name was Hallissey. Last name. First name was Arline.”
A few minutes later, the scientist asked him the question again.
Did he remember any of the other children at the school?
“I think of one right off,” he replied. “A girl. Her father is, uh, was, on the police force then….Hallissey’s the name.”
“She was in the same class as you all the way through grade school?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“And what was her first name?”
“Arline,” he said.
Every time they asked him to recall another student at St. Peter’s, he brought up Arline first. They had both attended St. Peter’s from second through eighth grade, he said, though they hadn’t always been in the same classroom. There were two classrooms for each grade, and school administrators would sometimes mix the kids as they rose through the grades. “Take some and just shift them around,” Henry explained, “to make sure they wouldn’t stay all together all the way through school.” Still speaking about Arline, Henry recalled how he felt at the end of each school year, “hoping a certain one would stay with you…that they would be shifted, too.”
Henry Molaison, it seemed, once had a crush on Arline Hallissey.
—
The walls of the classroom in the old photo were two-toned, darker on the bottom, lighter on top. There was a slate up high on the rear wall, and someone—a nun?—had written the ultimate imperative sentence across it in chalk:
Keep My Commandments.
I studied the faces of the kids. The image had a shallow depth of field, and the faces of the students near the front of the room were in sharper focus than those in the back. In the upper left of the photo, his back against the wall, there was a boy, slightly blurred, with ramrod posture and thick-framed glasses. I thought that was probably Henry.
I looked at the girls and wondered which was Arline.
—
“Hello?”
“Hello. Is this Mrs. Pierce?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, Mrs. Pierce. I’m calling because I’m working on a book about a man I believe was a former classmate of yours. Did you attend, back in the late 1930s, early 1940s, St. Peter’s school?”
“Right, right.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, I graduated from there.”
She had married twice since then, had twice changed her name. And the people who transcribed Henry’s laboratory interviews had usually misspelled her first and maiden names. Still, I was pretty sure.
“Your father was the police chief for a while, wasn’t he?”
“Right,” she said. “In Hartford.”
“Okay, then I think you must be the Arline Pierce I’m looking for! The man I’m writing about, I don’t know if you remember him or not. He passed away. But in interviews he recalled you as a childhood friend of his.”
“I bet it was Bill Farrell!”
“It wasn’t Bill Farrell.”
“Oh, okay.”
“It was a boy named Henry Molaison.”
There was a long pause.
“I do not…see, that name…I do not remember.”
Arline told me about the boys from St. Peter’s that she
did
remember. Bill Farrell and William Brady. They both went on to become Catholic priests. One became a monsignor. “So they really made something of themselves. I remember the two priests because they were little devils. And I said, my God, how can you become priests?! You oughta be ashamed of yourselves. That’s the only reason I remember them so vividly.”
I told her more about Henry. I told her he’d worn glasses, had blond hair, and lived on Main Street, just a couple of blocks from the school.
“Now, wouldn’t you think I’d remember?” she said. “That name, that boy…but I can’t put my finger on it, you know? When you get to be eighty-seven, you forget.”
“Henry Molaison,” I repeated, first using the usual pronunciation—
Mo-luh-son
—and then trying an alternate one: “Or Henry
Mo-lie-ah-son
?”
“Honey,” she said, after another long pause, “I don’t remember that name. I truly don’t.”
—
One day in the summer of 1980, in
A few minutes later, the scientist asked him the question again.
Did he remember any of the other children at the school?
“I think of one right off,” he replied. “A girl. Her father is, uh, was, on the police force then….Hallissey’s the name.”
“She was in the same class as you all the way through grade school?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“And what was her first name?”
“Arline,” he said.
Every time they asked him to recall another student at St. Peter’s, he brought up Arline first. They had both attended St. Peter’s from second through eighth grade, he said, though they hadn’t always been in the same classroom. There were two classrooms for each grade, and school administrators would sometimes mix the kids as they rose through the grades. “Take some and just shift them around,” Henry explained, “to make sure they wouldn’t stay all together all the way through school.” Still speaking about Arline, Henry recalled how he felt at the end of each school year, “hoping a certain one would stay with you…that they would be shifted, too.”
Henry Molaison, it seemed, once had a crush on Arline Hallissey.
—
The walls of the classroom in the old photo were two-toned, darker on the bottom, lighter on top. There was a slate up high on the rear wall, and someone—a nun?—had written the ultimate imperative sentence across it in chalk:
Keep My Commandments.
I studied the faces of the kids. The image had a shallow depth of field, and the faces of the students near the front of the room were in sharper focus than those in the back. In the upper left of the photo, his back against the wall, there was a boy, slightly blurred, with ramrod posture and thick-framed glasses. I thought that was probably Henry.
I looked at the girls and wondered which was Arline.
—
“Hello?”
“Hello. Is this Mrs. Pierce?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, Mrs. Pierce. I’m calling because I’m working on a book about a man I believe was a former classmate of yours. Did you attend, back in the late 1930s, early 1940s, St. Peter’s school?”
“Right, right.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, I graduated from there.”
She had married twice since then, had twice changed her name. And the people who transcribed Henry’s laboratory interviews had usually misspelled her first and maiden names. Still, I was pretty sure.
“Your father was the police chief for a while, wasn’t he?”
“Right,” she said. “In Hartford.”
“Okay, then I think you must be the Arline Pierce I’m looking for! The man I’m writing about, I don’t know if you remember him or not. He passed away. But in interviews he recalled you as a childhood friend of his.”
“I bet it was Bill Farrell!”
“It wasn’t Bill Farrell.”
“Oh, okay.”
“It was a boy named Henry Molaison.”
There was a long pause.
“I do not…see, that name…I do not remember.”
Arline told me about the boys from St. Peter’s that she
did
remember. Bill Farrell and William Brady. They both went on to become Catholic priests. One became a monsignor. “So they really made something of themselves. I remember the two priests because they were little devils. And I said, my God, how can you become priests?! You oughta be ashamed of yourselves. That’s the only reason I remember them so vividly.”
I told her more about Henry. I told her he’d worn glasses, had blond hair, and lived on Main Street, just a couple of blocks from the school.
“Now, wouldn’t you think I’d remember?” she said. “That name, that boy…but I can’t put my finger on it, you know? When you get to be eighty-seven, you forget.”
“Henry Molaison,” I repeated, first using the usual pronunciation—
Mo-luh-son
—and then trying an alternate one: “Or Henry
Mo-lie-ah-son
?”
“Honey,” she said, after another long pause, “I don’t remember that name. I truly don’t.”
—
One day in the summer of 1980, in
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