My angel was a bachelor. Alone in his house in Drumcondra he had cultivated a brand of good manners that was not readily available elsewhere, and he knew that the appropriate line with victims of tragedies where the father has been burnt to a crisp in the living room is to punctuate the silence with sage nods toward the surviving son. Say nothing, just look over when you come to a red light and nod twice; as if to say, Oh yes, my friend, I know just how bad it is, and do you know how you know I know? You know because I know it’s so bad I can’t even begin to say, you know? Then drive on.
