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was surprised to see the familiar profile of Father Gaydos, the businesslike pastor at St. Joe’s. No doubt about it: that was his familiar flattop, his unmistakable square nose. I even recognized the sound of his labored breathing. And I’m sure he knew exactly who I was; he’d known me my whole life.
    When he began pronouncing my absolution, though, our familiarity did nothing to undermine the power of the ritual. “ Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,” he said, and I felt cleansed. Though my penance was paltry—three Hail Marys, one Our Father, and a Glory be—the sensation of grace was intense.
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    SHORTLY THEREAFTER, MY FATHER CALLED ME TO HIS BEDROOM for a meeting. This was unusual. Typically Dad spoke his mind around the kitchen table. I’d never been summoned down the dark hallway on the second floor before. I was filled with anxiety and curiosity alike.
    â€œThere’s something I want to talk to you about,” Dad said gravely, motioning for me to sit down on the bed. He reached into a dresser drawer and removed an old manila envelope, then sat beside me.
    I noticed his hands tremble slightly as he opened the clasp and removed the envelope’s contents, placing a number of letters and photographs in his lap. At a glance I saw that they concerned James Edward McGreevey, my namesake.
    He took a breath. “My father was going to leave the body over there originally in Iwo Jima, but then he found out that the base might be turned over to the Japanese. And he said, ‘To hell with that. We’ll bring the body home.’”
    He handed me Uncle Jimmy’s funeral Mass prayer card. “Jimmy was my hero,” he said. “That’s why I named you for him. I always wanted a son to carry on his name, his tradition.”
    I nodded.
    â€œBefore he went to the Marine Corps he was a boxer. Ever heard of the Golden Gloves? The Hudson River Dispatch runs it. Not everybody’s into boxing, especially people like me,” he allowed. “Jimmy was an aggressive guy. I was going through some papers and noticed he made corporal within six months—from private to PFC to corporal that quick. And corporal means you’re on the way up. This was a guy who made a talent of climbing the ladder. He made sergeant before he got blown up.”
    I stared at the prayer card bearing my name. We didn’t speak aboutUncle Jimmy around the house much. I knew he’d died at Iwo Jima in 1945 after volunteering on what was called a “suicide mission,” clearing mines from the beach in advance of an amphibious landing in the Volcano Islands. I also knew he was buried with a chest full of ribbons, but Dad felt I was now old enough to know exactly what each one meant. He wanted me to understand the significance of my name, to know the burden and honor it invested in me.
    One of the documents was a commendation that accompanied Uncle Jimmy’s Bronze Star, marked with a V to signify combat; he had earned this by carrying his injured squad leader to safety through enemy fire in Saipan. Another letter explained the Presidential Unit Citation, for the seizure of Tinian in the Marianas Islands, “unchecked by either natural obstacles or hostile fire.”
    Finally he pulled out a letter to my grandfather from the Secretary of the Navy on behalf of President Roosevelt, posthumously awarding my uncle the highest honor bestowed by the corps, the Navy Cross. As Dad began reading them to me, his eyes welled with tears. I had never seen my father cry before, and at first I mistook his tears for signs of a terrible grief. Only when I listened more closely did I realize that they were tears of pride.
    Placed in charge of a mine removal detail, Sergeant McGreevey landed with his men against savage enemy resistance and immediately initiated mine removal operations in an effort to clear a path through the beach area for our