“First day. Big day,” my father said from behind the camera.
“Smile, Samuel,” my mother said. “This is the start of a new adventure.”
“I am smiling,” I recall saying. But in that film I do not look like a child about to embark on an exciting new adventure. I look like a child about to be sick.
My father lowered the camera. “What do you say we celebrate and have dinner at Santoro’s tonight?”
“I pulled out a pot roast from the freezer,” my mother said.
“We’ll eat it tomorrow night. Samuel, what do you say?”
Ordinarily the anticipation of eating Santoro’s pizza would have sent my spirits soaring, but this morning the thought of liquefied cheese and greasy pepperoni only made me queasier. “I don’t care,” I said, considering it the safest response.
“Well, I know I care,” my father said. “Santoro’s it is.”
I pushed Cheerios around a bowl until it was time for my father to leave for work. He embraced me in a long hug. “I love you, son,” he said and quickly turned to leave, though not before I saw a tear run down his cheek.
My mother did her best to calm me with details, explaining that OLM had two first-grade classrooms, 1A and 1B, each with twenty-three students, though I now would make twenty-four in class 1B. “An even two dozen,” she said. “That has to be lucky.”
I failed to see why.
“Father Brogan said you’ll be in 1B. That’s Sister Kathleen’s classroom. I hear she is a very good teacher. Finish up, Sam. We don’t want to be late your first day.”
14
As my mother drove down Cortez Avenue and parked on the street below the red steps leading up to the gated entrance, I noticed mothers and schoolchildren in their uniforms standing on the sidewalk. I didn’t know if this was usual or not, this being my first day. Then I noticed Dan standing alongside them and another man holding a large camera on his shoulder. A third man held a notebook and pen. I had the sense this was definitely not normal.
“Let’s go, Samuel,” my mother said, opening her car door. “Punctuality is a sign of respect for your teacher.”
When I stepped from the car, I felt the eyes of every mother and every kid staring at me. Mothers held their children’s hands as if to prevent them from venturing too close to a stray dog. The man with the camera was pointing it in my direction, and Dan looked to be directing him where to film. I was grateful when the kids began to climb the stairs until I looked up and saw Sister Beatrice in her black habit unlocking and opening the gate. My mother walked me up the steps with the other students, and that was the picture I would later find in her scrapbook, cut from the front page of the local newspaper, along with a short article on my admittance. Whether my ascent up those steps also aired on the evening news, I do not know, though I assume there was some follow-up story. We never again watched television in the kitchen.
Sister Beatrice stood inside the gates, as rigid as the white stone statue of the Blessed Mother in the courtyard behind her.
My mother nodded. “Sister.”
Sister Beatrice set her gaze upon me. “Samuel, welcome to Our Lady of Mercy,” she said. “You will be in Sister Kathleen’s classroom.” She pointed to her right. When my mother attempted to step forward, Sister Beatrice slid into her path. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hill. No adults are allowed past these gates without first obtaining a visitor’s pass from the office. It’s procedure . . . to protect the children. I’m sure you understand.”
My mother smiled in that way I’d seen before, closed lips, no visible teeth. Then she bent and arranged my shirt collar. “You have a good first day, Samuel, and mind Sister Kathleen. I’ll be here at three o’clock sharp to pick you up.” She straightened, and the two women again locked gazes. “I’m certain you will have the best first day of any child who has ever attended this school.”