Текст книги "Boy in the Water"

Автор книги: Stephen Dobyns

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

“Welcome to my lair,” said Evings, looking up from his desk without enthusiasm.

“I’ve come to ask your advice about something.” Hawthorne tried to be brisk and cheerful but in truth he found the little room oppressive.

Evings’s hands were folded before him on a green blotter. His desk was empty and there was no sign of what he’d been doing before Hawthorne had knocked. Maybe he had slipped something into a drawer. The thought made Hawthorne feel slightly ashamed; there was nothing to say that Evings wasn’t pursuing his duties to the best of his abilities. Evings wore a misshapen blue cardigan with leather patches at the elbows. The room was much too warm. A gentle hissing came from a radiator under the bookshelf.

“Let’s sit by the fireplace, where it’s more comfortable,” said Evings, getting to his feet. “I could light a fire if you’d like.”

“It seems quite warm enough,” said Hawthorne.

“Ah, I’m always cold. I must have gotten it from my mother.”

But Hawthorne was no longer paying attention. He was staring at the oil portrait hanging over the fireplace. It showed a cheerless white-haired man in a high collar and a thin white beard. His expression was severe, almost angry. With amazement, Hawthorne realized it was the same man he had seen staring down at him from a third-floor window of Adams Hall late Friday night. “Who’s that?” he asked Evings.

“That’s Ambrose Stark.” Evings eyed Hawthorne with concern. “He was headmaster in the nineteenth century—oh, for about forty years. Are you all right?”

Hawthorne was astonished by the painting, and he couldn’t take his eyes from it. After a moment, he asked, “He’s the one they named the hall after?”

“That’s right, and Stark Chapel. He died in the early 1890s. He’s quite a figure here at Bishop’s Hill. The spirit of the place, as it were.”

“What do you mean, ‘spirit’?”

“The fine old goals and traditions that we like to praise in our recruitment literature. Is anything wrong?”

Hawthorne made himself turn away. “He looked familiar, that’s all.”

“There are several other portraits here at the school. Perhaps you saw one.”

“Very likely.” Hawthorne tried to recall the figure he had seen. Had it moved or made any sign? Was it possible that someone had held up a similar portrait at the third-floor window? The alternatives were too absurd to consider. Evings was continuing to watch him warily. Hawthorne forced a smile and glanced around the office.

In another moment they were settled in the two armchairs beneath the portrait. Hawthorne had nearly regained his composure, though his mind was full of questions. Still, he had to turn the conversation away from Ambrose Stark and to the reason for his visit. Evings displayed a stiffness that Hawthorne couldn’t explain, as if he were shy or had been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“I wondered if you had any thoughts on the meeting yesterday?” asked Hawthorne.

Evings looked mildly perplexed, as if he had already forgotten the meeting. “Seems the wisest approach—get matters out in the open. Of course, it would be a pity if it became no more than gossip. I’ve always been an enemy of gossip—feelings get hurt, people take dislikes to one another. Nobody would benefit, neither the students nor the faculty. In fact, it might be fair to say that gossip would be no improvement on silence. No, no, I’d hate to see it happen.”

“As would I,” said Hawthorne, somewhat tonelessly, “which is why I feel we could benefit from your psychological expertise.”

Evings seemed both flattered and discouraged by the description. “I try to do what I can.”

They discussed the meetings and what Evings might do. For instance, he might give the faculty some guidance on dealing with certain of the students who seemed especially troubled. Hawthorne mentioned several names but Evings didn’t recognize them. The more Hawthorne said, the more uncertain Evings became. He agreed, however, to read the students’ files and talk to Hawthorne about what might be done.

As Hawthorne stood up to leave, he thought of something else. “The other night I came on a cat hung from a branch of one of the pines near the playing fields. I gather it belonged to the housekeeper, Mrs. Grayson.”

“Dear me,” said Evings, “and who was responsible?”

