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Late that morning Hawthorne was hurrying down the corridor of Emerson Hall when Frank LeBrun called to him from the door of the dining hall. Hawthorne stopped, even though he had seen Hamilton Burke’s red Saab coming up the driveway, splashing through the puddles. LeBrun wore his white jacket and there was a smudge of flour across the bridge of his nose. He kept shrugging his shoulders and stretching his back, as if it were an exercise. He had a grin on his face, but his eyes were pinched so that it seemed more of a grimace. Perhaps that was why Hawthorne stopped, because of the agitation in his eyes.

“Those kids were pretty upset this morning.”

Hawthorne stood still as Frank came up to him. “I’m sure they were.”

“Why d’you think he did it?”

Oddly, it didn’t occur to Hawthorne to think that Evings’s death was no business of LeBrun’s. Again, it was the uncertainty in the man’s eyes.

“He was unhappy and he was frightened.”

“Shit, I been both of those.” LeBrun noticed the flour on his hands and he wiped them on his jeans. “He should of just taken off, that’s what I would have done. Unhappy here, happy someplace else. That’s how it works.”

“You’re stronger than he is.”

“Was,” said LeBrun. “He’s now a was. Nobody shot him or stuck a knife in him or pushed him in the drink. You hear what I’m saying? It was his own choice. These things that frightened him, why didn’t he just say, Fuck it?”

Hawthorne wanted to tell LeBrun to lower his voice but he thought it better to let him talk.

“Poor old fag,” LeBrun continued. “It’s not good to do it to yourself—you got to stick it to the other guy right to the end.”

“I guess he couldn’t do that. He didn’t want to do anything anymore.”

LeBrun rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “You ever had something you couldn’t do?”

Hawthorne wasn’t sure if they were still talking about Evings. “You mean something I couldn’t face?”

“No, something you couldn’t do. Like you knew that you had to do it but you kept dragging your feet.”

“We all have to do things we don’t like.”

“So if you can’t do it, then what happens?”

“I try to figure out what’s holding me back. Or perhaps it’s something I shouldn’t do in the first place. You have something that’s bothering you?” Not for the first time, Hawthorne wondered what bad stories existed in the other man’s life.

“Nah, I’m fine. Maybe I’m just pissed about Evings. You think it was having his office busted up that made him do it? That’s a real shame. It’s too bad he couldn’t find one fucking reason to keep going.” LeBrun shrugged his shoulders twice and snapped his fingers, then he pointed up the hall. “There’s a guy waiting for you.”

Hawthorne saw Hamilton Burke standing in the rotunda, unbuttoning his dark overcoat. When Hawthorne glanced back, LeBrun was already walking toward the kitchen. He had a jerky stride, as if he weren’t comfortable in his skin. And he was still shrugging his shoulders. Hawthorne felt there had been something childlike about LeBrun’s concern, as if his main worry was his own survival and Evings’s decision to commit suicide had somehow put that survival in jeopardy. As Hawthorne approached Burke, he was struck by the deep crease between Burke’s eyebrows; the lawyer looked like a man who had heard bad news that made him think even less of the human race than before. Burke was stout rather than simply overweight, as though the excess were due to wealth and good living, the result of real estate investments and commercial takeovers, not overeating. He wore a three-piece blue suit under his overcoat. On his feet were rubber galoshes. He pulled off his leather gloves and put them in his overcoat pockets as Hawthorne came up to him.

“You heard about Clifford Evings?” asked Hawthorne.

Burke’s eyebrows went up. “No. What happened?”

“He’s dead. He took pills. They found him this morning. Everyone’s very upset.”

Burke shook his head, then patted his silver hair with one hand, smoothing it down. “What a shame.” He continued to regard Hawthorne with his pale blue eyes.

Hawthorne wondered what accounted for Burke’s expression if it hadn’t been Evings’s death. “The police were here. We’ll have a memorial service later in the week.”

“My office can deal with the police.” The lawyer’s mellifluous baritone had a practiced sound to it. He spoke as if the problem had already been solved.

“Didn’t you see Clifford yesterday?”

“I did. Everything seemed fine. He was delighted about the leave.”

“Had you meant to see him again?” Hawthorne didn’t understand why Burke had driven back up to Bishop’s Hill. They stood in the rotunda looking at each other.

“Actually I wanted to talk to you about some other business.”

