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PART TWO

Five

H
igh against the sky the scaffolding of weathered two-by-fours around the bell tower of Emerson Hall formed a web of crisscrossing lines the same gray color as the overhanging clouds. At the corners of the rooftop, the crude alligatorlike gargoyles dribbled raindrops, and the scaffolding rose above the roof like a cage. Kevin Krueger, as he stood next to his State of New Hampshire Ford Taurus, found the scene oppressive. For Jim Hawthorne, however, the scaffolding was a source of celebration.

“I’ve spoken to groups from Plymouth down to Laconia,” he was saying. “Kiwanis, Rotary, Lions. And I’ve written to alumni. I hadn’t a hope of starting these repairs before spring, but then the gifts began to come in. Not a lot, but enough to get started.”

“I’m impressed,” said Krueger, trying to put enthusiasm into his voice.

“If we’d waited, there could have been water damage up in the attic rooms. Now it should be watertight before the snow starts, though we had flurries just the other day.”

It was midmorning on Monday, November 9, and Kevin Krueger had just driven up from Concord. Officially, he was here to look at the school for the Department of Education, but he also wanted to see his ex-teacher and friend, from whom his only communication had been a phone call in September, then a postcard at the beginning of October making an obscure reference to the successes of Sisyphus. It was nearly seven weeks since he had last seen Hawthorne, and in that time Hawthorne appeared to have lost about ten pounds and aged five years. His face was even more angular and the hollows in his cheeks were small pockets of shadow.

“So, you’ve been successful,” said Krueger, making it a statement.

“Not successful yet, I’m afraid. But we’re moving along.”

Hawthorne had come out to greet him when he saw Krueger get out of his car. Now they walked slowly toward the main entrance of Emerson Hall. It had been raining for nearly a week and the ground was muddy. This morning the rain had stopped but the sky remained slate-colored. Krueger stepped to avoid puddles. Everything seemed gray except for the gold spear points on the metal fence in front of the building. Krueger saw a few faces looking down at him from several windows, presumably students who were not paying attention to their teachers. The air was cold and raw. Hawthorne wore no coat but he didn’t seem to notice the cold. Krueger wore a thick brown overcoat, tweed cap, and brown leather gloves, while his bushy mustache and eyebrows seemed to provide additional protection against the weather. He was a man who buffered himself against the world with his comforts, his optimism, and his intellect. He liked soft things and worried about Hawthorne—whether he ate enough or slept enough. There was a wariness about him that Krueger had never noticed before, an agitation and suspicion of his surroundings.

Krueger had heard about Bishop’s Hill from a few other sources. For instance, he knew that Chip Campbell had been dismissed and that an injunction had been obtained against him to make sure he stayed off school property.

“And you remain hopeful?” he asked.

“Let’s say I refuse to admit defeat. There’ve been changes and many have been successful. The problem is that each change is met with a lot of grumbling. If you only knew how tired I am of grumbling.”

Most of the leaves had fallen and were heaped in sodden piles along the metal fence. The clouds were low enough that the hills seemed eaten up by them. Gray trees, gray clouds. A few crows were calling to one another—a rough, imperative squawking. It was the sort of day that always made Krueger tell himself that he was going to take his family south this winter for a week or two, though he never did.

They climbed the granite front steps of the building and Krueger held the door for Hawthorne. “I heard about that fellow Campbell. That must have been difficult for you.”

“Did you know him?”

“I never had the pleasure. But his record indicated he’d been fired from a school in Connecticut in 1985.” Krueger removed his cap and gloves and put them in his pockets.

“He has an unfortunate temper. It seemed simple, really—to have a rule that couldn’t be broken. How many times do you have to say it? Students May Not Be Hit. You know he came back and tried to beat me up? He got more than he bargained for, from the cook of all people. He happened to see Chip knock me down. That’s when I had an injunction taken out against him. Unfortunately, he’s become a martyr for some of the faculty. And the whole business has made everyone anxious—as if I were going to go on a firing spree and get rid of them all. All my gestures get magnified. I say something quietly and it gets turned into a shout.”

“That’s what it’s like to be boss.”

“But it hasn’t been that way at other places.”

“Schools are different from treatment centers. They’re more amateurish.”

“You know, they had this idea that the only reason I’d come here was to write a book, and they resented it, as if they were no more than parts of an experiment. It’s taken over a month to convince them that I’m not planning to write anything. Some of them still don’t believe me.”

“You spoke of writing a book when you went to Wyndham.”

Hawthorne turned back to Krueger. “I’m not that person anymore. That was part of my ambition. If I hadn’t been so ambitious, my wife and daughter would still be alive.”

The Emerson Hall rotunda rose up three stories to a dome beneath the bell tower. In the center of its marble floor was a blue-and-gold crest with the letters
B
and
H
superimposed. Here, too, there was scaffolding, with two workmen in paint-spotted coveralls plastering the first-floor ceiling along the rim of the open space. Above him, Krueger saw chest-high railings surrounding the rotunda at the second and third floors. In a public school, the rotunda would be considered unsafe. The insurance companies would protest and the second and third floors would be extended across the opening. It was on the tip of Krueger’s tongue to ask if they’d ever lost a student—some careless seventh grader tumbling down from the third floor—but he was trying to be upbeat.

Krueger wanted to argue with Hawthorne about Wyndham. He passionately believed that Hawthorne’s ambitions had nothing to do with the death of his family, but he didn’t feel ready to begin the discussion. “What’s Campbell doing now?”

“He’s got a lawyer. The school deals with him through Hamilton Burke, who’s our lawyer and a member of the board of trustees. I expect he’ll get some money and a noncommittal recommendation. Chip certainly won’t be coming back here. I’d resign first.”

