Текст книги "Boy in the Water"

Автор книги: Stephen Dobyns

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Although Kate was distressed about the fire and Hawthorne’s ordeal, she was far more distressed that someone had thought it necessary to put the news stories in her mailbox. The stories didn’t discredit Hawthorne but they formed a slur, a black mark that could affect his connection with the men and women at Bishop’s Hill. After all, he was trying to get them to trust him.

At the meeting the previous afternoon, there had been several more faculty members than on Tuesday but a number made it clear they were there under duress. Chip hadn’t come and Clifford Evings had fallen asleep. Fritz Skander had forgotten to bring certain files. Roger Bennett had some complaint about having to return a television that he had borrowed from the school the previous year. One of the science teachers, Tom Hastings, had wanted to know “what all this fuss was about” Chip’s stopping a girl who was running in the hall, which had led to a discussion of Jessica Weaver. Kate had defended the girl, saying that she did very well in Spanish even though she made a point of being rude to the other students. Bennett asked if that was the girl who had worked as a stripper and Mrs. Sherman had said, “Stripper? What stripper?” Afterward there had been limp crackers, hard cheese, and cider with too much fizz. It hadn’t been a successful occasion.

Kate drove home along Antelope Road. It was almost dark and her headlights caught the flash of orange from the turning leaves of the maples. She picked Todd up at Shirley Hodges’s, then took him home to make dinner. Todd was blond, and tall for a second grader. He was excited about some science project involving crickets, but Kate gave him only half an ear as she continued to think of the fire at Wyndham School and what Hawthorne had gone through. At eight o’clock, she planned to go to Skander’s for a little while with the other faculty. She wondered if everyone had received the same news stories in their mailboxes and how that would affect the evening.

In the end, Kate almost didn’t go. She knew it might be unpleasant, and there was no one she cared to talk to except perhaps for Hawthorne himself. But that very consideration led her to make the effort—not that she was so eager to talk to Hawthorne, but she felt hopeful about his arrival at Bishop’s Hill. And because she was sure that hers was the minority point of view, she wanted to go to Skander’s to express it. Consequently, when the baby-sitter arrived at seven-forty-five, she kissed Todd good night, reminded him to brush his teeth, and drove off into the dark.

Skander greeted Kate at the door and took her coat. He wore a bright red cardigan with gold buttons. “Punctuality,” he said as he beamed at her, “is a wonderful gift.” Then, before she could respond, he went on, “Did you receive those news clippings in your box? I’m afraid everybody did. I can’t imagine who would have done such a thing. Everybody’s talking about it. Jim will be terribly upset. He’s quite shy, you know. We’ll have to look out for him.”

Skander lived with his wife and ten-year-old son at the far end of the Bishop’s Hill campus, beyond the six dormitory cottages, in one of the five brown-shingled houses reserved for faculty. Some guests had arrived already but not Hawthorne. Chip Campbell was talking to Roger Bennett in front of the fireplace, where several logs were burning. Chip had a beer; Bennett had a handful of carrot sticks. Bennett’s wife, the school chaplain, sat on the couch talking to Mrs. Sherman, the art teacher, who had the house next to the Skanders’. The chaplain was heavyset, serious, and slightly older than her husband. In fact, as Kate had thought before, she was the more masculine of the two. Not that Roger was especially effeminate, but he had a giddiness and a nervous laugh that at times struck Kate as girlish. The Reverend Bennett was definitely a no-nonsense woman—at least Kate had never seen her laugh—and she wore tweed skirts and thick, serious shoes.

Betty Sherman wore a dark blue skirt and a colorful peasant blouse. She looked distressed as she listened to Harriet Bennett. Betty was given to theatrical gestures and Kate had not been drawn to her until she had learned that she lived alone with her son, who was retarded in some way. Then Kate had thought how difficult her life must be. No one, as far as Kate could recall, had ever mentioned a husband.

Observing Chip and Roger Bennett, the chaplain and Mrs. Sherman, Kate realized they were all talking about what had happened in San Diego. She heard references to the fire and saw the earnestness of their faces. Mixed with it was a sort of charged inquisitiveness, the excitement of news that temporarily took them out of their daily routines. Hilda Skander came out of the kitchen followed by Bill Dolittle, the librarian, carrying a tray of cookies. Dolittle wore a white turtleneck that emphasized the roundness of his belly. He had been divorced years ago and had a son who was a sophomore at Plymouth State. Dolittle put the cookies on the dining room table and gave Kate a little wave. Hilda Skander smiled at her.

