Текст книги "Boy in the Water"

Автор книги: Stephen Dobyns

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

“Certainly reevaluations will be in order.”

Ruth’s tone was slightly arch and Evings wondered what she meant by it. But even before she mentioned the other counselor, Evings knew it was coming.

“I know he’s spoken to Bobby several times—purely about students, of course. I don’t know if he’s aware of your . . . relationship.”

Evings gently gnawed the back of his thumb and then puffed on his cigarette without pleasure. He went behind his desk and turned on the air purifier. If he was fired, he wouldn’t know what to do.

Robert Newland was the other mental health counselor and had been hired by Evings two years earlier. The men were a couple, although they didn’t live together. Each was in charge of one of the dormitory cottages, where they had rooms. Mostly, however, they were together. Bobby was a tall, gangly man in his forties whose bland round face displayed a small mustache and goatee. He had a B.A. in psychology from Tufts but no graduate degree. Evings felt sure that if he was dismissed Ruth, who had been at the school longer than Bobby and had a master’s, would take over as head of psychological services. This seemed to be her ambition.

Before Bobby came to the school there had been occasional rumors about a romantic connection between Evings and one gay student or another, although it was no more than speculation. He didn’t think anything could be proven. He hadn’t heard from the students for years, and now, obviously, they were adults. But he knew how things could turn up after you thought they were over and done with. He’d had that sort of experience before. And if anything was said against him and one of those old students suddenly reappeared, well, he could be in a difficult situation.

Evings regretted his confession to Hawthorne. Why on earth had he said he was bad at his job? He imagined Hawthorne scurrying back to his office and writing it all down. Perhaps he had a little tape recorder hidden in his pocket. Evings felt sure that his connection with Bishop’s Hill was about to be severed. Roger Bennett had almost said as much, as had others. Certain reevaluations would be in order—what a nice way of putting it. And had it been entirely ethical for Evings to hire Bobby, who had never worked as a counselor before coming to Bishop’s Hill? When Evings had met him on Martha’s Vineyard, Bobby had been a waiter. Not even a headwaiter, at that. But the next summer Bobby had taken two classes at Plymouth State and then joined the staff. Skander had told them that Bobby’s job was safe, but Skander wasn’t in charge anymore.

“I knew this would happen as soon as I heard that Skander wasn’t going to be named headmaster,” said Evings, stubbing out his cigarette.

“Knew what would happen?” asked Ruth, still with her arch expression.

“Knew that our positions weren’t secure. Wasn’t that what people said? That man is going to turn the whole school upside down. I bet it won’t even be a small book—I’ll probably have a chapter all to myself, me and Bobby. With pictures.”

Ruth patted her hair, which was a rich brown and fell to her shoulders in thick waves. “Well, I don’t feel I’m at risk. I put in a full week and I’m busy on weekends as well. Nobody can make a complaint about me that I can’t defend myself against and, unlike some, I don’t fall asleep at faculty meetings.” She gave a little laugh to show the remark was purely collegial.

In that moment, Evings hated Ruth Standish. She’d never been on his side; indeed, she hardly respected him. If Hawthorne learned about Evings’s relationship with Bobby and if he talked to the wrong people—Ruth, for instance—then Evings would end up just like Chip. But Chip was a relatively young man and Evings was sixty-one. What job could he find at his age? Nothing as comfortable as Bishop’s Hill. Nothing that carried any respect. Briefly, he saw himself working in the men’s department of a large clothing store, but even that was doubtful. More likely he’d have to take a job at Dunkin’ Donuts or McDonald’s. And would Bobby stay with him then? Of course not. And how could he bear the humiliation?

Chip Campbell’s suspension was discussed by many people at Bishop’s Hill that Friday. Scott McKinnon described what had happened again and again—how Hawthorne had stood up for him and how Campbell had been given the boot. He liked being the center of attention. He showed the scarcely visible bruises on his arm to whoever would look at them and boldly smoked a cigarette in his room, even though Mr. Newland had already given him several warnings. But Scott felt he had a friend in high places. He could say and do what he wanted and Hawthorne would be there to look out for him. Consequently, he said a lot.

Throughout Friday the faculty continued to worry about what had happened. Roger Bennett, Ted Wrigley, and Tom Hastings sat in the Dugout drinking coffee and wondering if they themselves might be in danger. In the basement of Douglas Hall, the Dugout was a small snack bar run by students. It was shortly after three o’clock and classes had recently ended. About fifteen students were scattered at half a dozen tables, and the three teachers sat in a corner booth so they wouldn’t be overheard. A video game of cars racing through a mountain landscape boomed and twittered against the wall.

