Read Online Naked Came the Stranger by Penelope Ashe, Mike McGrady - Free Book Online
Authors: Penelope Ashe, Mike McGrady
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man of God would allow what
is most crude and frivolous in our society into the sacred halls of a
temple – not as penitents, but as preachers."
"Is there a question in all that?" For the first time Rabbi
Turnbull took note of the opposition.
"Take your choice," Gillian said.
"It was Rabbi Meir," Turnbull said, "who was once asked why he
remained friends with an outcast. His reply should serve me as well:
'I found a pomegranate; I ate its contents and threw away its husk.'
"
William was getting nervous. Not only did he question the
relevance of pomegranates, he could almost hear the radios being
turned off. (That talky kike is worse than my gabby wife, he
thought.) He was aware that he had become less than peripheral once
again. He had vanished, vanished like a rabbit through the magic of
others being unaware of his presence. The one thing he was certain
of, the conversation was becoming too damned metaphysical for a
chatty morning radio show. Who did she think was listening, Reinhold
Niebuhr?
That crack about Protestants purifying the church, that was going
to go over big with the Catholics.
"Gilly," he interrupted, "darling, don't you think that what the
rabbi is trying to say is that religious music can benefit from new
sounds, even rock and roll?"
"Not exactly, Billy," she said – control, control –
sweetheart, I think the rabbi is saying much more than that. I think
he is suggesting a religious structure that is not so much opposed to
tradition as outside it. Isn't that so, Rabbi Turnbull?"
They were off once again, Gillian leading Turnbull a merry chase
through the forest of tradition and reformation. The rabbi was
dazzled by Gillian's fund of knowledge, dazzled but not cowed, and he
took to the game with relish. But when he cited an arcane Babylonian
scholar, Gillian managed to recall what the sage's equally arcane
nemesis had said to refute the argument. Turnbull was fascinated. Up
until that moment it had been a game. Suddenly it was a contest. In
the next fifteen minutes, Rabbi Turnbull had invoked the sum of his
learning at Union Theological and beyond. Gillian had, by this time,
changed her tactics, shifted to intellectual guerrilla warfare,
sniping, hitting available targets, retreating, twitting and teasing.
When the show finally ended, Gillian reflected the infuriating
impression that she had won. The issue of Jonah and the Wails had
somehow been put in camphor.
"You are an army of scholars, Mrs. Blake," the rabbi conceded. "We
must continue this some other time."
"I'd love to, rabbi."
The rabbi nodded absently at William and left. He had hardly
closed the studio door. "What the hell did you think you were
talking about?" William was asking. "Where did you think you were,
one of your Radcliffe seminars?"
"Bard," she corrected him. "And kindly be quiet for a moment, and
do some thinking. It doesn't matter what I say. We could be talking
Urdu – all that matters is that all those little housewives
think I come out on top. In case you've missed the point, that's what
this show is all about."
"Try talking Urdu a few times," he said. "And see what
happens."
The following day Rabbi Turnbull phoned Gillian and asked for some
program tapes. She said she would have them the next evening if the
rabbi wouldn't mind stopping over at the house for them. He said no,
he wouldn't mind. She said fine.
Gillian had figured right; Wednesday had become Phyllis night.
When Rabbi Turnbull arrived at the Blake home, Gillian greeted him in
a low-cut dress which covered her midsection and not much else. She
had completed the costume with hooped earrings and matching silver
bracelets.
"Rabbi, how good of you to come," she said. "I didn't hear you
drive up."
"I parked up the block," he said. "I was afraid I might clutter
your driveway."
Was it possible? Was it possible that even the rabbi would be so
willing?
"But that's what the driveway is for, rabbi," Gillian said. She
led him by the hand into the living room.
is most crude and frivolous in our society into the sacred halls of a
temple – not as penitents, but as preachers."
"Is there a question in all that?" For the first time Rabbi
Turnbull took note of the opposition.
"Take your choice," Gillian said.
"It was Rabbi Meir," Turnbull said, "who was once asked why he
remained friends with an outcast. His reply should serve me as well:
'I found a pomegranate; I ate its contents and threw away its husk.'
"
William was getting nervous. Not only did he question the
relevance of pomegranates, he could almost hear the radios being
turned off. (That talky kike is worse than my gabby wife, he
thought.) He was aware that he had become less than peripheral once
again. He had vanished, vanished like a rabbit through the magic of
others being unaware of his presence. The one thing he was certain
of, the conversation was becoming too damned metaphysical for a
chatty morning radio show. Who did she think was listening, Reinhold
Niebuhr?
That crack about Protestants purifying the church, that was going
to go over big with the Catholics.
"Gilly," he interrupted, "darling, don't you think that what the
rabbi is trying to say is that religious music can benefit from new
sounds, even rock and roll?"
"Not exactly, Billy," she said – control, control –
sweetheart, I think the rabbi is saying much more than that. I think
he is suggesting a religious structure that is not so much opposed to
tradition as outside it. Isn't that so, Rabbi Turnbull?"
They were off once again, Gillian leading Turnbull a merry chase
through the forest of tradition and reformation. The rabbi was
dazzled by Gillian's fund of knowledge, dazzled but not cowed, and he
took to the game with relish. But when he cited an arcane Babylonian
scholar, Gillian managed to recall what the sage's equally arcane
nemesis had said to refute the argument. Turnbull was fascinated. Up
until that moment it had been a game. Suddenly it was a contest. In
the next fifteen minutes, Rabbi Turnbull had invoked the sum of his
learning at Union Theological and beyond. Gillian had, by this time,
changed her tactics, shifted to intellectual guerrilla warfare,
sniping, hitting available targets, retreating, twitting and teasing.
When the show finally ended, Gillian reflected the infuriating
impression that she had won. The issue of Jonah and the Wails had
somehow been put in camphor.
"You are an army of scholars, Mrs. Blake," the rabbi conceded. "We
must continue this some other time."
"I'd love to, rabbi."
The rabbi nodded absently at William and left. He had hardly
closed the studio door. "What the hell did you think you were
talking about?" William was asking. "Where did you think you were,
one of your Radcliffe seminars?"
"Bard," she corrected him. "And kindly be quiet for a moment, and
do some thinking. It doesn't matter what I say. We could be talking
Urdu – all that matters is that all those little housewives
think I come out on top. In case you've missed the point, that's what
this show is all about."
"Try talking Urdu a few times," he said. "And see what
happens."
The following day Rabbi Turnbull phoned Gillian and asked for some
program tapes. She said she would have them the next evening if the
rabbi wouldn't mind stopping over at the house for them. He said no,
he wouldn't mind. She said fine.
Gillian had figured right; Wednesday had become Phyllis night.
When Rabbi Turnbull arrived at the Blake home, Gillian greeted him in
a low-cut dress which covered her midsection and not much else. She
had completed the costume with hooped earrings and matching silver
bracelets.
"Rabbi, how good of you to come," she said. "I didn't hear you
drive up."
"I parked up the block," he said. "I was afraid I might clutter
your driveway."
Was it possible? Was it possible that even the rabbi would be so
willing?
"But that's what the driveway is for, rabbi," Gillian said. She
led him by the hand into the living room.
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