the mooring

The rosary beads were white and stunningly opalescent, bought at Lourdes in 1958 when Delia Graney ventured there for the cure. Unfortunately, the powers at Lourdes failed Delia, and her arthritis accompanied her for fifty-two more years until she died at the age of ninety-seven.
The beads were now thoughtfully woven through her fingers as she lay in the satin-lined casket in Costello's Funeral Parlor. The golden crucifix that started each rosary with the Apostle's Creed was carefully balanced on the back of her gnarled right hand.
Her grandson, Patrick Graney, a thoughtful young man of thirty-two, knelt at the mahogany casket and then touched her cold hands before he rose and walked to the back of the crowded room. The overpowering smell of lilies made him slightly nauseous.
Johnny Graney, a long-lost uncle, one that appeared only at funerals, sidled up to him and leaned his shoulder against the papered wall. Uncle Johnny had the same broad nose that spread across all the Graney faces. "A roomful of god damned pugilists," one cousin loved to say whenever there was a gathering.
"It's time you're let in on the family secret Patrick," said Johnny.
"Excuse me," Patrick answered.
"Every family has their secrets Patrick."
Patrick looked at him uneasily and then scanned the room.
"Your great grandfather was a black man, Patrick."
Johnny faced out, not looking at Patrick, and spoke very softly.
"He's the man no one talks about, right? Why do you think that is? A very light-skinned black man from Barbados, Patrick. He was murdered. At least that's the guess. Not too popular to get an Irish girl pregnant in those days."
Patrick stared blankly as the line of cousins, aunts, uncles, and friends waiting to kneel before the casket of Delia Graney.