“What amazes me,” said Hastings, “is his p-power. He can fire anyone at any time. How long we’ve taught means nothing.” Hastings taught general science and biology, and from time to time some of his students liked to tease him and provoke his stutter. He was small and dapper with light curly hair and delicate features. He liked to wear expensive boots and black silk shirts with black ties. On the little finger of his left hand was a silver ring with a large bluish amethyst.

“You think he’d do that?” asked Wrigley, ladling sugar into his cup. He had given a quiz in his first-year German class during the last period and had a stack of papers beside him.

“What’s to stop him? P-plainly, he has big plans for Bishop’s Hill. If we don’t fit in, then we’re out.” And Hastings thought how foolish he had been to disagree with Hawthorne about the demerit system during the initial meeting.

“Pendergast never interfered with us in any way,” said Bennett. “It’s a real shame that Fritz wasn’t named headmaster.”

Wrigley blew on his coffee, then sipped it carefully. “Pendergast was hopeless and Fritz wasn’t much better. Now the school’s broke.”

“According to Hawthorne, anyway,” said Hastings. “And what’s this business about a book? Are we just some kind of p-perverse experiment for him?”

“That’s what Chip’s been saying,” said Wrigley. “Roger, too, for that matter.”

Bennett leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I bet he fired Chip just to make his damn book a little more interesting. You know, conflict and confrontation.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Wrigley. “It’s too deceitful. He doesn’t seem like that.”

“Well, look at the t-trouble he had in San Diego,” said Hastings, his stutter increasing. “How do you explain what happened there?”

“What’s Dolittle been sucking up to him about?” asked Bennett.

Hastings picked a fleck of lint from his black silk tie. “D-D-Dolittle wants something. He always wants s-something.”

“He’s probably after a raise when no one else is getting one,” suggested Wrigley.

They discussed the school’s money problem and whether it was exaggerated. They complained about how they had had to return shovels and garden shears. They talked about the faculty meetings and the additional demands on their time. They wondered about Hawthorne’s book. Bennett had been at Bishop’s Hill for ten years, Wrigley and Hastings for eight. The three were close acquaintances rather than friends. In fact, they had little respect for one another. Yet they formed a united front against these new changes.

“Those news articles were a shock for him,” said Wrigley. “I wonder who put them in the mailboxes. When your wife told him, I thought he was going to bolt.”

“You think he’ll hold it against her?” Bennett looked worried.

“I’d love to have been there,” said Hastings. “I can’t imagine Chip mentioning that woman and how pretty she was.” He began stuttering again. The others watched him, waiting for him to stop, already knowing what he would say. “W-w-was he sober?”

“Barely,” said Wrigley. “Fritz says he’s going to beard Hawthorne in his den and make him change his mind. But it was a dumb thing for Chip to do—that and missing those meetings. It was almost as dumb as Roger knocking Hawthorne down in the basketball game. Pretty clumsy, Rog. I hope he doesn’t blame me because I was on your team. I was afraid Tank was going to tackle you.”

Bennett set his coffee cup on the table, making a clinking noise. “I slipped.”

When Hawthorne had gone up for the layup, Bennett hadn’t meant to hit him so hard, but he’d been off balance and slipped. Had Hawthorne believed him? Bennett wasn’t sure. If that damn cook had stayed out of it, he’d have been all right. Saying he had done it on purpose. “You must have been mad,” the reverend had said. Even in bed, Bennett called his wife the reverend.

“It was an accident. Anyway, we were playing a game.”

“Some game,” she said. “You think he’ll forget it? I know men like that.”

Everyone was talking about what Hawthorne had done and what he might do next: the staff, the students, the housekeepers, people in the kitchen, even the night watchman.

Betty Sherman, the art teacher, had called Mrs. Hayes on the telephone.

“I’m not perfect,” said Betty. “I’ve made mistakes. Look at that money that was missing from the budget for art supplies last June. I can’t imagine what happened to it.”

“It’s awful, simply awful,” said Mrs. Hayes. “I’ve been in a state all week.”