“And his classes?”

“I hired a fellow to teach two. The others were picked up by people here. I’m teaching one in ancient and medieval history. We’re well into the Romans now. What an ill-mannered bunch they were. And I coach the swimming team with another teacher.”

“Where do you find the time?”

Hawthorne gave one of his sudden smiles. “It has to be found, that’s all.”

They were walking down the empty corridor. The floor was yellowish marble and the wainscoting rose to about four feet. Above the wainscoting were rows of photographs of Bishop’s Hill students going back to the school’s founding. Krueger felt they were an exceedingly glum lot.

“And what’s the feeling of the board in general?”

“Optimistic, I think, although even there I have my enemies, one or two who feel the school should close. But we’ve done quite a bit. The faculty meets twice a week to discuss students and now they’re mostly able to do that without carping at one another. The two mental health counselors are each in charge of four discussion sections—group therapy, basically—which have been a big hit. I go to two each week, as does the school psychologist, Mr. Evings. And other faculty go, too. It’s a place where the students can say how much they hate us without getting into trouble. But recently they’ve begun talking about their feelings more. You know, their fears and why they have them. And the board has authorized a search for another psychologist—an entry-level position, I’m afraid, but better than nothing. I’ve had two Sunday teas to which different groups of students have been invited. There’s a crisis hotline that the students try to operate eighteen hours a day. Mostly it works. We’ve put couches and chairs in one of the classrooms that was empty, and now it’s used for time-outs. If a kid acts up in class, he or she can be sent there. A staff member monitors the room but doesn’t interfere unless windows start getting broken, which has happened twice. Ten students have been enlisted as tutors in English, foreign languages, math, and science to help other students with their homework. We’ve been able to set aside a special room in the library and even supply cider and doughnuts, which is a draw. And we’re setting up a program to let students work with the grounds crew, in the kitchen, and in general cleanup. In return they get coupons they can redeem in the school store or at the Dugout, the student coffeehouse, or exchange for privileges like time in the gym or rides into town, even extra desserts.”

“That sounds fantastic.”

“Most of it’s pretty basic stuff. I don’t know why it hadn’t been done before. But the students seem happy with the changes. I’m also setting up a buddy system where the upper classmen help out the younger kids and look out for them in general. And we’re starting discussion groups on things like homosexuality, anorexia, self-mutilation, even overeating.”

“And the faculty, are they happy with the changes?”

“Less so, I’m afraid. One woman asked if I didn’t understand that the more I gave the students, the more they’d want. She suggested I was setting dangerous precedents. For years they’ve seen the students as the enemy and the students have reacted by being adversarial. Being bad has been the only power they’ve had. It will take time to change that.”

“What about the psychologist, Mr. Evings?

“He’s something of a disappointment. I’ve spoken to him a few times—really, only trying to help—but I seem to frighten him. At least he attends the meetings. Unfortunately, he tends to fall asleep. The students, well, he doesn’t have much credibility with them. Some are quite rude. Evings is gay, which is neither here nor there, but he feels that’s why he’s unpopular and it increases his anxiety. And of course some people
do
object to his gayness, which is one reason we’ve started these discussion groups. But the school nurse has helped a lot, as well as some of the faculty. The admissions office is perking up. And Bill Dolittle, the librarian, has been supportive.”

“Isn’t there a chaplain?” From the half-closed doors of a classroom, Krueger could hear talking and occasional laughter.

“Reverend Bennett, a woman. She rather disapproves of me. Early on she asked if I’d please refrain from engaging in athletic events with the students. I’d been playing basketball and scraped my knees. Actually, her husband knocked me down. He teaches math and is known for never flunking a student no matter how much the kid deserves it. He’s considered a character—very bouncy, for the most part. Anyway, the chaplain does her job well enough, giving sermons about vice and abstinence, though I don’t think many students would attend chapel if it weren’t required. Her husband was very apologetic when he hit me. It wasn’t on purpose. At least, I don’t think so.”

Krueger had taken off his overcoat and held it folded over one arm. “And what about Fritz Skander?”

“He’s been a big help, but it worries him that he’s had to mediate between me and the faculty. He’s always asking if I don’t think we’re moving ahead too quickly and he talks vaguely about ‘repercussions.’ But he means well, I believe. When I came here I thought of the faculty as a sort of unit—people who had been living and working together for years—but they’ve got all sort of dislikes and rivalries, even hatreds. Two teachers who in public strongly objected to Chip’s dismissal came to me privately to assure me that I’d done the right thing.”

“Certainly there are rivalries in treatment centers.”

“There they’re part of the fabric, basically superficial; here they’re part of the foundation. Sustaining timbers. In some cases, it’s all these people think about, as if the hatred were preexisting. And now a certain amount of their hatred has been redirected at me.” Hawthorne laughed. “But it’s hardly personal. They would have hated any headmaster.”

“You’ve been very active.”

“Yes. For many that’s a decided fault.”

A bell rang and within seconds the hall was filled with students moving from one class to the next. They seemed mostly congenial—noisy and good-natured, with backpacks and Walkmans. Two boys carried skateboards. A girl had a hockey stick. Krueger tried to look at them in the way that he expected the review board would look at them when its members visited in the spring to decide on accreditation. Krueger had visited schools all over the state. He had seen sullen schools and angry schools, even dangerous schools, but here the students seemed cordial, though there was a tension that Krueger couldn’t identify. A sort of vigilance. Quite a few greeted Hawthorne. In their dress, they seemed rather ragtag, as if their clothes had been obtained from a local thrift shop. Several had dyed their hair orange or scarlet, and one young man wore a Mohawk with three-inch purple spikes.