Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [86]
I looked up at his tense face, and guilt flowed through me like a river. “I honestly did try to stay out of it this time. I really don’t want to cause you any trouble with your job.”
Before we could continue, someone called Gabe’s name. Michael Haynes, current president of the city council, strode across the street. Dressed in expensive slacks, a white Izod golf shirt, and tasseled loafers, he gripped a folded newspaper under his arm. His tanned face was very unhappy.
“Ortiz,” he said. “We need to talk.”
Gabe turned back to me, his face weary. “Where are you going to be?”
“Right here in the middle of this crowd. I’ll be fine.”
He hesitated a moment. “Don’t be alone for a minute. Promise me.”
“I promise,” I said, giving the councilman a hard look.
He kissed me on the top of my head and turned to Michael Haynes. “Let’s go across the street to the Sundance,” Gabe said in his all-business voice, pointing at the small pub down the street. “It’ll be a bit more private than the street.”
Haynes shot me an irritated look and started talking before they’d moved a few feet. “This just won’t do, Ortiz. That wife of yours—”
I walked back to the storytellers’ stage, a combination of annoyance and dismay filling me. I hated being a liability to Gabe’s job, though I knew it wasn’t really my fault I was so deeply involved in this investigation. And it hurt me to see his reputation publicly maligned. When I saw Will Henry again, I was really going to let him have it with both barrels. Then again, a voice inside me pointed out, think of all the times you’ve read the Tattler and laughed. It’s different when the boot’s on the other foot, isn’t it?
On stage, the Native American had been replaced by a Jewish storyteller from Bakersfield. He was tall and thin, with alabaster skin and a long untrimmed red beard that he stroked as he talked. He sat on a low stool and drew his audience close with his pleasant, rumbling voice.
“Once, a long time ago, in a small village in Eastern Europe, there was a very important businessman in the community who took a disliking to the new rabbi. Every chance he could, he’d talk about the rabbi behind his back.
“ ‘Did you see his beard this morning?’ he’d whisper to another man in the town square. ‘Tangled as a rat’s nest. Did his mother never teach him to clean himself? Tsk, tsk.’ He’d shake his head and roll his eyes. ‘Did you hear what he taught in the temple this morning?’ he’d murmur to another man. ‘Where did he learn the Torah, from a goat herder?’
“Finally, after weeks of slandering the new rabbi, who patiently ignored the whispers swirling about him, the businessman was confronted by a respected friend and reprimanded for his cruel words. He repented and, feeling guilty for his behavior, presented himself to the rabbi and begged his forgiveness, asking to make restitution. The rabbi, being a kind and thoughtful man, considered the businessman’s request carefully and finally stated, ‘Take your finest feather pillow and climb to the top of the highest hill outside the village. When you reach the top, cut it open and scatter the contents to the winds. After you have done that, return to me.’
“The businessman went up to the highest hill with his fattest, most expensive down-filled pillow, tore it open, and watched the feathers skip across the sky in the brisk wind. He returned to the rabbi and said, ‘I’ve done as you asked. Am I now forgiven?’
“ ‘Almost,’ replied the rabbi. ‘There is still one more task before you. Go and gather all the feathers up again and put them back in the pillow.’
‘But that’s impossible,’ cried the businessman. ‘The wind has blown them away!’
“ ‘Yes,’ said the rabbi, who besides being kind and thoughtful, was also very wise. ‘And so it is also impossible to undo the damage your have done with your words, which can never be retrieved.’
“The businessman walked away, saddened by his behavior, but wiser from the lesson the rabbi had taught him.
“Lashon hora,” the storyteller told the crowd. “That’s Hebrew for hurtful speech. In the Jewish