For several hours each day Mrs. Hayes had been reading about computers and the Internet—Windows 98, Excel, Netscape Communicator. She had studied the books but hadn’t yet turned on the machine. “These things can have internal monitors,” Skander had told her. She had trouble sleeping and when she dozed off her dreams were full of flickering screens and hundreds of keys, buttons, obscure commands, cryptic terms—anchoring callouts and case-sensitive passwords, macros and spikes. And nothing she read stayed in her mind for over five minutes.

–

First thing Monday morning Skander had an appointment to see the headmaster.

“I just wish you’d reconsider.” Skander stood with his hands folded in front of him. He wore a blue blazer flecked with light-colored dog hairs from Hilda’s toy poodle and he spoke quietly, as if in church. “Really . . . for the good of the school.”

Hawthorne leaned against his desk. He was no longer using a cane but his knees still hurt. And he felt uneasy; his anxiety was like a noise in his head and Hawthorne felt it interfering with what he regarded as his customary presence of mind. Now he was trying to understand Skander’s mood but Skander seemed his usual self, at once businesslike and affable, a mixture of charm and artlessness. Even so, Hawthorne couldn’t make out what lay behind Skander’s words. It seemed more complicated than standing up for a colleague.

Hawthorne felt certain that he had been correct in dismissing Chip. He had done the same thing in residential treatment centers when a child-care worker had used too much force in subduing one of the kids. But, as he had told himself several times, Bishop’s Hill wasn’t a treatment center. He couldn’t tolerate Chip’s abuse of students, however, since it destroyed not only Chip’s effectiveness but also his own. But over the weekend Hamilton Burke had called, asking him to reconsider, and now here was Fritz.

Hawthorne thought back to Ambrose Stark’s appearance in the window of Adams Hall; he didn’t believe he’d seen a ghost but he couldn’t help feeling that the dead headmaster embodied all the anger of everyone whose life was being changed at the school. Then there were the news clippings that someone had put in the faculty mailboxes and the anonymous letter to Kate’s ex-husband. Surely the anger would surface again. Hawthorne hadn’t discussed these incidents with anyone, for the reason that almost anyone could have done it. The unfortunate result was to further separate him from the people at Bishop’s Hill. So even though Hawthorne trusted Skander, he listened to him with an extra ear, as it were, the ear of his suspicion.

“I’m afraid it can’t be done,” said Hawthorne. “If I changed my position, the students would feel betrayed. I know this is hard for you and the faculty, but the students must think this is their school. They must believe that they and their actions matter.”

“Doesn’t there need to be discipline?”

“What I object to is punishment. What does the victim learn except fear?”

“People say you were angry at Chip because he hasn’t attended your meetings and also because he had made that remark at my little party.” Skander looked embarrassed. “About that woman, I mean. Obviously, it was in bad taste.”

“I would have reprimanded him about the meetings, but I wouldn’t have dismissed him. As for his remark, it hardly registered.” Not entirely true, Hawthorne reminded himself.

“Several people have also suggested that you overreacted because of your injury. I must say I’m surprised that you were out there playing a game with the students.”

“Basketball. I used to coach it. Several other faculty were also playing.”

“Yes, well, Roger Bennett.” His tone indicated that nothing Bennett did would surprise him.

“My skinning my knees in no way affected my actions. Chip literally hurled the boy across the hall.”

Skander’s furrowed brow suggested that furious debate was being waged inside him. “Who’s going to teach Chip’s classes? And he was swimming coach. Who’ll take that job?”

“There’s a substitute there today. I’ll take one of his classes. We can divide up the others. As for the swimming, I can do it if I can get someone to help me.”

“You already have a job.”

“It’ll be all right. I’ll find the time. After all, it’ll only be temporary. I minored in history at Williams. I can do the ancient and medieval history. Where is he up to, the early Greeks? I can teach that, perhaps not as well as Chip, but I can do it.”

Skander pursed his lips and looked worried. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

Hawthorne didn’t answer.

“Is it this book you’re writing?”

“Good grief, Fritz, I have no intention of writing any damn book!”

Skander tilted his head and looked vaguely skeptical. “Do you know how frightened people are? They think you’ll fire us all.”

“That’s silly. I’ve talked to several teachers, and I think most will stand by me. I caught Chip physically abusing a student. Twice. That’s why I suspended him. Are you saying they all hit students?”

“Of course not.”

“Then they have nothing to worry about.”

“Ruth Standish said you had words with a student on Friday. There was a quarrel.”

