Cold Comfort

            Father Luke Wolfe put the key in the lock and with a sigh opened the classroom door.  He swung it up against the wall so that it would stay open and slowly walked—almost shuffled—to his desk by the windows.

            He put his battered briefcase on the desk.  And the bag with his breakfast from the Snackeree—the students’ campus Dairy Queen rival.

            It was obviously a pleasant day—mid-seventies–with only a single delicate contrail to heighten the virgin blue of the sky.  The mockingbird who had taken up residence outside the classroom window in the jacaranda tree was doing his happy-go-lucky thing—completely upstaging the awkward scolding of the surprisingly ugly grackles and the timid chirps of a cactus wren unhappily trying to steal some attention from the prima donna.  But Father Wolfe was almost oblivious to them.

            It had been a long night—short on sleep.  When he said Mass just before coming over to the school, he could scarcely concentrate on what he was saying–—much less even try to conjure up the presence of God.  Deep down he knew he would make it through the day—he always did.  But his present muggy head had him wondering if he would.

            “Hiya, Father.”  It was Tony Santos, his huge eighteen-year-old frame filling most of the doorway.  He was smiling a welcome with his whole shaved head. 

            “How’re things?”

            “I was surprised you weren’t there when I opened the door.  I thought that that had become your job.  To be there  to  welcome  me  and all  the tykes to ROOM 102, KINO PREP,  PHOENIX, ARIZONA, in the morning.”  Father Wolfe had capitalized it with the extra emphasis of an old-time circus carney and eyed Tony in gentle irony.

            Kino College Preparatory was the name George Wheatley had insisted on when he founded it in 1928 just before the Depression to end all depressions.  He adored his wife, Helen, and when she had died the year before, he had insisted on a fitting memorial to her and had invited the Jesuit Fathers in to do their school thing.  George had been both lucky and wise.  He had brought grapes to the Valley and just to the west of Phoenix.  When Prohibition had arrived, he had turned to grape juice and after 1933 returned to wine.  The wine—Arizona’s Finest—had flourished and soon rivaled the California vintages both in bouquet and sales.  And his clever radio ads had the kids singing their tunes.  Now this large building—the architects had been savvy enough to tie the Old Mission style to a touch of Arabic and their own imaginations—was a tourist’s delight.  It was a familiar sight to see an amateur photographer with another state’s license plate snapping pictures of the Jesus statue in the front courtyard and the chapel behind it.