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Buick leave the driveway, Mother flicked her fingernail on her crystal water glass. And called our first Breakfast Meeting to order.

    My appointed seat at the table was to my father’s left.
    Mother had told me that this was the “guest of honor” position, but later I found out she had told Cabot hers was the guest-of-honor position, and Luke his was the guest-of-honor position, and when I finally consulted Emily Post , I learned that the official guest-of-honor position is to the head-of-the-table’s right. And that seat, next to Dad, belonged to Matt. Naturally. He was a boy.
    â€œI look like a boy. That should count for something,” I’d complained to Cabot. But of course she was upset I’d just informed her she wasn’t any guest of honor herself.
    Anyway, that’s how it had always been at the table, each of us having an appointed seat, each of us believing we were the guest of honor, and bound to our best decorum because of the big compliment.
    But after Dad left for work that Friday of the first Breakfast Meeting, I slipped out of my chair and into his. From here, I had the best view of Mother. With her shoulder-length hair and flowing red robe, with my brothers and sisters lining the table like tiny apostles, she looked like one of those Last Supper paintings of Jesus, which sometimes make the Son of God look like a girl.

    Mother flicked her fingernail on her crystal water glass. “Listen up, angels. The purpose of these meetings will be to organize our souls and learn to pray together to achieve our spiritual goals.”
    In other words, no more lapsing. She was planning to run a much tighter spiritual ship. You could tell. We were Catholic and she wanted to keep it that way. Plus she was probably making it up to God for sending us to private schools.
    She stood up and went to the buffet table, where, from under the soft gray felt silverware cases there, she slipped something out. I sat up, trying to see. But whatever it was, it was tucked under her sleeve until she stood back at the end of the table.
    Then she held up a stack of pamphlets. “These are for you to keep, and you must take care of them. Each of you gets six. Cabbie, count six for yourself and pass the rest down.”
    Cabot said, “What about Lucy?”
    In the high chair next to Cabot sat Lucy, another former guest of honor.
    Mother nodded. “She’ll like the pictures.”
    So Cabot counted six pamphlets for herself, then six more for Lucy, and passed the rest down. Lucy set them out on the tray of her high chair, then launched them one by one to the floor.
    When I got mine, I saw they were prayer pamphlets. On the covers, they had pictures of saints, all with halos on their heads. Some had things like lions and eagles riding on their shoulders, or falcons in the palms of their hands. They were very unusual. I looked up at Mother. She must have bought a religion store.
    She nodded at me to hurry the process along. I quickly counted six and passed the rest to Matt. He gave me a look, but I didn’t look back.
    Mother flicked her water glass. “I don’t want you reading these now. But I’d like you to study them later, in your rooms. We’re going to be deciding on something to pray for, as a unit.”
    Matt said, “You mean like a family unit? Something like that?”
    â€œYes, like a family unit.”
    â€œOh. Just asking.”
    â€œStraighten up, Matt.”
    Cabot said, “No slouching,” which was completely unnecessary, since Mother had already said straighten up. Besides, it just made Matt sink farther down.
    Mother flicked her water glass. “Now, you all know what a novena is, don’t you?”
    We looked around at each other, unsure.
    Cabot said, “They do.”
    â€œWould you like to refresh their memories, Cab?”
    In a snooty, singsong voice, Cabot said, “A novena is a series of prayers recited to a single saint every