“There was no quarrel. I spoke to a girl about burning candles in her room and the need to treat her roommate with courtesy. She yelled at me. We talked a long time. You know the girl. Jessica Weaver. She’s the one who started the semester late.”

“The stripper.”

“Yes, she did that for several months. Anyway, I told her I meant nothing personal. Those cottages could go up in a second. I think she understood my position. We shouldn’t even use the fireplaces. You’ve seen those insurance policies.”

“I can imagine you’re particularly sensitive about fire.”

“Even apart from that,” said Hawthorne more quickly than he had intended.

“I can tell it’s something on your mind. That’s only natural. That boy who set the fire at Wyndham School, what was his name?”

“Stanley Carpasso.” There was no pause before Hawthorne’s answer. It was as if he had the boy’s name always on his lips.

Skander again looked as if he were undergoing some intense inner discussion. “You had no idea how this Carpasso might behave?”

“No.”

“But he was, what do you say, emotionally disturbed? Aren’t children like that especially dangerous? Of course, I’m no professional.”

“It wasn’t that simple. I’d worked with him for several years. He wasn’t a fire starter. There was nothing like that in his record.”

Skander spoke in a whisper. “And there was nothing you could do?”

“You mean once the fire started? I couldn’t get back to them. The hallway was on fire. What do you mean? The whole place was burning.”

“Weren’t there ladders?”

“I expect in the garage. Certainly the grounds crew used ladders.”

Skander shook his head. “I’m sorry, it must have been chaos. One can never know what such an event is like unless one lives through it. I once heard about a father who watched his son suffocate. An awful story. The boy was stung by a bee and had an allergic reaction. They were in their own backyard. The father tried to pry the boy’s mouth open. After several minutes, he even cut into the boy’s windpipe with a knife. Nothing worked. His throat had already swollen shut. Then, oh, at least a month after the funeral, the father woke up in the middle of the night. He had dreamed the whole thing again and realized that the garden sprinkler had been on. If he’d been quick, he could have cut a portion of the hose before his son’s throat became blocked. He could have saved his life. It must have been like that for you, thinking about the ladders.”

Hawthorne didn’t speak for a moment, then said, “There was no time to get ladders. Anyway, they wouldn’t have helped.”

After Skander left, Hawthorne sat at his desk going over his notes for a talk he had to give at a Lions Club meeting in Plymouth later in the week. He had presented two other such talks to acquaint groups with changes at the school and to raise money. Several others were scheduled for later in the fall. All required a charm and enthusiasm that Hawthorne found difficult, a heartiness more appropriate to Fritz than to himself. As he tried to edit his remarks, he couldn’t keep his mind on them. He kept thinking about the fire at Wyndham and Skander’s questions. He knew that if he hadn’t been pulled out of the burning hallway, he would have died as well. For months he’d been sorry that he hadn’t died. Now he felt that way less often. Sitting at his desk, Hawthorne felt how he could reach out a hand and almost touch Lily’s blond curls. He even knew how they would feel, their softness, how they would tickle his palm. It was as if his hand were separated from them by a fraction of an inch. He pushed and labored but he still couldn’t cover the last, minuscule distance.

–

Later that morning Hawthorne had a shock. He had gone to the faculty lounge for a cup of coffee around eleven and when he returned to his office he discovered an eight-by-ten framed picture of his wife and daughter on his desk. The shock was that he had no such picture; it must have been put there within the past ten minutes. It showed Meg and Lily standing in front of a decorated Christmas tree. They wore matching green robes from L.L. Bean that Hawthorne had given them for Christmas six weeks before the fire. The picture had appeared in several of the San Diego papers. The frame was cheap—maroon plastic patterned to look like leather. It stood next to the telephone at the corner of the desk as if it had been there for months.

“Mrs. Hayes!” Hawthorne called.

There was no answer. Hawthorne got up to look in the outer office. Mrs. Hayes was not there. He returned to stare at the picture. Meg and Lily looked happy and loving; both had blond hair but Meg’s was darker. Lily’s curls, which Hawthorne had recently been thinking about, were now before him. Hawthorne had no idea how long he looked at the picture—perhaps ten minutes, perhaps thirty. He was interrupted when Mrs. Hayes came into his office.

Hawthorne spoke abruptly. “Where have you been?”

Mrs. Hayes looked startled. She wore a blue dress with a white sailor collar and put a hand to her throat as Hawthorne spoke. “I just carried something down to my car.”

