The procession passed right in front of the two men on the stoop, and she noticed the older one watching her; his gaze nearly burned a hole in her skirt. Behind her, a boy cried out, and given the circumstances, of course she spun around quickly to see to his safety.
Like a flock of angels, the boys and girls materialize in the photograph on the shower tiles. Posed as though for a class picture, they appear somehow more adult and alien than the eight-year-olds of today. Perhaps it is the formality of fashion. The boys are as neat and clean as bankers, still in short pants or knickerbockers with knee socks, and their buttoned shirts shine bright. The girls have done their hair in ribbons and curls and sit primly in short dresses or simple skirts and blouses. They are poor, but appearances matter. An empty chair stands next to a dour nun, and I reckon it once contained the lost child. Written in white below the children is “St. Luke’s Third Grade, May 1903.”
As Adele continues her story, the image changes, almost imperceptibly at first, for it is still the same group of twenty-one children seated in the same chairs, but they have aged. In 1909, another chair is empty. By 1918, young men and women, but the nun is gone, and three boys are missing, perhaps the Spanish flu or the Great War. Three others are dressed as doughboys, and one of the young women wears a nurse’s white uniform. They are in the prime of life in 1929, half the men in suits, the others working men, but all the women looking older than their years. Only fifteen of the original group remain. The years roll on, and the empty chairs increase. By midcentury, less than half the chairs are filled. In another decade, there are but two men and six women. Across the room the old man is counting, too, and I wonder if he is pulling for the survivors. In 1972, there is one boy left, a white-haired man who wears a Nehru jacket and a braided ponytail. Surrounding him are four women in shapeless dresses and sensible shoes. One by one they begin to fade from the photograph, and by 1981, one man and one woman keep company. They are holding hands. Another year passes, and he sits alone, shrunken but still too big for the children’s chairs, bewildered by his longevity. The calendar turns, he waits. The final frame is the empty classroom with a single paper curling on the floor.
Straightening the collar of her green frock, Adele continued.
When the boy cried out, she was shocked, you understand, for they had just come from the graveyard and were supposed to be in their prayers, and what does she see instead, but the young man tossing a ball in one hand, and three of her students surrounding him, silently beseeching him for its return. Cool as you please, the man just kept taunting them, for he knew full well that the ruckus would bring her over soon enough.
He took off his hat like a real gentleman when Adele approached, and the boys parted to make way, and he stepped forward and offered her that infernal baseball. “One of your charges,” he said. “A bit too full of mischief.” Their fingertips grazed as she took it from him, and Adele nearly jumped through her skin. Having no bag or pocket, she kept the ball in her grip. The miscreant boys wandered back into line. All of the children were spying on them. “But aren’t you just a bit older than these young chiselers yourself? Sure, but you are too young to be a Sister.”
“I am fully nineteen, and I am not one of the nuns. I teach the children how to sing and am only helping out today … with the funeral.”
When he smiled at her answer, he seemed to show too many teeth, but they were straight and white. His skin was clear and bore no pocks, and his black hair was neat and lightly oiled in place. But his eyes did her in. As brown as chestnuts, his eyes fixed on hers, and she could feel him looking at her even when she averted her gaze. “The best news of the day, Miss.”
“Adele,” she answered. “Adele Hopkins.”
“I’m Patrick Ahearn, at your service. That’s quite a grip you’ve got on that baseball, Miss Adele. Do you play?”
The children were watching. “I must be going. They’re expecting us back at St. Luke’s.” She nearly knocked little Frankie to the ground as she turned, for he had been beside her all along, hiding behind her skirts. With a stern look, she ordered the boys and girls to form their columns, and they were about to resume their procession.