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The French windows of the headmaster’s apartment opened onto a terrace that looked out across the school’s playing fields. The apartment was in Adams Hall, where classes were held, but it seemed homelike and included enough bedrooms for a big family—a feature that Hawthorne, now that he was single again, couldn’t consider without bitter irony. At the moment he was leaning against the balustrade that divided the terrace from the lawn some half-dozen feet below. The night was cloudy and windless. In the distance he could hear coyotes yapping.

Hawthorne wished he could pray, but the sky looked especially empty, a black chasm disappearing above him. Lights burned in the windows of several buildings although it was past midnight. More lights lined the walkways. At the corner of the playing fields a security light cast a yellow tint across home plate. But between those lights and whatever existed overhead, Hawthorne sensed only emptiness. He zipped up his jacket and buried his hands in the side pockets.

If he could pray, what would he ask for? To see his wife and daughter once more? To gaze on their living faces? But if he believed in prayer, then wouldn’t he believe that he would see them again? And there unfolded in his mind all the possibilities of an afterlife, as if he were pushing through one after another, expecting their faces to emerge from the confusion. If only he could see Meg and Lily one more time, he would surrender himself to any belief, do anything to breach the dark wall that kept them from him. Hawthorne felt a constriction in his chest; his heaven was empty and he was sure that when he died his own particular light would simply blink out. Meg and Lily were dead. He had brought their ashes back to New England to bury in Ingram in western Massachusetts, where they had lived before moving to San Diego. He had thought of driving out to Ingram before coming to Bishop’s Hill to see if their stones were in place and how the cemetery looked at the beginning of fall. But he hadn’t gone. Perhaps he would go later; he lacked the courage now.

Hawthorne hoisted himself up on the balustrade, kicking his heels against the small columns supporting the railing. Before him rose three stories of Adams Hall with its ivy and crumbling brick. At the corners of the roof were dragonlike gargoyles, looking foolish by day but in the moonlight full of menace. His apartment—or “quarters,” in the idiom of the school—took up a sizable portion of the first floor and showed signs of having been lately vacated by Fritz Skander. Hawthorne had been willing to let him stay, but he understood the symbolism of the move: there was no way Skander could live in the headmaster’s quarters. Anyway, there was a house for him on the grounds. It amused Hawthorne. Here he wanted to make a clean break and give himself over to a labor that would completely fill his mind, but already he was restricted by the customs of the new place. Maybe he would have done better digging ditches or dedicating himself to the improvement of an Indian tribe deep in the Amazon jungle—but such a tribe would also have its rituals, no better or worse than those at Bishop’s Hill.

And Hawthorne was digging a ditch; or rather, bringing Bishop’s Hill back from the near dead was equally labor-intensive. Unhappily, it wasn’t intensive enough. It didn’t block his other thoughts, because here he sat recalling all those aspects of his wife and daughter that formed the major continent within his skull, until he wanted to hammer his head with his fists and shout, Stop! Was this why people went crazy, to keep something out of their brains? All his training as a psychologist denied such old-fashioned ideas. He was overcome with hatred for the language of his trade, its clumsy diagnoses and efforts to describe the human condition, because here he was and his sky was still empty. But how else could he shut down his thoughts if not by ferocious work? Even his own death he had rejected—not for moral reasons but for a logic that, Hawthorne felt, approached the absurd. Meg and Lily now existed only in his seemingly limitless memory—again and again they moved across the stage of his thoughts. Meg might be doing no more than arranging flowers in a vase or Lily might be putting a pair of tiny shoes on the feet of a Barbie doll. Were Hawthorne to die, wouldn’t it kill them once again since their only remaining life was in his head? Once he was gone, they would be nowhere.

As for the other distractions, the more common forms of self-medication—alcohol, drugs, women—he felt he knew too much to give them credence. Even if his heaven was empty, it held more than the illusion extended by alcohol, and this paradox almost made him smile—Hawthorne, a man to whom smiles no longer came easily. No, he had chosen himself a ditch to dig, though in the past week he’d found himself thinking more of Sisyphus shoving his boulder up the hill. Hawthorne wondered how long it had taken Sisyphus to realize he wouldn’t succeed, that it wasn’t a matter of working harder or of there being a right way or a wrong way. The boulder would never perch motionless on top of the mountain and allow Sisyphus to say, “I did it.”

