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Authors: William G. Tapply
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the obituary page out on top of my desk. I looked.
“You’re too young to be checking the obits,” I said. “I want my coffee.”
“Here,” he said. His finger pointed at a picture of a man’s face. Under the picture was the caption, “Francis Xavier Shaughnessey, 1968 photo.”
“So? Friend of yours?”
“Take a close look.”
I did. Then I bent and looked again.
“I’ll be damned,” I breathed. “Daniel F. X. Sullivan. That what you think?”
“Gotta be. He was younger in this picture. But you can’t mistake that nose.”
I shifted my attention to the brief obituary. The headline read, “Francis Xavier Shaughnessey, 66. Former auditor for Commonwealth.” I read on:
Francis Xavier Shaughnessey, an official in the State Auditor’s Office before his retirement in 1978, died suddenly in his home in Boston last Monday evening. He was 66.
Mr. Shaughnessey, a native Bostonian, attended Dorchester High School and graduated from Northeastern University. He served during World War II in the European Theater of Operations, where he earned two Purple Hearts. He received a field promotion to the rank of Captain during Operation Overlord.
After the war Mr. Shaughnessey was the European field representative for the Gulf Oil Company. Poor health forced him to return to Boston, where he began work in the Auditor’s office. He retired in 1978.
Mr. Shaughnessey leaves his daughter, Deborah Ann Martinelli, and a sister, Elizabeth Shaughnessey Monroe.
A funeral Mass will be said Wednesday at 10:00 a.m. at the Church of the Sacred Heart, Dorchester.
I glanced at Shaughnessey’s listing under the Death Notices, and saw that visiting hours would be held from two to four and seven to nine on Monday and Tuesday at the Michael P. O’Reilly Funeral Home in Dorchester.
Zerk had been reading over my shoulder. I looked up at him. “Guess I’ll be going to a wake this evening,” I said. “You notice something here?” said Zerk, pointing to the newspaper.
“What’s that?”
“It says he died last Monday. That explains why he wasn’t at our little rendezvous.”
“He was otherwise occupied, it seems,” I said. I thought for a moment. “Wonder why they waited a whole week before putting in the death notice. And why wait nine days before having the funeral?”
“White folks sho’ does funny things sometimes.”
“Somehow I don’t think that adequately explains it,” I said.
5
I FOUND THE MICHAEL P. O’REILLY Funeral Home halfway down a pleasant, tree-lined residential street somewhere in Dorchester. It was a big Victorian house needing some paint. But the lawn grew lush and green, and the big maple out front glowed brilliant orange in its autumn plumage, and from the outside it seemed a pleasant enough place for gazing at dead bodies, pondering mortality, and murmuring sympathetic inanities to the bereaved.
I parked out back. There were a dozen or so other cars in the lot, a couple wearing official state license plates. I stepped out of my BMW and walked around to the front door.
A dark-suited young man stood by the guest book in the foyer. He held my eye for a moment, then dipped his head in solemn greeting.
“Good evening, sir,” he said. “Won’t you sign the book?”
I felt his eyes on me as I bent to scribble my name. I glanced at the signatures of those who had preceded me, but recognized none of the names. When I looked up, I realized the man had been watching me by the way his eyes slid away from my face.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, with another bow. “It’s the room to your left.”
I paused in the doorway to get my bearings. The casket sat on a little platform at the far end of the room surrounded by big sprays of gladioli and carnations. A bald-headed man and a fat woman were kneeling beside it, their heads inclined toward the body inside. Along the left wall, a row of straight-backed wooden chairs sat in a line, most of them empty. The rest of the room was occupied by metal
“You’re too young to be checking the obits,” I said. “I want my coffee.”
“Here,” he said. His finger pointed at a picture of a man’s face. Under the picture was the caption, “Francis Xavier Shaughnessey, 1968 photo.”
“So? Friend of yours?”
“Take a close look.”
I did. Then I bent and looked again.
“I’ll be damned,” I breathed. “Daniel F. X. Sullivan. That what you think?”
“Gotta be. He was younger in this picture. But you can’t mistake that nose.”
I shifted my attention to the brief obituary. The headline read, “Francis Xavier Shaughnessey, 66. Former auditor for Commonwealth.” I read on:
Francis Xavier Shaughnessey, an official in the State Auditor’s Office before his retirement in 1978, died suddenly in his home in Boston last Monday evening. He was 66.
Mr. Shaughnessey, a native Bostonian, attended Dorchester High School and graduated from Northeastern University. He served during World War II in the European Theater of Operations, where he earned two Purple Hearts. He received a field promotion to the rank of Captain during Operation Overlord.
After the war Mr. Shaughnessey was the European field representative for the Gulf Oil Company. Poor health forced him to return to Boston, where he began work in the Auditor’s office. He retired in 1978.
Mr. Shaughnessey leaves his daughter, Deborah Ann Martinelli, and a sister, Elizabeth Shaughnessey Monroe.
A funeral Mass will be said Wednesday at 10:00 a.m. at the Church of the Sacred Heart, Dorchester.
I glanced at Shaughnessey’s listing under the Death Notices, and saw that visiting hours would be held from two to four and seven to nine on Monday and Tuesday at the Michael P. O’Reilly Funeral Home in Dorchester.
Zerk had been reading over my shoulder. I looked up at him. “Guess I’ll be going to a wake this evening,” I said. “You notice something here?” said Zerk, pointing to the newspaper.
“What’s that?”
“It says he died last Monday. That explains why he wasn’t at our little rendezvous.”
“He was otherwise occupied, it seems,” I said. I thought for a moment. “Wonder why they waited a whole week before putting in the death notice. And why wait nine days before having the funeral?”
“White folks sho’ does funny things sometimes.”
“Somehow I don’t think that adequately explains it,” I said.
5
I FOUND THE MICHAEL P. O’REILLY Funeral Home halfway down a pleasant, tree-lined residential street somewhere in Dorchester. It was a big Victorian house needing some paint. But the lawn grew lush and green, and the big maple out front glowed brilliant orange in its autumn plumage, and from the outside it seemed a pleasant enough place for gazing at dead bodies, pondering mortality, and murmuring sympathetic inanities to the bereaved.
I parked out back. There were a dozen or so other cars in the lot, a couple wearing official state license plates. I stepped out of my BMW and walked around to the front door.
A dark-suited young man stood by the guest book in the foyer. He held my eye for a moment, then dipped his head in solemn greeting.
“Good evening, sir,” he said. “Won’t you sign the book?”
I felt his eyes on me as I bent to scribble my name. I glanced at the signatures of those who had preceded me, but recognized none of the names. When I looked up, I realized the man had been watching me by the way his eyes slid away from my face.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, with another bow. “It’s the room to your left.”
I paused in the doorway to get my bearings. The casket sat on a little platform at the far end of the room surrounded by big sprays of gladioli and carnations. A bald-headed man and a fat woman were kneeling beside it, their heads inclined toward the body inside. Along the left wall, a row of straight-backed wooden chairs sat in a line, most of them empty. The rest of the room was occupied by metal
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