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“Those are harder to treat.”

“They don’t bother me none. Leastways, not anymore.”

—

The next day after her last class, Kate stopped by the main office to pick up some blue books for a quiz she was planning to give. Mrs. Hayes was on the phone but she waved Kate toward the supply closet. It occurred to Kate that Mrs. Hayes was the only person she knew who had mastered the art of smiling brusquely. The office was a large room with oak desks, oak file cabinets, and oak paneling on the walls, all of it somewhat yellow from the many layers of wax applied over a hundred years. In one corner of the room were a dozen large cardboard boxes with the name “IBM” printed on most and “Hewlett-Packard” on the others.

Behind Mrs. Hayes’s desk the door to the headmaster’s office stood open. As she got her blue books Kate could see Hawthorne sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves. Two stacks of manila folders rose on either side of him. Kate hesitated, then tapped on the door frame. Hawthorne looked up and adjusted his glasses.

“Could I talk to you for a moment?”

“By all means.” Hawthorne got to his feet as she entered and pointed to an armchair with a green leather seat. “Take that chair. It’s the most comfortable.”

Kate hadn’t meant to sit down but she found herself doing so. The reason for her visit suddenly struck her as intrusive and politically unwise. Hawthorne sat on the edge of his desk, facing her. The sleeves of his white shirt were buttoned at the wrist. He looks tired, Kate thought. She heard a bell ring, then the sound of feet in the hall.

“Well, I’m not sure how to begin.” Kate cursed herself for being foolish.

“At the beginning’s always a good place.” When Hawthorne smiled all his tiredness seemed to disappear. “I wanted to thank you for taking charge of Jessica yesterday. She was clearly upset and I wanted the opportunity to talk to Chip.”

“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Not Jessica but Chip . . .”

The girl had calmed down in class. Once they had begun their discussion of the verb
estar,
Jessica had asked the meaning of the word
chingada,
which had sidetracked the class for the rest of the hour.
Chingar
—to fuck.
Chingada
—one of the fucked or a child born as the result of rape.

“What about Chip?”

That morning Kate had heard several faculty members saying that Chip was in trouble and had already made an enemy of the headmaster. Seeing Hawthorne at his desk, Kate had decided to take the opportunity to say something in Chip’s behalf. “I think he’s under a lot of stress. You know, he’s divorced and his wife has the two kids. They live in Littleton. Last week she told him that they were moving to Seattle. I know it doesn’t excuse him, but it might explain why he’s behaving so . . . abruptly.”

Hawthorne scratched the back of his head. “Being new, I realize you all have histories I know nothing about. Is he a friend of yours?”

Kate felt herself blushing slightly. She recalled the thermos of martinis that Chip had taken to the movie theater. “We’re friendly and he’s been kind to me.”

“You know I can’t permit any physical aggressiveness toward the students. It’s hard enough to gain their trust as it is. Chip’s now lost all credibility with that girl. And she’ll tell the other kids. I know very little about Chip Campbell, except that he seems to object to some of my changes and dislikes coming to meetings. I don’t know if he’s been physical with other students, but I mean to find out.”

Kate put her hands on the arms of the chair, intending to stand up, then she relaxed again. “You must see that people are worried about you. Not the students so much as the faculty and staff. They’re worried about their jobs and the security of their futures. For a while it will make them act rather oddly. They’ll have to learn to trust you.”

“Do you trust me?”

Kate wanted to smile but she didn’t. “So far I have no feelings one way or the other. I’m new here and I’m not wedded to the place. I don’t really want to look for another job, but I could easily enough. For many of the others, it would be much harder.”

“It’s certainly not my wish to dismiss anybody,” said Hawthorne, lowering his voice and glancing toward the open door, “but the school needs to be changed. I’m sure you don’t want to hear a whole philosophical discussion . . .”

This time Kate let herself smile. “I think I heard it last week.”

Hawthorne smiled as well. “It’s funny—before coming, everything seemed clear. But the longer I’m in here, the muddier it becomes. That’s not a complaint, just a confession.”

Kate got to her feet. “At least you’re able to make it.”

He walked her to the door. In the outer office, Skander was opening one of the boxes with the new computers. When he saw Kate, he gave her a smile that seemed to indicate such pleasure that she was almost startled.

