Jim was in no hurry to return to the pond. Last night's dream debate still disturbed him. What was most unsettling--even more unnerving than the thought of Grandpa speaking through him--was the moment in the men's room when he wondered if this were all a dream. It struck him that dreams never doubted themselves. He took a moment to ponder the conundrum that existence might be confirmed by the ability to doubt it. This made his head reel all the more. As his grandfather would say, some ironies are better visited than dwelt upon.

Bernice sprung to her feet as Jim approached. She bounded up the driveway, leading her master on their morning walk. Bernice's exuberance contrasted sharply with Jim's contemplative shuffle. The dog trotted back to her owner to lick his hand as she attempted to bring him back to reality. Jim smiled as this effort began to have its desired effect. It was jarring to remember that, for him, reality was a small home in the country and not a pond in his back yard or a debate hall in never-never land.

Equally sobering were the bills in the mail. Land taxes and home insurance premiums were due. His subscriptions to Sports Illustrated and Pro Football Weekly were up for renewal. The electricity bill was so overdue it was printed with radioactive ink. Having completed the morning stroll he tossed the mail on the kitchen table. Perhaps he would get around to mailing out the cheques later that day. Or the next day. Or maybe later in the week.

Opening the refrigerator door was enough to convince him that breakfast was going to be a dicey affair. He hadn't gone food shopping in weeks. As for those eggs, he couldn't even remember buying them. They could've been dinosaur eggs, for all he knew. The bacon looked like it was alive again. Was that lemonade or orange juice in that jug? Jim took a sip and added "urine sample" to the list of possibilities.

Obviously, he would have to make a trip into town to do some grocery shopping. He went out to the truck and opened the passenger door for Bernice. The dog barked approval and hopped in. A ride in the truck would be the high point of her week. With luck, she would be able to scare the wits out of some unsuspecting cats in town.

Milton's Foods Store was unusually crowded--in that Jim was not the only customer in the place. As he rounded the corner of the canned goods aisle Jim bumped into Joyce Milton, the owner.

"I'm sorry, Joyce," he apologized as he stepped back. Joyce recovered quickly from her surprise.

"No problem, Jimmy."

He hated the diminutive form of his name. Jimmy. His friends new better than the use it. But Joyce had known Jim all of his life and could not or would not break the habit of calling him by his childhood name.

Jim recognized that this was one of those awkward social occasions that called for small talk.

"Sure is busy," he blustered. "Are you having a special?"

"Are you?" she retorted, looking down at his midriff.

Jim looked down at his zipper, blushed profusely and closed his fly.

"I guess I dressed too quickly. Have to learn to slow down," he blathered, excusing himself and retreating down the aisle towards the chunky beef soups.

More embarassment ensued as he found himself behind Brenda Carter in the line-up at the cashier. Brenda was an old classmate of his from high school. She was also Reverend Carter's daughter. The disputes between his grandfather and her father had always made them uncomfortable with each other. Shortly after the "prayer in school" fiasco Jim had walked into Steve's while Brenda was maligning Grandpa McGuire to all who would listen. The crowd there focused on him, expecting some sort of riposte or defence of his grandfather's latest efforts. Jim said nothing. He simply ordered his burger "to go" and left when it was ready. Indeed, the incident didn't bother him in the least. Brenda was, in effect, "arguing with the absent"--in this case, with his grandfather--and therefore it didn't concern him. He certainly couldn't afford to get upset every time someone insulted the McGuire family name.

Standing at the checkout line Brenda ignored him at first, concentrating on the task of emptying her shopping cart onto the counter. This done, she turned and pretended to discover him.

"Oh, Jim. Hi."

"Hi."

His small talk was getting smaller by the minute.

"I haven't seen you since the funeral," she comisserated, "I sure am sorry. I hope you know that our prayers go with the two of you."

"Thank you."

Jim recognized that this would be another one of those occasions when he would have much more to say after the fact.

"Oh, well," he thought, "at least I can be eloquent in my dreams."

Emerging from Milton's laden with shopping bags he saw Bernice in the cab of his truck watching a nearby stray cat approach. Bernice waited until the feline was only a few steps away before letting out an ear-piercing bark. The cat hissed as it leapt away from the truck. Jim threw the groceries into the back, got into the driver's seat and peered at Bernice.

"Lucky dog!" he muttered, slamming his key into the ignition and starting off for home.

