The priest slid from Latin to English like a kid on a skateboard coming up to scrape a bench. A catch of breath and he launched into the eulogy.

No one else in the church spoke Latin, of course. It was a comfortable background noise, a drone, a lullaby. In English he was picking a thread of message from the rag quilt story of Big Dave’s life.

“Vietnam?” Big Dave’s oldest son, Sonny, said to his wife. He’d been dozing and now frowned. “What’s this about Vietnam?”

“That he was in Vietnam. The Army.” She never liked Big Dave for the usual reasons.

“He did no such thing. Papa was selling tires for Lee Stone all through the 70s. I remember pictures of the car he was driving. Monte Carlo. Maroon and tan.”

“Sssh,” Sonny’s sister, Louise said.

“Sssh yourself,” Sonny answered.

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