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Marg.
    â€œConfederation seventy-eight thousand,” my father said, “Responsible Government seventy-one thousand. A mere seven-thousand-vote difference. Now, if only thirty-five hundred, and it was surely ten times that, but if only thirty-five hundred who voted for Confederation did so, not because they ceasedbelieving in Newfoundland, but, shall we say, for economic reasons. That is to say, if they voted —” he paused for effect — “reluctantly” — Uncle Harold and Uncle Jim nodded — “regretfully” — they nodded again — “half-heartedly, even self-ashamedly —” He all but spat out this last word. My uncles nodded more emphatically than ever.
    â€œDo you see what I’m getting at?” my father said. “If the answer is as few as thirty-five hundred, and it is surely ten times that, we are left with the conclusion that in their heart of hearts, a vast majority of Newfoundlanders still believe in Newfoundland.”
    There was an emphatic murmur of assent.
    â€œHow many Newfoundlanders, if they thought they had nothing to gain financially from joining Canada, would have voted to join? What would they be voting for? Who knew anything about Canada in 1949? It was patriotism versus pragmatism. And God help us, ladies and gentlemen, pragmatism won.”
    â€œPatriotism versus pragmatism,” said Uncle Harold, nodding, then shaking his head as if to say, You have put into words as I myself could not have done the very essence of my thinking on the matter.
    â€œPatriotism versus pragmatism,” said Uncle Jim, as if it was hard to believe that because of those two words we lost it all.
    My father moved on to what he called the closet confederates. There were many people, he was convinced, who had outwardly opposed Confederation and, indeed, opposed it in their heart of hearts but in the secrecy of the ballot box had voted for it.
    â€œImagine,” my father said, “having to go your entire life living with a lie. Pretending to your wife or your father or your sister or your best friend that you were on their side, that you had voted with them, and knowing, knowing in your heart of hearts that in that voting booth, when no one else was looking, you betrayed them.”
    â€œOh yes, my God yes, the closet confederates,” Uncle Harold said, as if he had forgotten about them, as if, now that he had been reminded of them, a flood of memory had been released and it was as if he was back there, in the wake of defeat, in a world full of closet confederates and brokenhearted patriots. He shook his head, eyes downcast, as if no worse fate could be imagined than to be a member of that phantom faction. Everyone denounced the closet confederates in some manner. You had to, I suppose, and fervently, or else be suspected of being one. It was somehow comforting, reassuring to them, the impossible-to-verify idea that there existed this group of tortured, self-betraying souls.
    â€œDon’t go on about them now, Arthur,” Aunt Eva said. “I can’t even stand to think about them, the poor things, the hell, the living hell their lives must be.”
    â€œYou’re right, my dear,” my father said. “The less said about that crowd the better.”
    â€œThey made their beds, now let them lie,” said Uncle Dennis. No one endorsed this remark. He looked as if he was beginning to realize what he had let himself in for by coming back to Newfoundland.
    â€œAnd the Terms of Union that Smallwood negotiated with Canada…” my father continued. He explained that under these terms, Newfoundland was forbidden to marketits yellow margarine in Canada, where the sale of it was against the law.
    â€œWhat does that tell us about Canadians, Art?” Uncle Harold said, as he often did whenever Canada was mentioned.
    My father gave the answer he always gave: “If inquired into, Harold, it might tell us much about