Stately, plump Fr. Flanagan came from the fair head, bearing a soul of rather enviable integritas to be entered in the parish's Book of Baptisms. The child—saved from oblivion and obloquy by a priest who would, later that day at nearby Wallis Sands, save a visiting Irish trumpet player named Joey St. John-Fagan from drowning. Two beings saved in one day—a phantasy in fact!

∼  Amaurón, You—Listless!

   "You fidgety little thing," said Fran as she peered down into the crib at her baby boy. "What are you up to?"

   "Him? He doesn't do anything," said Linda dejectedly.

   "He does everything a two-month-old is supposed to do. He eats and he sleeps and he tries to smile." She reached down and tickled his tummy. "Don't you my little pumpkin?"

   "But when's he going to play?"

   "He's not three like you. Kevin once said the same thing about you and now you're best of friends." Fran lifted the baby.

   "I can smell him, Mum."

   "Have you done a poo-poo in your diaper, my little man?" She looked at Linda with a knowing eye. "Better now than at the baptism." She carried him across her bedroom and laid him on a bassinet.

   Linda climbed onto a footstool and watched her mother remove the baby's nightgown and rubber pants. She leaned close for a better look and scrunched her face. "Oooh."

   "You're right there," said Fran, holding her breath and unfastening the pins to the cotton diaper. Linda hopped down and stepped on the pedal of a white-metal diaper pail, raising its lid.

   "I'll have to rinse this one out first."

   "He's stinky."

   "So you said. Hand me the washcloth, please."

   "When's he gonna talk?"

   "He's very clever," said Fran, wiping away the filth and feeling pleased at the absence of a rash. "And he's so, so cute, aren't you?" He kicked the air. "And he knows his mummy's voice," she beamed, "don't you my little precious, our little precious?"

   "When's he gonna talk?"

   "Not for a while, but he can already tell you things." Linda looked doubtful. "I'll show you. Put your finger in front of him. Not too close. He'll take hold it—all babies do that—but if he squeezes it tight, then he's telling you that he loves you." Fran guided the baby's arm by the elbow. The tiny hand latched onto Linda's finger, widening her eyes.

   "He loves me! Hey, don't eat my finger!"

   "And don't wipe it on your dress! You want to look as pretty as he will be handsome, don't you?" Fran pulled the baby's undershirt over his head. She trailed her fingers across his pudgy belly, making him squirm. "Powder," she said to Linda. "Thank you." Fran hummed while she dusted his bottom. "Diaper. Thank you. Rubber pants. Thanks again." Fran stopped, looked down at Linda, and repeated firmly, "Thank you."

   "You're welcome."

   "Now, give me your hands. Hold his side so that he doesn't roll off."

   "You said he wouldn't roll over for weeks."

   "I know, but just in case." Fran kept her eyes on them as she took a step backwards to the bed and retrieved the christening gown. "Got him?"

   "Ah-huh."

   "You're doing a great job." Fran slid the garment from the dry-cleaning bag. "Hold on."

   "I am!"

   Fran inspected the gown: not perfect but definitely less yellow. "This was your gown and Kevin's and Dad's and your uncles' and even Grampa Pete's." She cradled the baby's head in one hand and began the awkward task of sliding on the garment. His head popped through the frilled yoke with a soft whimper.

   "He doesn't like it," said Linda.

   "He only has to wear it once." She threaded his arms through embroidered puff-sleeves. "It's handmade—not many are these days—mostly cotton, but feel the smooth satin sides." Fran held the hem up. "This needlework is broderie anglaise that Grandma Nora added. Pretty fancy, huh?" She rolled the baby onto his stomach and tied the drawstrings. Then she lifted him to arm's length and said, "You handsome you." She turned to Linda and said, "Let's see if he passes inspection."

   They walked down the short hall to the living room, where Eric sat on the large braided oval rug watching Kevin build a house of Lincoln logs on the coffee table.

   "You can have this," she held up the soiled diaper, "or your son." Kevin's eyes shot up to her. "Your other son, I mean. What do you think, Kev?"

   He looked down at his project and mumbled, "He looks like a girl."

   Eric rose and said, "It's not a dress. It's a christening gown." He took the baby. "You wore it once."

   "As did all the Clondale men," said Fran. "Okay gang, time for church. Coats on kids and into the car. Eric, please get the diaper bag and bottles." She held up the diaper. "I'll deal with this doozy."

