The halls lined with well-worn steel lockers stood silent; no more laughter, no more children, ever. Principal John Anderson—Mr. Anderson to his students, John to his colleagues, Johnny to precious Angelica who left seven summers ago—strolled down the long empty hall one last time.
“Forty-two years,” he whispered to the fading echoes of his footsteps, and to Angelica.
He caught a glimpse of Autumn leaves through well-frosted windows. The leaves, brown, gold and red from the two great maples that guarded the entrance, littered the central walkway; the walkway that ran straight and true to the Jane’s School Elementary flagpole. Beyond the flagpole, School Circle met East and 3rd. Beyond that lay things John didn’t want to think about.
A northerly wind began to gust and John whispered after it, “Old man winter isn’t your time.”
By now he had reached the opposite end of the long dividing hall. His brief stroll was at an end. He turned to look back. K through three were lined up on his left; four through six, his right. At the far end, waited his nearly deserted office. At the near end, the music room, less piano, students and teacher. The piano, purchased in ‘57, had served thirty consecutive years. It had been there for the school band, summer singing lessons, little Bobby Ferillo who had earned a fellowship, and even the church choir auxiliary after the fire of ‘72.
Memories of music and a soft, raised voice carried his eyes to the empty playground. The merry-go-round was turning in the sharp wind and every now and again he could hear its shrill squeak. “Beverlie Smithe bought it for $15.00 at the auction, Angelica. I nearly wept, yet I just couldn’t let myself buy it. Really though, I had no place to put it... I remember the first time I heard your voice; it was the first time we met: September 5th, 1957. As if it were yesterday, I remember. Teaching English to the fourth grade class right next door, I was. The singing and playing, soft at first, raised me to a start because there hadn’t been a piano the previous year, and of course there hadn’t been a music teacher the previous year either.
“The voice was sweet don’t get me wrong but I was trying to teach a class of unruly nine and ten year olds English and it just couldn’t be done with music and singing drowning me out. Oh yes, I’m sure you remember. How could you forget?”
Leaves, brown, gold and red, were chasing round the merry-go-round in a great flurry—up, up, up, carried on a stout tuft, then left to swirl lazily down and finally settle around the still moaning merry-go-round. The first rain drops spattered the glass of the padlocked red doors as John looked on.
“In ‘57 didn’t need padlocks or chains,” muttered John as the PA tweaked and then hissed.
“Mr. An-der-son?” called out an unsure voice, “Mr. Anderson? I gotta lock up now.”
John crooned, “Few more minutes!” Then turned back to rain spattering the now muddied glass and wind kicking up Autumn leaves.
“Remember little Tommy Ferillo, Bobby’s brother? You always said he’d never amount to much and never cast a shadow in his brother’s footsteps. Well, he didn’t, but there he is turning me to the street just the same... Our visits keep growing shorter and shorter, don’t they?”
John turned back to face K through three on his left and four through six on his right. The street beyond the flagpole seemed suddenly close. He took the first and most important step back down the long, empty hall lined with worn metal lockers. Again he listened to the echoes of his footsteps—step, drag, step drag, old age. He’d sworn he’d never use a cane and he hadn’t, even when Autumn rains made his rheumatoid arthritis flare and walking became God’s only chore.
He stopped at the door to the fourth grade. The door’s glass, covered in the dust of years, was dark and solemn. John twisted the knob. The door was locked. But never mind that old lock had never worked even on the day it had been installed by Henry Green the town’s one and only locksmith forty odd years ago. Jimmying the lock required only a few sharp twists. 1,2,3, click!
“The desks are all gone. Over to the new school I’d reckon. But never you mind, I won’t be going there. ‘Retirement,’ they said. I said, ‘You’d have to close the school first.’ Well, you know they did. I never expected it. Never did. ‘Progress,’ they called it. Well, if that is progress, I don’t want any part of it.”
Footsteps outside the door broke the reverie. John turned. “Mr. Anderson, you in there? I gotta close up now. Cindy and the kids are waiting for me to take them to the new Mc Donald’s, just opened you know. If it’s jam packed with gawkers and lunch crowd by the time we get there, I’ll never hear the end of it. And that storm’s really coming in off the lake!”
“How’s Bob, Tom, you see him much these days?”
“The Nam took ‘im in ‘71, Mr. Anderson. Are you all right? You don’t look well. Your face is much paler than it was this morning.” John took a step toward the door, then dragged his right foot. “Mr. Anderson, did you hear what I said, that storm’s...”
“I can feel it clear to my bones, going to be a mighty powerful storm. Better tell Cindy and the kids that Mac Donald’s can wait.”
John pushed away the extended hand, took another step. “Come back every Autumn don’t you, Mr. Anderson?” asked Tom.
“Got to see if they tore her down, just got to know. Then I can endure winter snow, spring flowers, and summer sun—all the things she loved so.” John stopped, turned on his left heel. Tom jumped to support his right side as he teetered. “See there, the fifth grade. Only six desks there in ‘51. One more the next year, two less the year after.”
The two turned, ambled down the entry corridor; Tom continuing to lurk at John’s right waiting to catch the other if he fell. Shadows from the two great oaks, their leaves mostly fallen revealing bare boughs extending to the darkened heavens, lay about the entryway. Between the trunks, John glimpsed School Circle, the flagpole and the street beyond.
Chased on by strong gusts, rain fell in a thick and ceaseless torrent. Wet leaves pressed against the glass of the entryway. A flash of lightning and a rumbling clap of thunder made dark skies seem much more ominous. The lights flickered twice, then the sound of wind-chased raindrops returned.
“Wait, I have an umbrella around here someplace—Cindy made me take it with this morning,” said Tom, “Say would you like to come over for lunch? She’ll be less sore, the kids less disappointed, if I bring over a guest. They were sure looking forward to Mc Donald’s. They’ve been watching those commercials on TV. You know the ones for the Big Mac. Ever had one?”
“Don’t have a TV, never had the need. Never had a Big Mac either.”
Tom turned back around. “Hey what’d you know, I found it. You’ll be coming over then, yes?” Tom opened the door and unfolded the umbrella. The outside air was full of dampness and chill.
“Tell Cindy and the kids: Hello. I got a long drive around the lake ahead. She loved to drive in rain storms. I never quite understood why.”
Tom folded the umbrella and stepped back inside. “She, your wife you mean? It was terrible. They finally cut down that oak tree on the corner of Main and Center when it took Mr. Miller and his wife during the blizzard last year. Did you know, we, mom, Cindy and I, visited the hospital in July on her birthday. She still dotes on what you and her did for Bob. She always says if the Nam wouldn’t of took him, he’d have been a world-class pianist... World-class... The rains not going to stop you know.”
“I know. I just needed a bit of a rest is all. Will you walk me to my car?”
“I can’t twist your arm to come over?”
“No, I’ll be all right. You just walk me to my car. I have a long drive around the lake ahead. I like to listen to the rain slap at the windshield. It helps me forget. But you can bet I’ll be back next autumn and I might just take that offer if it still stands.”
“You can count on it, Mr. Anderson. You’re always welcome, always...”