Three weeks after my delightful supper with the Alstons, on the evening Benji was supposed to join Father and me for supper, I was in a complete dither.

I checked, double-checked, then checked a third time that Grandmother O’Toole had indeed gone to Windsor for her end-of-each-month, weeklong visit with Great-Aunt Margaret. I lived in dread that just as Benji, Father, and I settled down to eat, she’d come bustling in from a missed train with her “Faith and begorra this …” or “Faith and begorra that …”

I shivered in horror through the night fearing what she would have to say to and about Benji if she saw him. Grandmother O’Toole had a ranking of the different kinds of people she hated most. On top of her list were Canadians, followed closely by English people, followed closely by anyone with brown skin, especially the brown-skinned people from Buxton. The list went on and on, but the top three were all I had to deal with now.

Unfortunately, Benji would be at the top of the list even above Canadians because he was both brown-skinned and Canadian. She always had the most incredibly cruel and ridiculous things to say about Canadians and especially the Canadians who came from Buxton.

I’d resigned myself that if Grandmother O’Toole did show up during supper, before she had the chance to utter one vicious word, I’d immediately grab my innocent friend and the two of us would hurl ourselves through the glass of the picture window to make a grand escape.

Taking a chance on being shredded by sharp shards of glass would be far better than the guaranteed pain and anguish Grandmother O’Toole’s angry, mean-spirited tongue would doubtless mete out.

The fourth time I asked Father if he was absolutely, one hundred percent, beyond-any-doubt positive she wouldn’t be back and that the train had come through on schedule, he said, “Alvin, believe me, I understand your trepidations, but we’re fine.

“She didn’t take the train this time. Her sister was in Toronto for an appointment, hired a carriage to take her back to Windsor, and they’ve already picked up Mother O’Toole.

“As we speak, the dear is wreaking havoc at the home of your great-aunt Margaret in the beautiful City of Roses. We have nothing to worry about. Our dinner tonight with your new friend will be a time of relaxation and peace.”

I trusted my father.

But that didn’t mean I didn’t still have my doubts.

*  *  *

At the very moment Grandfather Stockard’s clock chimed for the seventh time, a soft knock came from the front door.

I almost didn’t recognize the boy who stood on the porch with a pie in his hand.

He was dressed in a starched white shirt with a blue bow tie and full-length trousers that were held up by a pair of braces made of the same blue material as the bow tie.

Benji looked so different. I am accustomed to him being either in the heavy denim apron and folded-newspaper cap he wore whenever he was on his way to or from work, or barefoot in cutoff pants with a short-sleeved shirt and ragged straw hat. I’m fairly certain that he wore the apron and cap so people on the train or in Chatham would notice that he was a newspaperman and might want to engage him in conversation.

Tonight, however, Benji appeared to be as stiff as one of the manikins in Curly’s mother’s shop. Or maybe even a corpse.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said, “you’ve come to the wrong home. The mortuary is three blocks down.”

Benji laughed without humour. He put his finger in the shirt’s collar and pulled at it. “Heh-heh. My mother made me wear this.”

He looked over his shoulder.

“I thought about changing out of it, but you can never be sure that Patience and Stubby aren’t out spying.”

I took the pie from him. “Thank you, Benji. Come on in and meet my father.”

Father stood when we walked into the parlour.

“Father? I’d like to introduce you to my friend, Benjamin.”

His name sounded odd to me. I don’t think I’d ever called him anything but Benji before.

Benji stepped over to Father and they shook hands.

Benji unblinkingly looked Father in the eye. He spoke as if Father were partially deaf.

“It is a pleasure meeting you, sir. Heh-heh.”

Father said, “The pleasure is all mine. My goodness, Benjamin, you have a very firm handshake.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“We’re pleased that you could join us for dinner tonight.”

“Thank you, sir. You have a lovely home. Heh-heh.”

“Thank you, Benjamin.”

Benji near shouted, “My father told me to make sure I passed along his greetings. He filed a deed with you a while ago, sir.”

“Yes, I remember. Tell him and your mother I say hello as well.”

“Yes, sir, I will. Heh-heh.”

I had to do a double take. Who was this lad speaking in this manner? Surely not my talkative, boisterous friend from the swimming hole.

It was simple to deduce what was occurring. I was certain I’d be able to predict how this evening was going to unfold since I knew the checklist that Benji’s parents must have insisted he run through. It had to have been similar to the list Father had made me swear to follow when he gave me permission to go to Benji’s house for supper.

1. Shake hands firmly.

2. Make and maintain eye contact.

3. Speak clearly; no mumbling; make certain you’re speaking loudly enough to be heard.

4. Compliment your hosts’ home.

5. Don’t sit until your hosts do.

6. Make certain you put your napkin in your lap.

7. Don’t talk with your mouth full.

8. Compliment your hosts on the meal.

9. Thank your hosts for a lovely evening.

10. Firmly shake your hosts’ hands as you leave.

Father said, “Please be seated, Benjamin. We’ll be eating shortly.”

“Oh, no, sir” – Benji waved his hand at Father’s chair – “after you. Heh-heh.”

He waited until Father sat, then looked at me.

Benji prided himself on being such a joker that I decided this was as good a time as any to throw a hammer or two at Thor.

I started to sit, but before my bottom hit the cushion of the chair, I stood back up.

Benji did the same.

Twice more I became partially seated but sprang back up. Benji followed like a jack-in-the-box.

He looked in my direction as though he wanted to strangle me.