   Fifteen minutes later, Eric guided the family's Ford Customline into Saint Columba's parking lot. He waved to a departing station wagon.

   "Who was that?" asked Fran.

   "Delmore Skag, one of the scientists at the plant, an odd duck—most of them are—but he's got a slew of kids to contend with. He was probably here for a baptism. They say his wife delivered another set of twins or triplets."

   "Poor woman," said Fran, "but I didn't see her in the car."

   "No one's ever seen her. Rumor has it that he keeps her barefoot, chained to the kitchen stove and," he lowered his voice, "you know what."

   The Clondales climbed out of their car and were immediately engulfed by their guests. With one arm Eric hugged his parents' neighbor, roly-poly and always ebullient Marie LaPerle, while his other pumped the hand of her son Norm, a childhood friend who along with his wife, Celeste, would serve as a godparent. Celeste was the first to greet Fran. She quickly gave way to Fran's only siblings, Greta, who pulled at the baby's bunting for a better look, and Helen, who bristled slightly when Fran used her childhood nickname, Nellie. Their husbands, Phil Beuth and Sam Scelman, stood back silently smoking cigarettes. Also biding his time was Fran and Eric's elderly neighbor, Mr. Shaw, who leaned slightly on his cane and stroked his neatly trimmed white beard while Eric's maiden Aunt Sarah, and her widowed friend Annie, updated him on the Boston literary scene.

   Kevin and Linda found themselves wrapped in prolonged hugs from grandparents Nora and Pete while their four-year-old cousins, the Scelman twins Tommy and David, waited for their release. Nora tried to lift Linda but settled for a hug. "Oh, you've gotten so big, so much bigger than on your baptism, but you wouldn't remember that."

   "I don't even know what it is."

   "Of course you do. It's a very important sacrament of initiation. Do know what an 'initiation' is?"

   "No."

   "It's when you become part of something." She took Linda's white-gloved hands in her own. "Your brother is going to become a member of the church just like the rest of us."

   Linda reached out and fingered the gold-leaf brooch studded with pearls on Nora's lapel. "He'll have to go to Mass too?"

   "He'll want to go to with you and your family, yes."

   Nora heard Fran say, "Don't you think someone here looks a little like Shirley Temple today?"

   Nora put a hand on each of Linda's shoulders and carefully considered her face. "Let's see. This little girl has bright eyes and dimples." She lightly brushed Linda's light-brown curls, which cascaded just below her ears. "And with this curly top she looks like–"

   "Heidi!" blurted Linda

   "Oh, but much prettier, I'd say, because this lucky girl has a beautiful bright pink headband that's covered with real diamonds!"

   "OK everybody," called Eric. "That's enough chit-chat. Time to go in."

   The women straightened their hats and lowered their veils. The men straightened their neckties and buttoned their sports coats. Their conversations dwindled as they mounted the cement steps. Inside the foyer, they dabbed a finger in the ceramic dish of holy water, made the sign of the cross, and passed through another set of double-doors into the dark church.

   The four cousins walked together, with the oldest, Kevin, leading the way. The dimly-lit central aisle reminded him of the Cowardly Lion racing down a similar passage to flee the thundering wizard. That memory was jogged by the realization that it was Thanksgiving weekend, so that movie would be shown on television that night. He listened to the click of heels on the white marble. He heard it echo from the vaulted ceiling, knowing full well that it was an echo but wholly incapable of dismissing the fanciful notion that it was the rhythmic snap of their fingers. They were always up there hovering, those adult-size alabaster statues. He couldn't stop his eyes from traveling to the top of one of the dozen fluted columns until he gazed into the solemn face of an angel that stared straight back at him. Kevin's eyes fled to the angel's chest, where its hands held an unfurled scroll that proclaimed with gilt letters, "Ave Maria." He looked at the angel's lips and heard his first-grade teacher, Sister Dympna, recite, "gratia plena, Dominus tecum."

