The Jew's Wife & Other Stories Read Online Free

policemen and
school-children—parochial school-children, at least—to greet him on
the street. But the mechanic and his wife were not hosting a
priest. To them, he was just a stranded motorist. If they felt any
compassion it was not because he was someone special but because he
was at a temporary disadvantage, as anyone, themselves included,
could have been.
        He was
too tired to eat much. The woman did not press him, unlike the
ladies of his parish who vied with each other at priest-fattening.
When the meal was over, the mechanic (he never bothered to
introduce himself; the sign over his repair barn said “Sonny’s”)
called the station. The news was not good. His daytime assistant
told him the problem was not with the alternator, but the battery
still showed a discharge whenever the engine was let run. The
mechanic advised him not to drive the car until the source of the
trouble was located. If he did, he would only have to shell out
another eighty dollars a few miles down the road.
       “ I’ve
fixed a room for you to nap in, Mr. Walther,” Martha said as she
cleared the table and her husband prepared to return to work (when
did he sleep?). Father Walther protested, but the mechanic told him
he may as well grab some shut-eye, since there was no point to his
hanging around the station. He himself would be returning home in a
few hours. Maybe by then he would have some good news.
        There
was hardly anything he could do but accept their hospitality. He
had become very sleepy since eating, and he sensed they would be
insulted if he declined. He was moved by their neighborliness. How
many people would take in a stranger, feed and even leave him alone
with his wife? He had to believe his manner, even without a roman
collar to put it into context, had something to do with their
trust. Even so, Good Samaritans were few and far
between.
        The
bedroom looked as if it belonged to a male adolescent. There were
college pennants and posters of rock stars. Above the bed hung a
shelf of boy’s books and magazines. A corner of the bedclothes was
turned down, just as his mother used to do for him. The blinds were
drawn to shut out the afternoon sun.
       “ If you
want anything,” Martha told him, closing the door halfway as she
exited, “just give a shout. I’ll be in the kitchen or out in the
yard.”
        He
thanked her and lay down on the blue quilt. It was warm in the room
although the window was open wide behind the drawn blinds. He
wished he had his office to read. Even so, he still had most of the
day in which to complete it. His best move now was to get some
sleep. He felt himself already drifting off.
        When he
opened his eyes again he noted that the sun was no longer shining
on the venetian blinds. He estimated he had slept for an hour. If
the car was ready, he could make it to his mother’s for late
supper. He stood up, feeling remarkably refreshed, and started down
the carpeted stairs.
        Martha
was not in the kitchen. Neither was she out in the yard, where long
lines of wash were drying between the back porch and two white
posts at the far end of the lot. He walked to the front of the
house where the pickup and other vehicles were baking in the sun,
but she was not there either. The Plymouth was still gone. There
wasn’t much he could do until one of them returned, so he began a
slow tour of the property. He found a covered porch at the back of
the house and sat down in a wicker rocker. Corn stretched as far as
a white storage tank on the horizon.
        He had
not been sitting five minutes when he heard footsteps inside the
house. A screen door opened behind him and the mechanic’s wife
stepped out onto the porch. He started to get up, but she waved him
back into the rocker as if to forestall any unnecessary exertion on
such a hot day. Her gray hair was combed up from the neck. Her brow
was moist with perspiration, her eyes puffy, as if she too had been
napping. When he