“I’m glad you two are getting to know each other,” said Skander, putting emphasis on the word
glad.
He wore a rumpled blue blazer and a blue-and-gold Bishop’s Hill necktie.

“I hope to get to know all the faculty,” said Hawthorne. “Give me a minute to put away some files. Then we can talk. We’ve got about a half hour before the meeting.” He disappeared again into his office.

Skander continued to smile at Kate as he jingled the change in his pockets. “It’s awfully good to see you. I’m sure your classes are going great guns.”

It occurred to Kate, not for the first time, that all of Skander’s actions and ways of speaking were somewhat inflated, as if he were talking to someone who was partially deaf or who only imperfectly grasped the English language. His gestures were all oversized. “They’re going very well, thanks.”

“And it was good of you to take that girl who so upset Chip yesterday.”

“I like her. She’s brash.”

“Used to be a stripper, I gather. Too young, of course, to do it legally. Well, it takes all kinds. We used to have a boy here who augmented his allowance by selling stolen cattle.”

As they spoke, Skander accompanied Kate to the door of the office with one hand resting on her shoulder and the other in his pocket.

“She looks awfully young to have been a stripper.”

Skander patted Kate on the back. “It was apprentice work, surely.”

Hawthorne was locking the file cabinet when Skander entered. “Tell me, who is this girl Gail Jensen who died a few years ago? It’s not clear from her file what happened.”

Skander sat down on the edge of the green armchair and his forehead wrinkled in distress. “A wonderful girl, one of our best. She had stomach pains that she was trying to ignore. It was at Thanksgiving. Turned out to be appendicitis. She died on the operating table, poor thing.”

“She was fifteen?”

Skander nodded. “Old Pendergast was still headmaster and he had to call the girl’s mother. It was awful for everyone concerned. We wanted to establish a scholarship in the girl’s honor but the mother said no. It’s odd how grief can affect some people.”

As Skander had been talking, Hawthorne gathered some files remaining on his desk.

Skander raised his eyebrows. “Surely you’re not taking all those home to read?”

“Some are for the meeting and others I’ll take home,” said Hawthorne, smiling. “It’s got to be done.”

Skander made a clucking noise. “I wish you’d get more rest. A shock such as you had in San Diego could take years to get over. I expect you still dream of them every night.”

Hawthorne opened his mouth to speak, then said nothing.

“Don’t worry about it, but I want you to feel free to talk if you wish. I’m glad you’ll be coming over tomorrow night, if only to drop in. Hilda and I had such a good time when we had dinner together on Saturday.”

Skander had invited the faculty to his house on Friday evening for coffee and apple cobbler around eight o’clock to give them the opportunity to socialize with the new headmaster. “With adult refreshment as well,” he had said with a wink.

“Someone told you about the fire?” asked Hawthorne.

“Friends in San Diego happened to mention it. I can’t tell you how upset I was. And Hilda, too. Of course you must torment yourself with questions. How could you not?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, whether you did the right thing. What would have happened if you had done this instead of that. Letting that boy into your home.”

Hawthorne moved to the door with the files under his arm. “It’s hard not to think of it.” He didn’t want to talk about San Diego but the subject seemed always near at hand.

Skander followed Hawthorne to the door. “What if you’d never spoken to that boy? That’s what I mean. Those thoughts must be very difficult. We’ve all done things that we’ve regretted afterward, but your experience is particularly awful.”

“Time can do a lot. I suppose I try to move forward.” Hawthorne despised the banalities he heard coming out of his mouth.

“How true, how true,” said Skander, looking suddenly philosophical. “But you know, I was also impressed by your prominence. Certainly I knew from your curriculum vitae that you were an important figure in your field, but my friends’ remarks . . . Well, they couldn’t say enough. I can’t tell you how fortunate I feel that you’ve decided to make Bishop’s Hill your home. You’re planning to write a book, I imagine.”

“A book? You mean a sort of memoir?”

“No, no, an analysis of our little community. What was that book I read in college?
The Village in the Vaucluse,
something like that. Perhaps that’s what you’re intending for us. Bishop’s Hill will be your very own Vaucluse.”

Hawthorne stared at Skander, trying to determine if he was serious. “Believe me, nothing is farther from my thoughts.”

“Oh, you say that now, but in five or ten years, who can say what you’ll be up to. I only hope they spell my name right. You know how those editors can be.”

