I often pondered what the landmark ruling that outlawed religion in this country really meant to our everyday lives. Perhaps, in some roundabout way, it was the reason men took to burning themselves on purpose, or drowning their neighbors' pets....

My father had been one of the last real religious men. He was a devout Catholic and feared hell above all else. He acted as both priest and daddy, making us take confession with him in secret in the dark, empty closet next to the attic stairs. "You're lying, Henry," he would say, slowly, over and over again. It got to be that I didn't know when I was actually lying. I assumed I was lying all of the time, and so my truth became a sort of lie. It led me to see life and live it in slow motion. Every action was deliberate to the point of my wanting to know if it was truly happening or not. If I lifted my fork to eat, I did it in such a way that my mother would shriek nine or ten times before it reached my mouth. The same with my paper to pen to write words or draw pictures. I could go weeks between the eyes and nose of the doodle of a person, and the hands and feet? Forget about it. An eternity. It got to be so that–

"No, no, no," Margaret interrupted. "That was your grandfather. Not your father."

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