A Kiss for Rabbi Gabrielle Read online

  “He’s enervated. The doctors have added analogues to his antiretroviral drugs. As soon as he recovers from the effects of one, they zap him with another. He says he feels as if he’s hauling a sack of potatoes up Mt. Everest, against the wind.”

  “That's tough on you, too. As soon as I get back, how about taking off a few days? Take Thomas somewhere beautiful. Come down to a Caribbean paradise like this.”

  “Impossible. Thomas has become a full-time patient. He spends his days visiting doctors and hospitals, and talking in waiting rooms with other sick people. What a waste! The Good Lord said spend what time you have on this planet wisely. He did say that, didn’t He, Rabbi?”

  Chuck liked to pose half ironic questions about God and Judaism, but she took no offense. Sometimes she was able to think of a clever response, but on this occasion came up flat. “Yes, I suppose He did —in one manner or another. Please tell Florence and Harvey that it will be an honor to help bury their son. Tell them I want to wrap my arms around them. I’ll call you with my flight arrangements.”

  “Shame to mess up your holiday like this,” Chuck added. “In theory, Rabbi Shellenberg should be able to substitute. He never misses an opportunity to tell people that he’s a trained family counselor.

  “You never liked Dov,” she responded, sharpening her voice. ”I won’t try to change your views, but I don’t want you making disparaging remarks. Not to me and certainly not in public. If you do, out you go. And don’t come pleading for mercy. Be forewarned, Chuck. You understand me?”

  “Fear not. I’m a model of deportment. It’s just that I know a phony when I see one and you don’t.”

  “I didn’t hear that crack.” Gabby growled, enunciating each word.

  “That’s okay. To you, the world is populated with angels. No villains, no Neanderthals — just angels and saints. In your mind, even flaming assholes who mess up our lives are just misunderstood slobs. The bastard who gunned down Bart Skulkin is an unadulterated skunk. Pure and simple. And he isn’t some disadvantaged person, mistreated and abused by society. You’re always making excuses for Dov. I can assure you that it’s a favor he’d never return.”

  “You made your point. Drop the subject. By the way, is your sister back in town yet?”

  “No. Her tournament ends this weekend in Cleveland.”

  “If she calls, tell her I played tennis with a member of the Italian Davis Cup team.”

  “I’m impressed. How much did you beat him by?”

  “I lost.”

  “After what Lyddy tells me about how you’re improving, that’s hard to believe. Let me know about your flight.”

  Gabby stared through the window at the turquoise expanse of the Caribbean but saw nothing. The floodgates of sorrow she had resisted on the phone had suddenly opened, releasing a torrent of emotion. She closed her eyes and tried to picture Bart Skulkin —tall, chunky, and often clumsy —beside her at Camp Berylson. She found herself crying for her child, her friend, her favorite among the hundreds of Ohav Shalom children. If Jews beautified the saintly among them, he’d be a prime candidate. Her sense of violated justice dragged her back to early childhood. She remembered arguing with her father, shaking her tiny fist at him and crying out, “It’s not fair, Daddy! Daddy, it’s not fair!” His reply was always the same. His large physician’s fingers, trained to palpitate for malignancies beneath the skin of his patients, would stroke her neck and his gentle arms would clutch her against his soft, flabby belly. “Lovey, you’ve learned this lesson much too young in life. Nothing in this world is fair. Nothing. We just have to live with it anyway.”

  “Cry now,” she admonished herself. “Cry out all your tears, Gabby, because once the family sees you, no more sobbing. Nobody needs a slobbering rabbi.”

  A headache replaced pain in her gut. The practical side of her nature asserted itself, and commanded her to visit the travel agent’s booth in the hotel lobby and make airline arrangements. She needed to stretch her legs, gone stiff from sitting too long. She wanted to walk the beach, just on the border between sand and ocean, going on and on until she could absorb Bart’s loss.

  At the last moment, before locking her door, she remembered to retrieve her wide-brimmed straw hat, with its bright flowered band, for protection against the sun. How very practical, she thought. Even when her boat was adrift, she could still put oars into the water.