Hilda was like a smaller version of her husband, shapeless and bustling, but her face was pointier. She wore a denim jumper that nearly reached her ankles and had short graying hair. She said something to Bill Dolittle and they both returned to the kitchen.

Kate thought again how these people had been living in close proximity to one another for years. Although not a family, they were familylike. They shared a history. In fact, there were not many friendships among them and they often complained and gossiped about one another. But their joint interest in Bishop’s Hill kept them from drifting too far apart. Kate had wondered, with a fear approaching dread, if she would become like them, and the thought made her determined to put a time limit on her position at the school. As long as George stayed difficult, however, it was doubtful that she could move from the area. In eleven years Todd would be eighteen and ready to go to college. But Kate swore she’d rather cut off her left foot than remain at Bishop’s Hill for that length of time.

The doorbell rang and Skander bustled over to answer it. Kate joined Chip and Roger at the fireplace. It was a cozy living room with colonial-style furniture and horse-and-buggy patterns on the wallpaper. The air smelled of wood smoke and cinnamon. The fire crackled. Chip stood with his back to it, warming his legs. He wore a blue Bishop’s Hill sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. Chip coached the swim team and tended to exaggerate his affiliation to sports, though he wasn’t particularly athletic. He also ran the school football pool and was always collecting money from one person or another. Several times he had offered to explain the system to Kate and was surprised when she showed no interest, as if she had expressed no interest in daylight or breathing.

“So what do you think of our new headmaster,” Chip asked her, “pursuing the fleshpots as his wife and daughter burned?”

Kate found herself stiffening. “I don’t believe that’s actually what happened.”

Bennett offered her a carrot stick and she shook her head. “Certainly it was unfortunate for him to be away from the school,” said Bennett, “whatever his motives.”

“Why shouldn’t he be away from the school for an evening? Anyway, perhaps it was entirely business,” said Kate.

“She was too pretty for business,” said Chip.

Bennett tittered, then said, “I must say that his credentials were rather impressive. I wonder what he’s doing at Bishop’s Hill.”

Chip had his bottle of Budweiser raised to his lips and he arched his eyebrows. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he said, “Fritz suggested that he might write a book about us.”

“Oh my. Harriet will be pleased. So that’s why he came here?”

“It’s about the only thing that makes sense unless he’s doing the dirty with that little ex-stripper.”

“Our own Lolita.”

Kate found their joking disagreeable. “Who do you think put the clippings in the mailboxes?”

“That’s just what we’ve been wondering,” said Bennett, lowering his voice.

“Some do-gooder, most likely,” said Chip, giving Kate a wink.

“Did you do it?”

“Not me, but I don’t mind that it was done. This stuff should be out in the open.”

Kate began to ask what kind of stuff Chip meant, but it was too early to start an argument. Still, she couldn’t keep herself from making a small jab of her own.

“And that’s why you’ve missed those two meetings? To keep stuff out in the open?”

Roger laughed. “He probably wanted to be out in the open himself. You know, hunting or fishing.”

Chip frowned. “I just don’t have time for that bullshit.”

Roger patted Chip’s shoulder solicitously and raised an eyebrow. “I just hope you don’t make our new headmaster too cross.”

Kate moved away before she heard Chip’s answer. She felt exasperated with both of them. Looking around, she saw Skander at the door with Gene Strauss, the admissions director, and his wife, Emily. Strauss also taught shop, automotive mechanics, and seventh-grade math. He, his wife, and teenage daughter lived in another of the faculty houses; he had been at the school for thirty years. Kate couldn’t imagine how effective he was as a director of admissions since he always looked slightly dour.

In the next ten minutes, Kate spoke to nearly everyone in the room. Five more people arrived but not Hawthorne. Kate hoped he wouldn’t come. Everyone had read the articles and held opinions about what had happened. A few were critical, a few were worried, though none appeared concerned about who had put the articles in the mailboxes. “Bound to come out sooner or later,” Strauss had said. Several people mentioned being impressed by Hawthorne’s reputation. Betty Sherman told Kate that she’d heard something about a book contract. “It would certainly put our little school on the map,” she said.

