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“I don’t see why you can’t call me Misty,” the girl said. Her peroxided hair was in two pigtails and her figure was hidden by an oversized University of New Hampshire sweatshirt.

The man laughed, keeping his back to her. “It’s not your name.”

“Maybe not legally, but it’s still mine. It’s the name of my soul.”

“That’s pretty dumb.”

“Haven’t you ever wanted to be called something other than Frank?”

“People call me all sorts of stuff. My grandmom called me François. My old lady called me Francis.” He hit the mound of dough with his fist, then he took a quick look at the girl over his shoulder. He was grinning. “But I’m Frank.”

“Well, I’m Misty.”

“You ever hear what they call a Canuck with an IQ of 167?”

The girl gave an artificial yawn. “A village?”

“For Pete’s sake.” LeBrun gave the mound of dough another punch. “You know why a woman’s got two holes so close together?”

“Why?”

“So you can carry ’em like a six-pack.”

“That’s disgusting.” Jessica glanced out the window toward the trees. Then she looked down at her toenails, which were painted bright green. “Call me Misty.”

“Your name’s Jessica.”

“That’s what the jerks call me. I don’t want you to call me that.”

“Don’t start that possessive shit. I don’t even know you.”

“Then why’d you talk to me the other day?”

“I talk to everybody, I’m a friendly guy.” LeBrun stopped kneading the bread and turned toward the girl, wiping his hands on his apron. “You know how to catch a Canuck?”

“How?”

“Slam down the toilet seat when he’s taking a drink.”

“What do you have against Canucks?”

“My grandmom used to say they were New Hampshire’s colored problem. So why’d she marry a guy named LaBrecque, I’d ask? What was she, Irish? Nah, her name was Gateau—a fucking Canuck as well. She was nuts, is all. She didn’t know what the fuck she was. I’d visit her in the nursing home and I’d say, ‘Hey, Grandmom, why’d Canucks wear hats?’ And she’d say, ‘So they don’t flap themselves to death with their big ears.’ And we’d laugh till the nurses complained. The lousy bitches, they fuckin’ robbed her blind.”

“You think I could hire you to do something?”

“You couldn’t afford me.” LeBrun turned back to the pile of bread dough.

“Maybe I could. There’s something I need you to do.”

LeBrun turned to face her. “Are we talking about real money?”

“Two thousand dollars.”

LeBrun’s face had become still as he watched Jessica. Then he said, “Aren’t you going to be late to class?”

The girl glanced around at the clock on the wall behind her. She pursed her lips and jumped down from the counter. The bell must have rung without her hearing it. She scooped up her backpack from the floor. “Maybe we can talk after dinner,” she said. Her bare feet made a faint slapping noise against the tiles.

LeBrun shrugged. “I won’t hold my breath.” As the door swung shut, he returned to his bread dough, right jab, left jab. He opened a drawer and removed a bag of chocolate chips. Taking one bit of chocolate, he inserted it deep into the bread dough. Then he reached in the drawer again and took out a silver-colored tack, which he buried as well.

He patted the dough. “Something nice, something nasty.” LeBrun liked that. It made him laugh.

As Jessica hurried across the dining room, she looked at her watch. She had thirty seconds to get to her two o’clock Spanish class on the third floor and the other side of the building. Reaching the corridor, she broke into a trot. A few kids were still in the hall but most were in class. Above the wooden paneling of the walls hung rows of photographs dating back into the nineteenth century, showing formally posed groups of Bishop’s Hill boys—graduating classes, baseball teams, chess club, debating club. All wore coats and ties, except for the athletes. She happened to notice the graduating class of 1950, the same year her father had been born. He was born in March in Portsmouth in the midst of a snowstorm; this graduating-class picture was probably taken in May or June. She didn’t have time to study it, but she found herself calculating how old those boys probably were today—somewhere in their midsixties—and how they were probably alive while her father was dead.

Jessica began to run and her feet slapped the floor. The faces in the photographs became a blur as she ran past, as if they had been turned into a movie; but they weren’t moving, she was moving, and she smiled at this. But then someone grabbed her arm, pulling her to a stop and wrenching her shoulder so it hurt.

“Why the hell are you running? You know there’s no running.”