   Other voices joined in the prayer, for this angel was not alone. Atop each of the columns floated a similar enfiladed sentry, all of whom knew every one of his sins. Surely they did. He heard himself implore, "Tell no one about them, Gabriel. Be still, Raphael. I promise to be good, now and forever and forever . . ." His eyes slid down the column and wandered sideways to the church's outer walls, where bright stain glass windows displayed bearded men in robes, some crowned with golden nimbi. They stood in flat, barren landscapes that seemed both alien and inhospitable to his cheerful Rivermouth. He recognized most of the scenes from his catechism: Christ nailed to his cross, bleeding and ghastly white; the Apostles solemnly awaiting anointment; and the Virgin Mary rising through puffy clouds, her long fingers in prayer and her baby-blue eyes enraptured by something above.

   When Kevin and the others arrived at the bright altar they genuflected, made the sign of the cross again, and waited for Eric's cue. He approached the communion rail, knowing that Father Flanagan would be in the sacristy. He felt uncomfortable at mounting and crossing the altar, but fortunately the priest emerged from behind the rood screen wearing an emerald green surplice over a white alb. His round, translucent face offered them an eyes-only smile. He hardly broke stride as he briefly took Eric's hand on his march to the baptismal grotto in the north transept. The others flocked to the font, a bowl and plinth of wine-colored Egyptian porphyry generously flecked with crystals of snowy feldspar that brought it into harmony with the white marble floor. Fr. Flanagan eyed the words etched on its lip: Nipson anomemata me monan opsin.

   He brushed a strand of wispy white hair from his broad forehead and said, "Good morning everyone and may the Lord be with you."

   "And also with you," they chorused.

   The priest nodded to Eric, who removed the highly-polished brass lid and set it aside. "This is rather unusual," he said, "a baptism on Friday rather than Sunday." Fran shifted her feet uneasily. "I understand, however, with Thanksgiving yesterday and loved ones in town, so welcome one and all to this special day—a joyous day for the Clondale family—in which this small gift from God," he waved an open hand toward the baby in Fran's arms, "joins us as a member of the true faith." He looked into the shallow pool of holy water and said, "So to begin, what name do you give your child?"

   "Michalis Ioannis."

   Fr. Flanagan nodded as he silently translated the Latin names into ancient Hebrew: Mikha'el Johanan. The former asked rhetorically, "Who is like God?" No one, of course. The latter meant "God is gracious." It reminded him of John the Baptist as well as John Chrysostom, or "golden-mouthed John." The priest looked at the child. He saw a tiny bubble poised on his lip and wondered if this child would inherit the old country's gift of the gab.

   "Quid petis ab Ecclésia Dei?" he asked.

   "Fidem," answered Eric, happy to use his schoolboy Latin.

   "We ask for faith," agreed Fran.

   "Cad é atá sibh ag iarraidh ar Eaglais Dé do Míchél Seán."

   "We ask the church for Baptizô."

   In a slow, solemn tone the priest probed deeper, "Do you clearly understand what you are undertaking?"

   "Yes," they answered.

   Fr. Flanagan addressed the godparents. "Parrain et marraine, are you ready to help the parents of Michaël-Jean in their duty as Christian parents?"

   "We are."

   Fran handed Celeste her dozing baby, who was told by the priest, "Michele Giovanni, the Christian community welcomes you with great joy. In its name I claim you for Christ our Savior by the sign of the cross." He dipped his thumb in a silver bowl of oily chrism. "I now trace the cross on your forehead," balsam scenting the air, "and invite your parents and godparents to do the same."

   As the ceremony unfolded, the baby snoozed in his godmother's arms, hearing little and understanding none of the antiphonal chatter.

A reading from the Holy Gospel according to John:
There was one of the Pharisees called Nicodemus,
a leading Jew, who came to Jesus by night
. . . when perhaps hlör u fang axaxaxas mlö.

   He was entirely incapable of complying when the priest raised his hands and said, "Let us pray." And he had no idea that Mr. Shaw would do so on one occasion by reciting to himself a wholly secular Latin verse: Pronaque cum spectent animalia cetera terram, os homini sublime dedit caelumque videre iussit et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus. Or that the old man would look at him from beneath his bushy white eyebrows and speculate with amusement, Hic iacet Iohannes, rex quondam, rexque futurus?

   To the baby's psyche, all words were merely jumbled sounds—Polypragmos Belseborams framanto pacostiphos tostu, Mephastophilis . . . Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet . . . Salvia divinorum . . . Palinsarahgenesis . . . Nama min is mære, hæleþum gifre ond halig sylf—wholly unintelligible glossolalia, as was the aspersion that his soul was levied with ancestral sin. Something had to be done about that—that's why they had gathered—and that was okay with him, apparently, because he made no fuss whatsoever when Fr. Flanagan daubed him with the Oil of the Catechumens, fully expecting that it would protect the child from evil, temptation, and sin.