Kate sipped a cup of mulled cider and listened to the conversations around her. At times someone’s talk would shift to a student or the faculty meeting the previous day, but again and again the topic returned to the fire at Wyndham School. The news clippings had become part of the information they were using to determine what Hawthorne would do at Bishop’s Hill. Nobody felt better because of what they knew, but some were more unnerved than others and several times Kate heard Chip Campbell repeat his remark about “fleshpots.”

For Kate the dozen or so people in the living room were all extensions of Bishop’s Hill and as much a part of the school as its architecture. It was the center of their lives, their home and place of confinement. It was safe and unsurprising even if they disliked it and wished to be elsewhere. Their only uncertainty was Hawthorne. Though it wasn’t him they feared but change—Hawthorne was merely the instrument of change or potential change, because other than the Tuesday-Thursday faculty meetings and putting out litter baskets and making the faculty park behind Douglas Hall, little had happened. But that wasn’t quite true. Hawthorne was also asking faculty members to return various articles they had borrowed, things like lawn mowers and sporting equipment. Ted Wrigley, the other language teacher, had been asked to return a pair of pruning shears that he had borrowed in May. Much had been hinted and more was expected. Everyone knew the school was in trouble and dire remedies were being explored. Kate could see how the clippings might fortify her colleagues. To resist Hawthorne because he was new and had ideas other than their own was hardly tenable, but if his credibility could be diminished, that was something else again.

It was eight-twenty before Hawthorne arrived, giving a rap on the door and ringing the doorbell. Then he entered without waiting for the door to be opened. His face was flushed from the cold and he wore khakis and a dark green sweater. His glasses steamed over as he shut the door behind him. He took them off and wiped them on a handkerchief, then rubbed his hands together as he approached Skander, who made his way toward him, beaming.

Kate was standing by the dining room table talking to Ted Wrigley, who taught German and French. Ted kept eating small spice cookies dusted in powdered sugar and the lapels of his sport coat were spotted with white. Ted was a little older than Kate and had a young wife who had remained home with the baby. Kate thought he must have been awfully ravaged by acne as an adolescent because his face was pockmarked with scars. He was very shy. The students complained they couldn’t hear him in class and had nicknamed him the Phantom because of his whispering. Despite his timidity, he had objected to giving back the pruning shears, as if doing so acknowledged some offense on his part. “Certainly, I meant to return them,” he repeated. Kate gathered that Hawthorne hadn’t spoken to Wrigley himself but had asked the head of the grounds crew to round up missing equipment.

Kate was struck by Wrigley’s expression as he watched Hawthorne enter. It wasn’t hostile but there was a chill to it: Hawthorne was Other, the outsider. And as she looked around the room, she saw this expression again and again—on Chip Campbell and Roger Bennett, on practically everyone.

None of this showed in Skander, who was effusive as he welcomed Hawthorne and led him to the dining room table. “We have coffee—decaf and regular—as well as mulled cider.” Then, lowering his voice: “Or something stronger, if you’d prefer. Beer, wine . . .”

“Regular coffee would be fine,” said Hawthorne. “Black.” He greeted Kate and Ted Wrigley, shaking hands with both.

“What a constitution you must have. It would keep me awake all night.” At that moment Skander’s wife signaled to him from the door to the kitchen. “Excuse me,” he said, and hurried off.

Hawthorne turned toward Kate. “I was glad that you spoke up about Jessica Weaver in the meeting yesterday. She’s been having difficulty with her roommate and a number of others in her dorm. She’s got quite a tongue on her.”

“I like her,” said Kate, moving away from Ted. “She learns very quickly and I like her energy, but I can see that she’s unpopular with the other students.”

Hawthorne leaned toward her and said more quietly, “I’m sure she had no idea she’d be coming here till a few days before she actually arrived. The application didn’t come in until after the first week in September. As Fritz said, ‘It’s not as if we didn’t have plenty of room.’ Her stepfather took her out of the strip club and gave her the choice of coming here or being turned over to the courts.”

“Then no wonder she’s angry. I’d be angry myself.” Glancing around the room, Kate saw several of the faculty watching them. She realized that Hawthorne knew nothing about the news clippings. She wanted to tell him but the moment seemed awkward.

Fritz Skander came out of the kitchen and quickly rejoined Hawthorne. “Come and say hello to Hilda. She’s eager to see you.” Hawthorne smiled and shrugged his shoulders at Kate as Skander led him away.

In the next few minutes Hawthorne made his way around the room, shaking hands and greeting the teachers who were under his charge. Despite his courtesy, there was a coolness that Kate attributed to shyness. She found herself next to the nurse, Alice Beech, who had arrived just before Hawthorne.

