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“Basketball. I used to coach it. Several other faculty were also playing.”

“Yes, well, Roger Bennett.” His tone indicated that nothing Bennett did would surprise him.

“My skinning my knees in no way affected my actions. Chip literally hurled the boy across the hall.”

Skander’s furrowed brow suggested that furious debate was being waged inside him. “Who’s going to teach Chip’s classes? And he was swimming coach. Who’ll take that job?”

“There’s a substitute there today. I’ll take one of his classes. We can divide up the others. As for the swimming, I can do it if I can get someone to help me.”

“You already have a job.”

“It’ll be all right. I’ll find the time. After all, it’ll only be temporary. I minored in history at Williams. I can do the ancient and medieval history. Where is he up to, the early Greeks? I can teach that, perhaps not as well as Chip, but I can do it.”

Skander pursed his lips and looked worried. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

Hawthorne didn’t answer.

“Is it this book you’re writing?”

“Good grief, Fritz, I have no intention of writing any damn book!”

Skander tilted his head and looked vaguely skeptical. “Do you know how frightened people are? They think you’ll fire us all.”

“That’s silly. I’ve talked to several teachers, and I think most will stand by me. I caught Chip physically abusing a student. Twice. That’s why I suspended him. Are you saying they all hit students?”

“Of course not.”

“Then they have nothing to worry about.”

“Ruth Standish said you had words with a student on Friday. There was a quarrel.”

“There was no quarrel. I spoke to a girl about burning candles in her room and the need to treat her roommate with courtesy. She yelled at me. We talked a long time. You know the girl. Jessica Weaver. She’s the one who started the semester late.”

“The stripper.”

“Yes, she did that for several months. Anyway, I told her I meant nothing personal. Those cottages could go up in a second. I think she understood my position. We shouldn’t even use the fireplaces. You’ve seen those insurance policies.”

“I can imagine you’re particularly sensitive about fire.”

“Even apart from that,” said Hawthorne more quickly than he had intended.

“I can tell it’s something on your mind. That’s only natural. That boy who set the fire at Wyndham School, what was his name?”

“Stanley Carpasso.” There was no pause before Hawthorne’s answer. It was as if he had the boy’s name always on his lips.

Skander again looked as if he were undergoing some intense inner discussion. “You had no idea how this Carpasso might behave?”

“No.”

“But he was, what do you say, emotionally disturbed? Aren’t children like that especially dangerous? Of course, I’m no professional.”

“It wasn’t that simple. I’d worked with him for several years. He wasn’t a fire starter. There was nothing like that in his record.”

Skander spoke in a whisper. “And there was nothing you could do?”

“You mean once the fire started? I couldn’t get back to them. The hallway was on fire. What do you mean? The whole place was burning.”

“Weren’t there ladders?”

“I expect in the garage. Certainly the grounds crew used ladders.”

Skander shook his head. “I’m sorry, it must have been chaos. One can never know what such an event is like unless one lives through it. I once heard about a father who watched his son suffocate. An awful story. The boy was stung by a bee and had an allergic reaction. They were in their own backyard. The father tried to pry the boy’s mouth open. After several minutes, he even cut into the boy’s windpipe with a knife. Nothing worked. His throat had already swollen shut. Then, oh, at least a month after the funeral, the father woke up in the middle of the night. He had dreamed the whole thing again and realized that the garden sprinkler had been on. If he’d been quick, he could have cut a portion of the hose before his son’s throat became blocked. He could have saved his life. It must have been like that for you, thinking about the ladders.”

Hawthorne didn’t speak for a moment, then said, “There was no time to get ladders. Anyway, they wouldn’t have helped.”

After Skander left, Hawthorne sat at his desk going over his notes for a talk he had to give at a Lions Club meeting in Plymouth later in the week. He had presented two other such talks to acquaint groups with changes at the school and to raise money. Several others were scheduled for later in the fall. All required a charm and enthusiasm that Hawthorne found difficult, a heartiness more appropriate to Fritz than to himself. As he tried to edit his remarks, he couldn’t keep his mind on them. He kept thinking about the fire at Wyndham and Skander’s questions. He knew that if he hadn’t been pulled out of the burning hallway, he would have died as well. For months he’d been sorry that he hadn’t died. Now he felt that way less often. Sitting at his desk, Hawthorne felt how he could reach out a hand and almost touch Lily’s blond curls. He even knew how they would feel, their softness, how they would tickle his palm. It was as if his hand were separated from them by a fraction of an inch. He pushed and labored but he still couldn’t cover the last, minuscule distance.