Was Bishop’s Hill like that? Hawthorne couldn’t let himself think in such terms. He had chosen to come to a place where he wasn’t known, where the details about what had happened in San Diego remained vague. He wouldn’t have to talk about it and deal with people’s curiosity, whether kindly meant or not. He was well aware that taking the job at Bishop’s Hill after having been at Wyndham was like a colonel, even a general, voluntarily returning to the ranks, becoming at best a sort of staff sergeant. Krueger had asked him if he meant to write a book but Hawthorne had none of that left inside him. After all, his being an innovator in his field had been one of the causes of the fire. Better to be a sergeant and concern himself with daily chores, better to dig a ditch. He would fully give himself to Bishop’s Hill, and if that wasn’t enough, the trustees would close the school and that would be that. Whether he succeeded or failed was beyond his concern. Like Sisyphus, he thought, pushing for the sake of pushing, the very Zen of pushing, and again he almost smiled.

Yesterday he had talked to the faculty, this morning he had addressed the students. After lunch he had talked to the staff—secretaries, grounds crew, housekeepers, the people who worked in the kitchen. The faculty had looked at him with fear, the students with suspicion, and the staff with disbelief. But no, that wasn’t true, there were some who seemed to listen with open minds. And others might be convinced, although slowly.

That afternoon he had talked to the school secretary, Mrs. Hayes, about her computer skills. She had come into his office and refused to sit down, saying that she preferred to stand. In her self-presentation, not a single hair was out of place. Her old-fashioned dress, cameo brooch, string of artificial pearls, practical shoes—her display was seamless. It turned out she had no computer skills. The board had offered to buy her a computer but she had refused. Her old Underwood was good enough for her. Hawthorne told her that he had ordered several computers, a printer, and a scanner and would show her how they worked. In no time, Mrs. Hayes unraveled. One tear slid down her cheek, then another. She told Hawthorne that she knew he intended to let her go.

“I have no intention of firing you,” he had said.

“That’s what you say now, but I know differently.”

“Please believe me. I need you here.”

But she didn’t believe him. She had worked at Bishop’s Hill for more than thirty years but she understood that changes were necessary.

“I’m only asking you to familiarize yourself with a perfectly simple machine. It will make your job and mine far easier.” He hadn’t had the courage to mention the Internet and e-mail, all the things that could be done online.

In the end, Hawthorne spent his time reassuring her that her position was safe. “Has anyone told you that I mean to fire you?”

“People talk.” Mrs. Hayes had patted her nose with a handkerchief. “And I know I’m not young anymore. I’m a slow learner.”

Hawthorne wondered what would happen if Mrs. Hayes refused to use a computer. Well, then, she would stay on till her retirement; she provided valuable continuity. But what bothered him was that she didn’t believe him. No matter what he said, she remained convinced that he would force her out of Bishop’s Hill. And he again thought of the faculty members the previous afternoon, how they tried to conceal their doubts and fears—what would he have to do before they realized he was trying to save their jobs and not preparing to fire them?

At least Fritz Skander understood the difficulty.

“They need to trust you,” Skander had said in his soft voice. “I can help you with that. I know them. It won’t take long. They’re basically good people.”

Hawthorne had felt so grateful that he had shaken Skander’s hand. In response, Skander had given him a smile of such warmth and willingness that Hawthorne’s doubts receded.

“It’ll be hard for a while,” said Skander, “but they’ll come around.”

“I’m depending on you,” Hawthorne had told him.

Skander patted Hawthorne’s arm. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Hawthorne’s meeting with the students had been less daunting even though they were less welcoming. But they were adolescents and Hawthorne felt he knew the breed. Their suspicion, indifference, and cynicism lacked the inflexibility that age gave a person. Although they were wary, it would be easier to win them to his side. They were quieter than kids in a treatment center, better able to keep themselves under control. And they were more sophisticated, more capable of channeling their energies in a single direction, even more analytical. So they had watched him.