Alice was watching Hawthorne talk to Gene Strauss. “He doesn’t know those clippings were put in our mailboxes,” she told Kate. “I’d like to shake whoever did it.”

“What do you think’s going to happen?” asked Kate.

The nurse crossed her arms over her chest. She wore jeans and an orange sweater. “I think somebody’s going to tell him, but it’s not going to be me.”

“People are saying that he means to write a book about Bishop’s Hill,” said Kate, then blushed a little at finding herself repeating the current gossip.

“I wish him luck.”

It seemed to Kate that the room had grown quieter, that the men and women, while continuing their conversations, were more intent on Hawthorne than on whomever they were talking to. They were watching him while pretending not to watch him. She wondered if he would notice and how long it would take. And she realized that whoever had put the clippings in the mailboxes was most likely somebody in the room at this moment.

As it turned out, it was the Reverend Bennett who told Hawthorne about the clippings. Kate didn’t hear all that was said, but she heard Harriet say, “I think you should know . . .” It seemed that everyone in the room was trying to follow their conversation. A few more people had arrived and now some eighteen members of the Bishop’s Hill community were gathered in the Skanders’ living room and dining room. Kate stood with Alice Beech, who looked depressed.

“In everybody’s mailbox?” asked Hawthorne.

The chaplain nodded brusquely. They stood by the fireplace. “That’s what I gather.”

Hawthorne pushed his glasses up his nose with the knuckle of his thumb. He was smiling slightly, or rather, thought Kate, in his surprise he had forgotten to unsmile. He stood very still and it occurred to Kate that he wanted to flee, that it was only with great effort that he was keeping his body motionless as he thought about what it meant that the articles had become common knowledge. Watching him, Kate felt drawn to him. Along with sympathy, she felt admiration.

“What an odd thing for someone to have done,” said Hawthorne.

“In rather bad taste, I thought,” said Harriet Bennett.

Skander came across the room to join them. “I’m terribly sorry about it, Jim. If I’d known about it in time, I would have put them in the trash. It’s nobody’s concern what happened in San Diego.” Skander looked indignant and shook his head.

Standing next to Kate, Alice made a small, exasperated groan. “I wish he’d shut up. He’s going to make it worse.”

“It’s public information,” said Hawthorne quietly. “There’s nothing to hide. And the articles, I expect, were accurate, for the most part . . .”

But not entirely, thought Kate. And she knew that Hawthorne wanted to tell the whole story of what had happened, to correct their misapprehensions, but she also knew he would say nothing. She realized that Hawthorne was now looking at them as a single group, that for him they had become Other. And Kate was surprised to find in herself a wish to tell him that she wasn’t part of them, that she had only recently come to Bishop’s Hill, that she wasn’t allied with anybody.

“This is awful,” Alice told Kate.

Hawthorne was asking Harriet Bennett which articles they had been and Harriet said they were four stories from the Union-Tribune. Chip Campbell made his way across the room. He still had a beer but Kate didn’t think it was the same one he had had earlier. He was grinning.

“Tell me,” said Chip, “who was that cute psychologist? What was her name? Claire something. Claire de Lune.”

Somebody laughed. Alice Beech flushed deep red. “He’s drunk.”

“She was a former colleague in Boston.” Hawthorne began to go on, then didn’t. He turned back to the chaplain, looking for something else to say. Alice Beech was halfway to the fireplace before Kate realized that she had moved from her side. She was solid and businesslike and people got out of her way.

“I wanted to ask about the Miller girl,” Alice began. “You know she’s in the infirmary . . .” Apparently Peggy Miller had the flu. Alice had talked to the girl’s parents. She was wondering whether Peggy shouldn’t be kept in a far room in the infirmary so that others who might come in wouldn’t be infected, but that would require getting another bed out of the storage area in the attic of Emerson Hall. They discussed the logistics for a moment. Hawthorne said he would make sure that a bed was moved first thing in the morning.

People began to return to their conversations. Emily Strauss spilled her mulled cider and Hilda hurried to clean it up. Skander put a log on the fire. Bill Dolittle sought out Hawthorne with some pressing concern. Chip drank his beer and looked pleased with himself. Kate continued to watch Hawthorne, who had obviously been relieved by Alice’s appearance. Kate envied her slightly. Why hadn’t she herself been quick enough to change the topic of conversation? It always seemed that she had to think something through before she acted on it. She found herself drawn to Hawthorne’s angularity and watched how his mouth moved and the quality of his smile. And she looked at his right hand, where it extended from the green sleeve of his sweater. The scar had a sort of plastic pinkness and the skin between the ridges seemed smooth. Kate imagined what it would be like to be touched by that hand.

