Copyright 2016

          “VOICES”

                                                        PROLOGUE

The soft brown and crumbled earth fell like rain, tumbling serene and gentle from a pale blue Arizona sky. Cracked irregular loam embraced a simple pine coffin, embedded with a star of David, lay at the bottom of a dark hole parched by the mid-summer sun. Even as the freshly turned soil covered the casket, a delicate gleam of light, so carefully rubbed into its perfectly varnished grained wood, refused to be extinguished. 

Midday is the worst time to gather for such an outdoor setting and the season’s merciless star beat down upon the funeral party with an evil vengeance. Akin to retribution against all those who dare to venture to this community’s hallowed grounds, the afternoon’s roasting reflected hot against the faces that sat on the white plastic folding chairs that bordered the neatly trimmed rectangular opening.

Phoenix is absolute hell in August. Locals like to tell visitors it’s actually bearable because the air lacks humidity so you don’t sweat or if you did the moisture instantly evaporates into the atmosphere thus creating an illusion of livability. Dry heat. In reality it’s more like walking into a fully lit pizza oven at 7 o’clock in the morning making the skin on your bones bubble like cheese.

The town’s residents moved slowly, dressed in dark outfits and even darker moods. Moving through a line that filed past the grave, they lumbered along, the weight of their sorrow making the mightiest mourners walk heavy like trudging through water, creating waves of despair that rippled through the heat of the day. Most attending were friends and relatives although some were merely acquaintances, touched in some way by the abrupt tragedy. 

As the procession of mourners approached they would knee or bend down to grab a handful of the cemetery’s carefully groomed sod, some holding the dirt offering in their fist so tightly it felt like they were trying to infuse part of their own life into it. They passed the forlorn man-made chasm, its edges neatly framed by a carpeted stretch of grass green astro-turf and allowed their clenched hand to explode open in a gesture reminiscent of a Las Vegas magician.  The dirt flew out from their splayed fingers casting a hopeful spell that the pair of beautiful souls lying inside the highly adorned case would miraculously emerge from their wooden imprisonment. 

The children, dressed in matching somber shades that they dare not get dirty, threw in their little handfuls trying to hit the wood just right, making the soil balance on top of the casket instead of rolling off to the sides.  If you do this, then maybe Mommy and Daddy won’t be so mad and sad. Maybe we can leave this dreary place and go someplace where people aren’t crying and where there’s fun and air conditioning. Maybe with enough dirt we could cover up the whole nightmare. 

Silent, childish pleadings echoed in the heads of both parent and off-spring as the sound of their thoughts reverberated through the thick air of the day until it filtered down to the two dead bodies lying in sweet repose; still and oblivious to the teary eyed inhabitants of the world above ground. 

As the line stretched on, winding like a serpent around the grave and the neat rows of chairs, more hands reached down and scooped up a section from the coffee-colored mound that was, at the beginning of the ceremony, piled almost waist high near the exposed opening. Gingerly they cupped the dead earth with reverenced hands positioned in prayer.  A few mouthed a semi-silent mantra from whatever faith or philosophy they belonged to while others wept and shook their heads in disbelief.  Approaching the site, they continued to sprinkle their gifts across the expanse of the grave, spreading it over the encased bodies like a blanket until little of the dark reddish wood could be seen. 

Rabbi Mordechi Belcom was sweating profusely; he was dressed in a black suit and wrapped in a white “Talus” that reflected the sun and gave off waves of heat like a heavenly aura. Ignoring the beads of perspiration and the Rabbi focused all his will on the funeral prayers. At 72 he was more than the head rabbinical leader of the fastest growing congregation in southern Phoenix, he was the one that brought a well renowned Cantor from the Big Apple to this dry and desolate place in the desert. It took two full years of coaxing, a promise of a house and his assurance that he wouldn’t try to stop the Cantor from going back to New York after a three year commitment. 

“Done.” The Rabbi had said. 

The “famous” Cantor also made it clear that he didn’t want Belcom to try and “fix him up” with any of the local ladies in a ploy to get him to stay. The old man feigned insult and made an extra effort to conceal his mirth, adding more conviction through the phone. He sensed the young Cantor was about to commit. 

