Mike waved good-bye and went out of the church into the sunlight of Sunday noon.

Duane worked most of the day, repairing the John Deere, spraying the weeds down along the ditch, moving the cows from the west pasture to the field between the barn and the cornfields, and finally walking the rows even though it was t too early to weed.

The Old Man had come home around three a.m. Duane had kept one of the basement windows open even though it didn't have a screen, so he'd heard the car coming. The Old Man was drunk, but not falling-down drunk. He came in

| cussing and made a sandwich in the kitchen with even more [ cussing and shouting. Duane and Wittgenstein stayed in the basement, the old collie whining even while his tail beat on the cement floor.

When the Old Man wasn't hung over on Sunday mornings, he and Duane used to play chess until almost noon. There was no chess this Sunday.

It was midafternoon when Duane came in from walking the rows and found the Old Man in the wooden lawn chair under the poplar on the south lawn. A copy of The New York Times Sunday edition was spread out on the grass around him.

"Forgot I'd picked this up last night in Peoria," mumbled the Old Man. He rubbed his cheeks. He hadn't shaved for two days and the gray stubble looked almost silver in the light.

Duane dropped down on the grass and went through the stack looking for the Review of Books. "Last Sunday's paper?"

The Old Man grunted. "What the hell do you expect, today's paper?"

Duane shrugged and began reading the lead review. It was all about Shirer's The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich and other books that might tie in to the capture of Adolf Eichmann in Buenos Aires the week before.

The Old Man cleared his throat. "I didn't mean to ... ah ... to get home so late last night. Some sparrowfart professor from Bradley started arguing with me about Marx in a little pub down on Adams Street and I... well, everything go all right here?"

Duane nodded, not looking up. "That soldier spend the night here or what?" Duane lowered the book review section. "What soldier?" The Old Man rubbed his cheek and neck again, obviously straining to sort fantasy from memory. "Uh ... I remember giving some soldier a ride. Picking him up near the Spoon River bridge." He rubbed his cheek again. "I don't usually stop for hitchhikers , . . you know that. . . but it was starting to rain . . ."He stopped, looked back toward the house and barn as if the soldier might still be sitting in the pickup. "Yeah, I remember it more clearly now. He didn't say anything the whole trip. Just nodded when I asked him if he'd just gotten out of the service. The damnedest thing is, I knew something wasn't right at the time about the way he was dressed, but I was too ... ah ... too tired to notice what was wrong."

"What was wrong?" said Duane.

"His uniform. It wasn't a modern uniform. Not even an Eisenhower jacket. He was wearing heavy wool . . . brown wool, an old broad-brimmed campaign hat, and puttees."

"Puttees," said Duane. "You mean the leggings the doughboys wore back in World War One?"

"Yeah," said the Old Man. He chewed on the nail of his forefinger the way he did when he was considering a new invention or get-rich-quick scheme. "In fact, everything about that soldier was from the Great War . . . puttees, hobnailed boots, the old campaign hat, even a Sam Browne belt. He was real young but he couldn't have been a real soldier . . . must have been wearing his grandfather's uniform or been coming home from some sort of masquerade party." The Old Man focused on Duane. "Did he stay for breakfast?"

Duane shook his head. "He didn't come in with you last night. You must have dropped him off somewhere."

The Old Man concentrated a moment and then shook his head vigorously. "Uh-uh. I'm sure he was in the truck with me when I turned up the lane. I remember thinking that I'd sort of forgotten he was there, he was so quiet. I was going to give him a sandwich and let him sleep on the couch." The Old Man stared at Duane. His eyes were bloodshot. "I know he was still with me when I came up the lane, Duanie."

Duane nodded. "Well, I didn't hear him come in with you. Maybe he walked into town."

The Old Man squinted over the corn toward County Six. "In the middle of the night like that? Besides, I seem to remember him saying that he lived right around here somewhere."

"I thought you said he didn't talk."

The Old Man chewed his nail. "He didn't ... I don't remember him talking at all ... well, shit with it." He went back to reading the financial section.

Duane finished the review and then walked back to the House. Witt came out of the barn, obviously rested from one of his frequent naps and ready to go somewhere with Duane.

"Hey, boy," said Duane, "you see a doughboy from World War One wandering around in the barn?"

Witt whined slightly and cocked his head, not sure of what he was being asked. Duane rubbed him behind the ears. He walked over to the pickup and opened the door on the passenger side. The heated cab smelled of whiskey and old socks. There was a depression in the vinyl on the passenger seat, as if an invisible someone were sitting there now, but that had been there for as long as they'd owned the truck. Duane poked under the seat, checked the floorboards, and looked in the glove compartment. Lots of junk-rags, maps, some of the Old Man's paperbacks, several empty whiskey bottles, a church key, beer cans, and even a loaded shotgun shell-but no clues. No swagger stick or Spanish Mauser accidentally left behind, no diagram of trenches around the Somme or map of Belleau Wood.

Duane smiled at himself and went back out to the yard to read the paper and play with Witt.

It was evening before Mike and Father Cavanaugh ended their fishing expedition. Mrs. Clancy, who was dying of crotchetiness as much as old age, hadn't wanted anyone else in the house while Father C. heard her confession, so Mike had waited out by the pond, trying to skip rocks across it and wishing he hadn't skipped dinner. There were few things that would have gotten Mike excused from Sunday dinner, but helping Father C. turned out to be one of them. When the priest had said, "You've eaten already, haven't you?" to him, Mike had nodded. He would include that in his confession next time under the general category of Several times I've not told the truth to adults, Father. As Mike got older, he realized the real reason why priests couldn't marry-Who would want to live with someone you had to confess to regularly?

Father G. joined him by the pond by seven p.m.-he brought the fishing gear from the trunk of the Popemo-bile-and it seemed earlier with the June sun low but still above the trees. The two fished for over an hour, with only Mike catching something-a couple of sunfish which he threw back-but with conversation that was so rich that it made the boy a bit dizzy: the nature of the Trinity, what it was like growing up on Southside of Chicago when Father C. was younger, what street gangs were like, why everything else had to be created but God could just be, why old people came back to the Church-Father C. explained Pascal's Wager to Mike ... or tried to-and a dozen other topics. Mike loved to talk about such things with the priest; talking with Dale and Duane and some of the other real brains among the kids could be fun-they had some weird ideas-but Father C. had lived. He was wise not only to the mysteries of Latin and the Church, but to the tough, cynical side of Chicago life that Mike had never imagined.

The tree shadows had crept across the grassy bank and were well out onto the pond when Father C. glanced at his watch and exclaimed, "Good heavens, Michael, look how late it is. Mrs. McCafferty will be worried." Mrs. McCafferty was the rectory housekeeper. She had tended to Father Harrison like a sister trying to keep a wayward brother out of trouble; she babied Father C. as if he were her son.