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Although Kate was distressed about the fire and Hawthorne’s ordeal, she was far more distressed that someone had thought it necessary to put the news stories in her mailbox. The stories didn’t discredit Hawthorne but they formed a slur, a black mark that could affect his connection with the men and women at Bishop’s Hill. After all, he was trying to get them to trust him.

At the meeting the previous afternoon, there had been several more faculty members than on Tuesday but a number made it clear they were there under duress. Chip hadn’t come and Clifford Evings had fallen asleep. Fritz Skander had forgotten to bring certain files. Roger Bennett had some complaint about having to return a television that he had borrowed from the school the previous year. One of the science teachers, Tom Hastings, had wanted to know “what all this fuss was about” Chip’s stopping a girl who was running in the hall, which had led to a discussion of Jessica Weaver. Kate had defended the girl, saying that she did very well in Spanish even though she made a point of being rude to the other students. Bennett asked if that was the girl who had worked as a stripper and Mrs. Sherman had said, “Stripper? What stripper?” Afterward there had been limp crackers, hard cheese, and cider with too much fizz. It hadn’t been a successful occasion.

Kate drove home along Antelope Road. It was almost dark and her headlights caught the flash of orange from the turning leaves of the maples. She picked Todd up at Shirley Hodges’s, then took him home to make dinner. Todd was blond, and tall for a second grader. He was excited about some science project involving crickets, but Kate gave him only half an ear as she continued to think of the fire at Wyndham School and what Hawthorne had gone through. At eight o’clock, she planned to go to Skander’s for a little while with the other faculty. She wondered if everyone had received the same news stories in their mailboxes and how that would affect the evening.

In the end, Kate almost didn’t go. She knew it might be unpleasant, and there was no one she cared to talk to except perhaps for Hawthorne himself. But that very consideration led her to make the effort—not that she was so eager to talk to Hawthorne, but she felt hopeful about his arrival at Bishop’s Hill. And because she was sure that hers was the minority point of view, she wanted to go to Skander’s to express it. Consequently, when the baby-sitter arrived at seven-forty-five, she kissed Todd good night, reminded him to brush his teeth, and drove off into the dark.

Skander greeted Kate at the door and took her coat. He wore a bright red cardigan with gold buttons. “Punctuality,” he said as he beamed at her, “is a wonderful gift.” Then, before she could respond, he went on, “Did you receive those news clippings in your box? I’m afraid everybody did. I can’t imagine who would have done such a thing. Everybody’s talking about it. Jim will be terribly upset. He’s quite shy, you know. We’ll have to look out for him.”

Skander lived with his wife and ten-year-old son at the far end of the Bishop’s Hill campus, beyond the six dormitory cottages, in one of the five brown-shingled houses reserved for faculty. Some guests had arrived already but not Hawthorne. Chip Campbell was talking to Roger Bennett in front of the fireplace, where several logs were burning. Chip had a beer; Bennett had a handful of carrot sticks. Bennett’s wife, the school chaplain, sat on the couch talking to Mrs. Sherman, the art teacher, who had the house next to the Skanders’. The chaplain was heavyset, serious, and slightly older than her husband. In fact, as Kate had thought before, she was the more masculine of the two. Not that Roger was especially effeminate, but he had a giddiness and a nervous laugh that at times struck Kate as girlish. The Reverend Bennett was definitely a no-nonsense woman—at least Kate had never seen her laugh—and she wore tweed skirts and thick, serious shoes.

Betty Sherman wore a dark blue skirt and a colorful peasant blouse. She looked distressed as she listened to Harriet Bennett. Betty was given to theatrical gestures and Kate had not been drawn to her until she had learned that she lived alone with her son, who was retarded in some way. Then Kate had thought how difficult her life must be. No one, as far as Kate could recall, had ever mentioned a husband.

Observing Chip and Roger Bennett, the chaplain and Mrs. Sherman, Kate realized they were all talking about what had happened in San Diego. She heard references to the fire and saw the earnestness of their faces. Mixed with it was a sort of charged inquisitiveness, the excitement of news that temporarily took them out of their daily routines. Hilda Skander came out of the kitchen followed by Bill Dolittle, the librarian, carrying a tray of cookies. Dolittle wore a white turtleneck that emphasized the roundness of his belly. He had been divorced years ago and had a son who was a sophomore at Plymouth State. Dolittle put the cookies on the dining room table and gave Kate a little wave. Hilda Skander smiled at her.

