My father’s name had never been said in this room with respect.
“He wrote three rules inside the cover,” Mr. Lombardi said, opening the book. “I’ll read them exactly as he wrote them.”
“One. Never ask their names.”
“Two. Never let them see you do it.”
His voice cracked.
“Three. Show up.”
Somewhere to my left, a girl started to cry.
“He wrote down each kid only by initials,” Mr. Lombardi said. “Initials, grade, and the amount. Not to keep score. To make sure no one was paid for twice.”
He turned a page.
“Two hundred fourteen students.”
“Sixteen years.”
“Fifty-two thousand, three hundred ten dollars.”
He looked up.
“On a custodian’s salary of thirty-one thousand a year.”
The silence was so total that I heard the string of lights humming above the basketball hoop.
Then Mr. Lombardi’s finger moved down a page.
“I’ll read a few. You’ll know if you’re one of them.”
