Текст книги "Boy in the Water"

Автор книги: Stephen Dobyns

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

After class, Hawthorne had an appointment with Skander to go over a few bookkeeping details, but he was delayed by several students with questions. When he got back to his office shortly before three o’clock, he found Skander sitting on the edge of his wife’s desk chatting with Hilda.

“Busy, busy, busy,” said Skander with an affable smile. “I don’t see how you do it.”

“You know,” Hilda told her husband, “he’s always in here when I get here at eight.”

Both Skander and his wife beamed at him as if they found Hawthorne’s hard work endearing. He wanted to shout, Don’t you realize we’re all that’s keeping the ship from sinking? But he imagined there was something innocent to their cheer—like the blind flutist playing his dance along the cliff’s edge.

In another minute, Hawthorne and Skander were settled on the couch in Hawthorne’s office. Hawthorne had several pages of figures that he had gotten from the bookkeeper. Skander began talking about Clifford Evings as soon as they sat down.

“I saw him after lunch hurrying back to his apartment,” Skander said. “He’s still awfully upset. Canceled all his conferences, I’m told. I remember years ago Old Pendergast bragging that he had gotten Clifford so cheaply. These things unquestionably come back to haunt you. Of course I’ve tried to have a friendly word with Clifford. He’s been avoiding his office altogether. We certainly can’t have that.”

Hawthorne looked up from his papers. “I don’t blame him for feeling disturbed.” They talked about Evings for a moment and Hawthorne said he would speak to him. Then Hawthorne tried to turn Skander’s attention to the business at hand. “You know that leather chair I bought . . .”

“That wonderfully comfortable one. I was terribly envious.” Skander had his arms stretched out on the back of the couch and reached over to pat Hawthorne’s shoulder.

Hawthorne laughed. “You can come over and sit in it anytime you want. Anyway, I ordered it through the school so that I could obtain our discount, but I paid for it myself. You remember, I gave you the check. Going over the records, I find that not only was the chair billed to the school but we seem to have paid for it.”

“My Lord,” said Skander. He sat up and took the papers from Hawthorne. Studying them, he raised the thumb and fingers of his right hand as he counted. “I do believe you’re right. I’ll have to talk to Strokowski about this.” Midge Strokowski was the bookkeeper who worked under Skander. She also taught a computer course and an elective on modern economics.

“I wish you’d fix it and get the money back. I mean, if the store was paid twice . . .”

“Of course, of course. How embarrassing.”

They discussed how the mistake might have happened. Possibly Hawthorne’s check had been put in another account. Skander had a pocket full of hard grape candies. He offered one to Hawthorne, who refused. Skander popped a candy in his mouth, then chewed it, making a noise like radio static.

“By the way,” said Skander, “I saw you and Kate coming down from the bell tower. I’m so glad that you two have become friends. It’s good to see that you’re putting San Diego behind you. Obviously you’ve both had losses and so it’s a pleasure for me to see you take such enjoyment in each other’s company. Not that George Peabody hasn’t been unhappy as well. I quite liked him the several times I met him. But people have to move on. I, for one, never blamed Kate for the divorce. And if he’s angry now, I’m sure he’ll get over it.”

Skander had heard that Peabody had called Hawthorne and threatened him. Peabody had also called several of the faculty members to complain.

“I believe he’d been hoping to get back together with Kate,” continued Skander. “Up until now, of course. Gets a little too friendly with the bottle, or so I hear, but he keeps it in the privacy of his home. Not a bad man, by all accounts. Who knows who got him going, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Chip Campbell. He always had a malicious streak. Chip was another of Pendergast’s little economies.”

Hawthorne tried to make appropriate responses, though he was unsure what those responses should be. All he knew about Peabody he knew from Kate, and he wasn’t disposed to think well of the man. He was also annoyed that Fritz kept harping on the subject, just the way he’d harped on children during Kevin Krueger’s visit. Maybe it was time to speak to him about his tactlessness. Yet Hawthorne felt the fault was his, that he was being oversensitive. After another moment, he was able to turn to the papers that he still held in his lap.

“Another matter I wanted to discuss . . .” Hawthorne began. “I don’t follow the accounting about Chip’s salary. Four thousand should be going to Ted Phillips, the substitute we hired for two of his classes. Then our faculty who took over classes should each get a thousand per class, except me, of course. But I don’t see what happened to the remaining eight thousand or so. It should be going toward the repairs on the roof of Emerson Hall and for the new psychologist we bring in.”

Again Skander took the pages. “Surely it’s right there. You must be overlooking it.”

“Show me.”

Skander ran his finger down the page, then pointed to a figure. “Here, where it says ‘Miscellaneous.’”

Hawthorne leaned forward to see. “But it’s not miscellaneous. It had a specific purpose. And this doesn’t seem like the right amount. It’s far too low.”

“But we gave Chip an extra two months. You approved that. He was paid through the end of December.” Skander unwrapped another hard candy.