  There was a single seat available on an afternoon flight to San Juan. If she were prepared to move immediately she could make the plane. Zoe helped her pack while Clive Gordonshield arranged for a taxi to the Fort de France airport. Before hugging them goodbye in the hotel lobby, Gabby asked the couple to deliver a note to Titus Cecera, explaining that an unexpected emergency required her presence in Washington and wishing him luck in Australia. She expressed her gratitude for his help with her service returns and added as a post-script: “Every good teacher transfers an invaluable gift.” While she wrote, she wrestled with a premonition that Titus would prove to be her last opportunity for the dreamy, sensual romance most people experience only in novels.

  ***

  The next morning at the synagogue, she found the file of newspaper clippings Chuck Browner had left on her desk. Bart Skulkin’s presence in Fort Dupont Park puzzled her. It was on the northern perimeter of Anacostia, an impoverished, crime-ridden black district in Southeast Washington, The estimated time of death was well after sundown. She knew Bart to be gullible and occasionally naïve, but he was cautious. Why, she asked herself, would he enter a dangerous neighborhood park after dark? Reporters had probed along the same lines, but the police had provided no concrete answers.

  Florence and Harvey Skulkin, accompanied by Bart’s older brother, Neil, entered Gabby’s study a few minutes past 11:00 a.m. Florence, elegant as ever, was hollow eyed and agitated. Her husband, an economist with a conservative Washington think tank, wore a charcoal-gray suit and an immaculate white shirt with French cuffs. A silk Hermes necktie fit snuggly against his neck. Neil, who lived in Sacramento, was suffering from jet lag, having been awakened very early by the terrible news.

  Florence determined where she wanted her men to sit and, with subtle gestures, indicated the appropriate seats. She opened the conversation in a hoarse voice. “Bart always said nice things about you, Rabbi. You kept him close to Judaism.”

  Gabby chose a leather chair with wing armrests, close to her desk and phone. “A rabbi isn’t supposed to have favorites, but it’s human nature, I suppose. Bart was always special to me. Strange to think of him as a kid when he grew up to be so large.”

  “He just refused to accept that his work with poor youngsters was destined for failure,” Florence said. “I kept telling him that even the best teachers can’t fix the damage done to a child at home and, Lord knows, there’s plenty of that in single mother homes. Sure, he won the hearts of a few kids, but a positive role model? I seriously doubt that. His skin lacked the right pigmentation. And you know as well as I do, Rabbi, that a black Board of Education would never have promoted a white Jew into their administration. Of course, they were delighted to pay him a starvation wage to work in their failing school. To think how Anacostia High exploited his youth burns the hell out of me.”

  Taking notes for the eulogy, Gabby recognized Florence’s real point: if Bart had only listened to his mother, he wouldn’t have been in Fort Dupont Park to get himself killed. Her heart ached for Florence. Anger could keep grief at bay for only so long.

  Harvey turned to his wife and spoke gently. “I didn’t want him teaching in Anacostia any more than you, dear, but Bart was Bart. He had his own ideas. There’s no purpose in chiding his ghost.”

  Gabby’s phone rang. Chuck, whose desk was situated just outside her study, apologized for the interruption but he had an urgent call from the principal of Anacostia High. Gabby excused herself to speak with Dr. Caleb Shaboya, who asked in a slow, satin voice, if it were possible to have Bart’s funeral in the school auditorium. In that way the entire
student body could attend. This, in his opinion, was particularly important because Bart was not only exceedingly popular but had run an anti-gun program at the school. Gabby promised to talk about it with his parents and call back.

  “It’s a jungle down there,” Florence asserted in response to the invitation, her lips pursed tightly with disapproval. “I can’t subject our friends to the danger. Many, I can assure you, will invent excuses not to attend.”

  Harvey spoke directly to this wife, pressing her hand as though they were alone. “One thing is certain,” he said. “Bart loved his kids and, from what the principal just said to the rabbi, they loved him back. I’m sure he would appreciate their presence at his funeral—perhaps even more than that of our friends. I didn’t know he was involved in an anti-gun program. In that cause I would have joined him.”

