bleeding to death. I want him to tell me, Fear not, but the step is cold and there’s no light, no voice. I’m sure he’s gone forever and I wonder if that happens when you go from nine to ten. Mam doesn’t bleed to death. She’s out of the bed next day getting the baby ready for baptism, telling Bridey she could never forgive her- self if the baby died and went to Limbo, a place for unbaptized babies, where it may be nice and warm but, still, dark forever and no hope of escape even on the Judgment Day. Grandma  is  there  to  help  and  she  says, That’s  right,  no  hope  in heaven for the infant that’s not baptized. Bridey says it would be a hard God that would do the likes of that. He has to be hard, says Grandma, otherwise you’d have all kinds of babies clamorin’ to get into heaven, Protestants an’ everything, an’ why should they get in after what they did to us for eight hundred years? The babies didn’t do it, says Bridey.They’re too small. They would if they got the chance, says Grandma.They’re trained for it. They dress the baby in the Limerick lace dress we were all baptized in. Mam says we can all go to St. Joseph’s and we’re excited because there will be lemonade and buns after. Malachy says, Mam, what’s the baby’s name? Alphonsus Joseph. The words fly out of my mouth,That’s a stupid name. It’s not even Irish. Grandma glares at me with her old red eyes. She says, That fella needs a good clitther on the gob. Mam slaps me across the face and sends me flying across the kitchen. My heart is pounding and I want to cry but I can’t because my father isn’t there and I’m the man of the fam- ily.Mam says,You go upstairs with your big mouth and don’t move from that room. I stop at the seventh step but it’s still cold, no light, no voice. The house is quiet with everyone gone to the chapel. I sit and wait upstairs, knocking the fleas off my arms and legs, wishing I had Dad here, thinking of my little brother and his foreign name,Alphonsus, an affliction of a name. In  awhile  there  are  voices  downstairs  and  there  is  talk  of  tea, sherry, lemonade, buns, and isn’t that child the loveliest little fella in the world, little Alphie, foreign name but still an’ all still an’ all not a sound 182