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Supper time became exercises in agony.

“I see in the paper where a fellow who left his religion got killed in a car crash in Boston,” my father would offer to no one in particular.

“I’m not leaving my religion,” Armand would reply, addressing the picture of the St. Lawrence River on the wall. “She’s willing to take religious instruction, to go halfway …”

“Pass the gravy,” my father would say.

And my mother would pass the gravy to my father while she looked with stricken eyes at Armand.

Or, my father would announce:

“I understand that the Blanchemaisons are going
to lose their house. To the bank. A big-shot Protestant there is signing the papers tomorrow.”

“Mister Blanchemaison has been drunk for six months and his family’s on relief. It’s the city that’s making the bank take the house,” Armand explained, looking at me as if I had brought up the question.

“And who’s the mayor of the city? A Protestant, that’s who,” my father announced triumphantly to Esther, who looked at him in perplexity.

Or, with a quiet air of victory, he would ask my mother, “You know Theophile LeBlanc, the caterer? Well, he was putting on a feed at a fancy Protestant wedding last Saturday. He said that it was disgusting. Nobody sang any songs, nobody danced and nobody even got drunk. They stood around and ate sandwiches made with crackers. People who don’t sing and dance at a wedding: they don’t have hearts …”

One day I burst into the house after finally winning a ball game (although I almost spoiled the victory by giving up four home runs in the ninth inning) and found the rooms unusually quiet, all the kids gone off somewhere, and my father at work. I heard voices in the parlor and was about to enter when I halted in my tracks, held back by the intimate quality of the voices.

“I know, I know, Armand,” my mother was saying. “I agree that she’s a nice girl. Polite and charming. But going behind your father’s back to meet her is one thing—inviting her here, without warning him, is another …”

“But don’t you see, Ma,” Armand said, “that he thinks all Protestants are some kind of monsters
because he’s never really known one? I’ll bet he’s never spoken more than five minutes with a Protestant. You met Jessica. You say she’s a fine girl. I think Pa will, too, if he has a chance to meet her …”

“I still get the shivers wondering what he’ll say when he learns that I’ve met her, that we sat in a drugstore together and had a college ice …”

“Please, Ma,” Armand pleaded. “His bark is worse than his bite. You always said he’s a sentimental man.”

“I don’t know, Armand, I don’t know,” she said, her voice tender and troubled.

I drew back in horror, appalled at the conspiracy, my mother’s treachery, her disloyalty to my father. I ran up the street to meet him; and as I saw him stalking home from work, I became aware for the first time of my father as a
person
, not simply a big man who either roared with anger or boomed with laughter, who consumed incredible amounts of beer and whose word was law. Knowing that he could be betrayed gave him a sudden, human countenance. I studied the deep lines on his face, the network of wrinkles near his eyes that had always fascinated me because of their resemblance to spider webs, and I realized that they were the result of long hard days at work and the problems of bringing up a family. And instead of bursting out my information, I remained silent and carried his empty lunchpail, shy with him suddenly and warm and itchy all over my body.

The following Sunday afternoon, I cried out in astonishment as I glanced out the parlor window
and saw Armand coming along the sidewalk with a girl. He held her elbow tenderly, as if she were fragile and precious beyond price. He didn’t look where he was going but gazed at her raptly. I had to admit that I did not blame him for staring at her: she was slender and blond and lovely, dressed in something pink and white, and the colors blended with the soft tones of her delicate face. The autumn wind rose suddenly and she lifted her hand to hold a tiny pink hat, the gesture filled with grace. I myself would have gladly run a mile to chase that hat for her if the wind chanced to blow it off.

My mother stood beside me, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide with concern. She looked like the guilty party who is unmasked in the last chapter of the serials at the Globe Theater on Saturday afternoons.

“God help us,” she whispered breathlessly. Straightening her shoulders and sighing, she called to my father: “Louis, company’s coming up the street …”

My father, who was in the kitchen listening to the Red Sox baseball game on the radio, groaned loudly. “Company? Who comes to disturb a man after dinner on Sunday?” My father pretended that he wanted only privacy on weekends or in the evenings, but when company did arrive he played the role of the perfect host to the hilt, keeping the beer flowing and my mother busy serving food. People usually found it hard to leave because my father always insisted on one more drink, one more joke, one more argument.

