnight. I thought I could get back early enough to pick it up and drop it off to him, but looking over the instructions from the museum, I see they expect to inventory the stuff in my presence, item by item. That can take some time, and I don't think I'll be able to make it."

She could tell that he was concerned. "I could run it up to him right now," she offered. "Except it doesn't balance."

"Oh, well, he'll spot the mistake in a minute. He'll rib me about it when he sees me, but-No, I can't have you do it. Not where he's-No, you'd be going there alone and-"

"You think I'm afraid of him?"

He smiled at her typical Women's Lib reaction. He glanced at the large wall clock. "Well, if you're sure it's no trouble and you don't mind-"

"Not at all. Glad to help out."

"You're a sweetheart."

"I'm doing it for the bank," she said severely.

"Of course."

19.

The ringing of the telephone awakened old Mrs. Mandell. Not that she had been asleep, for she insisted that she never really slept, just kind of dozed. It had interrupted a dream-well, not really a dream, since dreams were a function of sleep. Rather a kind of fantasy that would come to her whenever she dozed off. Although there were variations in detail, the general theme was the same; how things would be if She (which was the way she referred to her daughter-in-law) were gone. Occasionally, the dream was about the nature of her leaving-a fatal accident, a drowning, perhaps, in which Herbert had displayed tremendous courage in his effort to rescue her. He would be grief-stricken, of course, but it would have the effect of drawing him closer to his mother; after a while, he would get over the sense of loss, but still the memory of the tragedy would deter him from marrying again.

Then there followed a series of vignettes of their blissful life together when there were only the two of them. At breakfast-she was sure she'd be able to manage-and he would exclaim over its excellence. "Gee, Ma, this coffee, it's out of this world. And this oatmeal! How do you get it so smooth and creamy?" And when he left for work, he would buss her boyishly and say, "Now you take it easy, sweetheart. Leave the dishes, and I'll do them when I get home." For dinner she would prepare his favorite foods, the rich and spicy dishes he enjoyed so much, and afterward they would spend the evening watching TV or playing endless games of Scrabble, which she adored.

She did not want him to feel that he was obligated to her and would suggest, "Why don't you go out and visit your friends, Herbert? Take out a girl. I don't really mind an evening alone." And he would answer, "Why, Ma, you're my best girl."

Or it might be that She was no longer there because he had divorced her. He had finally realized that She was unworthy of him and that he could not continue to live with her.

Then she might picture him as remarried. His new wife was a shadowy figure, vaguely resembling a buxom Polish maid she had once had, who would give birth almost every year, all boys, and all looking like Herbert. They would crowd around their grandmother, each like one of the pictures of Herbert, at different ages, as he was growing up, pushing and jostling each other to claim her attention. "Grandma, look at me." Herbert would be beside her and would good-naturedly push them away with, "Go on and play. You're tiring Grandma." Their mother never appeared in any of these scenes. With so large a brood, she was naturally busy, cleaning, cooking, washing dishes ...

She heard Molly answer the phone but could not hear what She said, of course. She lay in bed debating whether to put on the light and read for a while, or try to go back to sleep, or maybe even get up and go downstairs for a cup of tea. Before she could come to a decision, she heard footsteps on the stairs, slow, careful footsteps, and then the door of her bedroom quietly opened. She pretended to be asleep. The door closed and the footsteps retreated down the stairs. A little later, she heard the sound of an automobile starting up, seemingly right below her window. Mystified, she got out of bed, went to the window and cautiously drew back the curtain just in time to see Molly's coupe ease down the driveway.

Where could She be going? Had something happened to Herbert? Had the call come from the temple? But what could happen to him in the temple?

Mrs. Mandell snicked on her bed lamp and looked at her watch. It was a little after half past eight. Gathering a kimono around her, she went downstairs. The lights in the living room were still on, and she padded about in her mules, looking at the papers on the desk where She had been typing. It occurred to her that She might have gone to mail something. But why now? The next collection would not be made until tomorrow morning. And it couldn't be to buy something, like cigarettes or a magazine at the drugstore. All the stores were closed by this time. Besides, her leaving must have something to do with the phone call She had received. Some friends must have called her and-could it have been a man friend? Was She taking advantage of Herbert's being at the temple to meet a lover?

Mrs. Mandell felt faint at the idea and thought she had better get back to her own room to take a pill, to lie down if necessary. The more she thought about it, the stronger grew the probability of her daughter-in-law's unfaithfulness. Curiously, it had not been one of the scenarios that she had fantasized as a means of ending the marriage, because-because in her mind it would make her son look ridiculous. But now she thought about it because she had to. What should she do? How should she proceed? Of course, if Herbert came home first, that would take care of it. On her return, he would confront her and demand an explanation. But what if She got back first?

She heard a car turn into the quiet street. Her breast filled with a great hope that it might be her son. But a glance at the clock showed that it was a little after nine, too early for him to be coming home from the temple. It must be She returning.

