When two people fall in love and get married, it’s basically the birth of a nation. That’s why you invite all the relatives you don’t know well and don’t care much about; nation birthings are a big deal, worth witnessing.

And yet the young couple has no clue what they have just set in motion. To them, it’s just a handsome boy, a beautiful girl. He carries her picture in his pocket, refuses to show it to his Army buddies. Why let them drool over my darling Yvette?

In Liars and Saints by Maile Meloy, Teddy and Yvette fall in love, have children, keep secrets, start traditions. It’s you and me, Daddy, and some Neopolitan ice cream, some whipped cream and some maraschino cherries.

Who can guess that gazing across the room at a handsome boy spawns a slew of future alliances, future grudges? There will be children who, in a fit of growing pains, toss out all their stuffed animals and replace them with rock band posters. There will be people who drift away, sending postcards without return addresses. There will be people who come home, bearing news dad doesn’t want to hear.

There will be deaths, and regrets. I should have laughed at her jokes. What would it have cost me to just smile at her silly punch line?

There will be confessions—to each other, to the priest in his dark little booth. Good thing there’s a couple priests in this cast. I don’t think one man of the cloth could handle all the mistakes.

I tried to save these priests the trouble. I told the characters, as I read along, Don’t do that. Get up now. Walk away.

Liars is a low-key story, quite a few cow patties, some cool French Canadian surnames, only fleeting happiness and a second and third generation convincing themselves there is no God.

I think the moral of the story is: We’re a mess, but here we are, side by side at Midnight Mass.

Photo credit: animaltourism.com via VisualHunt.com / CC BY-NC-ND

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