Read Online The Jew's Wife & Other Stories by Thomas J. Hubschman - Free Book Online

said, indicating a well-furnished living
room—Scandinavian, as best the priest could tell. “There’s two
bedrooms upstairs. Plus a deck. That’s where I set up my
scopes.”
        Charlie
had been president of St. Francis’ astronomy and radio clubs. He
used to drag Richard off regularly to glimpse a new comet or view
the conjunction of two planets. Richard had enjoyed looking at the
mountains of the moon and sometimes even shared Charlie’s
enthusiasm when he caught an impressive star cluster in his lens.
The young priest-to-be had no interest in building telescopes
himself or standing around in the cold waiting for Venus to rise,
but those stargazing expeditions provided a context for their
adolescent gabfests. They discussed everything from the structure
of the atom (Charlie’s purview) to proofs for the existence of God.
Charlie also talked about his love life— always tempestuous. They
even discussed Richard’s vocation, or at least the peripheral
subjects relating to it, like celibacy (unnatural, according to
Charlie). But, for all the lengthy talks they had, Father Walther
could not recall one in which he ever bared his heart the way
Charlie did. His role even then was that of listener,
counselor.
        Charlie
opened a set of sliding glass doors, and they stepped out onto a
balcony. There was nothing between the house and water but
beach.
       “ The sunrise
must be magnificent.”
        There was
nothing apologetic about Charlie now. If anything, his look was
proprietary, as if his friend had just guessed the real reason for
his latching on to this particular piece of real estate—the house
was just a shelter; a tent would serve as well.
       
        The
guest room was not large, not by comparison with the motel where he
had spent the previous night. But it managed to contain a double
bed, dresser, night table and two straight-back chairs. Everything
was new. Best of all, when he parted the orange curtains, there was
an ocean view.
        Charlie
had suggested a swim, so he changed into his trunks. They were
old-fashioned, dark blue and full-cut—baggy, really, the same kind
his father wore thirty years ago. No seminary mentor ever told him
not to wear tight-fitting or flashy trunks (some of the younger
clergy did), just as no one ever had to tell him to wear pants
beneath his cassock despite all the jokes on that subject. You knew
such things by instinct, or should.
        Sylvia
told him Charlie had already gone down to the beach.
       “ Don’t you ever
take time out yourself to play?” the priest asked.
        She laughed
nervously and went on painting raw spare ribs with a concoction out
of a steel bowl. She was not an unattractive woman. Her brown hair,
which she wore hastily pinned up, had a pretty sheen, and her eyes
were a gentle shade of blue. The rest of her face was just
irregular enough to give it character. But she seemed oddly
negligent of her charms, as if any beauty she had was accidental,
having nothing to do with the person she knew to be her real
self.
       “ Well, I’d
better see if I can find your husband.”
        The beach was
deserted except for a young mother and toddler. There were no
lifeguards. At first he thought Charlie had changed his mind about
the swim. But then he spotted his close-cropped head bobbing up and
down beyond the breakers. Swimming in rough, unguarded surf seemed
a risky business to a cleric who had never mastered the sidestroke.
But then he recalled that in addition to presiding over the radio
and astronomy clubs, Charlie had been one of their school’s star
swimmers. Charlie yelled for him to come in. Father Walther waved
back but had no intention of venturing that far out.
        He
tested the water with his toes. It seemed colder that it did last
Saturday in Asbury Park. For a while he played tag with the waves,
only allowing them to reach his ankles, then reached down and wet
himself across the chest and shoulders. There was