Gripping the handrail, she hurriedly mounted the stairs and got back into bed. A few minutes later the car pulled into the driveway, and shortly after she again heard footsteps on the stairs and then the door of her room being eased open. Again she pretended to be asleep, breathing deeply and stertorously until she heard the door pulled to and footsteps retreating down the stairs.

20.

In an effort to increase the attendance, Henry Maltzman had suggested to the temple Brotherhood that they actively sponsor the Friday evening services.

"What do you mean, sponsor?" asked Howard Jonas, the president of the Brotherhood.

"You know, sponsor. Get behind the idea and push. Drum up attendance. Decorate the pulpit. Make arrangements for the collation afterward."

"But that's what the Sisterhood does."

"Yeah, so why shouldn't the Brotherhood take a crack at it for a change? It will spark things up, the competition."

"You mean, at the collation, the men would pour the tea? For the women? 'One lump or two, Mrs. Feldman?' Cummon! That's a woman's job, Henry."

But Maltzman was persuasive, and they finally agreed to do it one Friday in the month, the other Fridays continuing under the supervision of the women. So this night found Herb Mandell, as chairman of the Brotherhood Committee for the affair, standing at the front door of the temple with Howard Jonas, greeting congregants as they arrived. For this, the first such service, they had sent out cards to all the members. More, they had gone through the Barnard's Crossing phone directory and sent cards of invitation to any whose names suggested they might be Jewish. "So if we make a mistake and send a card to a Gentile and he takes us up on it and comes, what harm will it do? It's like ecumenical."

Mandell took his responsibilities seriously. Whenever there was a lull, he would leave his post at the door to dash down to the vestry to see how the arrangements for the collation were going. Since he was the lead tenor in the Brotherhood barbershop quartet, which was to join the cantor in front of the Ark to lead in the singing of the En Kelohaynu at the end of the service, he was also concerned about a slight hoarseness he had developed that afternoon. So each time he went down to the vestry, he would use the opportunity to dodge into the men's room to examine his throat in the mirror above the washbowl for signs of redness. Then he would shake some salt from a small packet he had brought from home into a paper cup of warm water and gargle for a few seconds.

On the podium two pairs of thronelike chairs, upholstered in rich red velvet, were set on either side of the Ark. The two on the left were reserved for the rabbi and the president of the congregation, while those on the right were customarily occupied by the vice-president and the cantor. At quarter past eight, fifteen minutes before the services were scheduled to begin, only three of the chairs were occupied. Henry Maltzman had not as yet arrived.

"I wonder where he is," Howard Jonas mused. "It doesn't look right that he shouldn't be here."

"He'll probably be along a little later," said Herb Mandell. "He was late last week, too."

"Did he take his seat next to the Ark?"

"Oh no. He slid into a seat in one of the back rows."

"I don't like it," said Jonas. "Frankly, I'm pissed off. It was his idea in the first place, and he rammed it down our throats. So the least he could do is be here and see how it was going. I suppose it's a business matter that came up, and I'd be the first to admit that your business comes first. But where he's president of the congregation, it seems to me that's like a commitment. Not that I'm criticizing, you understand."

"Oh sure." Mandell turned to greet an arrival. "Hello, Mr. Kalb. Glad you could make it.... No, take any seat at all."

Jonas nudged him. "Say, Herb, what's your arrangement with Maltzman? You know, about announcing that this is sponsored by the Brotherhood."

"Well, just before we begin the service, he's supposed to say that he is calling on me for a few words. Then I go up and explain that the Brotherhood is sponsoring the service, and I'd like to welcome everybody."

"Then I think you better go up and take that seat beside the rabbi right now, Herb, because if Henry doesn't get here on time, the chances are the rabbi will just start the regular service."

"You think it's all right?"

"Sure. I'll hold the fort here by myself."

Diffidently, Herb Mandell walked down the aisle and mounted the steps to the podium. To the rabbi's questioning look, he responded in a whisper, "Howard thought I ought to come up now seeing as Henry Maltzman might not get here in time."

"Of course," said the rabbi and held out his hand to wish him the traditional Gut Shabbos. "And how is your mother, Mr. Mandell?"

"Oh, she's fine. Well, I mean, she's no different."

"She seemed to be in good spirits when I saw her yesterday," said the rabbi.

"Oh, well, that's during the day. It's in the evening when her asthma seems to act up. Then she gets sort of tired and drowsy. I think maybe it's from the pills she takes. She has to go to bed right after dinner. If she sleeps through the night, that's fine. But sometimes she gets up in the middle of the night, and she's like disoriented. She can't catch her breath, and she can't find her medicine. It's kind of frightening."

"Is that so? And yet she always seems pretty good when I come to visit her."

"Well, it's during the day, and she's expecting you, so she gets herself up for it. But we never leave her alone at night. And by the way, Rabbi, don't think we don't appreciate it, your coming to visit her regularly."

The rabbi smiled. "That's all right. I have her on my list of regulars." He nodded toward the clock at the rear of the sanctuary. "You planning to say a few words, Mr. Mandell?"