I knew well that I was a maggot, and that in my own unreliable ways I was precisely in the line of Aldo’s stock, my reckless green-eyed uncle who had broken the hearts of nuns and blind girls, had stabbed friends in the shoulders if he missed their backs, had propositioned my mother in the scullery of an Easter Sunday morning, and who once had seen the lights of Moose Jaw burning across the Saskatchewan plain.
