I can't stand it when people go telling me what a saint their mother is. Or their grandfather, or their cousin, or their great-nephew-twice-removed or what-have-you. They haven't the faintest idea what it's like to live with one, but I do. Sainthood's been skipping generations in my family since the Dark Ages, sort of like male pattern baldness. Along with male pattern baldness, I should say; every last one of them are smooth as eggs by forty-five. They look at it as just another cross they have to bear. Me? I think it's the halos.

Family legend takes it all the way back to Emperor Constantine--that's where the last name comes from, see. His mother, Helena, had it; his daughter, Constantia, had it; he got left out in the cold. Ruled a good chunk of the known world, fought the good fight against persecution, and governed the Roman Empire in relative peace and economic stability, true, but no sainthood for him.

I know how the guy must have felt. I'm even hosting the Constantine family reunion this year, and no sainthood for me, either. But I've got better hair than any of them.

They're all over the house right now. The guys are in the living room with the football game on, but only the ones from my generation are watching; the older ones with the halos are huddled in a corner, having some earnest conversation with one another. My nephews and nieces are sliding down the stairs on their jackets, tearing around the back yard, or horsing around on the computer. A couple of them were banging on the upright piano in the dining room, but I think their mothers made them quit. I kicked all the women out of the kitchen half an hour ago, never mind their complaining. Too many cooks is too many cooks, and I don't care how holy they are: arranging the lattice on a Linzer torte is a one-man job. I also don't want hair falling in the food. They may not go quite bald, but they do get awfully thin on top.

The back door bangs open. "Take your shoes off before you track snow in the house," I call out, not looking to see who it is. Something squeaks in protest.

"Uncle Eddie, will you come hold Thomas?" It's my niece, Cecilia, standing on the doormat with a squirming kitten tucked into her parka. She squats down to work at the buckles on her boots, and the cat disappears below the zipper, making little peeping sounds.

"Hold on, Seelie." I brush flour off my hands and come over to the door. "Sit down and get your jacket off." She plops down with a squish on the wet mat and unzips the coat. The cat stumbles out, and she picks him up with both hands to offer him to me. He's gray and stripey, and his tiny gold halo is a miniature version of hers. Even their pets get the nod.

I cup the kitten in one hand and rub behind his ears with a finger. "His head looks a little mangy, honey."

Cecilia looks up from her snow boots and nods seriously. "Mommy and I took him to the vet. He said it was tem-por-al alo-pe-ci-a," she enunciates.

It makes sense; I don't think cats have hereditary hair loss.

She finishes with her boots and stands up in her jacket and stocking feet. "Go tell your mommy to let everyone know it's lunchtime," I tell her, handing the kitten back. "And if you and your cousins can set the table, you can have dessert first."

She looks up at me with a beatific smile. "We'll do it anyway," she says, and scampers off.

I position the last few strips of dough on top of the torte, pop it into the oven, check my reflection in the mirror over the stove, finger-comb a few stray locks back into place, and start carrying dishes out to the credenza in the dining room.

"So, Edward, how's business lately?" my father asks, passing the orzo pilaf to my Uncle Simon.

I shrug and proffer my nephew, James, another helping of lemon pepper filet of sole. "Vidal Sassoon shot me for a two-pager that should run in Cosmo next month. My agent's making noises about a Paul Mitchell ad, but I'll believe it when I see it."

"Oh, Eddie, that's fantastic!" My mother squeezes his arm and beams at me. My aunts and uncles nod and grin; some of the kids clap quietly or thump the table. Her halo pulsates with radiance. "We're so proud of you, sweetheart. Every time I go to the supermarket I show your ads to everyone in the checkout line." I haven't the heart to tell her that her wig's on crooked.

In a way, I wish they could at least be indignant about it. Then I'd have something to feel superior about.

My sister Agnes flashes me a sympathetic smile. She's been a successful CPA for ages, picks up commendations from Price Waterhouse Coopers every quarter for all her selfless work, and our parents just love her to death for that, too. But she doesn't have a halo on her head, either.

