O’Brien, I said to myself, enunciating all three syllables.
A tall man in his forties stood at the school entrance, his broad frame filling the doorway. “It’s Patrick,” he said, holding out his hand. “Good to meet you. I heard your car on the gravel.”
I followed him into the foyer, where the smell of bleach mingled with that of ditto-machine fluid. Straight ahead, in a small alcove, was a statue of a saint with a flame wreathing his head. He wore the obligatory brown robe and sandals.
“There’s himself,” said Patrick, following my gaze. “Been trying to get rid of him since I got here, but no luck.”
I glanced at St. Nondescript. He seemed fine to me, if you were into that sort of thing.
“Come on,” said Patrick, striding down the hall. “I’ll show you ’round.”
The school was small: staff room, office, classrooms; all were deserted. We stopped at the end of a corridor and Patrick showed me the small library.
“We didn’t have a library when I took over the school,” he said. “It was a real priority for me.”
“I’ll be sure to make good use of it,” I said. But the room was in stark contrast to the well-stocked libraries I was used to back home. It seemed unlikely there’d be much of interest to me on those half-empty shelves.
The tour finished in my classroom. Patrick sat down on top of a desk and motioned for me to do the same. I took in his faded corduroys and scuffed construction boots, then forced myself to concentrate on what he was saying. He took me through class lists, policies and procedures, and a huge planner.
“I hope you enjoys your time with us,” he said. “Most of the youngsters are right keen to learn. There’s some lives in Little Cove, but most are bused in from other small communities. There’s seventy-four students spread across the six grades. They’re allowed to drop French after grade nine, so we gets a big dip then, but sure you’ll change that, won’t you?”
It seemed my first goal had already been set for me.
Patrick was still talking. “A few bad apples in grade nine this year. If there’s any problems, see me sooner, not later. And look out for Calvin Piercey—he can be a right pain in the arse. He’s in grade nine. Again.”
“Calvin Piercey,” I repeated, writing down the name.
“Another thing.”
I waited, pen poised. There was a long silence while Patrick rubbed his sandy beard and looked past me out the window.
“There’s not a lot to keep a young one like you occupied ’round here.”
That had already become abundantly clear, but I didn’t say so.
“And there’s not much privacy,” he continued. “I already knows you stopped to get directions at the gas station on the way out here. Heard you bought some postcards, too.”
“Who . . . what?” I couldn’t even begin to phrase an appropriate question.
Patrick roared laughing. “There’s very few secrets in Little Cove, my dear. People knows what you had for breakfast before you’ve brushed your teeth.” He waved a finger at me. “So you’ve got to keep yourself in line, hey?”
My cheeks burned. Was this some kind of lecture? But then I remembered Lucille’s comment about the teacher running off with the priest and decided not to take it personally.
There were more questions. “Have you got family here in Newfoundland?”
I clenched the pen a little tighter. “I . . . I don’t really know anyone here, actually.”
We were quiet for a minute, the only sound the rain splattering against the windows. I could hear the unasked question; I knew he was dying to know why I’d taken this job so far from home.
After a minute, he cleared his throat and said, “Well, I don’t know your circumstances, but maybe it doesn’t matter. I’m thrilled someone with your credentials is joining us.”
He stood up, then rapped his knuckles on the table. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” At the door, he turned back and said, “I knew you were the right one as soon as I saw your name. My wife was an O’Brine.”
Alone in the classroom now, I paced the aisles and looked out the window. Then I sat down at the huge teacher’s desk—my desk. Its wood was pockmarked, like the cheeks of that girl who had given me the finger. Had my predecessor sat here, dreaming of her priest? I shuddered at the very thought of it.
Looking out at the empty desks, I tried to imagine faces to match the names on the class lists.
Belinda Corrigan.
Cynthia O’Leary.
Calvin Piercey.
I picked up my pen and drew a circle around this last one. He didn’t know it yet, but Calvin “pain in the arse” Piercey was about to become my project. It was something Dad had repeated many times. Sometimes you come across a student who seems past help, but when you finally reach them, it turns out that the troublemaker is merely a lost soul. They’re the ones you stick with, Dad used to say. They’re the ones who need you most.
Dad. If only I could talk to him. Tell him about the school, my desk, Patrick. I reached into the pocket of my painter pants and pulled out Dad’s silver lighter. I ran my fingers across the engraved initials: J.O’B.—Joseph O’Brien. When Dad’s colleagues had given him the lighter, Mom commented that the initials also spelled Job and could be a reference to Dad’s unlimited patience with students. I’d taken it after he died, hoping some of that patience would rub off on me. But a part of me hated the lighter too, because it was what Dad used every day to light the cigarettes that eventually killed him. I flicked the flame briefly, then shoved it back