—

Later that morning Hawthorne had a shock. He had gone to the faculty lounge for a cup of coffee around eleven and when he returned to his office he discovered an eight-by-ten framed picture of his wife and daughter on his desk. The shock was that he had no such picture; it must have been put there within the past ten minutes. It showed Meg and Lily standing in front of a decorated Christmas tree. They wore matching green robes from L.L. Bean that Hawthorne had given them for Christmas six weeks before the fire. The picture had appeared in several of the San Diego papers. The frame was cheap—maroon plastic patterned to look like leather. It stood next to the telephone at the corner of the desk as if it had been there for months.

“Mrs. Hayes!” Hawthorne called.

There was no answer. Hawthorne got up to look in the outer office. Mrs. Hayes was not there. He returned to stare at the picture. Meg and Lily looked happy and loving; both had blond hair but Meg’s was darker. Lily’s curls, which Hawthorne had recently been thinking about, were now before him. Hawthorne had no idea how long he looked at the picture—perhaps ten minutes, perhaps thirty. He was interrupted when Mrs. Hayes came into his office.

Hawthorne spoke abruptly. “Where have you been?”

Mrs. Hayes looked startled. She wore a blue dress with a white sailor collar and put a hand to her throat as Hawthorne spoke. “I just carried something down to my car.”

“Did you put this picture here?”

“Of course not. I haven’t touched anything in your office.”

Hawthorne wasn’t sure he believed her. There was an oddness to her expression, but perhaps it was because he had raised his voice. “Did you see anyone else in here?”

“No, nobody. What’s bothering you?”

Hawthorne sat down at his desk and began massaging his temples. “Somebody’s playing tricks,” he said. He looked at the picture of Meg and Lily. He had been avoiding old photographs ever since the fire. He didn’t feel he was strong enough to see them.

“Well, it certainly wasn’t me,” said Mrs. Hayes. Her voice trembled.

Hawthorne saw that she had tears in her eyes. “Is something wrong? I’m sorry if I was abrupt.”

“It’s not that, it’s just . . .” Mrs. Hayes stopped and looked bewildered. Then she suddenly thrust a white envelope across the desk toward Hawthorne. “I don’t trust myself to say anything. Just take that and read it. I’ve thought of nothing else all week.”

Hawthorne took the envelope. It was addressed to Dr. James Hawthorne. When he looked up again, Mrs. Hayes was hurrying from the office. He tore open the envelope.

“Dear Dr. Hawthorne,” Mrs. Hayes had written. “As much as it upsets me to do so, I am afraid I must offer my resignation. I am not young anymore, and as much as I love Bishop’s Hill, I realize that it must move forward. Your ways are not my ways, but if anyone can save the school, then you can. You are a brave man to come here. As for me, my training was in areas that seem obsolete: typing, dictation, file keeping, and payrolls. I understand you must have a modern office to go with your modern methods. I have thought about this for days but I knew it was coming. If I stayed at Bishop’s Hill, I would just be in the way. Please do not try to talk me out of this. I know your intentions are well meant but you cannot turn back the clock, nor can you teach an old dog new tricks. Respectfully yours, Martha Hayes.”

Hawthorne reread the letter, then folded it and returned it to the envelope. He looked at the photograph of Meg and Lily. His wife and daughter, the joy in their faces, their joy at being alive, formed the only subject in which he wanted to immerse himself. He felt angry with Mrs. Hayes for interfering with such sweet and terrible recollections. Then he thought: Someone’s trying to drive me crazy. He got up, crossed the room to the front office. Mrs. Hayes was nowhere in sight.

He looked for some sign of the secretary—her coat or purse—but even the snapshots of her nieces and nephews were gone from her desk, even the little vase of plastic violets. In their place were the computer and software manuals neatly stacked. The other boxes, mostly unopened, stood along the wall. It occurred to Hawthorne that he might be able to convince the board to keep Mrs. Hayes as office manager; then he could hire someone else with computer skills. He hurried to the door to see if she was in the hall. As he moved, the scabs on his knees chafed against his pants, slowing him.