“Did you put this picture here?”

“Of course not. I haven’t touched anything in your office.”

Hawthorne wasn’t sure he believed her. There was an oddness to her expression, but perhaps it was because he had raised his voice. “Did you see anyone else in here?”

“No, nobody. What’s bothering you?”

Hawthorne sat down at his desk and began massaging his temples. “Somebody’s playing tricks,” he said. He looked at the picture of Meg and Lily. He had been avoiding old photographs ever since the fire. He didn’t feel he was strong enough to see them.

“Well, it certainly wasn’t me,” said Mrs. Hayes. Her voice trembled.

Hawthorne saw that she had tears in her eyes. “Is something wrong? I’m sorry if I was abrupt.”

“It’s not that, it’s just . . .” Mrs. Hayes stopped and looked bewildered. Then she suddenly thrust a white envelope across the desk toward Hawthorne. “I don’t trust myself to say anything. Just take that and read it. I’ve thought of nothing else all week.”

Hawthorne took the envelope. It was addressed to Dr. James Hawthorne. When he looked up again, Mrs. Hayes was hurrying from the office. He tore open the envelope.

“Dear Dr. Hawthorne,” Mrs. Hayes had written. “As much as it upsets me to do so, I am afraid I must offer my resignation. I am not young anymore, and as much as I love Bishop’s Hill, I realize that it must move forward. Your ways are not my ways, but if anyone can save the school, then you can. You are a brave man to come here. As for me, my training was in areas that seem obsolete: typing, dictation, file keeping, and payrolls. I understand you must have a modern office to go with your modern methods. I have thought about this for days but I knew it was coming. If I stayed at Bishop’s Hill, I would just be in the way. Please do not try to talk me out of this. I know your intentions are well meant but you cannot turn back the clock, nor can you teach an old dog new tricks. Respectfully yours, Martha Hayes.”

Hawthorne reread the letter, then folded it and returned it to the envelope. He looked at the photograph of Meg and Lily. His wife and daughter, the joy in their faces, their joy at being alive, formed the only subject in which he wanted to immerse himself. He felt angry with Mrs. Hayes for interfering with such sweet and terrible recollections. Then he thought: Someone’s trying to drive me crazy. He got up, crossed the room to the front office. Mrs. Hayes was nowhere in sight.

He looked for some sign of the secretary—her coat or purse—but even the snapshots of her nieces and nephews were gone from her desk, even the little vase of plastic violets. In their place were the computer and software manuals neatly stacked. The other boxes, mostly unopened, stood along the wall. It occurred to Hawthorne that he might be able to convince the board to keep Mrs. Hayes as office manager; then he could hire someone else with computer skills. He hurried to the door to see if she was in the hall. As he moved, the scabs on his knees chafed against his pants, slowing him.

But Mrs. Hayes was gone. The only person nearby was the librarian, Bill Dolittle, who was just passing. In fact, Hawthorne almost bumped into him. He excused himself and stepped back. Dolittle wore a bright yellow V-neck sweater and a blue bow tie. He was balding and he combed his longish brown hair across his bare pink scalp in a way that Hawthorne had heard referred to as borrowing. His sweater was tight, as if he had bought it years earlier when he had been thinner.

They greeted each other in that surprised way people do when they have nearly collided. Dolittle said something about its being another glorious day.

Hawthorne nearly asked him about the photograph. Did Dolittle know who had put it on his desk? How foolish, he thought to himself. Must I distrust everybody?

“I was wondering,” said Dolittle, “if you’ve had the opportunity to consider my proposal.”

“You mean about moving over to Stark? I’ve thought about it but I haven’t had the chance to discuss it with the board. I plan to talk to them next week.”

Dolittle looked concerned. He had a distinct overbite, which he tried to correct by pushing his jaw forward, which made him appear pugnacious. “Why is this a matter for the board?”

“Because someone else would have to be assigned to Latham, which might mean another hiring. That probably couldn’t be done until next year.”

“I could live in Stark and still check on the boys in Latham.”

“I’m sure you could but technically that would leave them unsupervised.”

“I can’t tell you how embarrassing it is to have my son visit me from college for a weekend and make him share a room with an eighth or ninth grader. I’ve been in Latham for eight years!”

“Then you deserve a change but I don’t see how it can be done this semester.”

Dolittle was one of the faculty members who had been supporting Hawthorne. Now Hawthorne wondered if it was only because Dolittle hoped to move from Latham to Stark.