  “So what do you think about the funeral, Rabbi?” Neil asked Gabby, wrestling to hide an emerging yawn.

  “Since your brother apparently gave his life for his students, I can’t think of a better place. But in the end it comes down to what you believe is best.”

  While Florence and Harvey argued, Gabby’s attention drifted. She was tired and full of sorrow. For a moment her thoughts flashed back to Titus Cecera’s powerful arms wrapped around her during a tennis lesson. It had barely been thirty-six hours. She could still smell his perspiration and feel the heat emanating from his flesh. She sighed imperceptibly and refocused her thoughts on the Skulkins. In private conversations, Bart had complained that his parents seldom lost an opportunity to criticize him. With rare exception, they found his friends wanting, particularly Charlene Li, a Chinese special education teacher with whom he had lived for nineteen months. Neil, being the eldest, had learned early to play according to the family ground-rules and became the model son his parents wanted. That he found a job in California soon after graduation from Dartmouth College came as no surprise to Gabby.

  Bart struck out in a different direction. After five years of academic struggle, he was awarded a bachelor’s degree from the University of Delaware, with a joint major in history and education. Charlene Li encouraged him to take a teaching credential. His love affair with her eventually imploded, but the ambition it inspired did not. He answered a DC Department of Education employment ad that sought male teachers with sports backgrounds to work with youths from fatherless homes. The interviewer offered Bart a job the moment he saw him, failing to mention that the administration valued brawn over brains, and looked to its new hires to stop a spate of knife fights at the school. On his first day in the new post, the dean charged him to enforce discipline in any reasonable manner— including the use of corporal punishment. There would be no questions, no public hearings, and, above all, no records. It stretched Gabby’s imagination to think of Bart as a stern disciplinarian, but she understood how his size might intimidate recalcitrant high school students.

  He launched a tennis program to combat after-school fighting — no easy task in a school whose students yearned only to play basketball and football. He often complained that his kids would rather sit idle on the basketball bench than try tennis with its unlimited opportunities for competition. In the early months, only those who were rejected from the basketball team showed up. The task of relating to angry youngsters, both during and after school, was so taxing that he often considered quitting altogether. He would call on Gabby for encouragement. During peripatetic walks through a park near Ohav Shalom, their conversations continued with the fluid ease of their days at Camp Berylson.

  Florence and Harvey eventually worked out a compromise and agreed to hold a memorial service in the school's auditorium before the funeral at Freiberg’s Funeral Home and the burial at King David Cemetery in Northern Virginia.

  This decision delighted Dr. Shaboya, who told Gabby, “We hope you’ll conduct the service. I’m not sure my boys and girls have ever seen a rabbi. And, of course, I’d like to speak about the irony of Bart’s efforts to keep guns out of our school.”

  The principal’s word irony triggered a thought that Gabby needed to explore. “Really?” she said, sounding her surprise. “If Bart was actively trying to stop the spread of guns, maybe it wasn’t ironic at all.”

  “I don't follow, Rabbi Lewyn.” The cadence of his speech made it clear Shaboya was selecting words with care.

  “Has it occurred to anybody that Bart might have been a danger to the neighborhood gun trade?”

  On the other end there was an audible grunt. “Well, perhaps. But I’m not sure you understand. Here guns are as common as cell phones. Shootings are routine. If the police don’t know who’s responsible, that’s nothing new. Please imagine a large stack of unsolved cases piling up on the desk of a homicide inspector. It’s pretty hard to work on a file that is continuously sinking further to the bottom, if you know what I mean. The newspapers report that the DC's homicide unit has the worst record for closing cases in the whole nation.”

  “Sounds like you’re an expert in police affairs, Dr. Shaboya,” Gabby commented.

  “Bart isn’t my first teacher to get shot and, between you and me, I don’t believe he’ll be the last. But he was the most admired. He had something special with kids. Black kids seldom bond with white men, no matter how charismatic they might be. That’s why this memorial is so important.”

  “Of course, Dr. Shaboya. I’ll reserve a place for you to speak during the service.”