A man’s angry boiled-ham face rose above her. Jessica recognized him as one of the teachers, but she didn’t know his name. She pulled herself free and swung her hand at him, meaning to push him away. The man blocked her arm and gave her a push so she fell back against the wall.

“You’re not even wearing shoes. Jesus, you’re in trouble—”

“Fuck you,” said the girl. “Fuck you, fuck you!”

The man took a step toward her. His face looked swollen.

“Chip!” came a voice.

Both Jessica and the man looked up the hall and saw the new headmaster walking toward them. Behind him was Miss Sandler, her Spanish teacher. With some relief Jessica thought that, no matter what other trouble she was in, at least she wasn’t late.

“He hurt me, he hurt my arm.” Jessica held her shoulder. It didn’t occur to her not to exaggerate. It seemed perfectly reasonable to get Chip in as much trouble as she could.

Chip became increasingly angry. “She was running. You heard what she said to me. She doesn’t even have any shoes, for crying out loud.”

By now the headmaster and Miss Sandler had joined them. Farther up the hall several students were watching and a teacher leaned out her open door to look in their direction.

“I should get a fuckin’ lawyer and bust his ass,” said Jessica. “What right’s he got to touch me?” She continued rubbing her arm and wincing.

The headmaster turned to Miss Sandler. “Take care of her, will you?”

Kate put her arm lightly around Jessica’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go to class.”

“I don’t feel like fuckin’ Spanish anymore. He hurt me.”

Kate smiled. “You know you were going to be late. Now we can walk together.”

“And what about him?” said Jessica, jabbing her thumb toward Chip.

Kate began leading her away. “You’re both upset. Let Dr. Hawthorne deal with it. We have a long hour ahead on the verb
to be.”

They walked slowly down the hall. Jessica glanced back with a sort of sneer, then put her arm around Kate’s waist. “What a jerk,” she said.

“You know,” said Kate, “I happened to notice you right away the first day because we both wear ankle bracelets.” She extended her foot so Jessica could see it.

Jessica looked down but didn’t pause. “Yours is half the size of mine. You got a cheap one. Mine’s worth a lot of money. My father gave it to me.”

“You’re a lucky girl,” said Kate.

“Fat lot you know,” said Jessica.

Hawthorne watched them walk down the corridor. He had to remind himself that the girl was fifteen. Dressed in her sweatshirt and jeans, she looked about twelve, slouching and scuffing her bare feet. Kate, on the other hand, was thin and erect.

Chip had turned away and was looking in the other direction. “You still need me?” The hall was now empty except for the two of them.

“Chip, these kids are used to abuse and to adults who push them around. We have to show them we’re not like that. It’s hard enough to teach them as it is. They shouldn’t have the slightest fear that we might hurt them.”

Chip turned slightly but he still wouldn’t look at Hawthorne. He wore khakis and a tan crewneck sweater that gave him a slightly military appearance. “You know the difference between a kid with a learning disability and a juvenile delinquent?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“The difference is forty thousand a year. These are spoiled rich kids who’ve been kicked out of every place else and are used to doing what they want. Nobody has ever told them the difference between right and wrong and it’s time somebody did.”

Hawthorne stepped in front of him so Chip was forced to meet his eye. He was startled by Chip’s anger, his dark red face, and he found himself thinking that Chip would be ripe for a stroke in about ten years. He tried to keep his voice calm. “Before that young woman came to Bishop’s Hill, she spent ten weeks working as a stripper in Boston. Who knows what she experienced, but I don’t expect it was anything nice. Our job is to convince her that Bishop’s Hill is a place where she can be safe. If I ever see or hear of you laying a hand on a student again, I’ll have to dismiss you. This is the only warning you’ll get.”

Chip’s pale eyes widened, then relaxed. He made an ironical salute. “Noted,” he said. Chip started to walk down the hall toward his classroom.

“One other matter,” said Hawthorne.

Chip paused and half turned.

“You missed the first of the meetings yesterday to discuss the students. I’d like you to try and be there tomorrow.”

“I’ve got a pretty busy schedule.”

“We all do.”

Hawthorne watched Chip continue along the hall. Had Chip’s breath smelled of alcohol or had he just not brushed his teeth? Hawthorne wondered if his duties included telling the faculty and staff to floss. One advantage of working in treatment centers was that staff members were highly conscious of their physical impact on their surroundings. They were aware of how the kids looked at them, and they went out of their way to appear benign and harmless. That was even a talk that Hawthorne had given to child-care workers every year: the psychological effects of their body language and appearance.

