Trail Of Blood (2010) by S J Rozan

Author:S J Rozan [Rozan, S J]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781407079158
Publisher: Ebury Publishing
Published: 2011-01-14T19:08:37+00:00

22

I understood nothing that went on at Joel’s funeral except the rabbi’s eulogy, which was in English. He praised Joel as a devoted family man, a tireless member of the synagogue he’d helped found, an enthusiastic Hebrew school teacher, a volunteer always ready. All of which he probably was, though I’d heard him find fault more than once with his slacker son, and grumble about another insufferably boring Men’s Club meeting. The only thing the rabbi said about Joel’s professional life was that he was “well respected.” Joel would have rolled his eyes at such bland anonymity. What he was, was a damned good investigator who got a kick out of his work. And taught me a lot. And had an annoying habit of giving orders and sticking his nose into everyone’s personal life. But the Joel I knew, the rumpled, dogged detail man always ready with uninvited advice, who started or ended every conversation with some awful off-key rendition of a Broadway song, that Joel wasn’t mentioned. You change in death; I’d noticed this before. It’s as though the whole you isn’t good enough to deserve all this sadness, so the suspect parts get pared away until you’re something more wonderful-sounding, though flatter and a lot less you.

Besides the eulogy, everything else was a matter of Hebrew prayers. When the congregation quieted, the cantor’s voice rose, then hushed, swelled, fell away again. A chill went through me. Here was a sorrow too deep for speech, an ancient grief that could only be told in song. That sorrow, I thought, wasn’t just for Joel. Five thousand years of tragedy called through that voice; and yet it also was for Joel, for this one, unique loss.

I tried to follow, doing what everyone did, as far as I could. At times the congregation stood, or responded to the rabbi in unison. More than once the entire thing seemed to break down into what I had a sneaky feeling might have been Joel’s favorite part: a murmuring, swaying, every-man-for-himself chaos. Every-woman-for-herself, too, where I was; a low curtain divided the room down the center, women on the right, men on the left. I could see Bill over there, wearing a black yarmulke. I took one quick peek to find him and turned away, because I wasn’t sure it was okay to look over the curtain. At that, I heard Joel’s exasperated voice in my head: Chinsky, if it wasn’t okay, we’d have put a higher curtain.

Oh, give me a break, Pilarsky, I thought, as I had so many times, and was surprised to find the woman next to me giving me a quick hug. She held out a pack of Kleenex. Finally it dawned on me I was crying. Good going, Chinsky, that’s some detective work.

I thought about suggesting to Joel that he could only stay in my head if he promised not to sing, but maybe it’s impolite to set conditions on the dead at their own funerals. So I sat a

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