I stay on the seventh step till it gets too cold or Dad gets up and tells
me go back to bed. Hes the one who told me the angel comes to the
seventh step in the first place and youd think hed know why Im sit-
ting there. I told him one night that I was waiting for the angel, and he
said, Och, now, Francis, youre a bit of a dreamer.
I get back into bed but I can hear him whisper to my mother.The
poor wee lad was sitting on the stairs talking away to an angel.
He laughs and my mother laughs and I think, Isnt it curious
the way big people laugh over the angel who brought them a new child.
Before Easter we move back downstairs to Ireland. Easter is better than
Christmas because the air is warmer, the walls are not dripping with
the damp, and the kitchen isnt a lake anymore, and if were up early
we might catch the sun slanting for a minute through the kitchen
window.
In fine weather men sit outside smoking their cigarettes if they have
them, looking at the world and watching us play. Women stand with
their arms folded, chatting.They dont sit because all they do is stay at
home, take care of the children, clean the house and cook a bit and the
men need the chairs.The men sit because theyre worn out from walk-
ing to the Labour Exchange every morning to sign for the dole,
discussing the worlds problems and wondering what to do with the rest
of the day. Some stop at the bookie to study the form and place a
shilling or two on a sure thing. Some spend hours in the Carnegie
Library reading English and Irish newspapers.A man on the dole needs
to keep up with things because all the other men on the dole are experts
on whats going on in the world.A man on the dole must be ready in
case another man on the dole brings up Hitler or Mussolini or the ter-
rible state of the Chinese millions.A man on the dole goes home after
a day with the bookie or the newspaper and his wife will not begrudge
him a few minutes with the ease and peace of his cigarette and his tea
and time to sit in his chair and think of the world.
Easter is better than Christmas because Dad takes us to the
Redemptorist church where all the priests wear white and sing.Theyre
happy because Our Lord is in heaven. I ask Dad if the baby in the crib
is dead and he says, No, He was thirty-three when He died and there
He is, hanging on the cross. I dont understand how He grew up so fast
that Hes hanging there with a hat made of thorns and blood every-
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