“Ah, yes, he sends them often, every Christmas. Americans do that, you know. It’s a business kind of thing, keeps them in touch with the trade.” He bustled into the study, began to shuffle through drawers full of papers. Father Conroy crowded behind him. “Yes, here’s one. I think it’s the latest.”

Father Conroy took it eagerly. The Christmas card was a family snapshot, set in a frame of holly and ivy. A man and woman and three, four, five children sat against a background of blue wallpaper. The face of one of the children caught his eye, a boy’s face, Tomás’ face, but with something different about it. The close-cropped hair, was it? No, of course not, that must be the son. And Father Conroy’s gaze wandered to the face of the man.

“You’d hardly know him, I suppose,” Bat said, watching. “I suppose he’s changed a bit.”

Yes indeed, changed a bit! Father Conroy would not have recognized the plump, smiling face under the balding forehead. A settled face! Christ, he thought, what a fool I am. Sure, this man is not Tomás, not any longer.

“He’s in insurance, I believe,” Bat said gently. “Put himself through college and all. There’s great credit due to a fellow that does the like of that.”

Father Conroy turned away.

“If you want the address, Tom, damn it, I may as well give it to you.”

“No, I don’t think I do.”

“Don’t mind about the Canon. I’ll explain if he gets huffy...”

“No,” burst out Father Conroy. “I don’t want it.”

He took his leave soon after, not waiting for the kettle to boil. Bat accompanied him to the car and stood in an awkward silence as he got in.

“You’re all right, Tom?”

“Game ball.”

“Don’t forget, now, what I told you.” He began his winking act again. “The spiritual reading, that’s the most important thing, boy, the spiritual reading and the prayers. And most of all, the beads.” Another conspiratorial wink. “The beads, Tom, the beads.”

“Thanks, Bat,” muttered Father Conroy.

As his car carried him away, he found that he was still holding the colored snapshot. He crushed it in the palm of his hand and flung it, raging, out the window.

Chapter 11

More moral support came next day, from an unexpected quarter. He was saying Mass in his oratory, when he heard a car come up the drive. “Qui es in coelis,” he said, ducking down, but he was too late to see it draw up on the gravel beneath the window. There was a peremptory toot on the horn. Who could it be? “Sanctificetur nomen tuum.”