  No sooner had she hung up than a student called. At first Gabby failed to recognize Marcel Clipper’s name. But when he explained that he played tennis on Bart Skulkin’s tennis team, her memory improved. Bart had often spoken of an extremely talented youth who, given the right opportunities, might become a star.

  “I want to talk about Mister Skulkin at the assembly,” he declared. “I ain’t gonna get much better without him. Mister Skulkin was a good man. He taught us a lot about the game.”

  “I know, Marcel,” Gabby said. “There was nobody better. Nobody.”

  “You knew Mister Skulkin well?” he asked.

  “Yes. We were close friends. And we used to play tennis together.”

  “He played with me, too. Now I got nobody good to drill with.”

  Gabby sensed the youth’s desolation. “Would you play with me, Marcel? I could give Bart a pretty fair game.”

  “Naw, you’re a girl. I never play with girls. Tennis is a serious game.”

  “Try me. If I were you I wouldn’t be so confident about winning.”

  “I don’t hit no puff balls. That’s no way to improve.”

  “Hit as hard as you like. That only makes me madder. Think about it.”

  “Can I tell the kids at school what a good man Mister Skulkin was?”

  “You bet, Marcel. I’ll call upon you to speak during the service. Mr. Skulkin often mentioned your name. He said you have great talent. Let’s talk about keeping it alive. The greatest gift you could give him is to play good tennis.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Trust me, Marcel. Bart and I were very close.”

  Police Sergeant Paul Miller from Precinct 14 phoned an hour and a half later. He wasn’t the officer investigating the murder, but he was responsible for community relations. He asked to tell the student body that the police intended to continue Bart’s campaign and keep guns out of the school.

  “Any progress on his murder?” Gabby’s rabbinical position sometimes afforded her answers to questions that others might not receive.

  “I’m afraid we’re gonna need help with this one. Maybe one of the students will come forward. They hear things we don’t.”

  “Of course I’ll find time for you but, Sergeant Miller, please keep in mind this is a religious service. The presence of a policeman might spoil the solemnity.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Rabbi. We take courses on community relations.”

  Chuck presented himself at the door to her office as she was ending her call with the police sergeant. “You ought to sell tickets. Mar
y Grady from The Washington Post called to ask about the funeral. Public radio wants to bring transmission equipment to publicize the tragedy. Bart was a hero or martyr. I’m not sure which.”

  “It’s starting to sound like a circus.”

  “Oh.” Chuck marched into the office and dropped into a chair opposite her, lounging back. He started to put his feet onto Gabby’s desk but stopped short. “You also got a call from Hillary Jones and Karlene Patrick-Hill from Mothers Against Guns. They said they know you from the National Coalition for Gun Control.”

  She ran the names through a mental list and could not place them, but she knew about their organization’s efforts in public housing projects.

  “They have a message for the youngsters at the service.”

  “Great, everybody’s got an agenda,” she said, revealing her mounting exasperation. “Where were Bart’s supporters before he got murdered? After the fact, everybody has something to say.”

  “Should I inform them the schedule is full?”

  “No, don’t do that,” she sighed. “These ladies are trying to empty an ocean with teaspoons. God help them. Some of them have buried their own children.”

  Anacostia High School

  For the memorial service Gabby dressed in a clerical robe, her head crowned with a black yarmulke. The auditorium was a high-ceilinged, cavernous room with a hardwood stage on which collapsible chairs were arranged in a semicircle. Above them hung a banner, crudely painted in black letters:

  Bart David Skulkin: Our Teacher, Our Friend. We Miss You.

  Though Dr. Shaboya had made attendance voluntary, students crammed the auditorium aisles and many sat on the floor between the stage and front row. A few East Indian and Asian faces dotted the predominately black audience. Other than the Skulkin family, seated on the far right of the stage, Gabby and two Hispanic teachers were the only Caucasians. In this environment, questions Gabby had tried to resist kept returning to her mind. Since she assumed Bart’s presence in Fort Dupont Park was associated with his work, could his killer be sitting before her at that very moment? Did one or more of these kids know who murdered him? And why?