The Foreign Service Journal, July-August 2004

graders had bought little, 4-inch by 8-inch, 100-page, “autograph books” from Woolworth’s Five-and-Ten at the Junction, where Flatbush and Nostrand Avenues intersected. They brought their books to school to get their classmates’ autographs and comments. As Tim was very bashful, he was glad to leave his book with a group of girls to sign, while he was signing other kids’ books. He could not think of clever things to write, like “Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you” for the girls, or some tough-guy thing for the boys, like “Give ’em hell, Flash Gordon.” He got so wrapped up in trying to think of things to write that he forgot all about his own book. And when he looked for it, nobody seemed to know where it might have gone — until one of the girls told him that Maureen Quillen had taken it because she didn’t have a book. She had been getting signatures of classmates in it, saying it was her book. But everyone knew she didn’t have a book; she couldn’t afford one, and had stolen his. “Yeah, where would she get 25 cents to buy one?” Tim thought. He looked across the room and saw that Maureen did have an autograph book. “Oh, well, I didn’t need a book anyway.” But some of the girls had told Sister Gonzaga that Maureen had stolen Tim’s book, and Sister apparently was determined that justice be done. “Timothy and Maureen, come to the front of the room. Maureen, bring your autograph book.” Maureen looked fright- ened, and Tim thought he saw a tear, but she walked up and stood beside him “bold as brass,” as the nuns would say. “Maureen, where did you get that book?” “At the Woolworth’s, Sister.” “Did you steal that book?” “No, Sister.” “Timothy, is that your autograph book that Maureen has?” “I don’t know, Sister.” “Well, look at it carefully, and tell me if it is yours.” The first page, where Tim had written his name, class, school and date, was missing from this book. It wasn’t obvious, but he could see that the page had been torn out very close to the binding. “Now, is that your book, Timothy?” “No Sister, this is not my book. I’ve lost my book, but this is not it — I can tell.” Sister Gonzaga glared at Tim for about 10 seconds. Then she told them, in a surprisingly gentle voice, to return to their places. Some of the girls started to wave their hands, obviously wanting to tell Sister something, but she looked at them and said, “I don’t want to hear any more accusations.” And that was that, and blessed be the peacemaker. N ow Tim was trying to talk to Maureen, trying to at least get her attention. Maureen kept reading the label on a can of soup sitting on the counter in front of her, over and over, “Camp - bells - toe - may - toe - soop.” “Maureen, listen; it’s ‘Cambuls,’ quick, like that.” No response, no recognition even, of his presence. Didn’t she know he was president of the Altar Boys Society, that she should be glad he was talking to her, even though none of the other kids did? Wasn’t she glad he and his Dad were there to help them out? She almost seemed hypnotized. Maybe she was mad at him, ignoring him because of the trouble with Sister Gonzaga. But that wasn’t his fault. Suddenly the door to the rear flew open, and Mr. Quillen, face bloody, and propelled from behind by Dad’s foot, crossed the room, lurched out the front door and fell onto the sidewalk. “Don’t come back until you’re sober, Quillen,” Dad said. “And do ask permission from Mrs. Quillen; you may only enter her home if she permits it. We didn’t break anything this time, more’s the pity. But if I have to come for you again, we’ll break some ribs and arms, and maybe a jaw.” And to two ladies who happened to be passing out- side, Dad added: “Please step across Mr. Quillen, and please do accept his apology for blocking the sidewalk. F O C U S 34 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / J U LY- A U G U S T 2 0 0 4 “Tim, lad, we’re going to the Quillens,” Dad said as they ran out the door. “You are going to learn a little about being a peacemaker.”