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.

Shortly before midnight the telephone rang. Hawthorne assumed that a friend in San Diego had forgotten the time difference. He put down his files and hurried to the phone.

“Hello?” He heard a deep breath, then a woman’s voice speaking quickly.

“Mr. Hawthorne, Jim, this is Kate Sandler.”

Hawthorne sat down on the chair next to the telephone. “Yes, how are you? Is something the matter?”

“I’m not sure. Well, yes, there might be. I guess I’m not sure how to talk about it.”

Hawthorne leaned back. “Any way you’d like. Does this have to do with school?”

“Not exactly. You see, I’m divorced. I’ve been divorced now for about a year. My husband, or ex-husband, lives in Plymouth. He has a sporting goods store . . .”

Hawthorne couldn’t guess what she was leading up to. He started to speak, then waited.

“The divorce was my idea,” continued Kate. “He didn’t want to. We have a son who’s seven. George is still very bitter.”

“Is that your son?”

“No, my son’s name is Todd. George, George Peabody is the ex-husband.” Kate laughed nervously. “George is very possessive. He keeps saying he wants us to get back together, though I can’t believe he means it. But he’s constantly afraid that I’ll get involved with someone else. When I went out once last spring with Chip Campbell, George actually called him up and shouted at him.”