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well.”
    So we all sat down. Dinner was really fun. They let me have a tiny bit of wine in a little wee glass. It was a dark red and tasted kind of sharp at first; then, I really liked it.
    “This is damn good wine, Father,” Mum said. “I hope it didn’t cost you a month’s pay.”
    “Well, they took up a special collection for me at the church, Mrs.
    MacNeil, knowing as they do that I live in the spirit of poverty. Just following in the footsteps of our Lord and His disciples.”
    “Oh, you’re a saint, Father.”
    “Ah, now, all this talk from yourself and so many others about me being a saint, it embarrasses me. If Holy Mother Church deems it appropriate to canonize me after my passing, so be it. In the mean-while, I’m here to serve as best I can.”
    “And serve you do, so generously. Taking your last coin and spending it on a little treat for us.”
    “And a drop for meself, too, now. I’m not as selfless as I’m portrayed in the local . . .” He said a word like “geography” but with something like “hag” instead of “geo.” So I asked what that was.
    He said: “Hagiography. A book about the life of a saint.”
    “Okay.”
    He looked at me and my wineglass then. “Whoa! Take it easy, little one. Don’t be getting too fond of the drink there, Normie!”
    “I won’t!” If you get too fond of drinking, you become an alcoholic.
    Which is bad. But I don’t have that problem. I can drink or not drink; 17

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    either way is fine with me. I didn’t ask for seconds when I was done.
    “Future sainthood aside, Father, do they ever take you to task over at the rectory for all the high living you do? The worldly pleasures you enjoy? Wine, whiskey, cigars, rich food . . .”
    “They do, darlin’. I’m on my knees every night, in contrition. But the bishop usually lets me off the hook when he knows I’ve eaten here. ‘No sumptuous dining tonight, eh, Brennan? Gnawed on a few tough scraps at the MacNeil house again? Offer it up to God, my son.’ But you’ve out-done yourself tonight. By far the best meal I’ve ever enjoyed here.”
    “Father?”
    “Mmm?”
    “Pòg mo thòn.”
    I didn’t get what they were talking about, but I wrote it all down in my personal diary anyway, and looked up the spelling of some words. I think it was just a joke about Mum’s cooking. She’s not a great cook, even though she’s a great mother. But I do know what she said to him at the end: it’s Scottish Gaelic for — and it’s not me saying this, it’s Mum — kiss my arse!
    So it was funny to listen to them talking, even if some of it didn’t make sense to me. A couple of times I saw Father Burke staring at the baby, then he looked away, as if it’s rude to stare at someone’s baby.
    But it isn’t. Everyone likes people to look at their baby because everybody thinks their own baby is cute. Even if it isn’t. But ours is.
    Then there was a loud knock on the door.
    “Who could that be?” Mum said. It always drives Dad crazy when the phone or the doorbell rings and Mummy asks who it might be.
    The whole family is like that, Mum’s side anyway. Daddy just says:
    “Answer it. Mystery solved.”
    Anyway she got up and went to the door.
    “Oh!” I heard her say. “What are you doing here?”
    “I came to see my son!”
    “I don’t believe there is a piece of paper filed anywhere in this province that names you as the father of my child!”
    “Don’t make jokes. I want to see him!”
    Anybody would know who that was, because of his Italian accent.
    He had long curly brown hair and dark eyes, and looked like somebody in a movie. It was Mum’s old boyfriend, Giacomo. We had not 18

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    seen him for ages. Me and Tommy thought they broke up. Now he was at the door. And then he was in the dining room. Gawking at Dominic in his high chair.
    “I do not care what your papers say or do not