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funeral mass and burial were set for Tuesday morning. After that, we would take the train back home.
    Neighbors and church members had been stopping by with food platters that Aunt Elizabeth had categorized at three levels: items for the refrigerator; items for the deep freeze; and items for the trash. Aunt Elizabeth offered us ham sandwiches and potato salad from the refrigerator, which we ate in silence.
    The rest of the day dragged on. When the sun finally set, Aunt Elizabeth led us all into my grandfather’s study, the room that my dad always referred to as “the holy shrine.”
    Martin Mehan’s study had been preserved by Aunt Elizabeth as if it were just as important as John F. Kennedy’s birthplace, around the corner. The room contained a large writing desk, a pair of matching leather couches with end tables, two wing chairs in the Queen Anne style, and two tall, sturdy bookcases containing Martin Mehan’s books, photos, and certificates. All had the smell of the past—old paper, dust, a hint of mildew.
    Many of the items dated to the year 1940. That year marked the beginning of my grandfather’s government career, when he worked for Ambassador Joseph P. Kennedy in London. Other items were from the years he spent at the Commerce Department in Boston. The most recent photo showed my grandfather on his eightieth birthday, holding a telegram from the White House. To me he looked crazed, like the old man in the Rembrandt painting at All Souls, the one with the long knife.
    Aunt Elizabeth began to reminisce aloud about the great Martin Mehan, and his career, and his church work. I could see Dad and Margaret go instantly brain-dead. Even Mom seemed disinterested. Listening to Aunt Elizabeth, I realized how few personal memories I had of my grandfather. Although I had been with him at least once a year for the first nine years of my life, I could honestly say I had no idea what he was really like. After a few minutes, I drifted away from the group and sat on the leather couch that, by tradition, served as my bed.
    As soon as I sat down, I noticed a very cool-looking radio on the end table. The radio was made of three different kinds of polished wood. It was about two feet tall and a foot and a half wide; its sides rose upward to a smooth, curved top. The dial was amber, and the control knobs were a deep mahogany. It struck me as one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. I turned the radio around slightly and looked into its open back. An assortment of tubes and wires filled the bottom half of the dusty space. At the top, inside the curve, I saw some marks on the wood made in black ink.
    Suddenly I realized that Aunt Elizabeth was talking to me. “Do you like that radio, Martin?”
    “Uh, yeah. I guess I do.”
    “Good. Because it’s yours.”
    “What? How’s that?”
    “Mother specifically asked that, upon her death, this radio go to you. She was quite adamant about it, too.”
    Mom sat next to me and examined the radio. “I’ve never seen this before. Was it Father’s?”
    “It was. But he never liked it. He stuck it up in the attic when he came home in 1941, and that’s where it stayed. Then, one day, out of nowhere, Mother asked me to go up and find it.”
    “For Martin?”
    “No. For herself. She said she wanted to listen to it. She sat in here for hours, tuning in scratchy stations.” She explained to me, “It will only pick up AM stations, and only if they’re close by.”
    Mom leaned closer. “It’s a beautiful piece of furniture, though.”
    Margaret agreed. “It’s a fine example of Art Deco.” She looked at me. “Art Deco was all the rage in the 1930s.” She looked at Aunt Elizabeth. “Is it American?”
    “It is. But Father had it with him at the Embassy. It spent at least a year of its life in London.”
    I moved to head her off before we plunged back into the family story. “I wonder why Nana wanted to listen to it. Maybe she was missing the old days?”
    Aunt Elizabeth