For a change, breakfast would be large and leisurely. It would be large because Jim wanted to eat the groceries before putting them away and forgetting about them until they went bad. It would be leisurely because he had some thinking to do. The Ponders had mentioned something about his mother. Jim wanted to research the subject. It was bad enough that they knew more than he did about her; worse still, he knew next to nothing about her. There were only two pictures of Cory McGuire that he knew about: a high school grad portrait on the mantel and a wallet- sized one that Grandpa had given him. Jim always carried the latter in a billfold in his shirt pocket. One photo over the hearth, the other over the heart. Yes, he had read her book, but that was different. There was no opportunity to ask questions.

Why was there no other memento of his mother? Why had Jim never thought to ask Grandpa about her? And why the sudden curiousity after so many years of indifference? Jim wondered if one might have led to the other. Had Grandpa removed the memorabilia in response to Jim's apathy, just as he had stopped telling him stories after sensing Jim's lack of interest? If so, to where had he removed them? The old man was too much of a packrat to throw anything so precious out.

Immediately after breakfast Jim began rooting around for more evidence of his mother's existence. But there was nothing in the den, nothing in the workshop downstairs and nothing in the shed out back. He foraged around the rest of the basement. No luck. He went out to the garage and checked out the rafters. Grandpa often stored junk up there. Again, no luck. But while staring up at the two-by-sixes that held up the garage roof he struck upon an idea. The attic! There was a hatchway to the attic just above the top shelf of his bedroom closet. He hadn't been up there since he was a toddler. If there was anything of his mother's still around, the attic was the most logical place for Grandpa to have kept it.

Deciding on getting into the attic and actually doing it were vastly different matters. First Jim would have to remove the clothes in order to use the shelves as steps. While doing so he noticed a dress beneath a stack of his old sweaters. He didn't recognize it as Sarah's. Could it have been his mother's? Jim caressed its fabric for a moment. While he was no expert on fashion it seemed, judging by its design and faded colours, that it was much more likely to have been his grandmother's.

He tested the strength of the bottom shelf, transferring his weight to it only gradually. It creaked in protest but held firm. The second shelf let out a threatening crack as he ascended to it. The third step gave no such warning; it simply waited until Jim committed to it and split in two like the Red Sea. He fell through the second and first shelf and landed on a stack of folded slacks, cursing in surprise, pain and anger. His right shoulder blade had struck the bare floor and now throbbed with a sharp ache. He flexed his right arm. No problem there. He felt his shoulder and concluded that he had escaped with nothing more than a bruise.

"God, I'm an idiot!" he told himself. "Why didn't I use the damned step ladder?"

As he rose to go back to the garage he felt another twinge of pain: this time, in his chest. All of this excitement and effort had brought on another attack of angina. Jim lay motionless on the floor until it passed. En route to the garage he gathered up some more herbs. Before attempting another ascent he brewed up one of the holistic medicines that Grandpa had taught him about, just as he had before the poker game.

"I could have saved her, you know."

It was another flashback. Grandpa had been showing Jim how to mix up a concoction to deal with a cold that had afflicted both of them. Jim was about nine at the time.

"Could have saved who?" Jim had asked. But the senior McGuire wouldn't elaborate. Instead, he extracted a promise from Jim that he would never treat anyone outside the family with these cure- alls. In fact, he could not even treat a wife or an in-law. The only patients eligible were McGuires, born and bred. Jim could see that his grandfather was very earnest about this. Shrugging his shoulders, little Jim took the oath.

Years later he figured out that Grandpa had been talking about Grandma, who had died of breast cancer. The oath explained why his grandfather hadn't given her the simple mixture of crushed fish cartilege and plants that would have saved her. But what explained the oath? How could his grandfather allow Mattie to die, holding the cure in his hands?

Jim assumed that all of this had something to do with why the old man would not take the medicine that would have cured his Alzheimers. Wasn't that it? Guilt mixed with loneliness in a paste of self-pity?

After chewing on the "salad" that he had prepared for himself Jim rested for a few minutes before recommencing his assault on the attic. A trip to the garage produced an aluminum step ladder. There was barely enough room in the closet to open it. Jim stepped carefully, clutching a flashlight in his left hand. After pushing away the hatch cover he inserted his arms and then his head into the small round entrance.

"Odd," he thought, "this portal seemed a lot bigger when I was a kid."

