Read Online Friday the Rabbi Slept Late by Harry Kemelman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Harry Kemelman
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“They’re some rare books that were sent to me from the Dropsie College Library for a study I’m doing on Maimonides,” he explained.
“I was just going, rabbi,” said Wasserman, rising from his chair.
“Oh, you can’t go now, Mr. Wasserman. You haven’t finished your tea. You’ll embarrass me if you leave now. Insist that he remain, Miriam.”
Wasserman smiled good-naturedly. “I can see, rabbi, that you’re anxious to get to your books and I don’t want to keep you. Why don’t you go on and I’ll keep Mrs. Small company for a while.”
“You’re quite sure you don’t mind?” But already he was heading for the garage.
His way was blocked by his wife, her firm little chin held high. “You will not leave this house, David Small,” she announced, “unless you put on your topcoat.”
“But it’s mild out,” he protested.
“By the time you get home, it will be quite chilly.”
Resigned, the rabbi reached into the closet for his coat, but instead of putting it on he draped it defiantly over his arm.
Mrs. Small came back to the living room. “He’s like a boy,” she said by way of apology.
“No,” said Mr. Wasserman. “I think maybe he wanted to be by himself for a while.”
The Surfside was considered a reasonable restaurant: the prices were moderate, the service, though not fancy, was brisk and efficient, and although the decor was plain the food was good and the seafood exceptional. Mel Bronstein had never eaten there but as he approached, a car parked in front of the door pulled away and he took this as a sign. He remembered having heard the place well spoken of, and tooled his big blue Lincoln into the spot just vacated.
There were not too many people in the restaurant, he saw, as he made his way to a booth and ordered a martini. The walls were hung with lengths of fishnet, and other articles suggestive of the sea: a pair of oars, a mahogany ship’s wheel, painted wooden lobster-trap floats, and occupying a wall to itself, a truly imposing swordfish mounted on a mahogany panel.
He glanced around and, not surprisingly, saw no one he knew. The Surfside was in the lower part of town, Old Town, and people from his section, Chilton, rarely went there.
Most of the booths were occupied by couples, but diagonally across from him a young girl was, like himself, sitting alone. She was not pretty, but she had a young, fresh look. By the way she kept looking at her wristwatch he assumed she was waiting for someone; she had not ordered, but every now and then she sipped at her water glass, not because she was thirsty but because everyone else was eating.
The waitress came over to ask if he were ready to order, but he motioned to his glass to indicate a refill.
The girl opposite now seemed increasingly disturbed over the failure of her escort to appear. Each time she heard the door open, she turned around on her bench. Then, quite suddenly, her mood changed. She straightened up as if she had come to a decision. She drew off her white gloves and stuffed them into her handbag as though making ready to order. He saw she was wearing a wedding ring. As he watched, she twisted her ring off, opened her bag, and dropped it into the change purse.
She looked up and saw him watching her. Blushing, she turned away. He glanced at his watch. It was quarter to eight.
Hesitating only a moment, he eased out of the booth and went over to her. She looked up, startled.
“I am Melvin Bronstein,” he said, “and quite respectable. I hate to eat alone and I imagine you do. Wouldn’t you care to join me?”
Her eyes widened like a child’s. For a moment she lowered them, and then she looked up at him again and nodded.
“Let me give you some more tea, Mr. Wasserman.” He inclined his head in thanks. “I can’t tell you how badly I feel about this business, Mrs. Small. After all, I picked your husband; he was my personal choice.”
“Yes, I know, Mr. Wasserman. We wondered about it at the time, David
“I was just going, rabbi,” said Wasserman, rising from his chair.
“Oh, you can’t go now, Mr. Wasserman. You haven’t finished your tea. You’ll embarrass me if you leave now. Insist that he remain, Miriam.”
Wasserman smiled good-naturedly. “I can see, rabbi, that you’re anxious to get to your books and I don’t want to keep you. Why don’t you go on and I’ll keep Mrs. Small company for a while.”
“You’re quite sure you don’t mind?” But already he was heading for the garage.
His way was blocked by his wife, her firm little chin held high. “You will not leave this house, David Small,” she announced, “unless you put on your topcoat.”
“But it’s mild out,” he protested.
“By the time you get home, it will be quite chilly.”
Resigned, the rabbi reached into the closet for his coat, but instead of putting it on he draped it defiantly over his arm.
Mrs. Small came back to the living room. “He’s like a boy,” she said by way of apology.
“No,” said Mr. Wasserman. “I think maybe he wanted to be by himself for a while.”
The Surfside was considered a reasonable restaurant: the prices were moderate, the service, though not fancy, was brisk and efficient, and although the decor was plain the food was good and the seafood exceptional. Mel Bronstein had never eaten there but as he approached, a car parked in front of the door pulled away and he took this as a sign. He remembered having heard the place well spoken of, and tooled his big blue Lincoln into the spot just vacated.
There were not too many people in the restaurant, he saw, as he made his way to a booth and ordered a martini. The walls were hung with lengths of fishnet, and other articles suggestive of the sea: a pair of oars, a mahogany ship’s wheel, painted wooden lobster-trap floats, and occupying a wall to itself, a truly imposing swordfish mounted on a mahogany panel.
He glanced around and, not surprisingly, saw no one he knew. The Surfside was in the lower part of town, Old Town, and people from his section, Chilton, rarely went there.
Most of the booths were occupied by couples, but diagonally across from him a young girl was, like himself, sitting alone. She was not pretty, but she had a young, fresh look. By the way she kept looking at her wristwatch he assumed she was waiting for someone; she had not ordered, but every now and then she sipped at her water glass, not because she was thirsty but because everyone else was eating.
The waitress came over to ask if he were ready to order, but he motioned to his glass to indicate a refill.
The girl opposite now seemed increasingly disturbed over the failure of her escort to appear. Each time she heard the door open, she turned around on her bench. Then, quite suddenly, her mood changed. She straightened up as if she had come to a decision. She drew off her white gloves and stuffed them into her handbag as though making ready to order. He saw she was wearing a wedding ring. As he watched, she twisted her ring off, opened her bag, and dropped it into the change purse.
She looked up and saw him watching her. Blushing, she turned away. He glanced at his watch. It was quarter to eight.
Hesitating only a moment, he eased out of the booth and went over to her. She looked up, startled.
“I am Melvin Bronstein,” he said, “and quite respectable. I hate to eat alone and I imagine you do. Wouldn’t you care to join me?”
Her eyes widened like a child’s. For a moment she lowered them, and then she looked up at him again and nodded.
“Let me give you some more tea, Mr. Wasserman.” He inclined his head in thanks. “I can’t tell you how badly I feel about this business, Mrs. Small. After all, I picked your husband; he was my personal choice.”
“Yes, I know, Mr. Wasserman. We wondered about it at the time, David
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