The Jew's Wife & Other Stories by Thomas J. Hubschman Page A

kept them. “She has our best interests at
heart.”
        Rosalie
stirred the concoction on the stove, then laid the wooden spoon
down and dried her hands on the apron she was wearing.
       “ Will Charlie
and Sylvia be back for dinner?” he asked.
       “ They called
while you were napping. They’ve decided to stay over and drive back
in the morning.” She placed a gleaming copper cover on the bubbling
skillet. Then she picked up the cooking spoon, inserted it into the
skillet, and drew it out steaming. “Something about his mother.
Nothing serious,” she added with sauce in her mouth, as if Mrs.
Weeks’ condition were the only matter that might concern the
priest.
       “ But
what about...?” Playing a round of golf with an attractive stranger
was one thing; spending a night alone in the same house with her
quite another. Nothing would happen, but the situation looked bad.
A priest had to be concerned with appearance as well as
reality.
       “ I’ll
see that we don’t starve,” she said. “I may not be up to Margaret’s
high standards, but I’m no slouch.”
        He raised the
corners of his mouth weakly.
       “ By the way, I
hope you like manicotti.”
       
        It was
damned inconsiderate of Charlie to leave him in this fix. One
couldn’t anticipate emergencies, but Charlie hadn’t bothered to
mention the trip to Philadelphia until he was practically on his
way out the door. Charlie should know better. There was a time when
the same woman he had gone to visit today would have throttled him
if he had left two young people alone in their house in Morristown.
She once caught Charlie there with a girl and demanded,
successfully, that he never see her again. (Richard had thought her
reaction excessive.) Today’s emergency had better be nothing short
of life and death.
       “ Not
like that,” Rosalie said, reversing the positions of the forks and
knives he had just arranged on place mats. “Didn’t your mother
teach you how to set a table?”
        Of what
value was knowledge of place settings, unless one expected to
become a Jesuit? His mother did teach him how to iron handkerchiefs
and shirts. She also taught him how to darn a pair of socks and sew
on a button. Of these skills, only the latter proved of any use;
and Margaret would deny him even that small expression of
self-sufficiency if she suspected what he was up to on long winter
evenings.
        The same
candles were lit that had graced last night’s table. Rosalie
removed her apron and brought in a platter of manicotti topped with
red sauce. She sat down, but immediately got up. A few moments
later she returned with a bottle of Chianti.
       “ Where did you
get that?”
       “ I ran down to
the village when you were napping. Care to do the honors?” She
handed him the straw-sheathed bottle and a chrome corkscrew. He
removed the cork without difficulty and poured a full glass for
her, much less for himself.
        The
manicotti was good, as was the salad, where some of the mushrooms
he had peeled turned up to advantage. The conversation was relaxed.
They discussed politics, golf, education, but not religion. After
dinner they agreed to a walk on the beach. By now he realized he
had misjudged the woman. He had often noticed that some people wore
two faces, one for third parties—Rosalie’s sulking or needling
facade—and another which they only showed in private. He found such
behavior odd, even schizoid, but common.
       “ Have
you known Charlie long?” she asked as they strolled toward the
amber glow of a town to the south.
       “ Since high
school. Almost twenty years.”
       “Then, you knew his first
wife.”
       “No, I didn’t. Charlie and I were
out of touch for a while. Did you know her?”
       “ Sure.
We were good friends.” She turned toward him, her face barely
visible. “She was a nurse at the hospital where I used to work. In
Boonton. Do you know where that