“Of course not!” Reb Belcom exclaimed. “I’m a Rabbi not a Yenta.” 

The Cantor was not a believer. 

“Sometimes I think you’re both Mordechi.” he said without a smile that could be “heard” on the other end.

Mordechi’s mind flashed on that very scene some 12 years ago now as he droned on, mumbling the solemn Hebrew words that floated above the crowd and barely heard through the shuffling of feet and stifled sobs.  

Perhaps when it’s over the departed will wake up in heaven just like in our bedtime prayers. Perhaps we become converted into some mystic blue energy and absorbed into the universe. Or maybe the two silent and serene figures, usually so full of life before the tragic event, would just transform into mulch and recede into the bosom of mother earth. 

You could almost hear the speculative thoughts of the crowd as they paraded past one by one or in pairs; Mothers holding little hands; Fathers, their arms wrapped around their wives and sons, each one giving comfort and support, trying to maintain a sense of assurance when there was nothing that could make sense of it all. Through all the confusion and grief, one thing was certain – no amount of dirt could fill the canyon of despair felt in the heart of the lone figure kneeling beside the grave.

Abraham Andovalich, thirty-eight years old, ex-Israeli Military Police, widowed husband, grieving father and Cantor of Temple Beth Shalom in Arizona, allowed his knees to sink deeper into the red clay of the Southwest panhandle, beseeching the planet to open it’s cruel mouth and swallow him along with his entombed family. He was beyond grief, beyond sorrow. The rage at the injustice of it all had burned out his insides until there was nothing left but a scared and scorched soul; hollow and collapsed. His entire life was lying in that hole. His loves and his dreams were now enclosed in a fancy wooden box stuck in a six foot deep and four foot wide depression. 

As the crowd glided past the grave, Adam sank further into the abyss of his thoughts, hardly noticing the murmurs of consolations or the hesitant pats on his shoulder. He glared at the coffin through bleary blood engorged eyes while the tears that streaked down his unshaven face dried from the heat of the oppressive afternoon sun. 

Let it burn me. He thought. Let the demon sun beat down on me and render my flesh to a cinder. I don’t care. His hands rubbed hard against his black dress slacks, now covered from the knees down in dust from the dried, cracked garnet desert. He hadn’t moved from his kneeling position since the mortuary workers began lowering the casket into that infernal crevasse. He welcomed the pain and stiffness that racked his legs and stained his new pants like dehydrated blood. It was the only thing he could feel. Harshly he rubbed his hands across his thighs again, wiping the sweat from his palms and then dug them into his eyes. 

Let this be a dream, a nightmare. Please God, let me open my eyes again and see my wife and daughter.  Abraham lifted his head up while at same time releasing his hands from his tightly closed eyes. He threw out his arms in a wide pleading arc as his fingers clinched into white knuckled balls of anger and despair. The parched lips of his mouth opened and let loose a strangled roar only a mortally wounded animal would understand. The line of mourners immediately stopped moving, witness to the sound of pure agony. No one spoke. Not even the children could bring themselves to fidget. 

Andovalich cried out until his voice could no longer sustain the long solitary note. Slowly he brought his head down and raised the heavy lids of his eyes. The coffin was still there covered now by a thick blanket of earth and flowers. 

He could barely see the silver handles on the sides of their tomb and that shine, that shimmer from the hand polished wood so carefully applied by the Funeral Director himself, was now gone forever. Abraham’s eyes grew wide in disbelief; it was impossible to think that God could have denied his supplication. 

His hands, unusually calloused for a Cantor, pressed onto the ground, digging hard into the dirt beside his legs. Deeper he plunged his fingers into the clay sediment trying to connect to something alive, something close to the molten core of his soul. There was nothing, not even enough topsoil to fill his grasp. All the good sod had been tossed in by his friends and family while the rest would be shoveled in by the gravediggers. His nails clawed at the cracked crust of the earth trying to strip off a layer of skin from the face of the world.