“I’ve no idea, but I wanted to ask if anything like this ever occurred before or if any of the students might have had any trouble with . . .” Hawthorne let the sentence drift away. Evings was staring fixedly at his bookshelf to his right. Following his gaze, Hawthorne saw row after row of novels and tucked between them on the third shelf the bright yellow spine of a well-thumbed paperbound copy of the Study Guide to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders-IV. Hawthorne wondered if Evings meant to take down the guide, turn to the index, and look up “cat” or “hanged cat.” Then he realized the reason for Evings’s stiffness—the man was frightened.

Evings cleared his throat—a sound rather like a bleat—and coughed. “I’m afraid this catches me by surprise. Hanged cat, you say? Absolutely nothing like that has happened here before, at least to my knowledge. Though it could have happened, I suppose, without my knowing about it. Now why should someone hang a cat? Of course, a few students have had difficulties with Mrs. Grayson, especially those she’s reported for smoking in their rooms. Perhaps the motivation lay with Mrs. Grayson and not the cat. At least five or six have spoken ill of her to me. I could give you their names, though two have graduated, or at least haven’t returned. But they might, of course, have returned to hang a cat, as strange as that may be. I’m sure there are stranger cases.”

Again Evings glanced toward the DSM study guide as if he wished to search its pages. He took a handkerchief from the pocket of his cardigan and wiped his forehead.

“Are you all right?” asked Hawthorne quietly.

Evings gave Hawthorne a wide-eyed stare; he looked like someone who had tried to swallow something too big for his throat. Then he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. “I know I’m terrible at my job. Nobody knows it better than I. Years ago, I think, I actually had something to offer.” He rubbed his scalp and the pressure of his fingers made white marks on the pink flesh. “But now it gets worse and worse. The students who come here . . . I really have nothing to say to them. Of course it’s simple for me to sit and remain silent. And for some, that’s enough. But do you know that a few have sat there and laughed? I was afraid I’d burst into tears. I know I don’t have much more time at Bishop’s Hill. There’s nothing surprising about that. The moment I laid eyes on you I knew you’d find me out, but I hoped I’d at least have a few months. Then that meeting yesterday—I felt unable to say a word. Others kept looking at me—what an awful humiliation! Believe me, no one feels guiltier than I about taking the school’s money. I fully understand that you’d want me to resign.”

Hawthorne experienced a sinking feeling. “Really, I only meant to ask you about the hanged cat.”

“Well, I didn’t do it,” said Evings fussily, “that’s the one thing I am absolutely positive about. I have never in my entire life hanged a cat.” He laughed suddenly, a high barking noise. “Actually, I knew there would be changes. Can you deny that you’re planning to hire a new psychologist?”

“I’ve already announced that fact, but I’m not getting someone to replace you.”

“Yes, that’s how it begins, a little innocuous levering. The new person settles in and suddenly I disappear.”

“Has anyone told you that your position’s in jeopardy?” asked Hawthorne. He felt a trifle guilty about his question, since he had been considering replacing Evings even before he had entered the stuffy office. He guessed that the temperature in the room was nearly ninety and he felt a drop of sweat roll down his rib cage until it was blotted by his shirt.

“I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” said Evings. “I’m not that sort of person. By the way, I hope there really was a hanged cat and you’re not just using this as a pretext to—”

“Oh, stop it, Clifford.” Although Hawthorne had known he would have difficulties at Bishop’s Hill, he hadn’t expected people to be frightened of him. “You’re the school psychologist and I thought you could help me with a problem that, after all, would seem to approach your area of expertise. Can’t hanging a cat be considered aberrant behavior?”

“And I tell you I know nothing about it.”

“Well,” said Hawthorne, “keep me informed. Perhaps you’ll hear something from one of the students.”

Evings was taller than Hawthorne by at least an inch. “I’ll keep my antennae out.”

