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

of a motel’s bed linen nor the
soapy anonymity of Margaret’s laundry. This was someone’s home.
This was how real people lived.
        Even his
mother’s apartment didn’t look and smell like this. How could it,
when she was living in an institution herself?
        He lay
beneath the bedclothes (it was cool enough for a blanket, imagine,
in July), lingering in the warmth of his body as he never would
have done in his parish rectory. Nothing about the big room he
occupied there induced him to spend any more time in it than was
necessary. Perhaps that was as it should be; he did not become a
priest so he could sleep late or curl up with a novel and a box of
chocolates. But he could not help envying those who took for
granted the aromas of their own homes, whose possessions bore the
stamp of their own individual identities. It was not inconceivable
that a touch of hominess might even enhance one’s ministry. The
Protestants didn’t seem to be going out of business—quite the
contrary. One could surely improve on Margaret’s funereal
housekeeping without risking one’s immortal soul.
        He said
mass on the dresser, then put on his khaki pants and the Hawaiian
print, which he had washed by hand in the motel. In deference to
his vacation mood he did not tuck it inside his pants. He also
spent extra time shaving and combing his hair, noting again the
gray strands interlaced with original black. He felt
extraordinarily well-rested—the result, he assumed, of the sea air.
He could hear noises in the kitchen below. He had a huge appetite,
so rather than start his office with his mind distracted by the
thought of food, he decided to have breakfast. Then he could begin
it on the terrace, in full view of the Atlantic and the morning
sun.
       “ Good
morning,” Rosalie greeted him. She was dressed in culottes and a
white top, the female equivalent of a golf shirt. She looked quite
a different person from the sulky feline he had confronted the
previous afternoon.
       “ How do you like
your coffee?”
       “ Black, please.
With sugar.”
        She invited him
to sit down and brought him coffee in an earthenware mug. The brew
in it was infinitely better than the slop Margaret made. He emptied
the cup, burning his tongue, before attempting more
conversation.
       “ Are Charlie and
Sylvia up?” he asked.
       “ The day is half
gone before those two roll out of bed.”
        She
scraped egg onto a plate and placed it on a woven mat in front of
him. “They’re not earlybirds like us. I hope you like
fried.”
        He
assured her fried were fine and that she needn’t have troubled
herself on his account.
       “ No
trouble. Can’t accomplish much without a good breakfast. Although I
don’t eat eggs, when I have a choice.”
       “ What do
you eat?” he asked as she sat down in the place Sylvia occupied
last night.
       “ Whole
grains mostly. Wheat, oats. I’m not a health nut, but I try to eat
good stuff.”
        He
wondered if Margaret had ever heard of health food. Not likely, if
the daily doses of bacon and sausages, not to mention the pork and
pot roasts that turned up regularly on the rectory’s dining table,
were any indication.
       “ Sleep well?”
she asked.
       “ Very well
indeed.”
        He glanced at
the living room couch, which showed no sign of anyone having spent
the night there, and regretted his enthusiasm. She probably had a
backache herself.
       “ Sea air
does it every time. Gorgeous night. Best thing about the shore,
sleeping under the stars.”
       “You slept on the beach?”
       Her mouth full of toast, she
pointed at the light fixture on the ceiling.
       “ The
deck?”
       “ Best place to
catch the ocean breeze.”
        He had heard
creaking sounds but presumed they were just the house adjusting to
the cooler night air. He and Charlie had spent about an hour
stargazing. Then he had gone to bed, leaving his hosts and