Click! Flashlight on. Its weak batteries and small bulb afforded only sparse light. Spider webs and dust. One web was the size of a soccer net, stretching the entire length of the building. An inch of dust blanketed everything, softening the pinkness of the insulation that lay between the rafters. There was nothing towards the front of the house. He turned his head clockwise and saw that there was nothing on either side of him either. Jim was about to retreat back through the opening when a dark shape caught his eye. He shined his light on a stack of items positioned directly behind his head when he had entered the attic. Six feet from the entrance, this paraphernlia demanded that he worm his way through the hatch after all.

He propped his elbows on a couple of two-by-fours for leverage. Shoving with his legs on the highest ladder steps and pushing down with his arms Jim managed to squeeze his girth through the hole.

"Shit!" he hollered as his belt buckle got caught on the lip of the entrance. He tried to reach through to push the buckle inwards but there was no clearance for his fingers. Three more lifts proved unsuccessful. He attempted a retreat but his stomach pressed up against his rib cage, causing him to feel faint.

He was stuck. He slumped forward to consider a course of action. Sucking in his gut didn't work. Nor did twisting in the hope of freeing his belt buckle. Perhaps he could stay there until dehydration and starvation would reduce his girth? An interesting diet plan, perhaps, but it came with no guarantee. A half hour of desperate pushing, pulling and twisting yielded nothing but frustration.

Jim rested for a moment to ponder the gravity of his situation. Wait a minute! Gravity! That was the answer! Jim kicked away the ladder, sucked in his paunch and raised his arms straight above his head. He slid down through the hatch, scraping his left side as he did so. With a dull thud he collapsed onto the closet floor.

"Am I bleeding?" he wondered. No. He was missing most of the skin on his left side but no blood vessels had been ruptured.

"Is my fucking back broken?" was his second concern. No. He was able to crawl to his feet and stagger towards the medicine cabinet. There was no hydrogen peroxide. Instead, he grasped a bottle of iodine, which had been there since the days when people still used iodine. As this antiseptic touched his scraped skin Jim let out a shriek that might have been heard in Corbeil Corners.

"Jerkin' Jesus, that hurts!" he wailed. He contemplated his options before spreading any more iodine onto his stinging wound. He could either continue with this tortuous treatment or risk death from a hideous infection. This was a "no-brainer". He threw the iodine into the garbage.

The gauze on the second shelf seemed too coarse to apply directly to any wound. Cotton swabbing would only cling to it so he settled for a clean white T-shirt from the top drawer of his bedroom dresser. Like the iodine, this plain garment was a relic from the past, before T-shirts had to have inane sayings or obnoxious advertising on them.

Jim erected and ascended the ladder once more. As he poked his chest through the hole the T-shirt snagged on the rough lumber.

"Damn! That does it!" he cursed, descending the ladder and ripping off his clothes. He charged into the bathroom and smeared petroleum jelly over his midriff, skipping only the scrapes along his side. Yes, this would probably be painful, but at least he would be able to get it over and done with.

With a little tummy-tucking he was able to slide through the entrance to the attic. As he turned the flashlight back on he noticed a small envelope on the attic floor. Guitar strings! It was a packet of guitar strings. Strange. Neither Jim nor his grandparents owned or played any musical instruments. A quick perusal of the attic revealed no guitar. The envelope contained six smaller envelopes. Each of these held a different string except the one marked "D". This one was empty. The "G" and "A" strings were metal; the other three, nylon.

Jim tossed the packet of strings through the portal and turned his flashlight and attention to the pile of junk against the back wall. The span of the flashlight was not large enough to encompass the entire pile. Like the story of the blind men trying to identify an elephant, Jim tried to make sense of the large object that seemed central to the pile. Something round and metallic stood upright at its top. Unfortunately, its dark colour made it difficult to discern clearly. Under it stood a large, square blue box. He reached forward to touch it. Plastic. A power cord hung from the back of it. It sat on a dark rolling table. There was a shelf on the bottom of this table. He could see a stack of round, grey metal containers on the shelf. A long cylindrical object rested on its own tripod behind the table.

A movie projector! And a viewing screen! That was it! Jim felt his way around it to confirm this conclusion. Yes! He hadn't seen one of these since his college days. In the days before camcorders and VCRs people used to make home movies with these. Jim had attended a bachelor party or two where these were used to show movies of another kind: movies, ironically, called "loops".

Getting all of this back through the portal would be a challenge. None of it would fit. Grandfather's words echoed once again in his mind: "Any fool can see what's there. Can you see what's missing?"