Hawthorne also had to ask himself if he would have responded so sharply if Chip hadn’t missed the meeting. In fact, half the faculty had failed to attend and the discussion had been desultory at best—more complaint than productive deliberation. He knew that they were testing his resolve, in which case they were making a mistake. But even in the best of circumstances, he would have spoken to Chip about his treatment of Jessica. There was no excuse for grabbing her like that. As for the girl, Hawthorne would talk to her when she calmed down. Although he would have preferred her to wear shoes, he expected that she would put them on soon enough as the weather got colder.

Hawthorne was on his way to see Clifford Evings, the school psychologist, whose office was near the dining hall. Although Evings had come to Tuesday’s meeting, he hadn’t spoken, and at one point Hawthorne had noticed that he was asleep. Then Evings had left before Hawthorne could speak with him, something that had also happened at the meeting the previous week when Hawthorne had been introduced to the staff. Indeed, he had begun to think that Evings was trying to avoid any serious conversation. A single man in his early sixties, Evings had an apartment in one of the dormitory cottages, where he was also expected to monitor the students. But the people who had described the arrangement to Hawthorne, including Fritz Skander, had made some slight gesture—a rolling of the eyes or tapping the nose—to indicate that only minimal monitoring went on. Evings was soft-spoken and his voice had an unfortunate nasal quality that reminded Hawthorne of a dentist’s drill heard from far away. In addition, he was bald and thin to the point of being cadaverous. Hawthorne couldn’t imagine how he was with the students. He had thought several times that, if Bishop’s Hill managed to get through the year, he would encourage Evings in the direction of early retirement. In the meantime Evings was the only psychologist they had, though Hawthorne still hoped to hire another within the next few months.

Evings’s office was an oversized closet with a single window, a wall of books, a desk, a file cabinet, and two wing chairs positioned on either side of a small coal-burning fireplace.

“Welcome to my lair,” said Evings, looking up from his desk without enthusiasm.

“I’ve come to ask your advice about something.” Hawthorne tried to be brisk and cheerful but in truth he found the little room oppressive.

Evings’s hands were folded before him on a green blotter. His desk was empty and there was no sign of what he’d been doing before Hawthorne had knocked. Maybe he had slipped something into a drawer. The thought made Hawthorne feel slightly ashamed; there was nothing to say that Evings wasn’t pursuing his duties to the best of his abilities. Evings wore a misshapen blue cardigan with leather patches at the elbows. The room was much too warm. A gentle hissing came from a radiator under the bookshelf.

“Let’s sit by the fireplace, where it’s more comfortable,” said Evings, getting to his feet. “I could light a fire if you’d like.”

“It seems quite warm enough,” said Hawthorne.

“Ah, I’m always cold. I must have gotten it from my mother.”

But Hawthorne was no longer paying attention. He was staring at the oil portrait hanging over the fireplace. It showed a cheerless white-haired man in a high collar and a thin white beard. His expression was severe, almost angry. With amazement, Hawthorne realized it was the same man he had seen staring down at him from a third-floor window of Adams Hall late Friday night. “Who’s that?” he asked Evings.

“That’s Ambrose Stark.” Evings eyed Hawthorne with concern. “He was headmaster in the nineteenth century—oh, for about forty years. Are you all right?”

Hawthorne was astonished by the painting, and he couldn’t take his eyes from it. After a moment, he asked, “He’s the one they named the hall after?”

“That’s right, and Stark Chapel. He died in the early 1890s. He’s quite a figure here at Bishop’s Hill. The spirit of the place, as it were.”

“What do you mean, ‘spirit’?”

“The fine old goals and traditions that we like to praise in our recruitment literature. Is anything wrong?”

Hawthorne made himself turn away. “He looked familiar, that’s all.”

“There are several other portraits here at the school. Perhaps you saw one.”

“Very likely.” Hawthorne tried to recall the figure he had seen. Had it moved or made any sign? Was it possible that someone had held up a similar portrait at the third-floor window? The alternatives were too absurd to consider. Evings was continuing to watch him warily. Hawthorne forced a smile and glanced around the office.