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It was held in a second-floor classroom and about a dozen teachers were already seated at the small wooden desks when Hawthorne and Skander entered. Hilda was at a table in front with the files of the twenty or so students to be discussed. She wheezed quietly. Hawthorne nodded to Kate and a few others. Bobby Newland and Ruth Standish, as mental health counselors, also had files. They sat together by the window but they didn’t appear to have been talking. Hawthorne didn’t know if they were friendly and he wondered if that was the sort of thing he should pay attention to. Betty Sherman, the art teacher, was filing her nails. Tom Hastings, Herb Frankfurter, and Ted Wrigley sat in back—there was a gravity to their appearance, even a disapproval, that Hawthorne couldn’t help noticing. The afternoon was dark and the fluorescent lights gave everyone an unhealthy pallor.

Hawthorne sat down on the edge of the teacher’s desk at the front of the room. Looking at the faculty, he couldn’t help but compare them to the students in his history class, except this bunch was more recalcitrant. Skander joined his wife, making a groaning noise as he lowered himself into his chair. Hawthorne tried to count the friendly faces. Kate, certainly, and perhaps Bill Dolittle. Then there was indifference, distrust, and dislike. Roger Bennett had his hand raised.

“I know this isn’t what we’re here to discuss,” said Bennett, pushing back his hair, “but I’d like to know how I’m supposed to teach algebra when all the class wants to talk about is whether the headmaster is having sex with one of the students?”

The silence that followed had a palpability that seemed to give it physical shape.

“That’s rather out of line, Roger,” said Dolittle, somewhat apprehensively.

Kate begin to speak, then stopped herself. After all, she too was the subject of gossip. Usually when the faculty meetings strayed from their purpose Skander was the one who spoke up. Now he sat quietly and watched Hawthorne.

“Is this what you want to talk about?” asked Hawthorne. “Gossip and slander?”

“I just want to know what to tell my students,” said Bennett.

“You can tell them that it’s not true,” said Hawthorne.

There was a silence of several seconds. Bennett glanced around at his colleagues.

Ted Wrigley raised his hand. “Perhaps it’d be best to know what the official line on this is supposed to be.”

“You can tell them the truth,” said Hawthorne. “A girl was drunk, she came to my rooms and I called the nurse and Kate Sandler.”

Bennett spoke up again. “My wife said she saw the girl going to your quarters an hour before you called the nurse.”

“Perhaps she was mistaken,” said Dolittle.

“My wife is never mistaken, Mr.
Do . . .
little. Are you accusing her of falsehood?” Bennett’s expression was almost joyful. “In any case, the night watchman saw the same.”

Kate got to her feet, facing Roger Bennett. “That’s not true. I talked to Jessica. She had just gotten there.”

“Did you see her enter?” Bennett surveyed his colleagues again, this time with a smile.

“No, but it was clear that she had just arrived.” Kate sat back down.

“From what I’ve heard,” said Herb Frankfurter, “there are quite a few rumors about Miss Sandler as well. She can say what she wants but many people will argue that she’s just looking out for her job.”

Frankfurter stroked his beard and leaned back in his chair. Hawthorne wondered if Frankfurter would have attacked Kate if he hadn’t been forced to return the car he had taken—seemingly on permanent loan—from the school. Hastings, Wrigley, Bennett—they had all had their perks that Hawthorne had removed. Larry Gaudette had told Hawthorne that Roger Bennett had taken a pie from the kitchen every week. Looking at these men’s faces, Hawthorne saw that what had happened with Jessica on Thursday night was less important than the offense of making them stop seeing the school as a natural resource available for them to plunder. Surely everyone felt this to different degrees, but Herb Frankfurter was practically bursting with indignation—not that Hawthorne might have misbehaved, but that he himself had had to return the car. And so if he could blame Hawthorne now, then he was only getting even.

Betty Sherman raised a hand. “Shouldn’t we be getting on about the students?”

There was another pause as several of the faculty glanced at one another.

“Who’s first?” asked Hawthorne.

Hilda Skander opened the top file on her stack. “Julie Petrowski. She’s fourteen and in eighth grade.”

“I’ve been working with her,” said Ruth Standish, getting to her feet. “Julie’s not been handing in her homework in any of her classes and recently, in the past month, she’s been trying to subsist only on cantaloupe and cottage cheese . . .”