We anoint you with the oil of salvation in the name of Christ our Savior;
may He strengthen you with his power, who lives and reigns for ever and ever.

   The little fellow took no evasive action, either, when the priest lifted his silvery urn of water.

Praise to you, almighty God and Father,
for you have created water to cleanse and to give life.

   He paid no attention to the light laughter of anticipation that rose when Fr. Flanagan began the actual baptism, a harmonious blend of acts and words. Water flowed across the babe's brow once, twice, a final time—ta panta rhei—startling and making him cry briefly but not fully awakening him. Ah these Catholics, such practical jokers! And they weren't shy about asking personal questions, either.

Míchaël Iohannes, abrenuntias Satanæ et omnibus operibus ejus?

    "Indeed-a-ly," a college buddy would have replied. "Illegitimi non carborundum."

   He yawned and began to drift toward sleep only to have his ears perk when a far-away voice intoned, "higitus figitus, migitus mum." His eyes popped open. Then he heard the solitary word "prestidigitorium," which undoubtedly conferred the art of prestidigitation on him, or so he would have surmised years later. He pressed his little hand to his mouth as he heard the Great Proclaimer with a voice more awful than the sound of Joey St. John-Fagan's trumpet cry.

Is it your will that Michael John be baptized
in the faith of the Church, which we have all professed with you?

   "We do," his godparents assented on his behalf, not that the infant catechumen was grateful for their help. Not at all, but neither did he mind their assistance. He was, after all, in a pretty laid-back time of life. He hardly ever gave anyone a difficult time, the impeccant imp, who was entirely faultless in thought and deed, with nothing to repent whatsoever, which come to think of it wasn't entirely true because every once in while he would spew curdled milk down his mother's back, but then again wasn't that her fault for insisting on getting up "just one more bubble" with her thumping pats on his back? And yes, he had let fly with a similar gush at Mrs. Pincus' house, but shouldn't she have known better than to jounce a baby so heartily on her knee, making his head wobble and bobble until he spit up all over her screeching cat?

   Grandma Nora knew how to be more gentle. Nora, who had been sickly at birth and baptized privately by both her grandmothers, her mother and one of her aunts, all doing so on the sly, each whispering into her ear so that God could hear, "Ego te baptizo in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," each compelled to perform the ritual—to save her soul—by the indelible memory of diphtheria, smallpox, or consumption wringing the last gasp of breath from a little sister or brother in those days before man and science (or was it God himself?) provided antibiotics.

   Norm LaPerle stood and lit the Easter Candle as Fr. Flanagan explained,

Parents and Godparents, this light is entrusted to you to be kept burning
brightly. This child of yours has been enlightened by Christ. He is to walk always
as a child of the light. May he keep the flame of faith alive in his heart.

   The child of light sleep heard, saw, and emitted nothing.

The Lord Jesus made the deaf hear and the dumb speak. May He soon
touch your ears to receive his word and your mouth to proclaim his faith.

   Familiar with the end of the liturgy, some of the guests turned their thoughts to lunch, pondering what act of subterfuge might be required to obtain a piece of Nora's scrumptious Boston Cream pie.

May He send his peace upon all who are gathered here,
Christ Jesus Our Lord, Aiméan.

*         *         *

   Located only a ten-minute stroll from St. Columba in downtown Rivermouth, Nora and Pete's three-storey Victorian of white clapboards and forest-green shutters stood on the corner of Pring and Mason streets. Its red-brick walkway led from the cement sidewalk to a trio of steps, and the lady of the house appreciated visitors who wiped their soles on the strip of metal cleated to the first one before climbing onto the broad porch. Likewise, she would be pleased if they took a moment to admire the heavy oak door and especially its pane of frosted glass, which was etched with a large urn overflowing with flowers. They could make her happier still if they carefully considered how few twists of the key in the middle of the door it took to ring the mechanical bell and summon her.

   Yes, the Clondale residence was one of the better homes in the neighborhood known as Sylvan Grove. Indeed, some considered it a tad grand for a railroad station master, with its matching garage and Nora's lot-size vegetable garden. Nora would agree, with the same conviction that it was the Clondales' business alone as to how they came to afford it. Pete was just as certain that she didn't need to know all the details as to how he, a relative blow-in from Worcester, had managed to be named to such an important post.

