Friday the Rabbi Slept Late by Harry Kemelman

with her kid.”
    “Oh, Mr. Serafino, I’d appreciate that.”
    “Yeah, well, we’ll see about it. Say, you got your car here?”
    “No, I came on the bus.”
    “Then how were you planning on getting home?”
    “Mr. Leonard said I could leave just before midnight. That way I could catch the last bus.”
    “Aren’t you afraid to go home that late at night alone? That’s a hell of an arrangement. Tell you what, I’ll drive you home tonight, and you can make some better arrangement next time. Pat, in the parking lot, can usually work out something for you with one of the cabbies.”
    “Oh, I couldn’t have you do that, Mr. Serafino.”
    “Why not?”
    “Well, Mr. Leonard said –”
    He held up a hand. “Nobody has to know,” he said, and his voice was easy and coaxing. “This door here leads right to the parking lot. You leave at quarter of twelve and walk down to the bus stop and wait for me there. I’ll get my car and pick you up.”
    “But Mr. Leonard –”
    “Lennie wants to see me, he comes here. He finds the door locked and he knows I’m grabbing a little shut-eye. He knows better than to disturb me when I’m having a little snooze. Okay? Besides, we got business to talk about, ain’t we?”
    She nodded her head and fluttered her eyelashes at him.
    “Okay, run along, kid, and I’ll see you later.” He patted her in dismissal, in a fatherly sort of way.
    The Ship’s Cabin served sandwiches, doughnuts, and coffee during the day. In the evening they offered hot dishes – spaghetti and meatballs, fried clams and french fried potatoes, baked beans and frankforts – which were described on greasy, flyspecked cards and inserted in the frame of the bar mirror. Each dish was numbered and regulars like Stanley would order by number, presumably to speed up the operation.
    There was no heavy drinking either during the day or in the early evening. The patrons who dropped in at midday usually took ale or beer to wash down their sandwich. Those who came later might have a shot of whiskey before supper. But the regular customers, like Stanley, usually returned around nine. That was when the Ship’s Cabin really came alive.
    After leaving the rabbi’s house, Stanley drove his yellow jalopy to the Ship’s Cabin, had his regular evening meal, one of the three specials, together with a few glasses of ale. He sat at the bar eating stolidly, his jaws moving rhythmically like a machine. He focused on his plate just long enough to load his fork and then turned his head to watch the television screen set high in one corner of the room, as he chewed away. Every now and then, he reached for his glass and took a long draught, his eyes remaining fixed on the screen.
    Except for exchanging a remark about the weather with the bartender when he first set his plate before him, Stanley spoke to no one. The program ended, and he drained the remains of his second glass, wiped his mouth with the paper napkin that had lain folded all through supper, and ambled over to the cashier to pay his tab.
    He left the tavern with a wave to the bartender, and drove the few blocks to Mama Schofield’s. No point in hanging around; there would be nothing doing for another hour or two.
    Mrs. Schofield was sitting in her parlor when he stuck his head in to say good evening. Upstairs in his room he took off his shoes, his denim work pants and shirt, and lay down on the bed, his hands clasped under his head, staring up at the ceiling. There were no pictures like those he had on the wall in the temple basement; Mama Schofield would not have stood for them. The only decoration was a calendar showing a picture of a little boy and a puppy that was somehow supposed to induce fond feelings for the Barnard’s Crossing Coal Company. Usually he napped for an hour or so, but tonight for some reason he was restless. He realized he was undergoing one of his frequent attacks of loneliness. In his circle of acquaintances, his bachelorhood was regarded as proof