Hawthorne made himself change the subject. “Fritz, I want you to check upstairs to see that everything is ready for the faculty meeting. I’ve asked the kitchen to bring refreshments of some kind, just so the occasion doesn’t seem so onerous. But if you could make sure the room is set up . . .”

“I’d be delighted. Just let me have a word with Mrs. Hayes about those computers.”

Five minutes later, Skander had opened one of the boxes containing a computer and was spreading the instruction booklets out on Mrs. Hayes’s desk as the secretary sighed.

“What do you think?” he said. “Exciting, isn’t it.”

“I’ll never be able to do it.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m sure it’s very user-friendly.” He opened three of the manuals and set them in front of Mrs. Hayes. “In six months, you’ll be a regular champ, surfing the Internet with the best. Mind you stay away from the more lubricious Web sites. I’d hate to see you corrupted. My son is particularly fond of chat rooms. And games—really, his room is full of electronic explosions. By the way, has Dr. Hawthorne been quizzing you about Dr. Pendergast?”

Mrs. Hayes stared down at the manuals. “Not really, no.”

Skander chuckled soothingly. “A wonderful old fellow in his way and sorely missed by quite a few. I suggest you take these books home and start getting into them. There’s a computer class at Plymouth State that meets a couple of nights each week. The school will pay, of course.”

“My bridge group meets tonight,” said Mrs. Hayes, slightly embarrassed.

“Ah, I’m afraid you won’t have much time for that anymore. Just promise you won’t turn the machine on till you’ve fully mastered the manuals. It’s expensive equipment and we’d hate to see it go up in smoke.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Much the wisest course. Oh yes, if you hear them make any noise in their boxes—you know, hum or click—just ignore it. These things have internal batteries, fans and suchlike. They can be unnerving if you don’t know they’re there. Mr. Dolittle has one in the library. He says the hard drive is always thinking even when the machine’s been turned off for the night. The fans can be especially distracting. Ta-ta!”

Skander disappeared into the hall. Mrs. Hayes stared at the computer, waiting for it to do something. Its hindquarters seemed to require dozens of wires or connections, she wasn’t sure what they were called. If she listened carefully she thought she could hear something from inside the machine, but she wasn’t positive. From a classroom several doors away, she heard the Bishop’s Hill cheerleaders practicing their cheers: “Bishop’s Hill, we aim to kill! Bishop’s Hill, we aim to kill!” Their high voices echoed down the empty hall.

—

Kate found the Xerox copies of the news clippings from the
San Diego Union-Tribune
in her mailbox just before she left for home Friday afternoon. She meant to look at them later but instead she read them while sitting in her small Honda in the lot behind Douglas Hall. By now she had heard that Hawthorne’s wife and daughter had died in a fire and she had seen the scars on his wrist, though she didn’t know any details. The articles described how Hawthorne, as director at Wyndham School, a San Diego residential treatment center, had befriended a boy who had grown jealous of Hawthorne’s wife and daughter and had started the fire. Hawthorne had been out for the evening with a psychologist from Boston, a woman named Claire Sunderlin. They had had dinner and stayed for an hour at a jazz bar. When he returned, he found the building burning and his wife and daughter trapped inside.

A month after the fire, hearings were held by a panel that included representatives from the San Diego County Department of Social Services, the California Association of Services for Children, and the regional branch of the Child Welfare League. Much discussion focused on Hawthorne’s theories that children at risk could benefit from being given increasing degrees of responsibility, tasks like tutoring other children, helping in the kitchen, and working with the grounds crew—even, in some cases, keeping pets. A woman from the Child Welfare League had especially criticized Hawthorne for giving the boy, Stanley Carpasso, privileges enabling him to move freely about the school. Although Hawthorne had not been faulted for being away from Wyndham the night of the fire, it had received a lot of attention, especially in the newspaper. There were pictures of the burning school and of Hawthorne’s wife and daughter, as well as a picture of the psychologist from Boston, who was quite pretty. The hearings had exonerated Hawthorne of any responsibility. But the reporter’s tone implied that the committee members had been swayed by their sympathy for Hawthorne’s personal loss and the fact that he had been burned while attempting to rescue his family. And there was the suggestion that as psychologists investigating another psychologist the committee had been protecting one of their own. Because of the arson, the fire marshal had also conducted an investigation, but Hawthorne had been exonerated there as well.