Faye Kellerman - Prayers for the Dead

He was waiting when Rina swung the Volvo into the parking lot. She pulled alongside his ten-year-old Toyota, paused before she opened the door. Clad in a somber brown knit dress that fell below the knee, her hair pinned and covered with a chocolate tam, she thought she looked appropriate. Her face was clean, but without a drop of makeup. Let him see all the wrinkles and worry lines.

She got out, straighted up, and brushed imaginary lint from her skirt. She tried not to stare, but did anyway.

He had aged a bit, but wore it well. Overtones of white mixed into in his amber-colored hair, the silvering at his temples. He still kept it the same way-one length and long, the ends nipping his shoulders. His green eyes were as sharp as ever, lying calmly behind hexagonal frameless glasses. His face was a bit bonier, but his shoulders had widened, his build was more mature and mannish. Even with stress stamped across his face, Abram Matthew Sparks cut a handsome figure.

He leaned against the car, looked upward, stuck his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for coming.”

Her eyes went moist. “I’m sorry, Bram.”

“So am I.”

Such pain in his voice.

He looked at her face, then at the ground. “You look exquisite as always. Married life has been good for you. How long has it been since you’ve tied the knot? Five years?”

“Five years exactly.”

“So it’s been what…around six years since we’ve last seen each other? Where has the time gone? You haven’t aged a whit.”

“Tell me what I can do for you.”

“Nothing, unfortunately.” Bram walked over and opened the passenger door. “Nothing at all.”

Rina blinked back tears. “It’s agonizing to see you in such misery.”

His eyes went to hers, then he looked away. “Better me than you.”

She knew his words were heartfelt, which made the pathos that much stronger. Longing to hug him, to comfort him as he had done for her. But she quelled the thought. It wouldn’t suit either of them. Instead, she took his hand, his fingers tapered and smooth, his palm uncalloused. A scholar’s hand. She gave it a gentle squeeze. Abruptly, he pulled her to his chest, hugged her hard, burrowing his face in her tam. He was trying to control his tears, but she still felt warm droplets on the back of her neck. Embracing her as if she were his life raft as he sputtered to stay afloat.

Hastily, he broke it off and walked away. “Dear God, I’m losing it.”

“Stop being so hard on your-”

“I know, I know.”

Rina was quiet. He was red-faced, embarrassed. The car door was still open. She slipped inside the Toyota ’s front seat, burying her hands into the soft folds of dress fabric. Piled in the back were stacks of university library books written in ancient exotic languages. Among them, at the bottom of one of the heaps, was an oversized tome of Talmud. Tractate Sanhedrin, Volume One. Sanhedrin dealt with the laws of the Jewish court. Without thinking, Rina removed the book and set it on top. Holy works shouldn’t ever rest under secular ones.

Bram wiped his eyes, moved into the driver’s seat. “Sorry. I forgot who I’m dealing with…with whom I’m dealing.”

Rina blushed. “Force of habit.”

“It’s fine. Anything you do is fine. Anything at all. Anything, anything. I don’t know why I even mentioned it.” He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

“You’re perfectly coherent.”

“My, you’re kind.”

“You’re using Steinsaltz?”

“So much for purism.” He rolled his eyes. “What a firebrand I was back then.”

“Enthusiastic.”

“You mean obnoxious. Which I was. Yes, I’m using Steinsaltz. Besides being a remarkably clear thinker, he believes in readable print and punctuation. My eyes are going.”

Rina regarded his face. “Did you get any rest at all, Abram?”

“Actually, yes.” He pulled a crucifix out from under his shirt, kissed it gently. “I grabbed around four hours between six A.M. and noon Mass. I feel okay.”

With that, he started the car, jamming the gear into first. Speeded up as he drove through the winding mountainous road. Bram had always been a fast driver. Occasionally, the Toyota seemed to lose its grip on the asphalt. Rina clutched the door rest and hoped for the best.

She stole a quick glance his way. He was dressed in the requisite black suit and black clerical shirt. His nails had been bitten to the quick. She looked away, eyes peering out the window.

“Considerate of you,” she said. “Wearing your cross inside your shirt when you were with Rav Schulman. Especially considerate to be thinking of him at this time in your life.”

“Yes, I’ve grown up.” He was reflective. “I don’t know why Rav Schulman put up with me way back when. Such a cocky kid. Cocky, abrasive, argumentative, rude, irritating…a veritable thesaurus of unpleasantness.”

“You’re turning your grief inward,” Rina stated. “Don’t. It doesn’t help.”

Bram was silent. Then he said, “Thanks for calling last night.”

“I wouldn’t think of doing otherwise. After everything you did for…” Rina’s eyes started to water. She hid her face in her hands. “I’m sorry.”

Bram gave her a packet of tissues. Rina dabbed away tears, tried to compose herself. “Was Rav Schulman helpful?”

“Always. The man’s a stone genius.” The priest pushed the Toyota into fourth gear. “I wish he had known my dad well enough to eulogize him. I wish he were speaking instead of me.”

“I’m sure your father wouldn’t have wanted anyone else but you.”

“Flaws and all.” Bram’s voice held a bitter tinge. “I suppose you’re right. At least it will be from the heart. You’ve been okay, Rina?”

“Very well. I had a baby about three years ago-a daughter.”

Bram’s happiness seemed genuine. “That’s wonderful! You got your little girl. And what a lucky little girl she is to have a mother like you. I hope she looks like you.” He let out a gentle laugh. “No offense to your husband.”

“None taken. And you’ve been well?”

“Chugging along. I can’t believe I’ve lasted this long as a parish priest. But it’s a good place. We’ve grown tremendously. At the moment, we’re just about five hundred families.”

“Big congregation.”

“Very. Goes in cycles. Right now, church is in.”

“As if you’ve had nothing to do with it.”

“Not much. We’re practically the only Catholic show in town.” Bram turned onto Foothill Boulevard and headed toward the freeway. “I know several guys from Loyola-went to seminary with them in the States. They’re great about picking up slack during my absences.”

“Then you’re still traveling to Rome.”

“Yes, the Pontiff and I are very tight.”

“It’s a simple statement. You’re allowed to impress me without doing penance.”

Bram smiled. “The Vatican needs people fluent in ancient languages. It’s for their twenty-first-century synod.”

“What are you doing?”

“Comparing the simultaneous writings of various ancient accounts and events-holy or otherwise. I’m attempting to date some recently discovered texts that have shown up over the last ten-plus years. Most of the works are in Aramaic, Hebrew or Latin. Some are in Greek…Phoenician.”

He paused.

“I think several were in Ugaritic.”

“What?”

“Ugaritic. A Canaanite cousin to biblical Hebrew. As opposed to Ugric…which is related to Hungarian. Something you’d know more about than I would. Anyway, by using syntax and colloquial phrases, I can put a century on most of the ancient manuscripts. Then I analyze them to see if the writings fall within the prescribed dogma of the church. If they do, I determine how the See can best use them to its benefit.”