them, she thought as she retracted her hand and knotted it tightly with the other against her black-clad chest. “Oh, my goodness, not your lovely young wife. What... what happened?” She looked to Father for an answer.
“She was driving,” he replied, having trouble controlling his own emotions. “It appears that she was, ah...” He swallowed and bumped his glasses up to clear his teary eyes. “... she was trying to beat the train to the crossing on her way out to her folks’ house.”
Sister felt the shock rush through her, prickling her skin and making her skull tingle. Of all the women in the parish, Krystyna Olczak was the one the nuns relied on the most for help. One of the most cheerful, pleasant ladies in town. “Oh, dear me, this is so terrible.”
Eddie tried to speak, but his voice was choked. “I have to...” He had to clear his throat and start again. “I have to tell the girls.”
“Yes, of course,” Sister whispered, but she made no move to return to the classroom and get them. Fully realizing his daughters must be told, she found herself reluctant to open the door and watch their happiness be shattered. They were such lovely children, Mr. Olczak’s girls—carefree, polite, above-average students with Krystyna’s sweet disposition, who never caused problems in the classroom or on the playground. They were children who were fussed over at home, clothed in pretty dresses that their mother made herself and kept starched and ironed to perfection. Many days Anne and Lucy came across the school grounds holding hands, their hair fixed in ringlets or French braids, their shoes polished and their hot-lunch money tied into the comers of their cloth handkerchiefs. Some days they went home for noon dinner, across the brow of the green playground, one block down the alley to their house, always returning well in time for the bell that ended noon recess, never late. Sometimes Sister Regina could tell that their hair had been neatened, their barrettes tightened and the bows on the backs of their dresses retied when they returned. Their mother had taken pride in her children, sending them off looking like little Shirley Temples, and when the Olczack family walked into church together on Sundays, everybody watched them and smiled.
But now she was dead. How unthinkable.
Poor little children, Sister thought. Poor Mr. Olczak.
Eddie Olczak was a simple, diligent, easygoing man whom Sister Regina had never heard criticized for anything. He had worked as the church janitor since before she came here four years ago, and everyone rather took his presence for granted. Tens of times a week she heard people say, “Ask Eddie,” or (if it was a nun speaking) “Ask Mr. Olczak.” Whatever anyone requested, he provided without complaint. He didn’t talk much, just went about his duties with the tenacity and tirelessness of a draft horse, keeping out of people’s way, but always there when he was needed.
It felt peculiar to see this man cry, to see him needing help when it was always he who was sought for help.
Yet here he was, standing in the hall weeping, with Father’s arm around his shoulders. He was dressed as always, in a worn blue chambray shirt and striped overalls that his good wife had washed and ironed for him. He swiped his eyes and tried to summon the fortitude to have his children brought into the hall.
“I... I’ll be all right,” he managed in a cracked voice, drawing a red hanky from his back pocket. “I’ve...” He cleared his throat and blew his nose. “I’ve just... just got to get through this, that’s all.”
Father was cleaning his glasses—Father often cleaned his glasses when he was out of his depth—and replaced them on his head one bow at a time, letting the springy earpieces grab him behind the ears. When they were firmly in place, he pushed on the nosepiece and said, “Please get the children, Sister.”
Give me strength, O Lord, she prayed, turning back into her