My mother greeted Armand and Jessica at the
front door as my father entered the living room, yawning and straightening his tie. Armand’s entrance caught him with his mouth wide open. My father jerked his tie, his mouth closed in surprise and he stood rigidly in the doorway.

The scent of a subtle perfume filled the air as the girl entered. Her eyes were blue, and for the first time I realized that blue was the most beautiful color in the world.

“This is Jessica Stone,” Armand announced, his hand still at her elbow but protectively now. “Jessica, this is my father and mother.” I had to suppress a giggle at his formality. “And my brother Jerry,” he added, pointing to me. “The other kids are out somewhere, playing around.”

Jessica smiled hesitantly and I saw her hand tremble at her side. Armand guided her to the davenport. I wondered whether her cheeks gave her pain: that smile seemed to be hurting her. And no wonder, I thought, as I looked at my father, who stood like a figure of wrath at the doorway.

My mother seemed to be everywhere at once, adjusting the curtain, flicking an invisible speck of dust from the end table, touching Armand’s shoulder and pushing me from the room. I heard the big leather chair squeak menacingly as my father lowered himself into it.

Shamelessly, I stood near the door, straining to catch every sound and nuance of the conversation. My mother and Armand carried on a strange wandering conversation about the weather, talking at length of tumbling leaves and the great amount of rain that had fallen during the week
and the way nights were becoming chilly. I was impatient for the foolish conversation to end. Finally, a huge silence settled in the room.

Roger Lussier called to me from the outside steps, and I remembered in dismay that we were supposed to go to the movies. I didn’t answer, hoping he would go away.

After a while, my father cleared his throat. “I was listening to the ball game,” he said. “Do you follow baseball?”

I peeked into the room and saw Jessica sitting stiffly beside Armand. “I play tennis,” she said.

“Tennis,” my father said, as if that were the most ridiculous sport in the world.

“She’s very good,” Armand offered. “She won a trophy last year.”

Silence again except for Roger’s voice, sounding impatient and shrill now.

“Your father. Where does he work?” my father asked.

“In the Savings Bank,” she answered.

“A banker?” my father inquired, giving the word the same contempt that he used for Republican.

“He’s a teller,” she amended.

“But he works in a bank,” my father declared, with a kind of triumph.

“Yes,” she answered, her voice strained.

Roger was setting up such a howl outside that I went to the back door. Actually, I was somewhat relieved to end my eavesdropping because I shared the pain and embarrassment of Jessica Stone. Roger was worried that we would be late for the movie, but my mind was still in the parlor.

“All right,” I told him. “Let’s go. But wait just one minute more …” I reentered the house and stood by the parlor doorway again.

“Franklin D. Roosevelt is the greatest president the country ever had,” my father was saying. “The greatest man in the world.”

“Abraham Lincoln was a great president, too,” Jessica answered, a hint of defiance in her voice.

I couldn’t bear to listen any further and was happy to join Roger on the back steps. I was in a hurry to get to the Globe Theater, or anyplace that was far away from the inquisition going on in the parlor.

When I arrived home at supper time, my father was sitting in the kitchen, exuding an air of victory. His shoes were off and his feet extended luxuriously out on the floor. My mother busied herself at the stove: there was always something cooking there, morning, noon and night, that needed her attention.

“And did you see her sitting there so prim and proper?” my father was asking. “What kind of girl is that? I tell you, it’s like Theophile LeBlanc said. Protestants have no juices. Did you see the girl smile? No. Did she laugh? No. And anyone who thinks that Abraham Lincoln is greater than Franklin D. Roosevelt …” He shook his head in disbelief.

“Louis … Louis,” my mother said. “She’s a nice girl, a fine girl, and she loves your son. Does it matter what she thinks of Roosevelt or Lincoln? Does it matter what church she goes to?” A bit of anger crept into her voice. “And how could you act so rude to a guest in your house?”