The lawyer’s response to Evings’s death seemed so detached that Hawthorne wondered if Burke truly understood that he was dead. Then Hawthorne found himself thinking about finances and building repairs. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Burke lowered his voice. “I heard that you had a girl in your room Thursday night.”

Now it was Hawthorne’s turn to be surprised. Their voices echoed slightly in the open space.

“A girl came to my apartment late in the evening. She was drunk. I called the nurse and another faculty member. Surely you don’t believe there was any impropriety?”

“I also heard she was naked.”

“Topless,” said Hawthorne. The word came out almost as a bark.

Burke looked at him skeptically. “Perhaps we’d better talk about this in your office.”

They turned down the hall. Burke’s rubber boots squeaked on the marble floor. A few times Hawthorne began to speak, then he remained silent. He was surprised by how he felt, as if he had been caught doing something that he shouldn’t. When they reached the administration office, he held the door open for the other man.

Hilda Skander was watering the plants along the windowsill. Hawthorne wondered how many people had some garbled idea about Thursday night—a naked girl in the headmaster’s rooms.

“Has anyone phoned?” he asked.

Hilda kept her back to him. “Chief Moulton would like you to call him.”

When Hawthorne shut the door of his office, he didn’t even give Burke a chance to sit down. “So what are you accusing me of?”

“I’d rather hear your explanation.”

“There is no explanation. Jessica Weaver came to my apartment. She was drunk and wasn’t wearing a top. She said she wanted to dance for me. I called the nurse and left her a message. Then I called Kate Sandler.”

“Why didn’t you send the girl away?” Burke stood by a table on which there was a stack of brochures about the school.

“As I say, she was drunk. She was unwell. I wanted to find out what’d happened.”

“You should never have let her into your apartment.”

“I suppose I should have called the police.”

“Don’t be ironic with me. This is a serious matter. Lots of people know about it. If it gets to the ears of the county prosecutor, we could be looking at a grand jury investigation.”

Hawthorne walked to his desk. Because of Evings’s death, he had temporarily forgotten about Jessica. Even at the time, Ambrose Stark and the sweet tones of the clarinet playing “Satin Doll” had diminished the shock of her appearance. Alice had taken Jessica to the infirmary and stayed with her. The girl remained there all Friday, hung-over and unhappy. Alice asked where she had gotten the tequila but Jessica refused to say. Saturday afternoon Jessica returned to her room. Hawthorne had seen her in the dining hall over the weekend but hadn’t spoken to her. Several times he had noticed her looking at him, but when he looked back, the girl had turned away. As for the fact that the incident had become general knowledge, Hawthorne wondered who it had come from. He was almost positive that none of the people involved would have spoken of it.

“You’re mistaken,” said Hawthorne, leaning back against his desk, “this is not a serious matter. A girl got drunk and came to my room. I called the nurse and another faculty member. The girl was then taken to the infirmary.”

“People say you had sex with her.” Burke spoke slowly, as if weighing each word.

“That’s preposterous.”

“They say you called the nurse after the girl had already been with you for an hour or more, after you had already had sex with her.” Burke began to remove his overcoat.

“Who says that?”

“The night watchman saw the girl before ten o’clock, an hour before you called the nurse. The Reverend Bennett also saw her going toward your quarters around that time.”

“Then why didn’t she do something?”

“She didn’t realize that the girl was going to you.”

“Even if she was naked?”

“She wasn’t naked then.” Burke held his coat over his arm.

“What does the girl herself say?”

“I’m told she can’t remember.”

“Can’t remember having sex?”

“That’s what I gather.” Burke spoke less certainly.

“Who else has been making accusations?”

Burke laid his overcoat on the arm of the couch and sat down. “They’re worried about their jobs. They feel if they accuse you, then you’ll fire them.”

Hawthorne approached the couch. “Good grief, Burke, you’re a lawyer, how can you keep up this slander? If there’s the slightest chance of this being taken seriously, then I want a hearing immediately. If people have charges, they must be brought into the open. If you refuse, I’ll have to get a lawyer of my own. But I suggest you talk to Alice Beech and Kate Sandler before you take this any further. And you’ll have to talk to the girl as well.”

Burke no longer looked as sure of himself as he had a few minutes before. “Of course I’ll talk to them. Perhaps I’ve been hasty. You know that woman’s ex-husband has called my office four or five times—George Peabody? He objects to your involvement with his wife. It’s certainly not my concern, but it’s no pleasure to have to interfere and frighten him away.”

