—

It was Hawthorne’s sense of his increasing isolation that led him to call Kate Sandler that evening.

“I wonder if I could come over,” he asked Kate around eight-thirty. He had spent a good half hour building up his nerve to call and he worried that his voice might show his nervousness. “I don’t have anything in particular to talk about. I’d just like the company.”

Kate hesitated and Hawthorne could imagine her thinking about her ex-husband and how her name had been linked with Hawthorne’s. He was sure she would say it was a bad idea.

“Come over anytime,” said Kate. “I’ll make some coffee.”

Kate lived in a small Cape Cod on a dirt road about three miles from the school. Hawthorne got there about nine. Her son, Todd, was just on his way to bed. He was a tall seven-year-old who shook hands with Hawthorne but looked at him a little distrustfully. Hawthorne remembered how the boy had been grilled by his father as to whether Kate had been seeing other men. And what would the boy say about Hawthorne?

The living room had a stone fireplace and gray plank paneling on one wall. A pile of books was heaped on the coffee table. Kate took Hawthorne into the kitchen. He sat at a round oak table and drank black coffee from a blue mug. At first he didn’t know what to say, then without making any conscious decision, he began telling her about the pictures of Ambrose Stark and the calls from the woman who purported to be Meg. He almost laughed at himself, so needy was he to tell another person about what had been happening. And he was afraid of Kate’s disbelief, that she would think he was crazy.

“But that’s terrible,” Kate kept saying. “I can’t believe you’ve been keeping this to yourself.”

He told her of the mutilated Stark painting that had stared down at him the night she had helped with Jessica. As he told her about the gifts of spoiled food, his coffee grew cold by his elbow. He found himself thinking of Kevin Krueger and what Krueger had said about the school’s malice and rancor.

“But who do you think’s doing it?” Kate sat across from him at the table, her dark hair framing her brow. She stared at his face as if she meant to draw it.

“For a while, I thought it was Chip Campbell. Then I thought it might be Roger Bennett or Herb Frankfurter. So many of them are angry at the changes. My friend Krueger says I should call the police. It’s so stupid—if I bring in the police, I’ll never get the school on my side. And why would the police believe me? That policeman from Brewster is still poking around because of the vandalism of Clifford’s office. Maybe I could talk to him. And certainly there’ll be an investigation into Clifford’s suicide. If I tell him, then this stuff about Ambrose Stark and the phone calls is bound to come out. People will think I’m nuts. I mean, I don’t have any witnesses. I’m the only one who’s seen that damn picture.”

“They want to force you to resign.”

“Yes.”

However, it was more than that. Hawthorne had wanted Bishop’s Hill to be his punishment—his great Sisyphean task—but he had wanted it to be a punishment under his control. He had meant to be prisoner and jailer both. Now he thought how ridiculous that had been. Not only was he being punished, he was worried that he would fail at keeping the school from going under. But of these thoughts he said nothing.

“You must tell the police,” Kate said. “Tell Chief Moulton. Surely, whoever is doing it is the same person who wrecked Clifford’s office.”

Kate urged him to tell some of the other faculty, those who seemed sympathetic—Alice Beech and Bill Dolittle, even Betty Sherman and Gene Strauss in admissions. And there were several more who were friendly, Kate was sure of it. Hawthorne listened but wasn’t convinced. Every time he heard a car pass he thought of his car in Kate’s driveway and how people would notice it.

It was past eleven when Hawthorne stood up to leave. Kate walked him to the door, then stood by as he put on his coat.

“I’m glad you told me,” she said. “That you trusted me that much.”

Glancing into her face, Hawthorne thought how pretty she looked. Her eyes seemed to shine as she watched him. Without thinking, he reached out and touched her cheek. She took his wrist, then turned his hand, kissing his palm. They stood like this for a moment. Gently, he pulled himself free.

“Let me,” she said, taking his hand again.

Once more Hawthorne gently pulled himself free. “When I touch your cheek, I feel my wife’s cheek,” he said. “When you kiss me, it’s Meg’s kiss that I feel.”

All at once Hawthorne turned and walked into the living room, standing with his back to Kate. She watched him without moving from the door.

“There’s something else I need to tell you about San Diego,” he began. “That psychologist, my former student, I knew her better than I said. Her name was Claire Sunderlin. I’d seen her a few times in Boston. Nothing had ever happened between us but it could have. We liked each other. We’d flirt. In San Diego, we’d had a good time during dinner, talking about Boston and other places. Afterward, listening to this jazz quartet, we were flirting again—making what-if kinds of jokes and laughing. Then we left the club and I walked her to my car. She was staying at a downtown hotel; it was only a couple of blocks. But I told her I would drive her. The car was in a parking lot and it was dark. We got in the front seat. We were still joking, then we began touching each other. I kissed her. We didn’t stop. We’d had a few drinks but I can’t even say I was drunk. It was like there was nothing outside my car, nothing outside in the world. She unzipped my pants. She made love to me with her mouth. My hands were buried in her hair and I held her over me. That’s what I was doing when Stanley was setting the fire.”

Eight

The chapel was full and the three golden chandeliers were blazing with light. Most of the faculty and staff were sitting in the two front rows, but Roger Bennett and Bill Dolittle stayed in the back in order to watch the doors and keep an eye on the students who occupied the pews behind their teachers. Also standing in back was Chief Moulton, the Brewster policeman. As headmaster, Hawthorne sat to the right of the altar, facing the school. On the other side of the altar was Harriet Bennett in her ecclesiastical robes. It was eight-thirty Thursday morning. Through the stained-glass windows, the November sun sent multicolored rays across the faces of faculty and students alike. Rosalind Langdon had just finished playing a Bach fugue on the organ and Tank Donoso, who lived in Shepherd, was climbing into the pulpit and looking somewhat truculently out at the chapel. As president of the student body he had been chosen to speak for the other students in Shepherd about their feelings for Evings, feelings that had probably ranged from the critical to the indifferent until death had increased Evings’s importance. Tank wore a dark blue suit that seemed too tight and he must have run his electric clippers across his scalp that morning, because he was nearly bald. Hawthorne glanced away and saw the door in back open. Frank LeBrun entered. He hesitated, then remained by the exit.

The service had begun shortly after eight with the Reverend Bennett talking about “Clifford Evings the man,” as she had called him. Her eulogy had been a mixture of homily and reminiscence but so generalized that she could have been talking about anybody. Hawthorne wondered what she truly thought, since she had urged him to dismiss Evings or at least force him into early retirement just the previous week. Instead she had spoken about the luminescence of his soul and the weight of his mortal burden. She said the light of his presence had been dimmed in this world only. Hawthorne imagined accusing her of hypocrisy, which he would never do. But possibly, now that Evings was dead, she could feel charity and even remorse. Possibly the prayers with which she concluded her remarks had been heartfelt.