Heaven's Embroidered Cloths

By Barry Rachin

On his deathbed, Mary McCarthy's father sputtered, "You should have married the Jew." The freckle-faced Irishman had always been a notorious practical jokester, a master of utterly tasteless and moronic one-liners, and never once in his seventy-plus years had the defiant braggart apologized to anyone, admitted a mistake or human frailty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barry Rachin
• Release date: Nov 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463173176

Barry Rachin

Born in Boston, Massachusetts, Barry Rachin spent several years stationed in Yokuska, Japan as a Navy medic caring for casualties during the Vietnam War. He has studied at the University of Jerusalem, lived on a kibbutz for a year and holds a degree in clinical counseling from Simmons College. A self-taught woodworker, he presently lives in Attleboro, Massachusetts with his wife and two daughters. 

Book preview

Heaven’s Embroidered Cloths

by

Barry Rachin

Heaven’s Embroidered Cloths

On his deathbed, Mary McCarthy’s father sputtered, You should have married the Jew. The freckle-faced Irishman had always been a notorious practical jokester, a master of utterly tasteless and moronic one-liners, and never once in his seventy-plus years had the defiant braggart apologized to anyone, admitted a mistake or human frailty.

I was dead wrong... you should have married the goddamn Jew, he repeated. His raspy voiced betrayed a note of mild consternation, resentment even, but whether the emotion was directed at his daughter or a belated act of contrition was unclear. 

It’s too late for that, don’t you think? Mary noted, adjusting the nasal oxygen so that her father could derive the maximum benefit. There was no reply. The oxygen catheter was more formality than serious medical intervention, and seven hours later at two in the morning Patty McCarthy died peacefully in his sleep.

At the Moriarty Funeral Parlor attendance was scarce. Only a handful of mourners clustered about Paddy McCarthy’s open casket. Mary noted a paternal aunt and uncle. Toward the middle of the empty room two elderly women who had no relationship whatsoever to the deceased were whimpering rather stridently and blotting their eyes with soggy Kleenex.  Professional mourners – the dead man’s daughter recognized the eccentric, old maid sisters who frequented the local funeral homes as morbid entertainment.

The local parish priest entered the room, made the