“There is no affair,” said Hawthorne, “but if I were seeing Kate, then it would be nobody’s business but our own.”

The sides of Burke’s mouth turned downward as his look of disapproval returned. “There’s always been a tacit rule at Bishop’s Hill that people’s friendships should be no more than platonic.”

Hawthorne walked back to his desk. It wouldn’t do to lose his temper. He sat down in his chair and looked at Burke over a stack of papers. “There’s no way the school can regulate relationships among consenting adults. What about Evings and Bobby Newland, for Pete’s sake? And there’re others. Midge Strokowski has been having an affair with Jennings on the grounds crew for years. Just what did you tell Evings yesterday?”

“I obviously said nothing about his relationship with Newland. I told him the board had given him a two-month paid leave of absence, that he could leave as soon as he wanted.”

“And you told him that his position was safe?”

“I said that he could come back in January and pick up where he left off.”

“You’re certain that he had no doubt about what you were saying?”

Burke stared back at Hawthorne with his pale eyes. “Completely.”

Hawthorne frowned. “And what was his reaction?”

“He seemed grateful. We talked about the details of money and benefits. He spoke of going to Florida until January.”

“That far away?” Had Evings ever said anything about Florida?

“It was only a possibility.”

“And he didn’t seem depressed?”

Burke spoke without a trace of doubt. “Not at all.”

“Then I don’t understand it.”

The telephone rang. As he picked up the receiver, Hawthorne assumed the call was from Chief Moulton or had something to do with Evings. Instead it was a woman’s voice.

“Jim, you know who this is. You know I still love you. Lily loves you too—”

“Who is this?” demanded Hawthorne. The woman’s voice wasn’t Meg’s. It was higher than Meg’s voice. He was sure of it.

“Jim, why are you fucking that girl? Don’t you see that you belong to me—”

“Who are you?” demanded Hawthorne. He saw Hamilton Burke attentively leaning forward. Hawthorne realized he had shouted into the phone. Slowly, he returned the receiver to its cradle. As if from very far away, he heard the woman’s voice still talking.

—

The kitten was orange-colored and sleeping on a folded blue towel on Jessica’s lower bunk after having drunk half a small container of cream. Its stomach was puffed out and it purred quietly. Jessica stroked it very gently in order not to wake it. She wasn’t sure if it was a boy or girl and so she was thinking of a name that would do for either. Already she had rejected Candy Stripe and Tiger and at the moment she was leaning toward Lucky since, after all, she had saved it from being run over by a car or worse. Jessica had been walking along the side of the road and there it had been—mewing and unhappy, no more than a foot from the pavement. She had saved the kitten’s life, she was positive. And so she thought Lucky would be a good name. After all, every marmalade cat in the world was named Tiger. Jessica had picked it up and carried it back to school. At the Dugout she had bought the cream, and the rest, she thought, was history. Now it was shortly past noon on Tuesday—lunchtime, but Jessica didn’t plan to go to lunch. She had better things to do.

Earlier that morning Jessica had been running away. She had had enough of Bishop’s Hill and these crazy people. Had she really fucked that old headmaster? She didn’t think so. On the other hand, the whole evening after drinking tequila with LeBrun was pretty vague. Maybe she
had
fucked him. But she was pretty sure it hadn’t happened, even though the sweatshirt she had been wearing had completely vanished. And it was no secret that she’d had a shitload of tequila—its aches and pains still seemed to be elbowing their way around her gut, nothing at all like the kitten’s stomach, which was still pure. The kitten wasn’t old enough to fuck up yet, and in any case, cats were just cats. For instance, you couldn’t blame Lucky for drinking so much heavy cream that he looked ready to explode.

No, Jessica didn’t think she had fucked anybody, although the other kids were all talking about it and so were the teachers. Even LeBrun. “Got some, right?” he’d said to her. “Cleaned the old guy’s clock. Ha, ha, ha.” Not a real laugh but a sarcastic noise. The pig. So Jessica had a perfectly good reason to be upset—then she got the call from Tremblay that sent her right over the top. He wanted her not to come home for Thanksgiving but to stay at Bishop’s Hill with the other kids whom nobody cared shit about, kids whose parents didn’t want to see them.