He set the photo against the telephone on the desk, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms.
Fifteen little girls with camera-shy faces.
Seven or eight or nine year olds.
His favorite for a long time had been the uncombed moppet in the white sweater sitting under a crucifix hanging on the wall. She was holding an apple and scowling.
Then he'd switched to the blonde with the ponytail sitting by the blackboard at the opposite side of the room. She was biting a pencil.
Then, for years, his choice had lingered on the pale narrow visage with the bangs in the last row. Her hands were tightly clasped and she looked terrified.
Then the girl next to her had attracted his fancy. She wore glasses and was grinning ...
But he no longer had any preferences. He knew them all by heart now and loved every one of them.
The classroom was the most familiar decor of his life: three walls, crucifix, tables, blackboard, the apple.
And the fifteen lovely faces, the myriad of gazing eyes ... and in the far corner a door through which he knew he would one day enter and call her name.
And out of the multitude would rise his lost child.