–

On Sunday a wind blew in from the south and the day was unexpectedly warm for October. Hawthorne had spent much of the afternoon meeting with students, but late that evening he was again on the terrace outside his quarters. The night was clear and there were a million stars but the sky felt just as empty. It was odd picking out constellations that he had seen in fifty different places and to see them now at Bishop’s Hill. The last time he had looked at the Big Dipper he had been walking along the beach in Coronado in early August listening to the surf. He had taken a woman out to dinner, which had been a mistake. Even though she was friendly, her presence made Hawthorne think of his dead wife and the times he had been with her in similar circumstances. Dinner at the Del, a walk along the beach. Men from the navy base jogging along the esplanade. Hawthorne had looked up at the Big Dipper, just as he was doing this evening, and wished he could be lost in the midst of its stars.

Now that Hawthorne was taking a break from his day’s labor, thoughts of his wife and daughter returned to him, though their features were indistinct. Only in dreams did he see them exactly. His daughter had had light blond hair so bright that it sparkled, and when Hawthorne thought of her, it was the hair that he saw clearly, then a vagueness of face and features. He remembered combing her hair after her bath, easing the comb through the tangles so it wouldn’t pull, and her clean smell and the apple fragrance of her favorite shampoo. Then her death once again swept over him and he felt lost.

Hawthorne’s meetings during the day had been with the class officers and had dealt with setting up a buddy system between upper and lower classmen, getting juniors and seniors to volunteer as tutors and organizing student discussion groups. The president of the student body was a rather lummoxy football player by the name of Sherman “Tank” Donoso, who referred to his fellow students as “homeboys.” Although the football team had yet to win a game, Tank maintained authority among his teammates and the students in his dormitory cottage by “dope slaps.” “I just give them one across the back of the head,” Tank explained.

Tank had gathered the other class officers and they had met in Hawthorne’s good-sized living room. Frank LeBrun had brought over a tray of freshly baked oatmeal cookies and a case of soft drinks. The students had been mildly interested in Hawthorne’s plans, though several objected to Hawthorne’s refusal to permit physical force.

“If you don’t give ’em a knock,” said Tank reasonably, “they don’t shut up.” Others had agreed, though Hawthorne had wondered if they hadn’t worried that their disagreement might lead to getting dope slaps themselves.

“Then perhaps one of our discussion groups can be on the supposed necessity and the response to violence,” Hawthorne had suggested.

The meeting had gone on until dinner. Afterward, Hawthorne had studied student files, learning that Tank was at Bishop’s Hill after being shunted between stepparents who seemed to despise him. This had kept Hawthorne busy until late in the evening and he felt ready for bed. Yet once he stopped, he again felt alert as his mind filled with thoughts of Meg and Lily, as well as problems at the school.

Hawthorne had been stunned that someone had put the news clippings in the faculty mailboxes. He had hoped to remain a sort of blank slate whom the faculty could approach with little or no prejudice. As he thought about Skander’s party, he again experienced the shame he had felt when he learned that everyone had read about what had happened in San Diego, or a version of it. Claire de Lune, Chip had said. How awful! Now they all had some fantasy of what Hawthorne had or hadn’t done and he understood that his stock with the faculty—not very high to begin with—had fallen even lower. Hawthorne was certain that it hadn’t been a student who had distributed the articles; students weren’t that sophisticated. And he realized that the appearance of Ambrose Stark hadn’t been the work of a student, either. Hawthorne had an enemy, someone who wanted to drive him away. This recognition upset him and also surprised him. And who knew how many of the faculty were on his enemy’s side? Hawthorne wished he could convince them of his good intentions. Not even at the treatment centers where he worked had he been subjected to such scrutiny. Here even his smiles were looked at with mistrust.

And all this business about writing a book. Had Skander started that unfortunate rumor? The irony was that never in his life had Hawthorne felt so far from writing, from turning his professional eye toward a clinical analysis of his environment. But if the faculty felt that he was observing them as part of some peculiar experiment, then that was just as bad as seeing him as a villain.

