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The voices in the next room lulled me as I rested, preparing for sleep. The voices were common enough. My parents had only a few friends, but there would often be another couple, or at least one other friend or relative over when my brothers and I went to bed. I loved to fall asleep to the background noise of voices softly speaking, a television on, a game being played. Tonight's third voice belonged to our new parish priest, Father Matthew, who had become a close friend of my parents, especially my mother, a devout Catholic, awed by the power of Christ and his representative on earth. I think she felt blessed that she had been chosen by this sophisticated, educated priest to become a friend and confidante. My father, along for the ride, joined in for drink, banter and music. He couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, but he'd croon loudly with the rest of them, the strength of his drinks corresponding to the volume of his singing. Father Matthew would sight-read through a book of old standard tunes, clunking them out on our decrepit Steinway upright, scotch and water contributing to the passion and drama of his performance. Despite its famous name, the piano was no prize. It was ancient, out of tune, and missing the yellowed, cracked ivory on most of the keys that were left. Still, to this five-year-old boy in that nether state between wakefulness and sleep, there was comfort in the familiar voices and the battered songs. The playing, talking and drinking would go on long after I'd drifted off.