   In its dining room, Eric reached into a mahogany cabinet and asked the men who had attended the baptism, "Well, gentlemen, shall we wet the baby's head?" Eric withdrew a new bottle of Canadian Club and smiled at the thought of freely dispensing his father's whiskey. "Why not?"

   "Pleasant enough ceremony," said Mr. Shaw through the clench on his unlit pipe. "The one thing about Catholics, they'll take you as soon as you're warm, wouldn't you say, Eric?"

   "Were you raised a Catholic, Mr. Shaw?" asked Sam Scelman, a burly man with dark hair he kept short.

   "I'm a Christian and that obliges me to be," he raised his voice slightly, "a Communist."

   Only Eric chuckled. He handed the old fellow a glass and said, "You'd better not say that too loud these days, Mr. Shaw, or Senator McCarthy will have you up before his committee. Still, I get your drift." He clinked his glass. "It's easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God."

   "McCarthy!" scoffed Mr. Shaw. "The Wisconsin weasel. Bloody Tory!"

   "We call them Republicans, the loyal opposition, in this country," said Sam.

   "Ike's doing a good job," said Phil. "The Commies gotta respect a guy like him."

   "Ahem," said Helen as she stepped amongst them with a silver coffee pot. "Not to tear you away from your precious politics, but would anyone like coffee? The cups and saucers are there on the table." She held the pot up. "I see not," she said and quickly headed back to the high-pitched chatter of the kitchen.

   "Has it ever struck you as curious," asked Shaw, "that two very limited mortals were allowed to appear at my baptism and explain that they would be my godparents and would look after my salvation until I was no longer a child?"

   "Cookies?" asked Greta, appearing with a heaping plate.

   "Thank you," said her husband Phil, who knew she'd risen early that morning to bake them.

   Shaw continued. "I must have seen that lady four times in the next twenty years, and she never once alluded to my salvation in any way."

   "My godparents lived in Worcester," said Eric. "Aunt Anna and Uncle Alain."

   "Mine moved somewhere out west when I was young," offered Phil.

   "People occasionally ask me," continued Mr. Shaw, "to act as godfather to their children with a levity that convinces me they haven't the faintest notion as to what it involves other than showing me the courtesy of naming their helpless child George after me."

   "Blessed are the barren," said Phil, raising his glass "the wombs that never bore and the breasts that never nursed."

   "That's quite enough of that, I'll thank you," said an unexpected voice from behind him. "My goodness, who would say such a thing?"

   "Oh, sorry Nora."

   "Yes," she frowned.

   "I was just saying to Eric that it's a pity Father Mike couldn't attend. He's still in Schenectady?"

   Her tone softened at the name of her much-older brother. "Yes, helping out at the Paulist Center when he can." She turned to Eric. "Have you seen your father?"

   "Upstairs, playing trains with the boys."

   "Fran's just taken the baby up to my room for a nap, so please bring them down quietly. Fran will open the gifts in the parlor presently."

   A few minutes later, the women settled in the large sun-filled room while the men stood in the double-wide doorway that separated it from the dining room. Fran sat between her sisters on the sofa while Eric knelt across from her on the other side of the coffee table, which was stacked with packages and envelopes. He couldn't help marveling at the strong resemblance between Fran and Helen, both with light skin and strawberry blonde hair with a natural curl that fell to their shoulders. Greta was much shorter and less fair, with decidedly dark brown hair she often pulled back into a pony tail. As Eric and Fran continued with the gifts, the men slowly fell further back into the dining room.

   "Those New York Football Giants look done," moaned Sam.

   "Yea, Conerly's getting old," suggested Pete.

   "I've taken the train in to see 'em a couple of times at the Polo Grounds."

   "Where exactly in Connecticut do you live, Sam?" asked Pete.

   "We say West Hartford, but we're in Bristol."

   The city reminded Pete of a blizzard, a snowbound train, and a night spent in the Prospect Hotel & Café with his brother Paul. It had been a sleepless night because the barmaid's girlfriend snuck up the backstairs and kept Paul "company" while Pete sat in the lobby thumbing through magazines and trying to stay awake while the desk clerk droned on about how tough insomnia was to beat.