The men shook hands. As Hawthorne left the office, he thought of the cluster of anxieties that at any moment filled a person’s mind. How could objectivity be more than a dream? Most likely, Evings still doubted that a cat had been hung and thought it all a trick Hawthorne was playing. Now the sum of Evings’s anxieties had been substantially increased to no purpose. But what did he do here? A little counseling and monitoring in his dormitory cottage. For the rest, he probably read novels all day long. Yet Hawthorne knew that his own objectivity was suspect. The portrait of Ambrose Stark had given him a shock and it surely affected the filter through which he had been trying to understand Clifford Evings. And what had been the degree of malice? The portrait and laughing teeth—had they been a practical joke or something more alarming?

Hawthorne glanced down the hall and saw the boy who had shown him the dead cat strolling toward him. Seeing the headmaster, the boy stopped and Hawthorne had the distinct impression that Scott was considering the possibility of flight.

“Don’t you have class now?” Hawthorne asked. Over the weekend he had read the boy’s file to make certain he had no record of torturing animals or something else that might suggest that he himself had killed the cat. Instead, he found a history of Scott’s being shunted from one stepparent to another. Alcoholism, violence, sexual abuse—whatever Bishop’s Hill’s failings, the school was a clear improvement over the so-called home environment of Scott’s past.

“Mr. Campbell got a telephone call and I had to use the bathroom.”

Approaching Scott, Hawthorne detected the odor of cigarettes. “And you thought it best to use a bathroom on the far side of the building. Have you learned anything about the cat?”

“I asked some kids but they didn’t know anything. Mrs. Grayson thought a fisher caught it. She said it happens all the time. But a fisher wouldn’t string it up.”

“Was she upset?”

“Not particularly. She sighed a lot, though.” A wing of hair fell across the boy’s right eye and he tossed his head to resettle it back where it belonged.

“What class do you have with Mr. Campbell?”

“Ancient and medieval history. We’re just finishing the Egyptians.”

It was on the tip of Hawthorne’s tongue to ask what Campbell was like as a teacher, but he didn’t. Whatever Campbell was like, Hawthorne would find out soon enough.

“You’d better air out your sweater before you return to class. It will give you away.”

“Thanks,” said Scott, and he began hurrying down the hall.

“And no running,” Hawthorne called after him, then grinned as the boy came to a sudden halt and proceeded to tiptoe forward.

Hawthorne opened the door to the dining hall; the kitchen, his destination, lay on the far side. The room had dark wainscoting under tall windows looking out on an expanse of lawn called the Common. The polished floorboards creaked as he walked across them. Twenty long oak tables stood in two rows with a twenty-first at the head of the room for the headmaster and his guests. So far Hawthorne had eaten at the students’ tables, trying to engage them in conversation on subjects other than food. At the moment the chairs were up on the table-tops as two students mopped the floor. The ceiling had thick beams lined with plaques displaying the names of graduating seniors, going back year by year to the first class in 1854. Paintings hung on all the walls—old headmasters and chaplains. And there at the far end was another portrait of Ambrose Stark, sitting at a desk and looking censorious. Hawthorne couldn’t remember seeing it before, but most likely he had let his eyes drift across it. Stark glared down as if he still had the school under his special protection. It gave Hawthorne a chill, but it seemed obvious that the thing at the window had been a picture. Presumably, one or two of the students had been trying to give him a scare.

Hawthorne pushed open the door to the kitchen. The only person in evidence was the new cook, who was in the process of looking inside the oven. The smell of baking bread filled the air.

LeBrun glanced up and saw Hawthorne. “The boss,” he said.

“In a manner of speaking. I just wanted to say how much I appreciate the bread you’ve been making. A lot of people have been worrying about what changes might occur at the school and your bread has been a treat for everyone. It makes it easier to be here.”

LeBrun shut the oven door. His face was narrow and his eyes close together, as if someone in the distant past had tried to squeeze his head. “Hey, I’m glad to do it. But thanks for the compliment. I’ve been getting a lot of visitors. A couple of kids tried to bum cigarettes, then Mr. Skander came in about the bread as well. He said he was glad there wasn’t any mold on it. I guess the bread last year was mostly moldy.” LeBrun laughed.