“Even still, Fritz.”

“Yes, yes, I see you may be right.”

They remained huddled over the papers for another ten minutes. Skander admitted that there had to be a mistake. He telephoned Midge Strokowski, asking her not to leave until he had seen her and speaking more sharply than was usual for him.

“Try and get this cleared up,” said Hawthorne. “It may be that we’ll have to have an audit before the end of the calendar year.” They were both standing by the door.

“That would keep Midge on her toes.” Then Skander laughed and scratched the back of his head. “And me too, I expect.”

When Skander left, Hawthorne meant to go down to the Dugout and chat with students, which he often liked to do, but when he went to the door he found Bobby Newland pacing back and forth in the outer office.

“I’d like to talk to you about Clifford,” he said brusquely.

Hawthorne invited him in. Bobby didn’t want to sit on the couch but preferred the visitor’s chair. He turned down Hawthorne’s offer of a cup of coffee. He wore black jeans and a black turtleneck under a gray sport coat. His dark goatee was like a furry drop suspended from his moon-shaped face. Bobby appeared tense and kept his hands bunched in the pockets of his coat. Glancing around the office with disapproval, he slowly eased himself into the chair as if it might swallow him.

After Hawthorne sat down at his desk, Bobby glared at him for several moments. “I hope you realize that Clifford is absolutely terrified.”

“I know he’s upset. I’m very sorry.”

“It’s more than being upset. He’s very frightened. Not only is he terrified of being fired, but now he has to worry about his personal safety.”

“I have no intention of firing him. As for whoever wrecked his office, the police are investigating and the board knows of the situation. I asked Clifford if he wanted me to hire someone, a private investigator, but he said he didn’t want anyone.”

“Of course he said that. He’s terrified of making you even more angry.”

Hawthorne leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. “Look, Bobby, where are you getting this idea that I’m angry? I’ve no idea who wrecked his office but we’re doing what we can. If you feel we need additional security, then I’ll make the call right now. Ease up on me, will you.”

“That’s very simple for you to say,” said Bobby, “but what about Mrs. Hayes and Chip Campbell? And Chip was even beaten up. Why shouldn’t Clifford be frightened?”

Hawthorne considered showing Bobby the letter from Mrs. Hayes that he’d shown to the Reverend Bennett. Had he no credibility at all? He looked down at his desk and rubbed the wrist of his right hand. There was the picture of Meg and Lily smiling at him. He thought that if the phone rang at that moment and a woman’s voice said how much she loved him, that it was Meg and she wanted him to join her, then he would surely begin to scream.

“Mrs. Hayes wasn’t fired. If you want proof, there’s plenty of proof, but right now I’m sick to death of the whole subject. As for Chip, he was fired for a specific reason and don’t tell me you know nothing about it. I count on you to do your work as a mental health counselor. The students like you and I’ve been impressed by how you handle yourself in the group sessions. But you’re continuing to spread gossip and it’s going to wreck us if we’re not careful. Who told you that Clifford was going to be fired?”

“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.”

“I’d be glad to call you George Washington if you’d just put that damn coat over your shoulders.” Hawthorne picked the coat up off the floor.

Jessica walked back to the couch, swaying slightly. “Just Misty is good enough.”

“So, who gave you the tequila?”

Jessica turned and threw back her shoulders so her breasts jutted out at him. “There’s just no way that I’m going to tell you that, so you’d better stop asking.”

“Then put the coat on and I’ll stop, for the time being at least.”

Jessica took the coat and slid her arms into the sleeves, which hid her hands. The coat nearly reached her ankles. “Do I have to button it up?”

“Yes.”

Jessica began buttoning the coat but had trouble focusing on the buttons and so she stopped. “You’re very difficult. I’d thought you’d be nicer.”

“You caught me at a bad moment.”

Jessica sat down in a corner of the couch. She raised her left leg. “See this?” She shook her leg so the anklet jiggled.

“The chain? What about it?”

“My father gave it to me six years ago. You know where Mount Monadnock is?”

“More or less.”

“My father flew his plane into it. That was also six years ago. Ka-boom! All they found was scraps. Did you ever have a father?” Jessica lowered her leg.

“Of course.”

“Did you ever have a stepfather?”

“No.”

“You’re lucky. When my father died, I thought I’d die too.”

Hawthorne nodded. “I thought that when my wife and daughter died.”

“They died in a fire, didn’t they? That’s a shame.”

“Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?”

“Wouldn’t it be awful to have a stepwife and a stepdaughter? I mean, like having a stepfather? I have a brother but he’s my whole brother. His name’s Jason. He’s sweet.”

“You’re lucky you have someone you love, Jessica.”

“Yes,” she said seriously, “I think that’s true . . . You’re not calling me Misty.”

“Would you like some tea, Misty?”

