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“It appears to be a general topic of conversation.”

“But who’s saying it in particular?”

“I’d prefer not to name names.”

“I insist.”

Bobby stood up and walked back across the office. At first Hawthorne thought that he meant to leave, but then he turned around again. “Roger Bennett, Ruth Standish, Tom Hastings, Ted Wrigley, Herb Frankfurter, and others as well. One says one thing, one says another. Herb keeps talking about Clifford’s involvement with some senior years ago that created such a scandal that the boy’s parents removed him from school. Then that Standish woman tells everyone that Clifford secretly smokes in his office, which sets a bad example for the students. And Roger was saying down in the Dugout just this morning that his wife was going to make sure that Clifford was gone by Thanksgiving.”

“Do they say who wrecked Clifford’s office?”

“They assume it was students.”

“I’ll talk to Clifford again. I don’t know what else I can do.”

Abruptly Bobby seemed on the edge of tears. “I feel frightened as well. I talk to this person and that. I’ve no idea who to believe. I’m sure you’ve got the students’ best interests at heart. Compared to last year, their morale is almost exciting. But everything else is on the very edge of collapse. It’s like watching a building fall down.”

After Bobby left, Hawthorne considered ordering Roger Bennett into his office and demanding that he explain his part in the gossip. Or he could call a faculty meeting and threaten the lot of them. The temptation was always to use force—he was busy, he had a hundred things to do, and force seemed the easy shortcut. But although threatening Bennett might shut him up, it wouldn’t solve the problem.

Hawthorne wasn’t able to see Evings until five-thirty. By then it was dark and the empty hall was illuminated by the globe lights suspended from the ceiling.

The psychologist was sitting on the floor of his office with glue and tape, trying to patch his books back together. Hawthorne had knocked and a cheery voice had told him to enter. Evings looked up at the headmaster with a heartiness that Hawthorne found unnerving. His cardigan had been buttoned incorrectly and formed a zigzag down his narrow chest. Hawthorne sat down on the arm of the wing chair. The other chair was missing; presumably it had been taken off to be repaired. Next to Evings towered a stack of books still to be patched.

“And what sort of psychosis do you call this, if you please?” asked Evings, holding up the glue. “Was I scared by a pot of glue as a small child? Or perhaps my mother wouldn’t let me play with paper dolls. I hope you haven’t come to lock me up.” When Evings grinned, his bald head became skull-like. The room was warm and the radiator hissed quietly.

“I wanted to say again how sorry I am and see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“Try shooting me,” said Evings cheerily. “If not that, you can send me to Cape Cod. I like Provincetown in the winter. Traffic is never a problem and there’s no wait at the better restaurants. Oops, too many gay men. I’d better keep my mouth shut—you homophobes hate that kind of talk.” Evings patted one of the books he had finished mending and returned it to the shelf.

“Have I ever done anything to suggest that I’m homophobic?” Hawthorne wanted to lay out his credentials and take credit for establishing the gay and lesbian discussion group, then he grew exasperated by this new impulse to defend himself.

“Not directly, but the Reverend Bennett certainly hasn’t concealed her feelings. Others too. Herb Frankfurter’s always muttering under his breath.”

“Bobby came to see me a little while ago,” said Hawthorne. “He told me that you think that I intend to fire you. I just want—”

“What a sneak he is. Going behind my back. He should have his fanny paddled.”

Hawthorne kept his face expressionless. “Stop it, Clifford. I want to talk seriously.”

“I have no wish to be serious. It gets you in trouble. All my life I’ve been serious and look where I am today.” He gestured around his office. “You know, I really would have preferred to be beaten up like poor Chip than to have my books destroyed. They aren’t even very
good
books.” He raised one over his head without looking at Hawthorne. “Did you ever read
Goodbye, Mr. Chips
? An old favorite of mine.” He held up two more. “
Tom Brown’s School Days. Stalky and Co.
Perhaps you see a disturbing motif. Where in the world is my
Study Guide to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders-IV?
Oh, oh. Shall I tell you a secret? I threw it out. I’ve always hated it. It was the one book that wasn’t even damaged and I threw it in the trash. How’s that for being sick?”

“And why do you think you’re sick?” asked Hawthorne.

