Phelan Family, Helen
There are few flaws in this book; can't put it down. Beckett told us it had all been done; Kennedy showed it could still be done, and better.
Riding up the winding road of Saint Agnes Cemetery in the back of the rattling old truck, Francis Phelan became aware that the dead, even more than the living, settled down in neighborhoods. The truck was suddenly surrounded by fields of monuments and cenotaphs of kindred design and striking size, all guarding the privileged dead.
That room of Danny’s had some space to it. And it got the morning light too. It was a mighty nice little room.