But perhaps, Hawthorne thought, there was no way to avoid being a villain. He had told the faculty they could no longer park in front of Emerson Hall. And he had sent out memos on other new . . . he hated to call them rules. Faculty and staff were used to taking leftovers from the kitchen: desserts, cookies, fruit, pieces of fried chicken. Hawthorne had stopped that. About $2,400 was spent on food each day for 250 days, for a total of slightly more than $600,000. The pilfering probably added up to 1 percent of that, or $6,000. A few faculty were in the habit of using vehicles owned by the school; one teacher—Herb Frankfurter—actually kept one of the cars, admittedly an old one, in his garage at home. Hawthorne stopped that as well. And he asked faculty to return the lawn mowers, hedge trimmers, weed cutters, even a chain saw that had been borrowed from the grounds crew. And talking to Mrs. Grayson about her cat, Hawthorne learned that towels, sheets, pillowcases, and blankets also had a way of disappearing into faculty homes.

These were the perks of teaching at Bishop’s Hill, business as usual. Hawthorne couldn’t bring it to a halt right away but he’d make a start. Perhaps I am a tyrant, he thought. But with the money spent on pilfered food, garden tools, and the whole business, he could hire a second psychologist. Was he simply going to look at Jessica and futilely wish to make her life better? How long before she went back to the strip clubs and eventual prostitution? If it was a choice between letting Frankfurter keep that old Chevy and helping Jessica, Frankfurter didn’t have a prayer. It shocked Hawthorne that Skander had let these perks build up. But then Skander wasn’t really an administrator; he had preferred being liked. And don’t I wish that too? Hawthorne asked. To have the faculty, staff, even the students see me as a friend?

Hawthorne went back inside to the living room, where he had a stack of student files left to read. The room was twenty feet long, had three shabby couches, and was intended for entertaining. He should probably institute some social events—student discussions and faculty chats—but the furniture was falling apart and the wallpaper peeling. At least he would buy a new chair, something comfortable to read in. All the old chairs had broken springs or smelled of cat urine and the only good place to read was in bed.

Hawthorne opened the top file and tried to concentrate, but his mind wandered. After dinner, Bill Dolittle had asked if he could move into the empty apartment above the Bennetts in Stark Hall and give up being the faculty resident in Latham, one of the student cottages. Dolittle wanted to have a place where his son could stay when he came home from Plymouth State. The difficulty with Dolittle’s request was that somebody else would have to move into Latham. Still, if he could help Dolittle, then he would.

But the students were Hawthorne’s main concern. He had to keep repeating that to himself. At dinner he had sat with eight members of the Bishop’s Hill football team, including Tank Donoso. Hawthorne was sure that two were stoned. Before he had come to Bishop’s Hill there had been a rule that a student could speak only if he or she first asked permission of the faculty member or prefect who sat at the head of the table. Hawthorne changed that and the result was cacophony. At least it was happy cacophony.

Tank had asked Hawthorne if he liked professional wrestling and Hawthorne had to say that he had never seen any. Then Tank asked what Hawthorne thought about Stephen King’s novels. Tank had written several reports on them for class. Hawthorne had to admit that he had never read any. The football players had been generally suspicious, as if Hawthorne meant to win them over in some unsportsmanlike manner. Tank and two others wanted to go into the armed forces after graduation and expressed a hope that the future might hold another Gulf War or trouble in Panama when the canal was turned over. Hawthorne was reminded of the alumni of residential treatment centers who often made their most successful adaptation to the adult world in the military service, where they never experienced insecurity or doubt and their every action was planned in advance.

Tank had kept glancing furtively at the scar on Hawthorne’s wrist until Hawthorne wanted to roll back the sleeve and lay his arm down in the middle of the table for Tank’s inspection. How refreshing had been the response of the cook, who had simply asked to see it and for whom the matter had become a closed issue. Across the room, Hawthorne had seen Scott arguing passionately with two other boys, and Jessica—her hair loose and hanging forward to obscure her face—sitting alone in her baggy sweatshirt and jeans. Her roommate, Helen Selkirk, had been at another table with several girls, all of whom were eating cottage cheese and ketchup and talking together in whispers. Once again there was fresh bread, a small thing for which Hawthorne felt grateful. There had been a smattering of jokes about the boy who a few days earlier had claimed to have found a tack in his slice. No one believed he hadn’t supplied it himself, and the teacher at the head of his table had told him to stop making such a fuss.