Hilda was like a smaller version of her husband, shapeless and bustling, but her face was pointier. She wore a denim jumper that nearly reached her ankles and had short graying hair. She said something to Bill Dolittle and they both returned to the kitchen.

Kate thought again how these people had been living in close proximity to one another for years. Although not a family, they were familylike. They shared a history. In fact, there were not many friendships among them and they often complained and gossiped about one another. But their joint interest in Bishop’s Hill kept them from drifting too far apart. Kate had wondered, with a fear approaching dread, if she would become like them, and the thought made her determined to put a time limit on her position at the school. As long as George stayed difficult, however, it was doubtful that she could move from the area. In eleven years Todd would be eighteen and ready to go to college. But Kate swore she’d rather cut off her left foot than remain at Bishop’s Hill for that length of time.

The doorbell rang and Skander bustled over to answer it. Kate joined Chip and Roger at the fireplace. It was a cozy living room with colonial-style furniture and horse-and-buggy patterns on the wallpaper. The air smelled of wood smoke and cinnamon. The fire crackled. Chip stood with his back to it, warming his legs. He wore a blue Bishop’s Hill sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. Chip coached the swim team and tended to exaggerate his affiliation to sports, though he wasn’t particularly athletic. He also ran the school football pool and was always collecting money from one person or another. Several times he had offered to explain the system to Kate and was surprised when she showed no interest, as if she had expressed no interest in daylight or breathing.

“So what do you think of our new headmaster,” Chip asked her, “pursuing the fleshpots as his wife and daughter burned?”

Kate found herself stiffening. “I don’t believe that’s actually what happened.”

Bennett offered her a carrot stick and she shook her head. “Certainly it was unfortunate for him to be away from the school,” said Bennett, “whatever his motives.”

“Why shouldn’t he be away from the school for an evening? Anyway, perhaps it was entirely business,” said Kate.

“She was too pretty for business,” said Chip.

Bennett tittered, then said, “I must say that his credentials were rather impressive. I wonder what he’s doing at Bishop’s Hill.”

Chip had his bottle of Budweiser raised to his lips and he arched his eyebrows. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he said, “Fritz suggested that he might write a book about us.”

“Oh my. Harriet will be pleased. So that’s why he came here?”

“It’s about the only thing that makes sense unless he’s doing the dirty with that little ex-stripper.”

“Our own Lolita.”

Kate found their joking disagreeable. “Who do you think put the clippings in the mailboxes?”

“That’s just what we’ve been wondering,” said Bennett, lowering his voice.

“Some do-gooder, most likely,” said Chip, giving Kate a wink.

“Did you do it?”

“Not me, but I don’t mind that it was done. This stuff should be out in the open.”

Kate began to ask what kind of stuff Chip meant, but it was too early to start an argument. Still, she couldn’t keep herself from making a small jab of her own.

“And that’s why you’ve missed those two meetings? To keep stuff out in the open?”

Roger laughed. “He probably wanted to be out in the open himself. You know, hunting or fishing.”

Chip frowned. “I just don’t have time for that bullshit.”

Roger patted Chip’s shoulder solicitously and raised an eyebrow. “I just hope you don’t make our new headmaster too cross.”

Kate moved away before she heard Chip’s answer. She felt exasperated with both of them. Looking around, she saw Skander at the door with Gene Strauss, the admissions director, and his wife, Emily. Strauss also taught shop, automotive mechanics, and seventh-grade math. He, his wife, and teenage daughter lived in another of the faculty houses; he had been at the school for thirty years. Kate couldn’t imagine how effective he was as a director of admissions since he always looked slightly dour.

In the next ten minutes, Kate spoke to nearly everyone in the room. Five more people arrived but not Hawthorne. Kate hoped he wouldn’t come. Everyone had read the articles and held opinions about what had happened. A few were critical, a few were worried, though none appeared concerned about who had put the articles in the mailboxes. “Bound to come out sooner or later,” Strauss had said. Several people mentioned being impressed by Hawthorne’s reputation. Betty Sherman told Kate that she’d heard something about a book contract. “It would certainly put our little school on the map,” she said.