"Where's August?" I ask her, just to get the attention off me for a while.

"Yes, where is he?" echoes my Aunt Martha. "He's never been late a day in his life."

August is Agnes' and her husband Kevin's oldest son. It's short for Augustine, but they never call him that. I don't think they've ever been mad at him a day in his life, either.

"I'm not sure," Kevin begins, wiping lemon butter off his chin. "He called last night from his dorm room and said something about an appointment, but--"

Just then, the doorbell rings. "I'll get it!" Cecilia hollers, and rolls out of her seat, kitten in tow. She runs out of the dining room toward the entryway. A few seconds later, the front door clicks open. "Augie!" she squeals, and laughs like she's being attacked by an army of feathers.

The door shuts, and we can hear boots tromping on hardwood. "Hey, everyone!" comes August's voice. He steps into the dining room, carrying a giggling Cecilia under one arm and Thomas in his other hand.

Everyone stares, silent.

Someone drops a fork. No one looks to see who.

August--everyone's favorite August, who started balding at seventeen--has the most gorgeous head of teased blonde '80s curls you ever saw, and his halo is nowhere to be seen.

Cecilia wriggles loose and goes back to her Caesar salad. August's grin fades to a nervous smirk. He takes a half-step backward and runs his fingers along his temple. I can smell the gel: Aveda.

"Augustine, dear?" My mother's voice is a whispery creak. "Are you all right?"

I don't think this was the response he expected. His mouth opens a bit, but he doesn't say anything; his face goes tense, like one of those oh-so-serious models in a cK ad. Uncle Paul wads up his napkin, drops it onto his plate, and glares at Agnes and Kevin. Next to Dad, Aunt Mary mutters, "Wonder it took--" and then stifles a yelp. Dad eyes her, lips pursed, then looks across the table to me. Did he kick her? Good on you, Dad.

I take a deep breath and push my chair away from the table. "Well," I say, clapping my hands for emphasis, "I think we were just about done with lunch, which means it's time to take the kids out for ice cream." My nieces and nephews cheer, scramble out of their seats, and race for their coats, leaving behind helpings of butternut squash dip and plantain chips. Heretics. "Dad, Agnes, do you want to round everyone up? I'll get August fed and we'll meet up with you at Baskin Robbins."

Agnes mouths a thank-you as the aunts and uncles, too polite to contradict a man to his face in his own home, double over their napkins and get up. I catch August's eye and lean my head in the direction of the living room. He follows me, and we wait while his mother and my father usher everyone out the front door.

"Have a seat, August," I tell him. He flops down on the black leather sectional sofa, arms and legs all splayed out, staring at the ceiling. Poor kid. "Can I get you a beer or something?"

He picks his head up a little. "Bud Light?"

My nose wrinkles at the idea. "Good God, kiddo, what do they teach college kids these days? I've got Sam Adams and Newcastle. Take your pick."

He elbows himself half-upright. "Uh. Newcastle?"

I nod, disappear into the kitchen, and grab two out of the fridge and the church key from the drawer. "Now don't go telling your mom I gave you this," I say as I come back in. "This is just us guys talking. You and me, man to man." I sit down in the wing recliner angled near the sofa, crack one of the bottles and pass it to him. He sniffs the mouth of the bottle and takes a sip. I open the other and point out the stack of sandstone coasters on the end table. "Okay. So tell me: what's going on? Where's the halo?"

He shrugs and rests the bottle on his knee. "I didn't want it any more. Nothin' but trouble."

"In what way?"

He lets his head loll to the right and stares at nothing. The elflocks that make up the greater portion of his side-parted bangs feather over his left eye, just like the skater kids when I was in middle school. "Nobody gives a crap if you're a saint any more."

Well, I do, I want to tell him, but that's not what he wants to hear. "So, what, they make fun of you?"

He takes another pull off the bottle. "Nah, it's not even that. There's just no point to it. You have to watch what you say all the time, you can't do anything with girls, you can't even go out and get cool stuff like your friends have because you aren't supposed to be attached to anything. It sucks."