There’s an old Irish saying for when a prankster gets his comeuppance and the joke ends up being on him. I have no idea what that saying is, but I know, just as with everything else that happens, there’s an old Irish saying for it.

My comeuppance came when the fourth time I almost sat, an Irish woman’s voice boomed from the just-opened front door, “Chester Stockard, you’re supposed to be the wisest old judge in Chatham, yet ye leave the front door wide open so that any jacksnipe can come in and get his foul revenge on ye and your poor innocent family?”

As a cold shiver ran through my body and heat flushed through my face, I quickly lost my courage and forgot all about leaping through the picture window. Even more shamefully, I also forgot about my heroic plan to grab Benji and escape with him.

Knocking over the chair I had been pretending I was going to sit in, I ran toward the kitchen and shouted, “Oh, Benji! Please! For the love of God, run!”

I’m not certain if I could have reacted as quickly as Benji did were it me being yelled at in such a manner, but my friend never hesitated.

I can only imagine the confused look that must have come to Father’s face when Benji hollered over his shoulder, “Thank you very much for having me over for supper, sir, the conversation was stimulating, your company was exhilarating, and that was one of the finest meals I’ve ever had!”

Benji jostled past me as we ran through the kitchen and spilled out onto the back porch.

“Keep running!” I yelled. “Don’t listen to anything she says; she’s very confused!”

Three blocks from home, just outside of the funeral parlour, I grabbed the back of Benji’s jacket and pulled him to a stop. I leaned over, put my hands on my knees, and gasped to him, “She has rheumatism. I’m fairly certain we’re safe. I don’t think she can run this far.”

“You don’t think who can run this far? Who are we running from?”

“Grandmother O’Toole!”

“Who?”

“My mother’s mother.”

“Your grandmother? We’re running like this from your grandmother?”

He did make it seem fairly ridiculous.

“Take my word for it, Benji. She’s not like anyone you’ve ever met.”

This made no impression whatsoever on him, so I added, “You don’t understand. She’s directly from Ireland!”

Benji still failed to grasp the seriousness of my fears. He looked around and said, “I sure hope Stubby and Pay aren’t out here spying on me. I’ll bet you anything Mother would say that running out of your house like that is the height of disrespect and rudeness. If they did see what happened, I’m going to be spending a lot of time in the Amen Corner.”

We must have presented quite the cowardly sight. I was looking fearfully down the street, half expecting to see a thousand-year-old Irishwoman toddling after us with her cane cutting through the air much like the grim reaper’s scythe, and Benji was nervously sweeping his eyes from pillar to post to be certain he hadn’t been seen by his sweet young siblings.

“Well, if your parents do try to give you time in the Amen Corner, I’ll be happy to testify on your behalf. I’ll let them know you were the most polite and well-behaved guest we’ve ever had. I don’t believe anyone else has ever complimented Father on how stimulating his conversation was before he’d said even three words!”

Benji said, “Ha-ha.”

“And I must say I’ve never seen anyone go from a complete standstill to full speed in such a short period of time.”

Benji said, “If you could’ve seen the shade of red you turned when you heard your grandmother’s voice, believe me, you would have gotten out of there just as fast as I did!”

I said, “Regardless, I’m so pleased that you enjoyed the food as much as you did; it has to have been special if you loved it without even tasting it!”

He laughed. “It was a mystery at first, Red, but I’m beginning to understand why you have no friends. Do you think if we apologized to your father, he’d still serve us supper?”

Oh, no! How could I explain?

“Benji, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Maybe you should come back at the end of next month or …”

“Alvin Stockard! There ye are, lad!”

The woman’s heavy Irish brogue made panic course through my veins for a second time.

“And what on earth caused such a rude display? Your poor mother must be spinning in her grave!”

I began to run but heard “Ye must be Alvin’s friend, Benjamin. ’Tis a pleasure to meet ye. My name’s Lily Collins. I’m a friend of Alvin’s dear grandmother.”

I turned back and saw Grandmother O’Toole’s best friend, Miss Lily the baker, shaking hands with Benji.

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

“We’d’ve met a bit earlier, but the way the two of you bolted from the house like it was afire prevented that. Alvin’s father had asked me to bring a pie over for your dessert tonight.”

She looked hard at me and said to Benji, “Do accept our apologies for the doltish lad here. Some of the time, we think he’s too bright for his own good.”

“No need to apologize, ma’am. I look at my friendship with him as a huge act of charity.”

Miss Lily laughed. “Ye’ve a fine sense of humour, Benjamin. We have a saying in Ireland that a light heart lives long. I suspect ye’ll be around for quite a while.”

“Thank you.”

I said, “It’s good to see you, Miss Lily.”

She said, “You!” She slapped the back of my head as she walked away.

Benji said, “Now, let me understand this. We’re supposed to be afraid of only certain Irish grandmothers, not all of them?”

“You’ll never understand, Benji.”

“All I want to understand now is if that food is really as good as I told your father it was. I’m starving. Do you suppose if we keep a sharp eye for Irish grandmothers, we might go back and I can get seconds of the best meal I’ve never had?”

I was so relieved that I said, “For sure, Benjamin.”

I couldn’t resist adding, “But you know, my father is a bit hard of hearing. You should probably speak a bit louder to make certain he’s understanding everything you say.”

Benji said, “Thanks, Red.”

I couldn’t wait to get home and hear this!

Chumming around with Benji was turning me into a real trickster.