Kevin Krueger and his wife lived in a small white Victorian with a wraparound front porch, the corner house on a quiet street a mile west of the capitol building. Hawthorne had arrived around eleven and already the house smelled rich with spices and cooking. Although Hawthorne wanted to ask Krueger’s advice about Bishop’s Hill and describe what had happened, he didn’t wish to burden Krueger’s Thanksgiving. And he told himself that he needed to live entirely within this day, with no grieving over the past and no worrying about the future. He knew he wouldn’t succeed, or not completely—after all, he had brooded about Wyndham all the way down from Bishop’s Hill—but he had to try, if only out of courtesy to his friend. Krueger’s daughter, Betsy, was six and his son, James, was four. Hawthorne wanted to engage himself with these children, to be close to them without also thinking of Lily and how much he had loved her and how responsible he felt for her death.

Hawthorne managed not to talk to Krueger and his wife, Deborah, about the past and he said little about Bishop’s Hill. He helped his namesake build a snowman in the backyard and duly admired the daughter’s collection of Barbie dolls. Yet the past tugged at him ferociously and he kept having to jerk his mind away from its grip. Two other couples with whom Krueger worked in the Department of Education came to dinner in the afternoon and one brought their ten-year-old daughter, who Hawthorne couldn’t stop looking at, her hair was so blond. As they ate they discussed education and psychology, even movies, staying away from sensitive subjects. Hawthorne realized that Krueger had warned them—don’t talk about California or Bishop’s Hill, remain in the plain vanilla of conversational material. They were careful not to look at the scar on his hand. Even the girl tried not to look at it, although she wasn’t as successful as her parents. Partly everyone’s efforts made Hawthorne feel like a cripple and partly he felt grateful.

The only difficult moment was when they were discussing people they knew in common. “Claire Sunderlin is a friend of ours,” the man named Beatty said to Hawthorne. “I gather she used to be a student of yours.”

“Yes, long ago at BU. She was very smart, very energetic. I haven’t seen her for some time.”

Twice during dinner Hawthorne caught Krueger glancing at him with concern. Krueger’s wife kept urging him to eat more and he realized they both thought he was too thin. And his nerves were bad. When Krueger’s small son overturned his milk, Hawthorne jumped and pushed back his chair. Even the Beattys looked at him curiously. He retired early to the upstairs guest room, then read until past midnight—an Agatha Christie mystery with Miss Marple that he had found on his bedside table. He envied a world where simple reasoning and analysis could bring about such successes.

The next morning after breakfast Krueger and Hawthorne retired to Krueger’s study off the sunporch with a pot of black coffee. Hawthorne told him all that had happened since Krueger’s visit—Jessica’s drunken visit, the clarinet playing “Satin Doll,” the grinning portrait of Ambrose Stark, the continued phone calls. Krueger already knew about Evings’s suicide, but Hawthorne described the memorial service and how Bobby Newland had accused the school of murder. He recounted his conversation with Mrs. Hayes and how Bennett and Chip Campbell and others had convinced her that she was about to be fired. He talked about the girl, Gail Jensen, who had hemorrhaged to death after an abortion. And he talked about Lloyd Pendergast and what Mrs. Hayes had said about him. Deborah brought in a fresh pot of coffee. In the backyard, Krueger’s children played in their red and blue snowsuits, throwing snowballs and sledding down a small hill. Their shouts were muted through the picture window.

Then Hawthorne talked about Wyndham, telling Krueger that he felt he was making himself accept these events at Bishop’s Hill because he considered them a just punishment for what had occurred in San Diego—the hubris that had led him to be inattentive. He responded to the gossip and attacks by trying to endure them, doing little to stop them, and part of him wanted the attacks to get worse until they destroyed him. But Hawthorne didn’t mention Claire and his adultery. He was afraid Krueger would hate him and he didn’t think he could survive Krueger’s hate. Through it all Krueger listened without interruption, drinking cup after cup of coffee, hardly changing his position on the couch as the morning sun moved across the snow-covered backyard.

At the end, Krueger said, “You’ve got to get out of there.”

“That’s what they want me to do.”

“It doesn’t matter. Your life and sanity are more important.”

Hawthorne sat in a sprawling brown armchair that he had turned to face Krueger. “There are good people there. And there are the students. Nothing would be gained by forcing the school to close. Because that’s what would happen. If I quit, the school will shut down. They might not even make it to May.”

“I thought you said you were there to punish yourself, not to make the place work.”

“I’m there for both.”

“It’s a piece of property. The board of trustees would most likely sell it to pay off the debts.” Krueger drank the last of his cold coffee and made a face. He wiped his mustache. “It’s private. It’s got a physical plant. It’s in a beautiful location.”

“Who’d buy it?”

“Lots of people. A religious group, for instance. Didn’t the Moonies buy a chunk of Farrington College? Or it could be turned into another sort of institution. Think of the money in for-profits. At least a dozen companies have bought up schools or hospitals around the country. The Galileo Corporation, Health International, even Holiday Inn and Sheraton have gotten into nursing homes and care for the elderly.”

Hawthorne pictured Bishop’s Hill full of the dazed and semicomatose, the classrooms turned into bedrooms or wards, the library sold, the marble panels with the names of young men from Bishop’s Hill who had fought in half a dozen wars taken to the dump. Then a fence would be erected around the property—high, but not so high that the place looked like a prison.

“I know some people in that industry,” said Krueger, returning to the couch. “Let’s say Bishop’s Hill became a home for the elderly or for men and women with Down’s syndrome, or a detox for alcoholics and addicts, or even a residential treatment center—the place would still need personnel: ward attendants, secretaries, kitchen and grounds people, housekeepers. I bet a bunch of people now at the school could find jobs. And at higher pay.”

“But they wouldn’t be teaching,” said Hawthorne.

“Why should they care? You’re looking in the wrong direction. The people spreading gossip and holding up the painting and playing the clarinet, they probably have nothing against you. You’re simply in their way. My guess is that they want to sell off the school. They’re greedy, that’s all. It’s too bad about Evings, but whoever wrecked his office can blame it on the kids. Wasn’t he gay? They can say he was hitting on someone, that certain students objected to his homosexuality. The fact that he committed suicide—it was all for the best. The same thing with Mrs. Hayes quitting. Each of these things weakens the school, and if you resign, then that will be that. The place will open next year as a subsidiary of Holiday Inn and this guy Bennett will be a director or manager and making twice the money. You really think he’s going to miss teaching algebra?”

Hawthorne laughed. “So it’s all just progress.”

“Bigger and better into the millennium. Fat profits, that’s what life is all about. You should feel ashamed for standing in their way.”

“But the vandalism and getting that girl drunk . . .” Hawthorne walked to the window. Krueger’s children were making a snow fort, rolling balls of snow and stacking them on top of one another. “I want to talk to Lloyd Pendergast but I’ve no idea where he is. Do you think you can find out?”