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meant.
    In a tiny voice, she asked, “Isn’t Mommy going to make dumplings, Annie?”
    But Annie wheeled and flung herself against her father who was still kneeling, burying her face against his shoulder.
    Unsure of what she should be feeling, Lucy asked timidly, “What’s wrong with Annie, Daddy?”
    Sister Regina had begun crying, her young, smooth, unlined face remaining serene while tears ran down her cheeks and wet the starched white wimple beneath her chin. She knew not for whom she felt the more pity, this father or his children. Though she had never longed for secular liberties, she suddenly wished for the freedom to open her arms and embrace them, the father included. But it was not done, of course.  The Rule of Benedict , the book by which nuns lived, forbade physical contact with the secular. Thus, she stood in silent prayer, asking for strength for herself and the Olczaks, who clung together, two of them weeping, the third—Lucy—sending perplexed glances over her daddy’s shaking shoulder at the priest and nun, as if asking their intercession for this enigma she didn’t understand.
    Father Kuzdek drew Sister Regina aside and said, “Under the circumstances, Sister, I think we should excuse classes for the remainder of the day.”
    “Yes, Father.”
    “I’ll speak to your students first.”
    “Yes, Father.”
    They left the Olczaks in the hall and entered her classroom, where some disorder had naturally taken over. Father’s appearance immediately silenced the children and sent them scuttling for their seats. He stood centered before them while Sister Regina remained near the door at the front of the room, her wrists overlapped inside the copious black sleeves of her habit.
    “Good afternoon, children,” he said.
    “Good afternoon, Father,” they chorused in a singsong, joining their hands on their desktops, transfixed as if God himself had entered the room.
    He had a habit, when he lectured them, of clasping his hands at his spine and rocking back on his heels. When he did so, his high-topped black shoes would squeak. They squeaked now as he rocked repeatedly, lifting his face to the ceiling while composing both his words and his emotions.
    “Boys and girls...” he began, then studied the hardwood floor where a streak of sunlight turned the boards the yellow of honey. While he went on searching for the exact words, absolute silence filled the room. “You all know what death is now, don’t you? We’ve taught you about dying, and how important it is to be in a state of grace when you die. We never know when we’re going to die, do we?” He went on, incorporating a catechism lesson into what he had to tell them. When he finally divulged that Lucy and Anne’s mother had died today, Sister Regina sensed the change in them. The fourth-graders understood more fully. Some of them contorted their faces, lifting eyebrows, biting lower lips, expressing their dismay wordlessly. Others stared at Father Kuzdek, disbelieving. Best friends exchanged glances laced with fear or fascination. The best friend of Anne Olczak, Janice Goligowski, lowered her head onto her arms and kept it there.
    Father gave them time to acclimate to the news, continuing his lecture for several minutes, then announcing that school would be closing for the remainder of the day and they’d all be going home as soon as the school buses could be recalled. He ended, as always, with a prayer.
    “In the name of the Father...”
    Sister Regina made the sign of the cross and folded her hands, but while her lips formed the words her mind was on the Olczaks, out in the hall, wondering how they would get along without the woman who had been the linchpin of their family, who had fed and clothed and loved them and kept their home the happy, thriving place it had been. Those sweet, well-adjusted children, she thought—let them not change. And their unassuming, hardworking father—let him persevere.
    The prayer ended and Father asked the