Naked Came the Stranger - By Penelope Ashe Page 0,20

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. The decor was Spanish – everything low and wide except the mortgage.

"From the outside," the rabbi said, "I expected to be greeted by Henry VII."

"Imitation Tudor," she said. "And I hate imitation anything. William always says that all this castle needs is Anne Boleyn – but I guess I'll just have to do."

"She ended badly," Turnbull observed.

"But she lived so well."

"May I ask," he went on, "where Mr. Blake is tonight?"

"William is working late tonight," Gillian said. "He works late on Wednesdays and on Mondays and sometimes on Sundays. And on those occasions, he leaves me with his dog. Rolf. I don't like dogs, however, and I especially dislike Rolf."

"Where is Rolf?"

"I've locked him in the garage," she said. "I always lock him in the garage when William's gone."

"But isn't that cruel?"

"Not at all," she said. "He's supposed to be a watchdog. He watches over our broken lawn mower."

Gillian offered Turnbull a drink. His rapid acceptance of the offer amused her.

"What's the blessing on a martini, rabbi?"

"It depends on how well you make it, Mrs. Blake." Gillian returned to join Turnbull on the couch. The conversation