“I must be. Look what’s happened to my office. Isn’t that a sign of sickness? Someone thinks it’s time for me to go. And now you’re here to fire me. Why would you fire me if I weren’t sick?”

“Clifford, I am not here to fire you.”

“Aha, you say that now, but I know the drill. Hit the road, you’ll say. And there I’ll be with Chip and poor Mrs. Hayes, just like checker pieces shoved to the side of the board. Then Bobby and Roger Bennett and Ted Hastings will get the ax. Roger thinks you’ll fire him because he knocked you down in basketball. Poor boy. Tell me this, Dr. Hawthorne, what will you do when you’re all alone? When you’ve nobody left except your dear Kate and that cook? Really, if I had any standing with the Department of Education, I’d have to report you.”

—

That night Hawthorne worked in his office till ten o’clock, then he shut down his computer, returned some papers to the file cabinet, and made his way out of the building. Early in the evening he had spoken again to Bobby, then phoned Hamilton Burke in Laconia to describe Evings’s continued anxiety after the vandalism of his office. He suggested to the lawyer that Evings be given a paid leave of absence—let him go someplace warm so he could knit himself back together. Hawthorne and Bobby had felt it would be best if the offer came from Burke, as a member of the board, and carried the board’s assurance that Evings’s job was safe. Hawthorne was worried; Evings was clearly unwell. But Burke had taken much persuading, saying that he was afraid of intervening in what appeared to be an internal matter. At last, however, he agreed to call Evings and visit the school, if need be. He even grew mildly enthusiastic and offered the opinion that a short vacation might be just the ticket to set Evings to rights again.

Hawthorne walked back around the outside of Emerson Hall to Adams. It was a clear night and cold, with a half-moon revealing the outline of the mountains. He wore no hat and the tips of his ears seemed to prickle with frost. From across the lawns he could hear muted rock music from one of the dormitory cottages. There had been no phone calls that day, no little packages of food. And as he looked up at the darkened windows, he was relieved to see that each was empty. Yet he felt tense, as if ready to fend off an attack that might come from any direction. To counter this, he meant to sit in his new chair, have a beer, and relax. Kick back, as Scott McKinnon said. He would listen to NPR and read nothing more taxing than the
Boston Globe.

But once Hawthorne was settled in his chair, he left the
Globe
folded in his lap. The large living room was dim, the only light coming from a shaded floor lamp behind his right shoulder and the glow of the moon through the French windows. Hawthorne had almost decided to schedule a faculty meeting to which he would invite Burke and other members of the board. He had to stop these rumors. The issues would be discussed frankly, and if the faculty wanted him to act differently, then that would be discussed as well. It seemed absurd that they couldn’t manage to join forces. If that wasn’t possible, then Hawthorne’s job was hopeless.

Hawthorne hated the prospect of defeat. The thought was almost intolerable. But what had he been beaten by? Could it be no more than stubbornness and a spirited defense of the status quo? Even if Chip Campbell had sent the note to Kate’s ex-husband, could he be blamed for everything? Perhaps he had put the news clippings in the faculty mailboxes, but the painting, the phone calls, and the bags of rotten food—he couldn’t have done all that. Surely others were involved.

Hawthorne had again begun to think of Wyndham and his wife and daughter, when he slowly grew aware of a squeaking noise over by the French windows. Glancing up, he saw a light shape, then he realized it was a woman’s body. With a shock, Hawthorne saw she was half naked. He stood up and took a few steps toward the window. A woman was rubbing her naked breasts against the glass, rubbing them in a circle. Hawthorne clearly saw her dark red nipples, then the pale skin and behind that an indistinct head with blond hair, saw the small breasts pressed nearly flat and the nipples like coins, saw even her ribs as the woman rubbed herself across the strips of wood separating the panes, bending her knees, then pushing herself up again so her breasts were dragged across the glass.

Hawthorne walked quickly across the living room, almost expecting the woman to vanish before he reached the door. He pushed opened the French window. The woman stumbled back. It was a girl: Jessica Weaver. She stretched out her arms and began to turn in a circle, drifting like some weightless thing picked up by the wind. Her feet were bare. Around one ankle was a gold chain with a heart, which glittered in the moonlight.

Jessica lurched back against the balustrade and stopped. “Would you like me to dance for you?” she asked. Her voice was slurred.