He would always be available to them, he’d explained; if they had complaints they felt were being ignored, they could come to him at any time.

“What about the food?” one boy asked. “It sucks.”

“We’ve hired a new assistant cook and yesterday he made fresh bread for lunch. Personally, I thought it was wonderful. The problem at the moment is the kitchen’s budget but I’m sure it can be increased a little. The new cook has placed a suggestion box outside the kitchen. If there’s a kind of food or particular dishes that you want made, just leave a note and maybe he can do it. I know he’d like to.”

“Can we get wine with meals?” asked a boy.

“Or beer?”

There had been more joking suggestions. Hawthorne had waited for them to quiet down. But he liked their energy. Some seemed sullen or hostile but most were good-humored. He spoke about the difficulties the school was experiencing but also how the board was committed to making the school better. Money was being raised but they had to be patient.

Meeting with the staff, he had again spoken about the idea of a milieu and the need to prepare students for the adult world, not just by teaching the three Rs but by teaching them age-appropriate behavior and raising their sense of self-esteem. He knew the staff often had contact with students and he was sure they could make helpful suggestions. He would begin meeting with them weekly to discuss the school and the work it was doing. There would be refreshments; the atmosphere would be relaxed.

The fifteen or so men and women were skeptical but polite. Since most were hourly employees, they didn’t share the faculty’s complaints about spending extra time on campus.

Afterward at a reception, Hawthorne was introduced to each of the staff, including the new cook. The man told him a joke. What had it been? “Did you hear the story about two cannibals eating a clown? One says to the other, ‘This taste funny to you?’”

Hawthorne had been surprised but he had laughed and chatted with the cook, whose name was Frank, a man about thirty with a narrow face and his dark hair slicked back with gel. Frank had seemed especially energetic and Hawthorne heard him telling jokes to others as well. Hawthorne was glad of his vitality. He seemed the only one not made nervous by the new headmaster and he looked at the scar on Hawthorne’s wrist without embarrassment. Still, Hawthorne had found himself trying to draw a line between upbeat and hyper. But he also liked the man’s cousin, Larry Gaudette, the head cook, who seemed serious, responsible, and even slightly critical of his cousin’s joke telling.

Sliding off the railing, Hawthorne stood and stretched. It was nearly one in the morning and he had a few files left to read. He would spend the weekend going over student files, then start scanning them onto floppy disks. And he wanted to read the files of students who had transferred or dropped out. Some he would telephone. Even if he only got an earful of complaint, it might be useful to hear why they had left. If he worked all weekend, maybe he could keep his mind fully occupied. Skander had invited him to dinner on Saturday night and he looked forward to that. Hawthorne glanced up at the dark windows of Adams Hall. A sudden breeze sent the dried leaves of the ivy rattling and whispering. Strangely, he had a sense of being watched. He looked more closely at the windows.

Suddenly, Hawthorne had a shock. Somebody was standing at a third-floor window looking down at him. It was a man. There was something very odd about his clothes. With a feeling approaching horror, Hawthorne realized the man was dressed in a fashion that had gone out of style a hundred years earlier. The stern white face and thin beard, the somber clothing—the man stared down at Hawthorne with such anger that it was all Hawthorne could do not to turn away or cover his eyes. The figure was standing about a foot back from the glass, dimly illuminated by the security lights along the walkway. Hawthorne waited for him to make some sign but he stood at the window, forbidding and lifeless.

Forcing himself into action, Hawthorne ran across the terrace toward the French windows. Once inside he paused long enough to grab a flashlight from the hall table, then he hurried through the door separating his quarters from the rest of the building. He stopped to listen. The only noise was the wind moaning through a crack. Hawthorne ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time as he dashed toward the third floor. His shoes had rubber soles and made hardly any noise. He kept the flashlight off; there was enough light in the stairwell from the windows. When he reached the third-floor landing, he opened the fire door and listened again.