THAT DAY, BABE, I WAS CURLED UP WITH A BOOK. Truth be told, book sales draw me like a bee to honey. I drop off a few dollars and leave the library with a bag of books—mostly donated by the Baptists. What’s the harm? Well sure, once in a while, lunch gets delayed. Today, my Baptist minister husband’s out of the house, and I could indulge. I loved the soaps when I was nine, but they didn’t last. That was radio, hon. Somebody at our little radio station liked ‘em. Played the real thing every day, about four. It was great. TV soaps never worked for me.
Dropped it all when I came across spies and detectives. Rick objects, and I listen, but I won’t say never again. He’s just makin’ a mountain-sized molehill. Besides, I mostly skip the sexy parts. Sometimes I learn a thing or two.
The current item’s flat on my lap. In a minute, it’ll be in both hands. Before the story winds down, I won’t be breathin’.
I’m not picky, shuggabun. Spy infestation, submarine skulk, court case the young dude’s never gonna win but does anyway—murderers, good guys quietly rushin’ around, fate of the nation at stake. The whole world’s teeterin’ on the brink. Can’t be comedy.
I’m always tellin’ that to my Shakespeare prof from back in school.
“Absolutely . . . it’s comedy,” he’s insistin’. “The ending’s happy.”
Women tearin’ each other’s hair out, people turnin’ into half donkeys, good buddies tryin’ to kill each other? No way! (The whole class is still laughin’ at my aghast objections.) This prof always wins the argument. Not because he’s smarter but because he’s cute. That was before my Ricky.
But whatever you call it, in the book right always wins . . . even if it happens at the end of a wicked and uncouth trail of blood. By the last page, all’s right with the world. I put down the book and look for another one. Never a reread. Why do that once you know the who-done-it part? Well, yeah—and after the bad guy’s dealt with!
Don’t Tell the Rabbi is a book you’ll want to share with friends.