“No, thanks. I’m afraid I’d puke. You ever seen girls puke?” As Jessica spoke, she wrapped a strand of blond hair around one finger, released it, then began to wind it around her finger again.

“A few times.”

“There’re girls over in the dorm that puke just about every time they eat. Why would someone do that?”

“Maybe they’re sick.”

“My stepfather’s sick. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff he’s done. If I told you, you’d be so angry you’d want to hurt him. And you’d be right, too.” Jessica pulled her knees up on the couch and rested her chin on them. Her toes with their green polish stuck out from beneath the hem of the blue overcoat. “I have a friend who’d like to kill him, but that’d get me in trouble. It’s a temptation, though. Just shoot him dead, that’s what I’d like. I wish you could tell me why my dad flew his plane into a mountain. You think it was on purpose?”

“Of course not.”

“That’s what I thought too, but Tremblay said he did it on purpose. He said my dad flew his plane into the mountain because he knew he was fucking my mother. Tremblay, I mean. I asked Dolly—that’s my mother—but she just got angry. Tremblay doesn’t even like Dolly; he just likes her money. He’s turned her into a zombie.”

“It sounds like an awful story,” said Hawthorne.

“It is an awful story. That’s why I got to get Jason outta there.”

There was a knocking at the French window. Hawthorne stood up. Kate entered and saw Jessica sitting on the couch. “So this is your problem,” she said.

“I’m nobody’s problem ’cept my own,” said Jessica. “I don’t see what you’re doing here. I’ve already done my homework for tomorrow.” Jessica giggled.

“Dr. Hawthorne invited me.” Kate removed her ski cap and shook out her dark hair.

“I was dancing for him,” said Jessica, standing up and letting the coat slip from her shoulders. “I bet you couldn’t dance if you practiced a hundred years.”

“Leave the coat on,” said Hawthorne, taking a step toward her.

But the coat was already puddled at her feet. Jessica turned with her arms outstretched. “See how good I am? And I don’t even have music. Watch this.” She ran several steps, then did three cartwheels, landing on her feet by the door to the kitchen. “You couldn’t do that, no matter how much you practiced.” She suddenly looked thoughtful. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

The French window opened again and Alice Beech entered. She looked at Jessica, half naked and swaying a little with her hand to her mouth. “Good grief,” she said.

Jessica glanced around and nodded her head as if agreeing with something important. “I think I’ve got to throw up right now.”

Alice ran toward her. “Oh no, you don’t. You wait till you get to the toilet.” She took the girl’s arm and hurried her out of the room. After a moment there came the sound of retching.

Kate and Hawthorne looked toward the bathroom door. “I don’t know where she got drunk,” said Hawthorne. “She’s been drinking tequila but she won’t say with whom.”

“And why did she come here?”

“She said she wanted to dance for me.” He heard how foolish it sounded.

“Do you think someone put her up to it?”

“I just can’t imagine her doing it on her own.”

Hawthorne walked to the French windows. He looked through the glass, then pushed open the door and stepped out onto the terrace. Kate followed him. The wind was blowing.

“Aren’t you cold?” she asked.

Hawthorne shook his head. He looked up at the windows but they were empty. He turned back to Kate. “I’m glad you were able to come over. Alice wasn’t home. I’d left a message on her machine.”

They looked at each other as they stood by the balustrade. The moonlight made their faces pale and dark at the same time. “You sounded upset,” said Kate.

Through the French windows, Hawthorne saw the nurse lead Jessica back across the living room to the couch. “Maybe I’m losing my sense of perspective,” said Hawthorne. “When she showed up, I wanted to get someone here right away. You know, a witness.”

“I don’t blame you.” Kate looked out across the moonlit playing fields. “I was glad we talked today and that you told me about Wyndham. It made me feel I knew you better.”

Hawthorne thought of what he hadn’t said and the deception it created. He felt guilty about increasing the degree of their intimacy. The wind rustled the dead ivy on the wall above him. The moon, hanging above the roofline, shone on the gargoyles.

“I was glad to spend that time with you,” he said at last.

“It’s awful to think of you carrying those memories inside.”

Hawthorne wasn’t sure how to respond. “Yes,” he said at last. Through the window, he saw that Alice had gotten blankets and a pillow for the girl.

“What happened to the boy . . . Carpasso?”

Hawthorne didn’t speak. Carpasso’s adolescent face seemed to float in the air.

“Jim?”

“He died. He hung himself.” He heard Kate’s intake of breath. “He sent word to me in the hospital that he had to see me. By that time it was clear he’d set the fire. He was being held in a juvenile detention center. I said that I didn’t want to see him, that I never wanted to see him again. I had no sympathy left. He phoned me. I said I didn’t care what happened to him. The next day I was told that he was dead. He had taken sheets and hung himself from the door. When I heard he was dead, I felt glad. I hoped he’d suffered. Then, I don’t know, later at any rate, I felt terrible. I felt responsible for all three deaths. It was as if I had murdered him.”