Dolittle patted his hair, perhaps thinking it had been disarranged by the bad news. “How disappointing,” he said.

–

Thursday afternoon, after the faculty meeting, Hawthorne took a walk with Kate on one of the many paths through the woods that bordered the school. He had noticed her in the parking lot and called to her. His intention had been to drive into Plymouth and do a few errands, like buying a new razor, but seeing Kate he decided his beard could wait. The faculty meeting had been frustrating and left Hawthorne in a bad mood. No one had been absent except Herb Frankfurter, who had attended only the first meeting, but people were upset about Chip and more interested in talking about him than about the students. Or more accurately, they were concerned not so much about Chip as about their own job security, until Hawthorne nearly lost his temper and said that as long as they didn’t abuse the students and did what they were hired to do, then they needn’t worry about being fired. All this took time. It was only after half an hour or so that Hawthorne was able to get on to the subject of the upper forms—discussing those students who seemed in immediate trouble, acted out in class, and refused to do their homework. In the past few days two boys had been drunk in their room, about twenty had cut class, an equal number had been verbally abusive to faculty, Bill Dolittle had discovered marijuana spilled on the floor in the Latham bathroom, and Tank Donoso was still giving the other boys in Shepherd slaps on the back of the head. Hawthorne had also hoped to begin discussing the seniors one by one, listing their strengths and weaknesses, suggesting what might benefit them, but that hadn’t been possible. At the end of an hour, they had only managed to talk about three students and at least ten faculty members hadn’t said a word. Hawthorne tried not to show his irritation, but he wasn’t sure how successful he had been.

Interfering with his ability to focus were his thoughts about the photograph of his wife and daughter—its mysterious appearance—as well as his concern about Mrs. Hayes’s resignation. He had tried telephoning Mrs. Hayes, at last reaching her about ten minutes before the meeting. While not actually rude, she had been cool, telling him that she did not intend to reconsider her decision.

At lunch he had told Skander that the secretary had resigned.

Skander had sighed. “I was afraid this was coming. Well, perhaps it’s for the best.”

“I think we need her here. No one knows the school better than she does. Can’t you talk to her?”

“I can try, but she’s certainly a stubborn woman. Resiliency has never been one of her gifts. If I described some of the run-ins we’ve had in the past I’m not sure you’d be so eager to keep her. Not that she isn’t a wonderful person.”

At the faculty meeting Skander had been no help, sitting silently and appearing downcast. But a few teachers had contributed: Ted Wrigley and Kate, Bill Dolittle and Betty Sherman. Roger Bennett had been almost garrulous but he hadn’t said anything substantive—that is, his purpose had been to show that he was still sorry for knocking Hawthorne down during the basketball game, which only made Hawthorne wonder if it had been an accident after all.

That was where Hawthorne was with his thinking when he saw Kate in the parking lot. Briefly, he wondered whether Kate had put the picture on his desk as a gift, but the very unlikelihood of that struck him as evidence of his distraction. Still, he believed he could benefit from her point of view. He also found her attractive. It made him realize that he wanted a face to insert between him and the faces of his wife and daughter, if only for an hour or so. And then he asked himself what right he had to rest. What right did he have to turn away from them?

Despite his uncertainty, Hawthorne called to Kate. She wore a red mackinaw, almost as if she wanted to be noticed. Soon they were walking along a path in the woods past the playing fields. Hawthorne spoke about the picture, how it showed his wife and daughter on Christmas day. He described coming back from the teachers’ lounge and finding it on his desk. As he talked, he realized he had been badly frightened. Kate listened to him carefully as their feet scuffed through the fallen leaves. The muted sunlight through the trees made it seem they were walking within a vast Japanese lantern.

“And you thought I might have put it there?” she asked.

“I didn’t know. But if it was meant as a friendly gesture, then it might have been done by—”

“By someone you’ve been friendly with,” said Kate, laughing. “No, I didn’t do it. Didn’t anybody notice anything? There wasn’t a note? What about Mrs. Hayes, did she see someone?”

“No, and that’s another problem. She’s resigned.” Hawthorne explained that she had been made anxious by the computers but he hoped to persuade her to come back.

“How difficult.” Kate carried a backpack slung over one shoulder.

“She didn’t give the computers a real chance. I’d meant to spend more time with her but what with one thing and another it wasn’t possible, so I was going to help her this week.”