"Yeah, but look at it this way, August." I lean forward to catch his drifting gaze. "What you've got--that's something only a couple of people alive today are ever gonna have. It's something you can be proud of."

August gives me a look that would be pity on anyone not in my family. "Pride's a sin, Uncle Eddie."

I can't help letting a little chuckle escape. "Do you have any idea how much you sound like your grandma?"

He glares at me, trying to look pissed off, but the corners of his mouth are taut. I can tell he's doing his damnedest not to laugh anyway. I did the same thing when I was his age.

"But seriously, kiddo. You just...walked away from it?"

The glare disappears, and the cocky sprawl with it. He sits up and rests his chin in one hand. "I guess so, man. I kinda...decided, one night while I was sitting up thinking, that I'd be happier if it just wasn't an issue. If I could have a good-looking car and maybe get laid every once in a while and not wake up with hair falling out on my pillow. And the next morning..." He waves his fingers through the empty air where the halo should be. "Gone. The hair started to come back about a week later."

It really is gorgeous, too. He's my nephew, and I'd still love to run my fingers through that beautiful soft hair. "So what do you think it means? You choose cars and sex and all that other worldly stuff, and that's it?"

"Yeah. The world's a cool place. I think I'd like to enjoy it, at least for a while." He slumps back on my sofa, and goes back to nursing his beer. I start to warn him not to spill on the leather, and then I catch myself.

What August's doing now is what I've been doing all along.

"I need to go upstairs for a minute." I set my Newcastle down on a coaster, pile the discarded caps next to it. "There's a plate on the kitchen counter and the food's in the dining room, if you want some lunch. You'll be okay down here?"

He nods, and I run up to the bathroom to fix everything.

I've been standing here at the mirror for ten minutes with the beard trimmer a half inch from my forehead, and I just can't do it. God help me, we are sinners all, but I can't bring myself to do away with my pride and joy. But pride is a sin, Uncle Eddie, and if I've got any chance at sainthood, whether it's picking up August's cast-off halo or winning it in my own right, I've got to shave my head.

It only stands to reason. If I have to give up the things I love to play the game, then by damn, I can do that. I've been right there with the saintliest of them since the day I was born, I've read all the scriptures and I know all the drills. Thou shalt honor the Lord thy God, thou shalt have no other gods before him, thou shalt not steal, thou shalt do no murder, thou shalt honor thy father and mother, thou shalt not...covet.

"Well, shit," I tell the mirror. My reflection gives me a sour look. That's one fierce catch-22: to get the thing I've wanted most since I was a little boy, I'll have to stop wanting it to begin with. And what's the point then? I guess it doesn't count as coveting once you've got something, but that presumes that desire is like a light switch: turn it off to hide what you don't want anyone to see, then turn it back on when the coast is clear again.

This wouldn't be the first time the God of Abraham's been a right bastard, of course. Sacrifice your son, Abe. Cast down your brother, Moses. Have some boils, Job, and here's a side of everything you know and love destroyed to go with them.

Okay, so in the grand scheme of things it's not so harsh as all that. Doesn't mean it galls any less.

I switch off the electric shaver and set it back down on the sink.

More lines are coming back to me. Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy soul and with all thy mind; this is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it: Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.

Truth be told, I'm pretty chapped at the Lord my God at the moment. But there's also a neighbour downstairs, and of everyone he knows, I'm in the best position to help him out right now.

I switch off the bathroom light and go back out to the top of the stairs. "Let me know whenever you're ready, August," I call down. "We'll catch up with the rest of the family. But first, I'm going to introduce you to my stylist."

The End

Bio

Meredith L. Patterson lived in and around Houston, Texas for 24 years. She's now finishing an MA in linguistics and starting a PhD in computer science. At various times she has been a web designer, a restaurant critic, a technical writer, a math teacher, and a NASA correspondent above the Arctic Circle. She now teaches and works as a research assistant at the University of Iowa. In her copious free time, she maintains the weblog Radio Free Meredith, does freelance game writing for Alderac Entertainment Group, and serves as a reservist in the U.S. Army.