“Was Jessica Weaver in here by any chance?” It had occurred to Hawthorne that she’d been coming from this direction.

“That cute little kid with the pigtails? Yeah, she was.”

“What did she want?”

“She wanted me to call her Misty.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Misty, she wants to be called Misty. You like jokes?”

“Some jokes. Why does she want to be called Misty?”

“I guess she thinks it’s cooler than Jessica. She said it was the name of her soul.” LeBrun chuckled. “If my soul had a name, it’d be Black Spot. You know what they call a female clone?”

“I have a feeling that’s not the kind of joke I particularly like.” Hawthorne was struck by the man’s energy; he seemed to be moving all the time. Even when he stood still, his hands twitched at his sides.

“I guess it’s too raw for a guy with a suit and tie. What would the teachers say if they heard the cook telling dirty jokes to the boss? You know what the bartender said to the horse that came into the bar?”

“Why the long face.” Hawthorne grinned.

“You’re quick,” said LeBrun, grinning back, “you know all the answers.”

“That’s why I’m headmaster.” Hawthorne couldn’t calculate LeBrun’s degree of seriousness. At least he didn’t seem scared, like Evings. “How’d you get to know her?”

“We both got here the same day. You know, new kids on the block. And you too, you got here the day before us. We should form a club.”

“Where were you before coming here?”

“I was doing odds and ends around Boston. Pizza, burgers, greasy French fries, the usual gut busters.” LeBrun chuckled. “Being here is like reaching civilization.”

“I’m glad you like it. You’re a pretty jolly guy, aren’t you?”

“Hey, if you can’t laugh, you might as well put a bullet in your head.”

Hawthorne considered pursuing that, then decided to ask about the cat instead. “You know anything about a cat that was hung on Friday night?”

“I heard some kids talking about it. Crazy days, you know what I’m saying?”

“How do you feel about cats?”

“Can’t stand them. Remember what that guy used to say, that comic? ‘Cats? I prefer rats.’ That’s me, all right. ‘Cats? I prefer rats.’” LeBrun leaned back against a metal table and laughed. Hawthorne could see the fillings in his teeth. He began to laugh as well.

“You mind if I ask a favor?” said LeBrun, growing serious. “Can I look at that scar on your wrist? I caught a glimpse the other day but I couldn’t see it very well. I don’t mean to be rude.”

There was something so childlike about the request that it didn’t occur to Hawthorne to take offense. He took off his sport coat and pulled up the sleeve of his shirt.

LeBrun leaned over the scar. “That’s a beaut. How far up does it go?”

“To the elbow.”

LeBrun reached out and touched the skin. “Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore. The skin’s a little tender in places.”

“It must have been some fire.” LeBrun gently turned the wrist to see the scar from all sides.

“It was.”

“Anybody hurt other than yourself?”

Hawthorne had a momentary recollection of the screaming and the ceiling falling. “Yes, others were hurt.”

LeBrun released the wrist. “Fuckin’ great-lookin’ scar.” He laughed. “I got a bunch of them too, but they’re all on the inside.”

“Those are harder to treat.”

“They don’t bother me none. Leastways, not anymore.”

–

The next day after her last class, Kate stopped by the main office to pick up some blue books for a quiz she was planning to give. Mrs. Hayes was on the phone but she waved Kate toward the supply closet. It occurred to Kate that Mrs. Hayes was the only person she knew who had mastered the art of smiling brusquely. The office was a large room with oak desks, oak file cabinets, and oak paneling on the walls, all of it somewhat yellow from the many layers of wax applied over a hundred years. In one corner of the room were a dozen large cardboard boxes with the name “IBM” printed on most and “Hewlett-Packard” on the others.

Behind Mrs. Hayes’s desk the door to the headmaster’s office stood open. As she got her blue books Kate could see Hawthorne sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves. Two stacks of manila folders rose on either side of him. Kate hesitated, then tapped on the door frame. Hawthorne looked up and adjusted his glasses.

“Could I talk to you for a moment?”