Sluggishly, like an old car grinding its way out of a ditch, the meeting got back on track. Herb Frankfurter was looking out the window. Roger Bennett drew circles on a pad of paper. Fritz Skander sat next to his wife and stared down at his hands. Hawthorne could feel his disapproval. It surprised him that Skander hadn’t spoken up to get the meeting started. He tried to catch Kate’s eye, but she was looking down at the top of her school desk.

By five o’clock the meeting was over. Eight students had been discussed but few teachers had participated and the ones who remained silent made it clear they were there under protest. Naturally, Hawthorne also spoke about Clifford Evings and the shock of his death. He said that a memorial service would be held for Evings during first period on Thursday morning. Bennett said he had scheduled a test for that time and Hawthorne suggested he reschedule it. Several people expressed their remorse about Evings, but Hawthorne could tell they had already talked about it and his death had immediately become old news. Others didn’t seemed to care. Herb Frankfurter, oddly, confessed that he hadn’t spoken to Evings in the past five years. After the meeting Hawthorne wanted a chance to talk to Kate, but she left while he was talking to Bennett about rescheduling the algebra exam. Then Bill Dolittle again inquired about his anticipated move to the apartment in Stark Hall.

“Do you think someone on the board dislikes me?” asked Dolittle nervously. He wore a white sweater that was too small for him. In fact, for some weeks Hawthorne had been thinking that all of Dolittle’s clothes seemed too small for him, as if he had experienced a sudden growth spurt during the summer, even though he was over forty.

“I’m sure it’s not that,” said Hawthorne almost impatiently. “As I think I said before, the board would have to hire a new faculty or staff member before you could make the move. And there’s no point in hiring new faculty until it’s certain that the school will remain open.” He wondered if Dolittle had any sense of the school’s problems.

“I looked in there the other day. The night watchman let me in. It was quite dusty.”

“I expect it is. No one’s lived there for several years.”

“Do you think it would be all right if I did a little light housekeeping? You know, just touched up a few places with a wet sponge?”

Hawthorne had to remind himself that Dolittle was one of his allies among the faculty. “If it would give you pleasure, then do it by all means.”

When Hawthorne at last shut off the light, he found Bobby Newland waiting in the hall.

“I’m sorry I lost my temper this morning.” Bobby leaned back against a locker and folded his arms. He wore jeans and a black turtleneck. Despite his apology, he seemed full of skepticism and dislike. Hawthorne thought of Kevin Krueger’s remark that Bobby looked like a younger version of Evings himself.

“That’s all right,” said Hawthorne. “You had reason to be upset.”

“I keep thinking how Clifford said everything was over and I misunderstood.”

Hawthorne tried to persuade Bobby not to feel guilty and repeated Hamilton Burke’s assurances that Evings had understood about the leave of absence, even that he was looking forward to it.

“And you believe him?”

Hawthorne was surprised. “Why should he lie?”

Then Bobby said, “You might find out more about Gail Jensen.”

At first Hawthorne couldn’t place the name.

“She was the student who died several years ago. They said it was appendicitis.”

“And wasn’t it?” asked Hawthorne.

“I’m not sure.”

“Then what was it?”

Bobby smiled humorlessly. “That’s what you need to find out.” He pushed himself away from the locker. “I appreciate your having a memorial service for Clifford. I look forward to it.”

A few minutes later, Hawthorne was on his way to the infirmary in Douglas Hall. Dinner was at six and he still had forty-five minutes. Although he could have avoided going outside, Hawthorne wanted a breath of fresh air. The faculty meeting had shaken the last of his composure—the attacks on his credibility, the reluctance of the faculty to engage with the subject, the gossip. It made him miss the residential treatment centers he’d worked in. Six weeks ago it had struck Hawthorne as ridiculous that some teachers would prefer to see Bishop’s Hill shut down than change. Now he saw that point of view as one of his greatest obstacles.

Jessica Weaver was still in the infirmary with her kitten. Hawthorne had learned that Jessica’s roommate would be happy to have the kitten in the room.

“You’ll have to take care of it,” said Hawthorne, “make sure the kitten eats properly and that it has a cat box and the litter’s changed regularly. And if you’re going to keep it, I expect you to fulfill your obligations as a student at Bishop’s Hill. No drinking, no smoking, no cutting classes, and you have to go to meals.”