“But don’t you see?” he asked. “I wanted to show Armand that the girl is not for him, that she would not fit into his life, into our life. She plays tennis. She doesn’t follow the Red Sox. She sings in a Protestant choir. And it’s plain to see she’s a Republican …”

“But she’s hardly old enough to vote,” my mother said.

“Well, maybe we’ll see a change in Armand now,” my father said, settling back, wriggling his feet, “now that I’ve”—he groped for the word and pinned it down exultantly—“
exposed
her.”

My father’s exposure of Jessica Stone did not affect Armand’s love for her. In fact, he announced a few nights later that he was planning to give her an engagement ring for Christmas. My father closed his eyes when he heard the news and his lips moved in what I hoped was a silent prayer but feared was an oath too terrible for us to hear. I looked at my father and Armand and my mother and did some praying of my own. I felt allegiance to my father whose oldest son was defying him, who was ready to turn his back on his family and who no longer was interested in such things as baseball for the sake of a girl. Yet, I also sympathized with Armand because I agreed that Jessica Stone was more beautiful than any girl in Frenchtown. And my heart also had room for my mother, torn between her husband and her son. When I saw the sorrow in her face as she looked at one and then the other, I easily forgave her for going behind my father’s back to help Armand. And yet … yet, I was tired of the situation because it seemed to me that there were
more important things in the world than love, and everytime I brought up one of these things—for instance, the frustrating December weather that had not turned cold enough for ice skating—someone would tell me to go out and play or Paul would accuse me of having no appreciation of drama. I wanted to tell him that if drama was something that made your chest ache with strangeness, then I wanted no part of it.

We were all involved in a large drama, however, when the voice of the announcer on the radio one Sunday afternoon stunned us with the news that the Japanese had attacked a place called Pearl Harbor.

My father jumped from his chair in alarm and excitement, indignant to learn that someone had dared challenge the nation led by Franklin D. Roosevelt.

“Paul,” he bellowed. “Paul …”

My brother came running from the bedroom where he had been reading a book as usual.

“Where is Pearl Harbor?” my father asked him.

“In Hawaii,” Paul answered promptly.

We learned more about Pearl Harbor and the vast world of the Pacific Ocean in the weeks to come, and my father spent many hours at the radio, shaking his head at the news, perpetually angry. He seemed to take it as a personal insult that American boys were being wounded and dying.

One supper time when my father, after the usual prayer of grace, added another prayer for the good American boys who were in battle, Armand said: “A good many of those boys are Protestants …”

My father paused, deep in thought. “And a good many are Catholic, too,” he answered after a while, the belligerency gone from his voice.

“Well, here’s one Catholic you can add to the roll. I’m going to enlist.”

A sharp cry came from my mother, but somehow I had eyes only for my father. For the first time in months, he looked at Armand directly.

“No,” my father protested. “You’re just a boy …”

“I’m an American,” Armand said.

“I thought you were going to get married in the spring,” Paul interjected.

“Jessica and I talked it over,” Armand said. “How can we get married when there’s a war going on? She said she’s willing to wait …” He looked at my father. “Pa, I want your permission to enlist. Me and Jessica, that’s something else. I know you don’t approve of us, but I’ll tell you this much: as soon as I come back, we’re going to be married.”

“But why volunteer?” my father asked. “There are a lot of others who can go.”

His question surprised me because it was obvious that Armand’s enlistment would solve the problem of his romance. I pondered again the mysterious ways of grown-ups. For myself, I had no fear for Armand’s safety. In my eyes, he had been born to become a hero, whether on a baseball field or in battle, and I was sure of his indestructibility.

“Every man has his duty to perform,” Armand said, and his words were quiet and somehow sad and gallant.

Incredibly, tears formed in the corners of my father’s eyes. At first, I thought he must be sick because I had never seen him cry before. He sniffed and blew his nose and cleared his throat.

“Hey, Pa,” Paul said. “You’re crying.”

“Who’s crying?” my father bellowed, his wet eyes finding my mother, who sat stunned and grief-stricken across from him, her face cruelly bleak as if winter had blown across her features. “It’s the onions in the soup,” my father said. “Onions always bring tears to a man’s eyes …”