“By all means.” Hawthorne got to his feet as she entered and pointed to an armchair with a green leather seat. “Take that chair. It’s the most comfortable.”

Kate hadn’t meant to sit down but she found herself doing so. The reason for her visit suddenly struck her as intrusive and politically unwise. Hawthorne sat on the edge of his desk, facing her. The sleeves of his white shirt were buttoned at the wrist. He looks tired, Kate thought. She heard a bell ring, then the sound of feet in the hall.

“Well, I’m not sure how to begin.” Kate cursed herself for being foolish.

“At the beginning’s always a good place.” When Hawthorne smiled all his tiredness seemed to disappear. “I wanted to thank you for taking charge of Jessica yesterday. She was clearly upset and I wanted the opportunity to talk to Chip.”

“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Not Jessica but Chip . . .”

The girl had calmed down in class. Once they had begun their discussion of the verb estar, Jessica had asked the meaning of the word chingada, which had sidetracked the class for the rest of the hour. Chingar—to fuck. Chingada—one of the fucked or a child born as the result of rape.

“What about Chip?”

That morning Kate had heard several faculty members saying that Chip was in trouble and had already made an enemy of the headmaster. Seeing Hawthorne at his desk, Kate had decided to take the opportunity to say something in Chip’s behalf. “I think he’s under a lot of stress. You know, he’s divorced and his wife has the two kids. They live in Littleton. Last week she told him that they were moving to Seattle. I know it doesn’t excuse him, but it might explain why he’s behaving so . . . abruptly.”

Hawthorne scratched the back of his head. “Being new, I realize you all have histories I know nothing about. Is he a friend of yours?”

Kate felt herself blushing slightly. She recalled the thermos of martinis that Chip had taken to the movie theater. “We’re friendly and he’s been kind to me.”

“You know I can’t permit any physical aggressiveness toward the students. It’s hard enough to gain their trust as it is. Chip’s now lost all credibility with that girl. And she’ll tell the other kids. I know very little about Chip Campbell, except that he seems to object to some of my changes and dislikes coming to meetings. I don’t know if he’s been physical with other students, but I mean to find out.”

Kate put her hands on the arms of the chair, intending to stand up, then she relaxed again. “You must see that people are worried about you. Not the students so much as the faculty and staff. They’re worried about their jobs and the security of their futures. For a while it will make them act rather oddly. They’ll have to learn to trust you.”

“Do you trust me?”

Kate wanted to smile but she didn’t. “So far I have no feelings one way or the other. I’m new here and I’m not wedded to the place. I don’t really want to look for another job, but I could easily enough. For many of the others, it would be much harder.”

“It’s certainly not my wish to dismiss anybody,” said Hawthorne, lowering his voice and glancing toward the open door, “but the school needs to be changed. I’m sure you don’t want to hear a whole philosophical discussion . . .”

This time Kate let herself smile. “I think I heard it last week.”

Hawthorne smiled as well. “It’s funny—before coming, everything seemed clear. But the longer I’m in here, the muddier it becomes. That’s not a complaint, just a confession.”

Kate got to her feet. “At least you’re able to make it.”

He walked her to the door. In the outer office, Skander was opening one of the boxes with the new computers. When he saw Kate, he gave her a smile that seemed to indicate such pleasure that she was almost startled.

“I’m glad you two are getting to know each other,” said Skander, putting emphasis on the word glad. He wore a rumpled blue blazer and a blue-and-gold Bishop’s Hill necktie.

“I hope to get to know all the faculty,” said Hawthorne. “Give me a minute to put away some files. Then we can talk. We’ve got about a half hour before the meeting.” He disappeared again into his office.

Skander continued to smile at Kate as he jingled the change in his pockets. “It’s awfully good to see you. I’m sure your classes are going great guns.”

It occurred to Kate, not for the first time, that all of Skander’s actions and ways of speaking were somewhat inflated, as if he were talking to someone who was partially deaf or who only imperfectly grasped the English language. His gestures were all oversized. “They’re going very well, thanks.”