   "Bristol is a dead-end town when it comes to sports," sighed Sam. "We had minor-league baseball, but the Owls folded a couple of years back. I enjoy watching the Giants. Who knows? It might be their year. That kid Gifford looks like a Pro Bowl player."

   "I think the Browns are finally going to come through," said Eric. He reached out and took hold of a passing arm. "What do you think, Aunt Sarah, who's the class of the NFL this year?"

   She didn't hesitate. "Buddy Parker has the Lions playing very well, indeed." The men started to laugh but stopped at her deadpan.

   "The oracle has spoken," chuckled Eric, who gave her a quick peck on the cheek as she turned for the parlor, "so wager accordingly, gentlemen."

   "No flies on that tough ol' bird," said Pete in a low tone. "She's just like her father. He wanted to name her Nina."

   "Nina Ahearn?" said Eric. "That's not very Irish."

   "Quite to the contrary," said Pete. "Your grandfather thought it stood for 'No Irish Need Apply,' something he wanted his children to never forget." He shook his head. "Sarah is just like him: certain of what she wants and determined to get it."

   "She's her own man," said Sam, causing them to laugh softly. He turned to Eric and asked, "You planning on taking in a Celtic's game this year? Maybe your ol' man," he pointed with his thumb at Pete, "can get you a free ride on one of his Buddliners."

   "The Celts?" asked Eric. "Maybe. They've never won anything and probably never will."

   "It's nice having ballgames on television," said Phil. "How do you like your new set, Pete?"

   "Nora calls it 'one more thing to dust,' but mind you, she has her favorite programs." He dropped his voice again. "You know, she has me fetch Kevin and Linda every once in a while so that she doesn't have to watch Howdy Doody all by herself."

   "Bandstand!" exclaimed Eric. "You should see Fran and Dolores over at the house, dancing away, the two of them twirling Linda and laughing up a storm. It's become quite a ritual, I'll tell ya."

   "Flash in the pan," said Pete. "All that whoop-and-hollerin' colored music. It won't last."

   "I'll tell you what is a flash," said Eric. "Black-and-white sets. I was reading in a trade journal that it won't be long before all they make is color sets. Wait and see."

   "Can't," said Phil. "Can't wait here, anyway. It's time Greta and I high-tailed it back to Scarborough. That motel of ours doesn't run itself."

   Others soon followed them out the door. One of the last to leave was Marie LaPerle, who told Nora, "I think we've got this kitchen back to normal."

   "Neat as a pin, Marie. You were a great help."

   "I'll just poke my head in the other room and say good-bye to Pete."

   "He's out on the porch, hopefully making plans to white-wash it come springtime."

   He was doing exactly that when Marie stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind her. "There you are, Pete."

   "Here I am, Marie," he said, flicking ash from a cigar into the flower bed below.

   "Lovely day."

   He watched one of his smoke rings drift apart. "A corker."

   She stopped at the bottom step. "It was thoughtful of Eric and Fran to ask Norm and Celeste to be godparents. It meant a lot to them, I know."

   "The kids go back a long way. Seems like only yesterday they got stuck up in that ol' maple over there.

   "Trying to rescue the cat."

   "And the cat stood right beside the ladder and waited for them while Marty went up after them. Good times."

   "Weren't they, though," she smiled and started down the walkway. "But time flies and so must I. Got things to do."

   Not much, Pete thought, not with her five kids grown and Marty three years gone from a sudden heart attack.

   "Smells like snow in the air," he said. Marie stopped at the sidewalk and scanned the low gray sky. "I don't want to see you out there trying to shift it again this winter. Just hold your horses. I'll send the Donovan boy over after he's finished here."

   "That's kind of you, Pete."

   He nodded. "And Marie," she slowed, "was that you who made it to the bottom of my whisky bottle?"

   "I only had a drop in my tea," she called over her shoulder, "to bring your grandson luck."

   Luck, he thought, tapping his cigar on the rail. A little luck goes a long way. He stood up and gave one of the porch columns a friendly pat and let his mind wander back to August of 1937. Once again he heard the thick French-Canadian accent on the phone of his sister Anna's husband Alain, a wiry, chain-smoking carpenter in Worcester.

   "Take da nine o'clock tren," his voice crackled. "We pick you up at Nord Station."