This equipment could not have been brought up here through the opening above Jim's closet. Obviously, a second entrance to the attic was what was missing. Jim scoured the floor of the attic, searching for a second hatchway. Nothing. As he concentrated on setting his feet on the pine beams that covered the attic floor he bumped his head on something that hung from the ceiling.

"Ow, shit!" he cried, grabbing his skull and pointing his flashlight above him. When his eyes cleared he could see a U- shaped handle attached to the ceiling. Closer examination revealed the outline of a trap door. No lock. Jim grabbed the metal handle, placed his shoulder against this door and shoved upwards with all of his might. At first there was nothing but resistance. He braced his legs and pushed harder. With a pop the door flew open. Fresh air poured into the attic and into his lungs. The late autumn sun showered the back of the attic in natural light.

Jim stood for a moment with his head poking out above his house, like a tank commander peering out over a turret hatch. As his eyes adjusted to the sunlight his retinae were treated to the panorama of red and gold leaves preparing to give fall its name. This cornucopia of colour impressed even Jim's jaded perception. He experienced another one of those raptures, similar to the one at Hue harbour. For this instamatic moment he was glad to be living and glad to be a McGuire.

There was work to do. He propped the door open with a two- by-four he'd found lying on the attic floor. The screen was bulky but not heavy. By twisting it sideways he was able to wrestle it through the hatch without difficulty. The projector required considerably more effort. He lugged it over and then hoisted it up onto his shoulder before depositing it on the roof beside the portal. He let go of it gently, making certain that it would not slide down the sloped roof. Its weight and wide base precluded any such movement. Jim then laid the film containers beside it. The cart would be too hefty for one person to lift; he left it in the attic.

Getting back down the portal to his closet proved to be a tighter squeeze than before. The rough hewn lip of the opening scraped against Jim's side as he passed through. He winced in pain. The lubricant on his body enabled the rest of him to pass through without further injury.

Jim scrambled down the ladder and jumped into the shower to remove the petroleum jelly. Hot water hitting the gash in his side caused him to yelp in pain. He turned sideways to protect the wound from the jetstream. Once out of the shower, he donned his white T-shirt and blue jeans. Running shoes would give him better traction on the roof. He found the first one near the doorway but had to track the other by scent. There it was, behind the couch.

Once he had tied up his shoe laces he grabbed the ladder and set out to retrieve the film equipment from the roof. This proceeded without incident and, surprisingly, without injury. He set up the projector in the living room and decided against going with the screen. The beige coloured wall would suffice.

How do you thread these things? Inside the projector was a diagram for the path that the film should travel. Gulliver's Travels seemed more likely. How could anyone expect film to make so many turns? Jim's first four tries did nothing more than shred the first part of the film when he turned on the power. His fifth attempt seemed like the most implausible interpretation of the diagram. Nevertheless, it worked like a charm. Show time!

The first of the four films was typical home movie fare: Grandpa and Jim's mother at a party on the front lawn. But he could hardly make out the picture. Even with the lights out there was too much natural light to see the people clearly. He turned off the projector. Perhaps tonight would be a better time.

B-R-R-RING! The phone! Jim jumped at the sound. Who would be phoning him?

B-R-R-RING! He picked it up on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Jim? This is Paddy."

"Monsignor Kelly?"

"Yes," answered the cleric. "I'm sorry that I haven't phoned since the funeral, Jim."

"That's okay, I'm sure we've both been very busy."

Paddy Kelly had been an old friend of Jason's. Jim felt awkward talking to him, not knowing whether it was appropriate to start calling him "Paddy". And "Monsignor Kelly" was too much of a mouthful. In his youth Jim had always called him "Father". Since then he had always gotten around the problem by talking to him directly, without using any appellation.

"Yes, yes, busy," the old priest agreed. "Uh, listen, Jim, there's something I need to ask you."

"Shoot," Jim prompted.

"Well, do you remember how your grandfather used to counsel some of our seminary graduates?"

Jim chuckled. This "counselling" entailed a grilling philosophical debate--often lasting an entire day. The Monsignor would send his most promising grads to the McGuires for this "baptism of fire". Jim had no idea how this arrangement started. The McGuires hadn't been practising Catholics for generations.

"Oh, yeah, I remember."

"Well, I have this particular student, Brother Robert. He's very clever, really. But he has spent the last four years in the seminary. He's a little..."

"Green?" Jim offered.

"Yes, I guess you could say `green'," Paddy concurred. "Anyway, I was wondering--"

Oh, my God, thought Jim, he's going to ask--

"--if you could talk to him. You know, the way your grandfather used to."