“And it was good of you to take that girl who so upset Chip yesterday.”

“I like her. She’s brash.”

“Used to be a stripper, I gather. Too young, of course, to do it legally. Well, it takes all kinds. We used to have a boy here who augmented his allowance by selling stolen cattle.”

As they spoke, Skander accompanied Kate to the door of the office with one hand resting on her shoulder and the other in his pocket.

“She looks awfully young to have been a stripper.”

Skander patted Kate on the back. “It was apprentice work, surely.”

Hawthorne was locking the file cabinet when Skander entered. “Tell me, who is this girl Gail Jensen who died a few years ago? It’s not clear from her file what happened.”

Skander sat down on the edge of the green armchair and his forehead wrinkled in distress. “A wonderful girl, one of our best. She had stomach pains that she was trying to ignore. It was at Thanksgiving. Turned out to be appendicitis. She died on the operating table, poor thing.”

“She was fifteen?”

Skander nodded. “Old Pendergast was still headmaster and he had to call the girl’s mother. It was awful for everyone concerned. We wanted to establish a scholarship in the girl’s honor but the mother said no. It’s odd how grief can affect some people.”

As Skander had been talking, Hawthorne gathered some files remaining on his desk.

Skander raised his eyebrows. “Surely you’re not taking all those home to read?”

“Some are for the meeting and others I’ll take home,” said Hawthorne, smiling. “It’s got to be done.”

Skander made a clucking noise. “I wish you’d get more rest. A shock such as you had in San Diego could take years to get over. I expect you still dream of them every night.”

Hawthorne opened his mouth to speak, then said nothing.

“Don’t worry about it, but I want you to feel free to talk if you wish. I’m glad you’ll be coming over tomorrow night, if only to drop in. Hilda and I had such a good time when we had dinner together on Saturday.”

Skander had invited the faculty to his house on Friday evening for coffee and apple cobbler around eight o’clock to give them the opportunity to socialize with the new headmaster. “With adult refreshment as well,” he had said with a wink.

“Someone told you about the fire?” asked Hawthorne.

“Friends in San Diego happened to mention it. I can’t tell you how upset I was. And Hilda, too. Of course you must torment yourself with questions. How could you not?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, whether you did the right thing. What would have happened if you had done this instead of that. Letting that boy into your home.”

Hawthorne moved to the door with the files under his arm. “It’s hard not to think of it.” He didn’t want to talk about San Diego but the subject seemed always near at hand.

Skander followed Hawthorne to the door. “What if you’d never spoken to that boy? That’s what I mean. Those thoughts must be very difficult. We’ve all done things that we’ve regretted afterward, but your experience is particularly awful.”

“Time can do a lot. I suppose I try to move forward.” Hawthorne despised the banalities he heard coming out of his mouth.

“How true, how true,” said Skander, looking suddenly philosophical. “But you know, I was also impressed by your prominence. Certainly I knew from your curriculum vitae that you were an important figure in your field, but my friends’ remarks . . . Well, they couldn’t say enough. I can’t tell you how fortunate I feel that you’ve decided to make Bishop’s Hill your home. You’re planning to write a book, I imagine.”

“A book? You mean a sort of memoir?”

“No, no, an analysis of our little community. What was that book I read in college? The Village in the Vaucluse, something like that. Perhaps that’s what you’re intending for us. Bishop’s Hill will be your very own Vaucluse.”

Hawthorne stared at Skander, trying to determine if he was serious. “Believe me, nothing is farther from my thoughts.”

“Oh, you say that now, but in five or ten years, who can say what you’ll be up to. I only hope they spell my name right. You know how those editors can be.”

Hawthorne made himself change the subject. “Fritz, I want you to check upstairs to see that everything is ready for the faculty meeting. I’ve asked the kitchen to bring refreshments of some kind, just so the occasion doesn’t seem so onerous. But if you could make sure the room is set up . . .”

“I’d be delighted. Just let me have a word with Mrs. Hayes about those computers.”