There was more of this. Hawthorne felt foolish saying things that struck him as obvious, but they had to be said. The girl wore an oversized sweatshirt but Hawthorne kept remembering how she had looked that night. He couldn’t erase the image from his mind. He asked himself if there was truth to the accusations, if he wanted to have sex with her, but he only had to raise the question to see its absurdity. Jessica was a child. Even if he had seen the girl dancing in that Boston club, he wouldn’t have been attracted. He was sure of it.

The girl sat cross-legged on the floor, teasing the kitten with a long strand of her hair as she listened to Hawthorne.

“So it’s agreed?” asked Hawthorne at last.

Jessica gathered up the kitten in her arms. “I guess so.”

“And you’ll take care of it?”

“Sure. I mean, I love it.”

“And are you going to tell me where you got the tequila the other night?”

“I can’t.” She raised her chin defiantly.

He was tempted to blackmail her. If she didn’t tell about the tequila, she couldn’t keep the kitten. The idea made him dislike himself. “Then you better get to dinner,” he said.

Hawthorne stayed a few more minutes to talk to Alice Beech.

“Certainly I remember Gail Jensen,” said Alice. “But I wasn’t here when she was taken to the hospital. It was just three years ago at Thanksgiving break. I’d gone to Boston to see some friends. The girl had stayed at school. She went into the hospital on the Friday after Thanksgiving. When I got back on Sunday night, I heard she’d died.” They were sitting in Alice’s office. On the walls were photographs of Alice kayaking with a number of friends, all women.

“And it was appendicitis?”

“That’s what I was told. I had no reason to doubt it.”

“Had the girl been sick?”

“No. It was very sudden.”

“What was she like?”

“The girl? Very quiet, a little plain, not a particularly good student.”

“Did she have friends?”

“Not many, maybe none at all. She had a job in the office helping Mrs. Hayes—photocopying and answering the phone. That was really the only time I saw her.”

Hawthorne thanked Alice again for taking care of Jessica, yet even as he spoke he recalled Skander’s absurd suggestion that Alice had a sexual interest. The thought made him feel even more isolated. He considered the good or bad construction that could be put on any action and asked himself why the faculty at Bishop’s Hill seemed so relentlessly determined to imagine the bad.

After dinner Hawthorne went down to the Dugout to spend an hour or so with the students. Many were upset about Evings’s death and he wanted to give them the chance to vent their feelings. He found about twenty at tables scattered around the room, talking, listening to the jukebox, and playing video games. Often during the fall he had joined a table of students, and they had come to see nothing out of the ordinary about his presence. Now they seemed more distant and he suspected it was because of the rumors about him and Jessica.

Still, half a dozen settled around him to talk about Evings, although they tried to mask their shock behind an affected composure.

“What I don’t sec,” said a sophomore named Riley, “is why he couldn’t of split. I mean, go to California.”

His girlfriend disagreed. “He was too old to go to California.” She combed her fingers through her long black hair.

“Hey, he had a big problem,” said Tank Donoso. Tank wore a T-shirt that showed off his muscular bulk. “And who could he talk to? Like, who’s the psychologist for the psychologist? It’s a problem—”

A thin blond girl by the name of Ashley interrupted him. “He could have talked to Dr. Hawthorne.”

“Yo,” said Tank, “Dr. Hawthorne’s his boss. You don’t go to the boss and say how you’re fucking up, even if the boss is a shrink.”

And Rudy Schmidt, with whom Hawthorne still sometimes shot baskets, asked the question that the others may not have had the nerve to ask. “You think the school’s going to make it to the end of the year?”

“Why shouldn’t it?” said Hawthorne, feigning more surprise than he felt.

“Well, you know, money and stuff.”

“I just want to make sure I’ll graduate,” said Tank.

“I promise that you’ll both graduate,” said Hawthorne, “as long as your grades don’t take a nosedive.”

The small joke hardly raised a smile.

“What about next year?” asked the girl with the long black hair. Hawthorne thought her name was Sara.

“I’m doing everything I can to make sure we’ll be here in the fall.” Hawthorne realized, not for the first time, that no matter how much the students complained about Bishop’s Hill and fantasized about an ideal home, the school was still a place of security, even of comfort; for some of them, it was the only real home they had.