But Mrs. Hayes was gone. The only person nearby was the librarian, Bill Dolittle, who was just passing. In fact, Hawthorne almost bumped into him. He excused himself and stepped back. Dolittle wore a bright yellow V-neck sweater and a blue bow tie. He was balding and he combed his longish brown hair across his bare pink scalp in a way that Hawthorne had heard referred to as borrowing. His sweater was tight, as if he had bought it years earlier when he had been thinner.

They greeted each other in that surprised way people do when they have nearly collided. Dolittle said something about its being another glorious day.

Hawthorne nearly asked him about the photograph. Did Dolittle know who had put it on his desk? How foolish, he thought to himself. Must I distrust everybody?

“I was wondering,” said Dolittle, “if you’ve had the opportunity to consider my proposal.”

“You mean about moving over to Stark? I’ve thought about it but I haven’t had the chance to discuss it with the board. I plan to talk to them next week.”

Dolittle looked concerned. He had a distinct overbite, which he tried to correct by pushing his jaw forward, which made him appear pugnacious. “Why is this a matter for the board?”

“Because someone else would have to be assigned to Latham, which might mean another hiring. That probably couldn’t be done until next year.”

“I could live in Stark and still check on the boys in Latham.”

“I’m sure you could but technically that would leave them unsupervised.”

“I can’t tell you how embarrassing it is to have my son visit me from college for a weekend and make him share a room with an eighth or ninth grader. I’ve been in Latham for eight years!”

“Then you deserve a change but I don’t see how it can be done this semester.”

Dolittle was one of the faculty members who had been supporting Hawthorne. Now Hawthorne wondered if it was only because Dolittle hoped to move from Latham to Stark.

Dolittle patted his hair, perhaps thinking it had been disarranged by the bad news. “How disappointing,” he said.

—

Thursday afternoon, after the faculty meeting, Hawthorne took a walk with Kate on one of the many paths through the woods that bordered the school. He had noticed her in the parking lot and called to her. His intention had been to drive into Plymouth and do a few errands, like buying a new razor, but seeing Kate he decided his beard could wait. The faculty meeting had been frustrating and left Hawthorne in a bad mood. No one had been absent except Herb Frankfurter, who had attended only the first meeting, but people were upset about Chip and more interested in talking about him than about the students. Or more accurately, they were concerned not so much about Chip as about their own job security, until Hawthorne nearly lost his temper and said that as long as they didn’t abuse the students and did what they were hired to do, then they needn’t worry about being fired. All this took time. It was only after half an hour or so that Hawthorne was able to get on to the subject of the upper forms—discussing those students who seemed in immediate trouble, acted out in class, and refused to do their homework. In the past few days two boys had been drunk in their room, about twenty had cut class, an equal number had been verbally abusive to faculty, Bill Dolittle had discovered marijuana spilled on the floor in the Latham bathroom, and Tank Donoso was still giving the other boys in Shepherd slaps on the back of the head. Hawthorne had also hoped to begin discussing the seniors one by one, listing their strengths and weaknesses, suggesting what might benefit them, but that hadn’t been possible. At the end of an hour, they had only managed to talk about three students and at least ten faculty members hadn’t said a word. Hawthorne tried not to show his irritation, but he wasn’t sure how successful he had been.

Interfering with his ability to focus were his thoughts about the photograph of his wife and daughter—its mysterious appearance—as well as his concern about Mrs. Hayes’s resignation. He had tried telephoning Mrs. Hayes, at last reaching her about ten minutes before the meeting. While not actually rude, she had been cool, telling him that she did not intend to reconsider her decision.

At lunch he had told Skander that the secretary had resigned.

Skander had sighed. “I was afraid this was coming. Well, perhaps it’s for the best.”

“I think we need her here. No one knows the school better than she does. Can’t you talk to her?”

“I can try, but she’s certainly a stubborn woman. Resiliency has never been one of her gifts. If I described some of the run-ins we’ve had in the past I’m not sure you’d be so eager to keep her. Not that she isn’t a wonderful person.”