Five minutes later, Skander had opened one of the boxes containing a computer and was spreading the instruction booklets out on Mrs. Hayes’s desk as the secretary sighed.

“What do you think?” he said. “Exciting, isn’t it.”

“I’ll never be able to do it.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m sure it’s very user-friendly.” He opened three of the manuals and set them in front of Mrs. Hayes. “In six months, you’ll be a regular champ, surfing the Internet with the best. Mind you stay away from the more lubricious Web sites. I’d hate to see you corrupted. My son is particularly fond of chat rooms. And games—really, his room is full of electronic explosions. By the way, has Dr. Hawthorne been quizzing you about Dr. Pendergast?”

Mrs. Hayes stared down at the manuals. “Not really, no.”

Skander chuckled soothingly. “A wonderful old fellow in his way and sorely missed by quite a few. I suggest you take these books home and start getting into them. There’s a computer class at Plymouth State that meets a couple of nights each week. The school will pay, of course.”

“My bridge group meets tonight,” said Mrs. Hayes, slightly embarrassed.

“Ah, I’m afraid you won’t have much time for that anymore. Just promise you won’t turn the machine on till you’ve fully mastered the manuals. It’s expensive equipment and we’d hate to see it go up in smoke.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Much the wisest course. Oh yes, if you hear them make any noise in their boxes—you know, hum or click—just ignore it. These things have internal batteries, fans and suchlike. They can be unnerving if you don’t know they’re there. Mr. Dolittle has one in the library. He says the hard drive is always thinking even when the machine’s been turned off for the night. The fans can be especially distracting. Ta-ta!”

Skander disappeared into the hall. Mrs. Hayes stared at the computer, waiting for it to do something. Its hindquarters seemed to require dozens of wires or connections, she wasn’t sure what they were called. If she listened carefully she thought she could hear something from inside the machine, but she wasn’t positive. From a classroom several doors away, she heard the Bishop’s Hill cheerleaders practicing their cheers: “Bishop’s Hill, we aim to kill! Bishop’s Hill, we aim to kill!” Their high voices echoed down the empty hall.

–

Kate found the Xerox copies of the news clippings from the San Diego Union-Tribune in her mailbox just before she left for home Friday afternoon. She meant to look at them later but instead she read them while sitting in her small Honda in the lot behind Douglas Hall. By now she had heard that Hawthorne’s wife and daughter had died in a fire and she had seen the scars on his wrist, though she didn’t know any details. The articles described how Hawthorne, as director at Wyndham School, a San Diego residential treatment center, had befriended a boy who had grown jealous of Hawthorne’s wife and daughter and had started the fire. Hawthorne had been out for the evening with a psychologist from Boston, a woman named Claire Sunderlin. They had had dinner and stayed for an hour at a jazz bar. When he returned, he found the building burning and his wife and daughter trapped inside.

A month after the fire, hearings were held by a panel that included representatives from the San Diego County Department of Social Services, the California Association of Services for Children, and the regional branch of the Child Welfare League. Much discussion focused on Hawthorne’s theories that children at risk could benefit from being given increasing degrees of responsibility, tasks like tutoring other children, helping in the kitchen, and working with the grounds crew—even, in some cases, keeping pets. A woman from the Child Welfare League had especially criticized Hawthorne for giving the boy, Stanley Carpasso, privileges enabling him to move freely about the school. Although Hawthorne had not been faulted for being away from Wyndham the night of the fire, it had received a lot of attention, especially in the newspaper. There were pictures of the burning school and of Hawthorne’s wife and daughter, as well as a picture of the psychologist from Boston, who was quite pretty. The hearings had exonerated Hawthorne of any responsibility. But the reporter’s tone implied that the committee members had been swayed by their sympathy for Hawthorne’s personal loss and the fact that he had been burned while attempting to rescue his family. And there was the suggestion that as psychologists investigating another psychologist the committee had been protecting one of their own. Because of the arson, the fire marshal had also conducted an investigation, but Hawthorne had been exonerated there as well.