   "We? Who's 'we' and where are we going?"

   Pete heard him exhale smoke, "Where da ya t'ink? Where we go wid yer mudda if she still wid us t'day, God res' her soul. An' wear yer suit, so you don't look like no bum."

   Pete countered, "It was you who insisted on going to the track, Alain, not my mother. Who's 'we' anyway?"

   "Nevah you mine dat stuff. We gotta car, so jes be der on Sadderday da s'benth. In person, be der."

   Pete knew he had to work that day. He'd schedule himself for an inspection run into Boston. "Talk now, Alain. What's the latest on my mother's estate?"

   "Was wrong wid you? Ders a Depression on, ya know and dis is costin' me beaucoup da money. Beaucoup! Jes be der Pete, for cryin' out loud."

   "OK, all right. Let me say hello to my sister."

   He heard two loud taps and Alain say, "'Allo, 'allo, can you here me now? Dis call cost me 'nuf already. Be der next Sadderday." Click!

   The other person turned out to be Frank Kelley, the lawyer handling his mother's estate. Frank lacked physical stature but little else. A dazzling white handkerchief flowered from the breast pocket of his dark pinstripe suit. He strode from trackside to his car in a pair of glossy black-and-white spectator shoes, with his chin leading the way. The back seat of his gold Buick Roadmaster convertible (spoils from a client's recent bankruptcy) contained his bleach-blonde wife, Gianna. Her name explained her deep, dark eyes. It was utterly consistent with her carmine lips. And it seemed far better suited to a woman with the habit of sighing while she slowly crossed and re-crossed her willowy legs than "Nora."

   Gianna leaned over and blew Frank a kiss when he dropped her in front of the Parker House, where she would lunch with a childhood friend before exploring the sartorial delights of E.T. Slattery's. Pete wasn't the only person in the car who watched her wiggle up the steps.

   He was, however, the only one who wanted to discuss matters of probate. Alain studied The Daily Racing Form while Frank complained about the traffic that crawled toward Suffolk Downs racetrack in East Boston.

   "The big one today, Pete, the big one" said Frank, his voice husky with drama.

   "I read about it in the paper on the way down."

   "The Massachusetts Handicap. Big crowd, big crowd." Frank often repeated himself, which made him well-suited to his profession.

   About 40,000 packed into the facility, most of them men in white shirts and ties, with a sport coat draped over one arm and the other fanning his sweaty brow with a felt fedora. Fortunately, Frank knew someone who knew someone who could provide seats high in the shaded grandstand where an occasional waft of air off the cool harbor provided momentary relief. When the time for the "big one" came, Frank adopted a surprisingly serious tone with Alain. "Bloodlines, bloodlines, it's all about having great bloodlines, and all the top horses here got 'em, so how do you know which horse to put the money on, which horse?"

   "I jes bet da fav'rite, dat's all."

   "Short odds," said Frank, "but understandable. Pollard's been cracking a good whip for . . . how many wins in a row?"

   "Six races on da trot," said Alain. "Hey! dat's a funny. Get it? A horse on da trot?"

   "I get it, Alain," said Pete, "but my two bucks are on War Admiral."

   "Not gonna be his day, I can feel dat in my bones," said Alain. He withdrew a hand-whittled toothpick and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. He said nothing for the mile and an eighth of hoof-pounded, dirt-flung track that it took to be proven right. Frank punched the air and then Alain's ribs playfully, exclaiming with glee, "I'll be damned! You came through for her. You lucky Canuck bastard!"

   "Her?" asked Pete.

   "Bloodlines!" said Alain. "The son 'a Hard Tack and da gran'son a da immortal Man O' War come tru for us, eh. Luck, hah!"

   "Bloodlines?" said Pete, ripping up his losing ticket. "It was a horse race not a coronation. You didn't know who was going to come out on top, so stop gloating. Collect your winnings and meet us in the car."

   The parking lot was nearly empty by the time Alain joined them. He sat up front beside Frank, glanced over his shoulder at Pete, and pulled a dark-green Worcester National Bank bag from his suit coat. Frank guided it under a copy of that morning's Worcester Telegram & Gazette and drove to the far end of the lot. With the car idling, he retrieved the bank sack and dumped its contents of banded banknotes onto the seat.

   "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" exclaimed Pete.

   "Some haul, eh, sonny boy," said Alain.