Jim stopped himself from laughing out loud. He then held his tongue to prevent himself from blurting out "No!" There was a pause in the conversation as Jim mulled over the suggestion before he announced his decision.

"Well, I'll tell you," he began, "if you'd asked me this yesterday I'd have said `no'. This...counselling...was Grandpa's gig. I'm not my grandfather. I don't know how much good I can do for Brother Robert. But if you want me to talk to him, well, send him over. I'll do what I can."

"Thank you, Jim. And bless you."

The conversation might have ended there had Jim not spoken up.

"Listen, uh, can I call you Paddy?"

"I wish you would," allowed the Monsignor.

"Tell me, how did you and Grandpa meet?"

Now it was the priest's turn to chuckle.

"Did your grandfather never tell you that story?"

"No," Jim muttered, "Grandpa and I didn't always talk about these things..."

"At the top of the Eiffel Tower," Paddy stated flatly.

"Pardon?"

"I was in Paris a few years after the war. I'm standing at the top of the Eiffel Tower. I looked down at the people at the ground. `They look like ants,' I said. I wasn't talking to anyone in particular. This stranger--your grandfather--was standing beside me, looking and pointing up. He asked me to imagine how they must look to Him.

"We spent the rest of the day in a caf‚ on the Left Bank. It wasn't so trendy in those days. I had never heard about developmentalism before I met him. Talking to Jason was an eye- opener for a young, bright-eyed priest like me, fresh out of the seminary. At the time I had been having some doubts about whether or not I'd made the right decision, joining the priesthood. Your grandfather put these fears to rest. Told me about `kiyata'. Did he ever teach you to speak that language--"

"LOOP?", Jim said. "Yeah, he taught me."

"Over the years he tried to teach me, too," the Monsignor stated. "I tried to teach him Latin. I think I was more successful than he. Of course, I had a better student."

Jim and Paddy chatted for a few more minutes about when Brother Robert might arrive. Then both men said their good-byes.

The call had given Jim a warm feeling, knowing that his grandfather had helped someone and that he, Jim, would now have the chance to carry on the family tradition. And what could be better karma than helping a priest?

It was with renewed confidence that Jim approached the pond and established contact with its residents.

"Jim!" Pinky exclaimed, "Good to see you again! Hope you had pleasant dreams."

"Odd that you should mention that. Actually, I did have a dream last night. And, yes, some of it was very pleasant."

"Tell us about it!"

"Well, like I said, some of it was nice. Most of it was a nightmare."

"Do tell."

Jim related the events of the dream, leaving out the parts involving Meeka. His report that he "gave a speech" spurred Pinky to ask for details. Eventually, Jim recited all of the speeches as best he could. The result of the debate had a chilling effect on the Mensaplasm--chilling in a literal and figurative sense as Jim felt the temperature of the globules drop. There was silence until Rose spoke.

"Then it is over."

The mind slime were taking all of this far too seriously, Jim thought. Then he remembered that the Ponders were reading his mind. He tried to recover.

"Hey, this was just a dream," he said dismissively.

"If you say so," Pinky replied weakly.

A change of subject was in order. Jim wanted to talk about his mother.

"I found some old home movies in the attic," he said.

"Oh?" Pinky answered. "Have you watched them yet?"

"No, not yet. Tonight."

"Do you know if your mother is in them?" Pinky asked.

"Yeah, she is."

"Then maybe we should talk about her--"

Jim's pulse rose at the prospect.

"--tomorrow, after you've seen the movies."

Jim's heartbeat returned to normal.

"Yeah, I guess so."

Another lull in the conversation ensued as Jim searched for an alternate topic. Oh, yes! Paddy!

"I got a phone call from an old friend of Grandpa's. Monsignor Kelly. He used to send some of his graduate students here to talk to Grandpa. Paddy--Monsignor Kelly--is going to send one of them to see me. Next week, probably."

"So," Pinky mused, "you're the McGuire paterfamilias now!"

Jim guffawed at the notion.

"I'm a pater with no familias," he corrected.

"Still," Pinky insisted, "you seem a little more comfortable with...things...than you were yesterday."

Jim knew what Pinky meant by "things". Pinky was referring to the fact that Jim was slowly taking up the responsibilities that his grandfather had born. Jim was becoming his grandfather. After feeling Grandpa's presence within him during his dream speech, Jim could hardly deny it.

"No," he contradicted. "Not more comfortable. Just a little less uncomfortable."

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