[A single page torn from a reporter's notebook, folded inside the tin in Maeve McCausland's pantry. Thomas McCausland's hand. Undated; pencil; the paper darker at the edges from being handled often.]
I have taught myself his shorthand. Eight years.
The first thing in it I can read plainly: Capt. on the glass since the Cleveland turn. Asked to relieve. Refused. God forgive me — second time this year.
The second thing is my name. He has written Tom is reading at the table and the date, 11 June 1911, and nothing else. I was seventeen. I do not remember the evening.
I have not shown the book to Mother. Miss Pellman has asked me twice whether anything of his survives. I have told her no, both times. I am not yet the man my father was. When I am, I will know.
— T.McC.
[in pencil, beside the entry, undated, in Maeve's hand:]
He brings the tin down some nights and sits with it. He puts it back. He does not say.