Father Conroy did not reply. Jimmy, to him, had always been a furtive small boy who sat among their legs under the kitchen table and occasionally drew a sleeve across his smile at some piece of gossip from on high. He had never considered what Jimmy thought of him, or indeed the fact that Jimmy had any thoughts worth consideration. That was his mistake. Jimmy might still be the boy around the place, but, away from home, he was making a name for himself. The badges that flashed on his lapels were emblems of the various organizations in which he held office – a Young Farmers’ Club, the Total Abstinence Society, the Gaelic League. He even wore the silver pelican of the veteran blood donors. Like a pirate ship, he sailed under any color which lulled suspicions for the moment. His own base color was charcoal gray, in various suits of which he milked cows, officiated at fund-raising dances, spread dung, and attended meetings of the county council to support his grand-uncle, James. And, of course, attended funerals.

Did he wear James’s gloomy castoffs? Hardly, for Jimmy was tall, and though the butterfat diet was beginning to loosen his belt somewhat, he could carry his weight well. A fine-looking fellow he was, even with Mikie Donovan for a father. Now, how would he have looked if Maurice had been his father? Something like Tomás?

Father Conroy stared at his nephew, trying to refashion him as Maurice’s son, whom he had last seen at the age of fifteen. Add twenty-five years, he thought, and subtract ten, for Jimmy’s about thirty now... And then, in exasperation, he realized that there was no relationship at all between the two men, beyond the fact that Tomás, unfortunately, was not a Conroy and Jimmy unfortunately was.

“Well, Jimmy,” he began, to break the silence, but at the intolerably avuncular quality of his voice, he knew he couldn’t go on.

“Yes, Uncle Tom?” Jimmy’s tone managed to convey solicitude. To hell with you, thought Father Conroy, and shot out, “Who’s coming, anyway?”

Jimmy glanced up toward the parlor after his mother and made a small grimace, as if such a direct approach were in doubtful taste. “Uncle James,” he admitted at last, “and some friends. Go on up to the room, will you?”

“I’m going up,” said Father Conroy.

Kate was blowing at the fire in the grate, which had burned down very low. She pushed a few twigs between the coals and fumbled a sheet of newspaper up to make a draft. “Tom,” she said, “would you ever keep an eye on this and get it going?” And she bustled purposefully out to the kitchen.