Hawthorne could see the goose bumps on her white flesh. He took her arm and pulled her across the terrace and into the living room. Then, before shutting the door, he glanced around. Was someone watching? But he couldn’t tell; it was too dark.

Jessica continued to turn in circles and bumped up against the arm of Hawthorne’s new leather chair. “I’m a good dancer,” she said. “Shall I take off my jeans?” She began undoing her silver belt buckle. Her toenails were painted bright green.

Hawthorne realized she was drunk. “Stop turning like that or you’ll throw up.”

Jessica pushed herself away from the chair and, as she turned, she tilted back her head and stared at the ceiling. “The trick is not to get dizzy. If I focus on one special spot, it’s okay.” Her peroxided hair hung down across her shoulders.

Hawthorne tried not to look at her breasts but he found it impossible not to. His overcoat was draped over the arm of the couch. He took it and put it around her shoulders, trying to be careful not to touch her skin. “Keep this on.”

She was still turning but more slowly. “Would you like to fuck me?”

“No, thanks.” Hawthorne walked to the telephone.

“Don’t you think I’m pretty?”

“It has nothing to do with prettiness.” Hawthorne dialed the nurse. It rang five times and the answering machine picked up. “This is Alice Beech. I’m away from my desk right now . . .”

Hawthorne waited for the message to finish. “Alice, this is Jim Hawthorne. It’s about eleven o’clock. Could you get over here as soon as possible. I’ve got an emergency.” He hung up.

The overcoat had fallen to the floor and, as Jessica continued to twirl, her feet got tangled in it, causing her to stumble. “I think my feelings should be hurt. Lots of men would like to fuck me.”

Hawthorne picked up the coat and put it back over her. She turned and his knuckles slid across her bare back. “Keep this on,” he said, dropping the coat onto her shoulders.

He returned to the telephone and called Kate. She picked up after the third ring.

“Hi, this is Jim. Could you come over here right away. I need your help.”

She paused, as if considering the concern in his voice. “It’ll take about fifteen minutes. I just have to make sure that Todd is settled.”

“Make it as soon as you can.” Hawthorne hung up. Seeing that Jessica had again dumped his coat on the floor, he picked it up and held it out to her. “I told you to keep this on,” he said, more roughly than he intended. He saw that she had unbuckled her belt; the two ends hung loose.

“You’re not very nice,” said Jessica, still turning in front of him.

Hawthorne again put the coat over her shoulders, then took her arm and led her over to the couch.

“Who’ve you been drinking with?”

“A friend.” Jessica took little baby steps as Hawthorne urged her forward.

“What friend?”

“It’s none of your business.” She looked up at him. “Do you like margaritas?”

“I don’t think I’ve had one for about a dozen years.” Hawthorne settled her in a corner of the couch. He began to sit down at the other end, then he got up and went to his new leather chair instead. “So to what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

“I thought you’d like to see me dance.” Jessica began to get to her feet.

“Stay where you are and keep that coat over your shoulders. Aren’t you cold?”

Jessica put her little finger in her mouth and sucked on it, staring at Hawthorne with her head tilted. “Tequila’s very warming. Would you like to see me do a somersault?” The coat had slipped down, exposing her right breast.

“I want you to stay right where you are.”

Jessica took her finger out of her mouth and looked at it. The finger was wet and shiny. “You’re not very fun.”

“It’s not my job to be fun. Who gave you the tequila?”

“I don’t want to say.”

“And why did you come over here?”

“Your light was on. I thought you’d like to see me dance.”

“Are you sure someone didn’t tell you to come over here?”

“What a silly idea.” She abruptly stood up and the overcoat fell back onto the couch. “Watch this!” She took two running steps and did a cartwheel, then another.

Hawthorne stood up as well. “If you don’t go back to the couch and put that coat over your shoulders, I’ll have to ask you to leave.” He knew it wasn’t much of a threat, but perhaps in her present condition it would work. He glanced at his watch. Hardly five minutes had passed since he had called Kate.

Jessica was now standing by the kitchen door. Her jeans were unfastened and partly unzipped. She seemed to be wearing nothing underneath. Looking at Hawthorne, she put her finger back in her mouth. “Call me Misty.”