   Frank started counting the cash and sorting it into four stacks. When he'd finished he handed one to Pete. "There you go, my boy. That's your inheritance of $2,630 from your mother's estate as approved by the probate court, the Honorable Christopher J. Gordon presiding but soon to be in shock on hearing how your mother's instructions turned out. Alain, would you do the next honor?"

   Alain picked up a smaller stack and offered it to Pete. "And here's haf dat amount: yer winnins courtesy of da greatest horse on da track today and I'm not talk' 'bout no War Admiral. G'wan, take it."

   Pete accepted the money. He pointed the larger bundle at Frank. "Are you telling me this is my inheritance?" He waved it at Alain. "And you bet half of it on a damn horse?" He turned to Frank. "And you let him?" He stuck it close to Alain's nose. "And you won this?"

   "No," said Alain. "You won it."

   Frank added, "So says the Gaming Commission of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts." He handed Alain the remaining stacks. "All in accordance with your mother's wishes, Pete. Here's a copy of her will for your records."

   Pete took it and asked Alain, "Did she specifically say to bet against this year's Triple Crown winner?!"

   Frank said, "He did that on his own. Imagine your mother trusting this Frenchie, amazing."

   "Hey, when da horse has left da barn, I know how fast it goes, OK? Hey Frank, can ya b'lieve dat horse won more den fifty G's t'day?"

   "You risked half my money on a longshot?" asked Pete.

   "No way, Pete," said Alain, shaking his head and looking serious. "Dat horse left da gate at even money." He picked up the other two stacks. "B'sides, I did da same wid my own money."

   "With Anna's money!"

   "With our money," he said, rifling some of the notes and smirking. He took out his pack of cigarettes. Frank looked at him severely, so Alain told him, "I can afford ta take d'tren back, so take me ova ta South Station, Monsieur Avocat. I'm gonna enjoy a smoke or two or t'ree and not haf ta lissen to you no more t'day."

   Pete collapsed into his seat. "I don't believe it."

   "Start believing," said Frank. "Look, here's an affidavit stating that Alain placed the bet, etcetera, etcetera. Read it over if you like. Alain, would you get the pen-and-ink set from the glove compartment, please. Here's a receipt for the money, Pete. Fill in the amount and initial that figure. Affix your 'John Hancock' above your typed name. I'm much obliged, sir."

   Pete took the paperwork. He shook his head and mused aloud, "Was she entirely out of her mind?"

   "Your mother?" asked Frank. "It is my considered opinion that you would be the one of unsound mind were you to ask me to raise that issue upon my return to court."

   Alain said, "God bless da ol' girl, eh Pete. And what will Nora think? Poor girl, she'll have to move out of dat duplex in Sleepy Hollow and move inta a roomy place wid her own yard.

   "It's not as simple as that."

   Frank put the car in gear and said, "Complicated? Oh, I think most women find life a whole lot simpler when they're living mortgage-free."

   Pete watched Marie step inside her house. He stood up, took out his silver pocket watch, and noted the time. He wrapped his knuckles on the white column and went inside to say good-bye to Eric and Fran, who were leaving Kevin and Linda for the night.

   Later that night, while asleep in his father's old room, Kevin saw the angels in the church swoop down from their columns and swarm after him. He ran as fast as he could across an open field. The furious beat of their wings drove him on and on. Suddenly, he felt small hands seize his arms and legs. Up he rose! He looked down and saw his feet pedaling the air. He watched in horror as his brand new PF Flyer sneakers fell from his feet and tumbled away, robbing him of the ability to run faster and jump higher than he had ever done before. He saw his socks curl and shrink inside his pant legs. He gasped and turned to beg his captors to set him free. He knew they would, those merciful angels of God, but when he looked over his shoulder his eyes were frozen by the hideous grin of a hairy-faced monkey. He wrenched his eyes forward and saw that he was being carried through stormy clouds to a dark castle atop a desolate mountain.

   He couldn't believe this was happening! Then a faceless nun in a black habit flew past him on a broomstick. He heard her cackle with the voice of his neighbor, crotchety old Mrs. Kenton, "You'll believe in more than that before I'm finished with you."

   He screamed, "Muuuuuuuum!!!"

   "And your little brother, too."

NEXT SECTION: Chapter 7 - Autumn's Fall or Chapter 7–Annotated