Mary Clark: The Lost Years

“It’s so impossible to believe,” Lily murmured.

Then Albert West and Charles Michaelson came over to where she was standing. “Mariah, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it. It seems so sudden,” Albert said.

“I know, I know,” Mariah said as she looked at the four men, who had been so dear to her father. “Have the police talked to any of you yet? I had to give a list of close friends and of course that included all of you.” Then she turned to Lily. “And needless to say I included your name.”

Did I sense a sudden change in one of them in that instant? Mariah wondered. She couldn’t be sure because at that moment the funeral director came in and asked people to walk past the casket for the last time, then go to their cars; it was time to leave for the church.

She waited with her mother till the others had left. She was relieved that Lily had had the decency not to touch her father’s body. I think I would have tripped her if she had bent over to kiss him, she thought.

Her mother seemed totally unaware of what was going on. When Mariah led her over to the casket, she looked blankly down at the face of her dead husband and said, “I’m glad he washed his face. So much noise… so much blood.”

Mariah turned her mother over to Rory, then stood by the casket herself. Daddy, you should have had another twenty years, she thought. Somebody is going to pay for doing this to you.

She leaned over and laid her cheek against his, then was sorry she had done so. That hard, cold flesh belonged to an object, not her father.

As she straightened up, she whispered, “I’ll take good care of Mom, I promise you, I will.”

3

Lillian Stewart had slipped into the back of the church after Jonathan’s funeral Mass was under way. She left before the final prayers so there would be no chance of running into Mariah or her mother after the frosty reception she had just received at the funeral parlor. Then she drove to the cemetery, parked at a distance from the entrance, and waited until the funeral cortege had come and gone. It was only then that she drove along the road that led to Jonathan’s grave site, got out of the car, and walked over to his freshly dug grave, carrying a dozen roses.

The grave diggers were about to lower the casket. They stood back respectfully as she knelt down, placed the roses on it, and whispered, “I love you, Jon.” Then, pale but composed, she walked past the rows of tombstones to her car. Only when she was back inside the car did she let go and bury her face in her hands. The tears she had held back began to gush down her cheeks and her body shook with sobs.

A moment later, she heard the passenger door of her car open. Startled, she looked up, then made a futile attempt to wipe the tears from her face. Comforting arms went around her and held her until her sobs subsided. “I thought you might be here,” Richard Callahan said. “I spotted you briefly in the back of the church.”

Lily pulled away from him. “Dear God, is there any chance Mariah or her mother saw me?” she asked, her voice husky and unsteady.

“I wouldn’t think so. I was looking for you. I didn’t know where you went after the funeral home. But you saw how packed the church was.”

“Richard, it’s awfully nice of you to think of me, but aren’t you expected at that luncheon?”

“Yes, but I wanted to check on you first. I know how much Jonathan meant to you.”

Lillian had originally met Richard Callahan on that first archaeological dig that she’d attended five years ago. A professor of biblical history at Fordham University, he had told her then that he’d studied to be a Jesuit but had withdrawn from the priesthood before taking his final vows. Now with a rangy body and easygoing manner, he had become a good friend, which somewhat surprised her. She knew it would be natural for him to be judgmental of her relationship with Jonathan, but if he was, he had never shown it. It was on that first dig that she and Jonathan had fallen desperately in love.

Lily managed a weak smile. “Richard, I’m so grateful to you, but you’d better get to that luncheon. Jonathan told me many times that Mariah’s mother is very fond of you. I’m sure it will be a help if you’re around for her now.”

“I’m going,” Richard said, “but, Lily, I have to ask you. Did Jonathan tell you that he believed he had found an incredibly valuable manuscript among the ones he was translating that were found in an old church?”

Lillian Stewart looked straight into Richard Callahan’s eyes. “An old manuscript that was valuable? Absolutely not,” she lied. “He never said anything about it to me.”

4

The rest of the day passed for Mariah in the merciful and predictable pattern of funerals. Now poised and beyond tears, Mariah listened attentively as her family’s longtime friend Father Aiden O’Brien, a friar from Saint Francis of Assisi in Manhattan, celebrated the Mass, eulogized her father, and conducted the graveside prayers at nearby Maryrest Cemetery. After that they went to the Ridgewood Country Club, where a luncheon had been laid out for those who had attended the Mass and funeral.

There were over two hundred people there. The mood was somber, but a Bloody Mary or two cheered everyone up and the atmosphere took on a more festive note. Mariah was glad because the stories she was hearing from people were about what a great guy her father was. Brilliant. Witty. Handsome. Charming. Yes, yes, she thought.

It was when the luncheon was over and Rory had started home with her mother that Father Aiden pulled her aside. His tone low, even though there was no one near them, he asked, “Mariah, did your father confide in you that he had a premonition he was going to die?”

The look on her face was obviously answer enough for him. “Your dad came to see me last Wednesday. He told me he had that premonition. I invited him into the friary for coffee. Then he shared a secret with me. As you may know, he has been translating some ancient parchments that were found in a hidden safe in a church that has been closed for years and is about to be torn down.”

“Yes, I knew that. He mentioned something about their being remarkably well preserved.”

“There is one that is of extraordinary value if your father was right. More than just value in terms of money,” he added.

Shocked, Mariah stared at the seventy-eight-year-old priest. At Mass she had noticed that his arthritis was causing him to limp badly. Now his thick white hair accentuated the deep creases in his forehead. It was impossible to miss the concern in his voice.

“Did he tell you what was in the manuscript?” she asked.

Father Aiden looked around. Most people were standing up and saying their good-byes to their friends. It was obvious that they’d be making their way to Mariah to offer their final condolences, accompanied by a squeeze of the hand and the inevitable words, “Be sure to call us if you need anything.”

“Mariah,” he asked, his tone urgent. “Did your father ever talk about a letter it is believed that Christ wrote to Joseph of Arimathea?”

“Yes, a number of times over the years. He told me it had been in the Vatican Library, but little was known of it because several Popes, including Sixtus IV, refused to believe it was genuine. It was stolen during his reign in the fifteenth century, supposedly by someone who believed Pope Sixtus was planning to burn it.” Astonished, she asked, “Father Aiden, are you telling me that my father thought he had found that letter?”