Free Someday the Rabbi Will Leave by Harry Kemelman Page A

the store window was covered by a sign which proclaimed in large letters, “Scofield for State Senator.” Beneath, in italics between quotation marks, it said, “Let’s keep things the way they are.” The store contained a desk, against one wall a long table piled with campaign literature, four wooden armchairs, a couple of metal file cabinets, and a stack of folding chairs, all rented from a local office-appliance dealer. In the rear was a partition which closed off a clothes closet, the toilet, and a washstand over which hung a small mirror.
    Anyone walking along High Street usually could see the head of Laura Magnuson just above the window sign if she happened to be sitting at the desk. She was there now, going through the morning’s mail. She slit each envelope, glanced at the contents, and then deposited it in one of several piles on top of the desk. Sales letters from printers, manufacturers of celluloid buttons, clipping services, photographers, electronics firms that leased amplifier equipment, everything that might be necessary in the campaign were in one pile. Another pile consisted of bills, most of them from just such companies; and a third pile, the most important, was of letters containing contributions. Once there was an offering of a whole page of postage stamps. And once a check for a hundred dollars. When with poorly concealed excitement she showed it to Scofield, he glanced at the signature and nodded matter-of-factly. “Yeah, that’s my brother-in-law. My sister twisted his arm, I suppose.”
    She recorded the name and address of each contributor and the amount of the contribution, and made a point of sending off a letter of acknowledgment and thanks usually within a day or two of receipt. For this purpose she had composed a series of three form letters, one for small donations (under five dollars), another for larger ones, and a third for contributions of more than fifty dollars. Unfortunately, she rarely had to use the third form. Occasionally, she received an anonymous contribution in cash, in which case she added to it five or ten dollars from her own purse.
    She arrived about ten o’clock in the morning and stayed until noon, when she went home for lunch. She would post a sign in the window indicating that she would be back in the afternoon, and she would return around two o’clock. Frequently, there was nothing for her to do, and she would sit and read the local and Boston papers, clipping items that she felt Scofield should read. Sometimes, people would drop in to offer advice—“What Scofield ought to do is challenge his opponents to a debate. That way he could show …”; to extend invitations—“We got like a discussion group that meets once a week. We talk about all kinds of things, anything from the United Nations to the problem of crabgrass. I was thinking if he came down, we might have an evening on local politics or …”; to ask for information—“What’s his position on the reconsideration of the Harbor Bill? That’s what I want to know”; to inquire about jobs—“I was thinking you might need somebody part time. I got a couple of kids, but I’m free mornings because they’re in school. I can do filing and typing although I’m not very fast,” or “Would you need a good driver? You know, to drive you to meetings and such?” or “Have you lined up people to watch the polls on election day?,” or—more ambitious for jobs in the future—“I’m a first-class gardener and I was wondering if Mr. Scofield would know of some government agency that needed one.”
    Scofield was rarely there during the day. He would come by late in the afternoon, after his regular office hours in Salem. She would report on the events of the day and show him the newspaper stories she had clipped, and they would talk about future strategy. From the beginning he had been