Kate sipped a cup of mulled cider and listened to the conversations around her. At times someone’s talk would shift to a student or the faculty meeting the previous day, but again and again the topic returned to the fire at Wyndham School. The news clippings had become part of the information they were using to determine what Hawthorne would do at Bishop’s Hill. Nobody felt better because of what they knew, but some were more unnerved than others and several times Kate heard Chip Campbell repeat his remark about “fleshpots.”

For Kate the dozen or so people in the living room were all extensions of Bishop’s Hill and as much a part of the school as its architecture. It was the center of their lives, their home and place of confinement. It was safe and unsurprising even if they disliked it and wished to be elsewhere. Their only uncertainty was Hawthorne. Though it wasn’t him they feared but change—Hawthorne was merely the instrument of change or potential change, because other than the Tuesday-Thursday faculty meetings and putting out litter baskets and making the faculty park behind Douglas Hall, little had happened. But that wasn’t quite true. Hawthorne was also asking faculty members to return various articles they had borrowed, things like lawn mowers and sporting equipment. Ted Wrigley, the other language teacher, had been asked to return a pair of pruning shears that he had borrowed in May. Much had been hinted and more was expected. Everyone knew the school was in trouble and dire remedies were being explored. Kate could see how the clippings might fortify her colleagues. To resist Hawthorne because he was new and had ideas other than their own was hardly tenable, but if his credibility could be diminished, that was something else again.

It was eight-twenty before Hawthorne arrived, giving a rap on the door and ringing the doorbell. Then he entered without waiting for the door to be opened. His face was flushed from the cold and he wore khakis and a dark green sweater. His glasses steamed over as he shut the door behind him. He took them off and wiped them on a handkerchief, then rubbed his hands together as he approached Skander, who made his way toward him, beaming.

Kate was standing by the dining room table talking to Ted Wrigley, who taught German and French. Ted kept eating small spice cookies dusted in powdered sugar and the lapels of his sport coat were spotted with white. Ted was a little older than Kate and had a young wife who had remained home with the baby. Kate thought he must have been awfully ravaged by acne as an adolescent because his face was pockmarked with scars. He was very shy. The students complained they couldn’t hear him in class and had nicknamed him the Phantom because of his whispering. Despite his timidity, he had objected to giving back the pruning shears, as if doing so acknowledged some offense on his part. “Certainly, I meant to return them,” he repeated. Kate gathered that Hawthorne hadn’t spoken to Wrigley himself but had asked the head of the grounds crew to round up missing equipment.

Kate was struck by Wrigley’s expression as he watched Hawthorne enter. It wasn’t hostile but there was a chill to it: Hawthorne was Other, the outsider. And as she looked around the room, she saw this expression again and again—on Chip Campbell and Roger Bennett, on practically everyone.

None of this showed in Skander, who was effusive as he welcomed Hawthorne and led him to the dining room table. “We have coffee—decaf and regular—as well as mulled cider.” Then, lowering his voice: “Or something stronger, if you’d prefer. Beer, wine . . .”

“Regular coffee would be fine,” said Hawthorne. “Black.” He greeted Kate and Ted Wrigley, shaking hands with both.

“What a constitution you must have. It would keep me awake all night.” At that moment Skander’s wife signaled to him from the door to the kitchen. “Excuse me,” he said, and hurried off.

Hawthorne turned toward Kate. “I was glad that you spoke up about Jessica Weaver in the meeting yesterday. She’s been having difficulty with her roommate and a number of others in her dorm. She’s got quite a tongue on her.”

“I like her,” said Kate, moving away from Ted. “She learns very quickly and I like her energy, but I can see that she’s unpopular with the other students.”

Hawthorne leaned toward her and said more quietly, “I’m sure she had no idea she’d be coming here till a few days before she actually arrived. The application didn’t come in until after the first week in September. As Fritz said, ‘It’s not as if we didn’t have plenty of room.’ Her stepfather took her out of the strip club and gave her the choice of coming here or being turned over to the courts.”